"We had observed that with many others we were watched, and we were indeed more particular than ever, being almost afraid of speaking to a neighbour for the great dread of spies. One evening, my wife had been suffering with fear and misgiving all the day-we retired to bed, and without any definite cause we were both uneasy and distressed. We might have been in bed perhaps two hours, when we were awoke by a loud knocking at the door, which we heard opened by our only assistant, a youth of some seventeen years. Steps immediately ascended the stairs, and at my door a loud and harsh voice demanded admittance. I begged to be allowed to dress myself; but without more waiting, two carabinieri entered the room and told me I must get up, and come with them. Words would but feebly tell you the sad misery of my poor wife. She exclaimed against two peaceful people being thus outraged, who had done nothing to deserve it, and begged in the most piteous tones to be allowed to go with me, which was at once most rudely refused. At length the dreaded moment of separation arrived. My Giulina clung to me with the wildness of despair; and at last fainting, and almost dying with emotion, I laid her again on her bed, and after one dear caress I gave her in charge of a neighbour for whom I had sent, and left my home of love and peace for the prison cell. I never knew for what I was arrested, and I was denied all intercourse with my friends, thus it was impossible I could know anything of my suffering wife. I was detained in prison six months; at the end of which time I was pronounced free, for want of the smallest proof of guilt. It was with mingled feelings of joy and mistrust that I neared my old home; but oh! signora, how shall I describe my sensations when I came to my lately happy dwelling, to find all close shut, and no signs of life to be seen. I sat down on the stone porch and tried to collect my thoughts. Where was my beloved wife? where was my child? I was bewildered. How long I had sat I do not know, when my hand was taken, and a voice I remembered as that of the neighbour in whose care I had left my wife on that dreadful night six months ago, saluted me. I knew by the pity and sorrow which were in her voice that she had bad news to tell me, but I little imagined the extent of my misery.

"For a long time she resisted all my entreaties to know the whole of my sorrows, on account of my great agitation; but at last she said, that when my wife came to herself from the swoon in which I had left her, and found that I was really gone, she fell from one fit into another, and after twelve hours of intense suffering, breathed her last, one hour after the birth of her little child! My other babe, my little Rosetta, had died one month after her mother from a fever which prevailed in the town. I cannot express to you the state of utter desolation to which I was reduced by these accumulated misfortunes. My strength impaired by the dreadful prison fare, I was but little able to bear up under my trials. I could no longer bear the sight of the place in which the happiest part of my life had passed; I therefore, by means of a friend, sold my little property, and after a farewell visit to the resting-place of my wife and child, I left Viterbo for Turin, hoping that in the excitement of a new life, I might at any rate regain a portion of tranquillity. But oh, signora! such wounds as mine are not easily healed. Daily I supplicate the Virgin Mother for peace, but as yet she has not deigned to listen to my prayers."

The recital of this poor man, affected me a great

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Father John, as well as myself, endeavoured to comfort him to the best of our power; but he was weeping for his children, and one still more dear, and "could not be comforted because they were not."

I was unwilling to leave my poor acquaintance without trying to give his thoughts a more healthy turn, and finding by my watch that I was too late for the afternoon service at the Protestant church, I resolved to pass the time in doing my best to enlighten him on the one thing needful, the all-atoning merits and allsufficient grace of the Redeemer.

I took my little Italian Testament from my pocket, and read to him several chapters and passages in that wondrous history of tender love and mercy. By degrees the darkened face became lighter, and the eyes were suffused with such tears as bring relief, and taking respectfully my hand, he, with a voice choked by emotion, asked me what he could do to obtain forgiveness for his past rebellion against the will of God; "for I see, signora," said he, "that in all my trials the hand of God has been over me, and has been conducting me to you."

After much reading and answering of his prejudices, lifting my heart in prayer for Divine help, I succeeded in turning his mind to Jesus Christ as the only Mediator between God and man. At his own request I gave him an Italian Testament, and requested him to come to my apartments the next day.

My companion, Father John, had sat by me a mute, but by no means unthinking, looker on at the scene. "You have set me thinking more than ever," said he, "and I shall, with your permission, come to you to-morrow with our friend yonder."

"Nothing will give me greater pleasure," said I; "therefore at ten o'clock I shall tell my husband to expect you." On the morrow Father John presented himself at our apartments, and brought to us a printed accusation against himself by his bishop. We talked long and seriously to him, and he with pleasure accepted an Italian copy of the holy Scriptures and the Book of Common Prayer, expressing his great wish to come to England, chiefly that he might there study closely the Articles of the Reformed, faith. My pupil of the day before soon arrived, and told me that he had read with deep attention much of the book I had given him. After many tears, and mingling our prayers at the footstool of Him who has said, They who come to me I will in nowise cast out," he arose with a spirit calmed, and, he said, more composed than he had been since his troubles.

I had afterwards frequent opportunities of seeing and conversing with this afflicted man, and have the pleasure to know him to be now a believer in Jesus Christ. Of Father John I have not heard for a long time; but if this narrative should be brought before his eyes, it will recall to him the impressions of that Sunday afternoon in Turin.

