work of wires, which hold themselves out like an open hand for the European grasp. The plan seems quite feasible, for in no part of the journey would the cable require to be more than 900 miles long; and as it seems pretty certain that a sandbank extends, with good soundings, all the way to Cape Farewell, there would be little difficulty in mooring the cable to a level and soft bottom. The only obstacle that we see is the strong partiality of the Esquimaux for old iron, and it would perhaps be tempting them too much to hang their

coasts with this material, just ready to their hands. The want of settlements. along this inhospitable arctic coast to protect the wire is, we confess, a great drawback to the scheme; but, we fancy, posts might be organized at a comparatively small cost, considering the magnitude and importance of the undertaking. The mere expense of making and laying the cable, would not be much more than double that of building the new Westminster bridge across the Thames.

PURGATORY.

I WAS sitting one day in the cottage of an humble and religious man. His wife and children were like himself, altogether under the influence of religion. His days were now drawing to their close, and everything promised a happy and a glorious sunset to his life. He was always a happy Christian, one whose thoughts as to the past were ever cheerful in the remembrance of mercies, and, as to the future, were invariably joyous in the anticipation of the promises. I was in conversation with him and his family on the subject of his approaching death, and on the way in which the sting of death was removed, and its fears changed to hopes, and its terrors annihilated before the realization of the promises. I had touched on the words of St. Paul, where he said, "I have a desire to depart and to be with Christ." -Phil. i. 23. And again where he said, "I am ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me in that day, and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing." 2 Tim. iv. 6. While speaking on this

many of the neighbours came in and sat down to hear. Among these were several members of the Church of Rome.

There was soon collected a little congregation, of about some twenty or twenty-five persons; and wishing to use the occasion, I opened my Bible and read a few verses, and spoke freely in connection with our previous conversation. Having dwelt on the happy deaths of true Christians expecting to pass to their rest and their glory on their departure from the body, a remark was made by a Roman Catholic, who seemed very thoughtful and earnest. It was to the effect that a man could not die happy who was expecting to be immediately conveyed to the fires of purgatory. This observation attracted the marked attention of all other Roman Catholics present, and naturally led me to contrast the faith of the Protestant with the faith of the Romanist in the matter of approaching death. One anticipating a change from this world to the joys of heaven, the other expecting a change. from this life to the fires of purgatory,one looking forward to death, as the entrance upon a world of happiness, and the other anticipating the moment of death, as a plunge into all the horrors of purgatorian fire. I dwelt on this contrast; and as both Protestants and Romanists were present, the contrast was vivid enough in its effect on their coun

the bosom of his God; and the last song is the song of triumph-"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" But far and away from this is the death of the Romanist. He sees in the grave but the antechamber of the fiery furnace, and sees in death but the usher that conducts him to a tormenting purgatory. He lies on the bed of sickness; yet that sickness is more endurable than the fiery furnace. He lies on the couch of agony; yet that agony is more tolerable than a tormenting purgatory. He has no lights of an approaching glory to illumine his darkness. He has no hope of an opening heaven to cheer his spirit. He stands shrinking, trembling, resisting, till his eye is dim, and his cheek is pale, and horrors upon horrors gather on his heart; and he dies with thoughts of pur gatory instead of thoughts of heaven, and visions of suffering instead of visions of glory. The Christian dies, expect ing that hour to tread the gates of heaven. The Romanist dies, expecting that hour to feel the flames of purgatory. One dies rejoicing, the other dies lamenting. O! perish the doctrine, that can thus mar the hopes and blast the visions of the dying Christian!-Seymour's Evenings with the Romanists.

