that she could repeat the Belief from a child, and was sure that she believed it properly every bit. Her answers, however, to the vicar's questions were far from satisfactory; it appeared that she was acquainted with very little beyond the one or two first articles in it, and her opinions upon these were far from right. Quite as unsatisfactory were her answers to the questions put to her by Mr. Clare, on the subject of her past life, and repentance for sins. She appeared to consider faith as an object which was itself to be worshipped; or a substance upon which, as she expressed it, believers were to roll themselves; or a hand, as she said, by laying hold of which she was to pull herself up to heaven. She had never thought upon the Apostle's definition, that "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." She could not understand how it was not to be known by our feelings, and was but little pleased with the vicar's explanation on the subject, and his solemn warning to take heed and examine herself, lest, in her former way of thinking, she had been forming to herself an idol of earthly mould, and had been worshipping an object made up of carnal feelings and passions, which, placed between the sinner and the SAVIOUR, had obstructed that view of Him which she ought to have had. "Talk not, Mrs. Simmonds," said he, "talk not of your faith, nay, think not of it in the way in which you have been accustomed to do. Talk of your sins, if you please, and confess them to ALMIGHTY GOD as in duty you are bound to do. And think of your SAVIOUR,-fall down at the foot of His Cross, there confessing your iniquities, acknowledging that you are utterly unworthy of the least of His mercies, and that your only hope of pardon is through His infinite mercy and goodness. Such must be the course of the very best of men, how much more of you."

Her ideas of repentance, as I said, were equally erroneous. She thought that if she felt sorry, as she called it, that she then had evidence of her repentance, and that was enough. On this head much was said by the vicar, who

endeavoured, as far as he was able, to set her right on these most important subjects, and, after prayer, and a promise that he would see her on the morrow, he left her.

(To be concluded in our next.)

THE WATER-WHEEL.

THOU grumbler at the common lot,
Blaming what is and what is not,
For once a text of wisdom steal
From thy own rolling Water-Wheel.
See, how it turns round for ever,
Ending and beginning never!
Never changing once its station
In its course no variation-

Round it goes-the same way round!
Humming still the same dull sound.
To bathe its rim in yon cold stream
Its being's end and aim would seem ;
If the senseless wood could feel
Who would be a Water-Wheel?

Now leave, my friend, with me this din,
And let us cast a glance within :-
How does the sight the sense confound!
Mark how the wheels are whizzing round!
Cogs are clattering, straps are running,
While the threads, with wondrous cunning,
Are still drawn out, in endless line,
And round each dancing spindle twine.
How are these magic wonders wrought?
Have these machines some power of thought?
They all, as well you know, depend
Upon our dull and plodding friend,

Him for whose heavy lot we feel-
The ceaseless, restless Water-Wheel!
His is the glory, his the pride,
And mere detail is all beside.

Now who, with common eyes, can fail
To read the moral of my tale ?

Ye fools and blind! it may not suit ye
To tread the path of daily DUTY ;
Like spindles, ye would dance and reel,
And scorn the sober Water-Wheel!
Yet DUTY, steady, daily, still,

Done, God's good pleasure to fulfil,
Is like that Wheel, the moving power,
That, working still from hour to hour,
Brings health to body, peace to mind,
And happiness to all mankind.

Oh! when our course of years is run,
And our last thread of life is spun,
When GOD shall summon all to view,
And give to each his wages due

Which of us then, will think that pleasure
Was, of earth's good, the greatest treasure!
We then shall see what grace and beauty
Lurk'd in the homely face of DUTY,
And bless our lot, that we could feel
The moral of a Water-Wheel!

MECHANIC Soul, thou must not only do
With Martha, but with Mary ponder too :
Happy's that house where these fair sisters vary,
But most, where Martha's reconcil'd to Mary.

Quarles.

THE RECTOR OF STILLBY.

(Continued from page 59.)

CHAPTER II1.

Of all exploits since I first follow'd arms,
Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise
More venturous or desperate than this.
SHAKSPERE.

WHEN Ambrose arrived at the cross street leading from the church to Weavham, where was situated the chief public-house of the village, denominated by its host an inn, known to all the inhabitants as the King's Head, he was much surprised to see a great crowd of men and boys assembled before the front door; and, as he approached them nearer, not less surprised to hear his worthy neighbour, Giles Saunders, haranguing the assembly on the proper course to be pursued by them on this emergency.

Giles Saunders was a quiet, unobtrusive man, who held a large farm in the parish, at the present time was churchwarden, and was looked up to by all his neighbours as one whose opinion, in cases of difficulty, was worthy of great consideration. As soon, therefore, as the sacrilege had commenced at the church in the morning, some of the oldest of the parishioners had sent immediately to Mr. Sannders, acquainting him with what was going on, and at the same time requesting him to come to the King's Head, and decide upon what measures it was right for them to take.

When Ambrose was near enough to hear, Mr. Saunders addressed him, and enquired, as he appeared to be coming from the church, if the account which had

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been brought to them of what was doing there, was really true. 'Yea, master," answered Ambrose, with tears in his eyes, true it is, more's the pity. Them soldiers have broken down the altar, upset the desks, torn parson's surplice all to ribbons, and are now pelting the coloured windows with the broken bits of the monuments; I pick'd up this angel's head out of the church-yard, which came whizzing through the windows as I passed by. I dont know what will happen next, not I; but little did I think that I should live to see such a day as this. Eh! Master Saunders, when they took off the rector they took off the best man amongst us." Well," my friends, replied the churchwarden, all this is very dreadful; I scarcely know what to advise." Advise!" shouted out George Armstrong, the blacksmith, John Granger's late master, "advise! why, what should you advise, but that we go and turn those vagabonds out. Its bad enough to take away our parson, and drive from among us his wife and children, whom we all have known since our childhood, and love them as our own; this was bad enough—a precious deal worse than they should have done, If I'd had my will-but now to break into our church, and tear up the books and the benches and the monuments, and break the windows like a parcel of savages, this is too bad, and I for one wont stand it. I'll tell you what, Mr. Churchwarden, if you wont go and turn them out, I will; and so let us lose no time, my boys, but set about it at once."

Stop! stop!" said Mr. Saunders, "I think we may do what we wish to do as effectually, and with less danger, than in the way which you propose. I will go and speak to the men who call themselves commissioners, and see if I can persuade them to draw away the soldiers from the wicked work in which they are engaged. I do not advocate these pacific measures from a fear of those men, nor urge you to be patient on this account; but because I feel it is our duty to make use of all quiet measures, before we commence hostilities which may end in bloodshed. If these fail, then we must resort to such other