WHIPPINGHAM CHURCH.

AMONG the many monumental memorials of the late Prince Consort there is none more gratifying than that which has been recently completed at Whippingham, in the Isle of Wight. Other monuments may more conspicuously record public admiration or more feelingly express personal bereavement, but there is special interest in a place where private and domestic affections are hallowed by association with the honour and the worship of God.

matter?"

It proves all I want,” I said. "You say you saw your friends distinctly, and heard them speak. But your eyes were shut;" and turning to the audience, I asked, "Does this not clearly prove that it is not the eye that secs, but something behind the eye; that the eye is but the organ or window, by means of which the spirit looks out upon the world. Our friend says, too, that he has heard friends speak to him in dreams; and you all know he is correct, for you have all heard friends speak to you, and you have heard music, and smelt perfumes, and travelled miles, and reasoned long, but all was still around you, and there were no friends Does this not convince you that it is not the car which hears, but something behind the car; that the ear is but the opening to let the sounds in, and that behind the ear there is a spirit catching everything; and so with all the organs of the body.

near.

“Again; did any of you ever hear of a piece of matter, a piece of wood, or stone, or any heavy substance moving of itself?" Waiting for a reply, I repeated the question, and at last a man shouted, "Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"You are quite right," I said; "no one ever heard of such a thing; but your body is just a piece of heavy matter, your arms and feet are just implements to be used, and your whole body is just a beautiful machine. A mill requires the oxen to drive it; a machine requires a man to work it, or it will stand still; a spade requires a hand to use it so in like manner the body requires a spirit to rule it, and regulate it, and use it, and it is just as distinct from the body as the man is from the machine, or the hand from the spade and the hoc."

As they appeared interested I went on, and I asked my friend, who still stood eagerly catching every word, "Suppose you were to hear that a certain mill had been broken down, you would at once infer that the oxen had perished with it?"

"Of course not," he indignantly replied. "Well, when you see a body die and moulder in the grave, what reason have you to think that the soul must have died also ?"

Receiving no reply, I answered my own question, and said, "There is manifestly no reason whatever." And again I asked, "If it is clear that the deprivation of a part of the body in no way affects the intellect, what reason is there for supposing that the destruction of the whole body must inevitably quench the soul? Death peels the flesh off the bones, separates one bone from another; but neither the flesh nor the bones are

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our souls or ourselves." Continuing my remarks, I said, "I trust you are all convinced that the soul is distinct from the body, and that to say the least, there is no reason for supposing that the soul is extinguished at death. And now I have another question to put to you. Did you ever see a man suffering from remorse of conscience, or from the death of friends, or from the loss of property ?" *

Many a time," one near me affirms.

"Well, you must have observed that he was suffering no bodily pain. There was no man beating him with a bamboo, nor was there any sore on his body, nor was he afflicted with inward disease; he was just sitting on his chair wringing his hands and moaning in perfect misery. Where was the sorrow he felt ?" "It was in his mind."

"You are right. And this not only further proves that the soul is separate from the body, but it also proves that the soul is the seat of suffering, and that therefore the soul may suffer when out of the body as well as in it. There may therefore be suffering after death."

Here my former friend interrupted me and said, "Admitting all you say, you have not yet proved that the soul will live after death, far less for ever, as your book teaches."

"Strictly speaking, I have not yet; but I am coming to that," I said; but knowing that his views wero confined to the minority among the literate, and determined to make the discussion more general, I asked the crowd, "Do you all believe with our friend here, that the soul is dissolved and quenched for ever at death?"

I repeated

I waited for a little and got no answer. my question and encouraged them to speak. At last one said, employing the usual phraseology, "Death is the breaking up of the three inch vapour. This vapour is the soul, and it ascends into the air, and by-and-by reaches the world of spirits. It lives for three or four generations, and receives the sacrifices and homage of its descendants, and at last is dissolved with its elements."

"Do you all believe this?" I again enquired.

"No," cries another; "I believe that the souls of the vulgar and wicked are dissolved; but that the souls of the wise and good ascend to some of the stars, and live for ever in happiness there."

"No," cried another; for the ice was broken, and there were plenty now ready to speak. "I believe that the soul is distinct from the body, and that every soul at death appears before Yen-lo-Wang-the god of fate, who decides its destiny, that the wicked are punished, and the good are happy.".

Another propounded the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. And yet another, who was a Taouist (a sect of which I shall speak in a separate chapter), maintained that the "souls of all men were naturally mortal, and that the only way to secure immortality and reach the Hall of Heaven-by which they mean some of the stars near the pole-star-was to procure the elixir of immortality.

"But what good will the elixir of immortality do?" I asked.

He explained, and said, "The soul of man is gross and material, and of itself will die. This clixir of immortality refines and purifies the soul; and being purified from its grossness, thus becomes a seen jin or a genii. If the man have been extraordinary good he becomes a teen seen (i.e., a celestial immortal), and has