and

THE CANTING OF THE CORPSE. THE custom was a very old one, was this: The funeral stopped on its way to the place of burial at every crossroad, and the coffin was placed in the centre of the road. The professed object of this was the holy association of ideas connected with a cross, but the apparent object seemed to be that it was in such places they were sure to meet the largest number of passengers. The coffin being placed on the ground, the priest, or any acting for him, took a hat in his hand and stood beside it, and asked of all the friends of the deceased for their "offerings," for the soul of the dead. These "offerings" are sums of money collected for the priest, as payment to him to engage him to "offer such masses as shall relieve the soul of

the departed out of purgatory. It was usual for the priest himself to collect this money, sometimes on a plate, sometimes in his hat. The coffin was placed on the cross-roads, and as each person gave his "offering," the priest called out the amount in a loud voice. The effect of this was exceedingly droll, for as one person gave his sixpence the priest pronounced his name and the amount, "Paddy Bryan, sixpenee, Paddy Bryan, sixpence," so continuing, like an auctioneer at a sale, till another " offering" was made, and then it was "James Riley, one shilling, James Riley, one shilling," so repeating till another offering was given, and then he cried "Billy O'Connor, one penny, Billy O'Connor, only one penny!" He thus continued, varying the tone of his voice so as to flatter the pride of all who gave largely, and so as to shame the faces of those who gave niggardly. The appearance of the whole scene reminded one of an auction, which in that country was called a cant, and this gave rise to the designation the custom received; it was called canting the corpse. The manner and voice of the priest, whose object it was to collect the largest offerings-the faces of the friends, who were obliged to show their regard to the dead by the amount of these "offerings❞—the angry looks of some whose moderate donations were put to shame by the contemptuous tone of the priest as he named them—the laughing faces of a laughter-loving people, at the way in which so many were shamed unwillingly out of their money-all formed a scene of the broadest comedy. It was impossible not to be amused, even though it took place over a coffin that contained the last relics of the dead. A gentle compassion for the poor people had been a more suitable feeling.-Seymour.

WILLIAM COWPER THE POET.

He was confessedly an amiable, modest, generous, temperate, honest, upright, and pious man. He had faults indeed, but they seemed all more or less related to his dark life-long companion-disease. He was somewhat testy in temper, and

his feelings were easily wounded. He had a morbid craving, latterly, for stimulus, and his excessive use of tea decidedly tended to increase his melancholy. In his youth he had probably dipped his shoe in the prevailing licentiousness of the London of that age. But subtracting all this, he was confessedly one of the best of mortal men, and might be said to have lived and died without an enemy. And yet he was supremely, unutterably, demoniacally wretched!

What a paradox this

would appear, if it were not a stern fact! Many explanations have been attempted. Many have cried out "Calvinism," and have sought to attach Cowper's case as a blot to the countenance of a sublime theological system. This is altogether unfair. Cowper was not at all a rigid Calvinist. He maintained, for example, strongly the salvation of the virtuous heathen-and besides, his special delusion had no connection with the general doctrines of the system of Calvin. Calvinism admits of no such arbitrary and capricious decree as Cowper ima gined to be hanging over his single head. Others have laid all the blame on John Newton. We do not certainly think that he displayed the profoundest wisdom in his management of the poet. But his intentions were good, and even when Cowper latterly escaped from his influence, it was with no better result, and he might have said of all who sought to cure and cheer him, " Miserable comforters are ye all." His case from the beginning admitted of but one thorough cure, namely, death. The dark disarrangement of his being could not be altered unless by being taken down. We grant that the disease in his blood was susceptible of increase, as well as of modification. Some have said that the "water cure," had it then existed, might have made him a happy man. No doubt it might have modified the symptoms, but the whole case lay beyond it. That was, in a single sentence, the case of an entirely and ab origine deranged nervous system, much tried by circumstances, often ill-managed by his friends and by himself, and sustained so long

in existence, chiefly by his profound sense of religion, by the force of a most masculine understanding, and by one of the best bodily constitutions that poet ever possessed. At this last we especially wonder. He lived seventy years in that atmosphere of misery; and not only lived, but wrote thousands of the most humorous, refined, and beautiful letters; translated into stern, clear verse, the two masterpieces of Grecian poetry; and created a mass of original song, as remarkable for its healthy tone, as for its richness, vigour, simplicity, and freedom! Truly William Cowper was still more a marvellous, than he was a mild and gentle spirit,-stronger even that he was amiable-a very Prometheus chained to his rock, let us call him, the rock being his rugged, deeprooted woe; the chain his lengthened life; and himself the Titan, in his earnestness, lofty purpose, and poetic power.-Gilfillan.

CONFESSION AND ABSOLUTION.

I HAVE said nothing of that which interferes with all the most sacred sanctities of home, where the husband and wife should live and love in the most perfect and mutual confidence. There there amid our homes, and beside our hearths, sits the priest of the confessional. That man, by means of the confessional, knows more of the wife's heart, and thoughts, and feelings, he has more of her confidence, and knows more of her secrets, than even her own husband. Whatever thought of evil or of good has

place in her mind-whatever feeling of fondness, or of alineations of love, or of coldness, has found a home in her heart -whatever desire of infidelity to her vows, or of first love to her husband, has laid hold of her flesh-whatever it be, it is known to the confessor. All may be kept secret and unknown from all others, a cherished secret, and a mystery within her, scarcely breathed to herself, and concealed even from her husband-all is revealed in the confessional. All is known, for it has been whispered in the ear of that confident of another sex-that most dangerous of all things, the unmarried confident of another sex-the man of the confessional! There he sits between the husband and the wife. By day and by night he has more of the secret confidence-more of the secrets, the heart secrets of each, than is known to each other. There he sits, sometimes the kindly adviser, and sometimes the lascivious tempter. There he sits, a myste rious being, knowing the heart secrets of both-knowing perhaps the secret infidelity of both, and thus having both in his power, able to wield them both to his personal purpose. There he sits, the living and continual representative of that scene, when in the garden of Eden, the man and the woman lived and loved together, and were holy when alone; but one entered, and there was whispering with the woman, and insidious questions were put to her, and she fell! It was the type of the confes

sional.

THE FOUR WITNESSES: Being a Harmony of the Gospels, on a new principle. By Dr. Isaac Da Costa, of Amsterdam. Translated by David Dundas Scott, Esq. London: J. Nisbet & Co. 1851.

THIS admirable work was written and published immediately after that wretched book, Strauss's Life of Christ, became known in Holland. Dr. Da Costa has

attacked and successfully refuted the

German neologist in the very points where it was foolishly vaunted he could not be met. In this English edition, however, the dispute with the infidel noticed. This leaves all the more room theologian or philosopher is left unfor the other and most useful department of the work, namely, "the observations perfect agreement in themselves of the which demonstrate the authenticity and

Gospels." The volume of Da Costa has already been well received in this country, and cannot fail to do special benefit in that interesting department of sacred literature, which in these days almost absorbs the attention of all thinking men. We cordially recommend it.

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT CHURCH IN HUNGARY; from the beginning of the Reformation to 1350; with reference also to Transylvania. With an introduction by Dr. D'Aubigné. London: J. Nisbet & Co. 1854.

HUNGARY is at present engrossing the observation of politicians. Every lover of liberty weeps over her sorrows, and sighs for the day of her resurrection from under the hoof of Austro-Russian despotism. Louis Kossuth has told us the story of his country's wrongs, and enlisted the sympathy at least of every British heart. We do not wish to throw cold water on such enthusiasm. On the contrary, we would do anything to increase it. Notwithstanding, it is our opinion that the history of the Protestant church in Hungary has in some respects even a superior interest. Interwoven, as such a history is, with that of the country itself, to a Christian mind the risings and fallings of the ark of God invariably command a high degree of attention. Thus felt the author of the History of the Reformation, when, during a tour in Germany in 1846, a number of documents, both printed and in manuscript, relating to the history of religion in Hungary, were submitted to his consideration. The preparation of the present work was then recommended by him, and he edits the translation of this English edition. It is, indeed, a deeply interesting narrative, and makes one still more ardently long for the time when the house of Hapsburg shall be driven from the land. Dr. D'Aubigné assures us that the author is worthy of every confidence, and that his book is well entitled to careful reading, both for its novelty and the labour bestowed on its composition. We have been struck with one of D'Aubigné's remarks:-" After having read this volume, the reader must