Patrick was precipitated into the tea room, blustering in a towering passion. Poor little Jonah was still sobbing his last tears over the fire, and ever and anon looking down on his dirty pincloth, and dropping fresh tears at the thought of what mother would say.' The sudden and desperate entrance of Patrick scared the unfortunate little Englishman nearly into the fire.

"Poor Walter ! Life is indeed full of difficulties, and our best intentions are strangely shadowed by disappointments. By this time all had arrived; indeed, most had been aiding at the fight on one side or the other. Robert, odd boy, who had seen the whole, heard the whole, knew all about it, helped Walter in the last fell struggle, had not got one spot of dirt or turned a hair of his head: he was just ready to sit down to tea, as if nothing had happened. Patrick, all dishevelled, but no way disconcerted, plunged into the plate of bread and butter vigorously.

"Och, and didn't, thin, I say, misther, did ye ever hear of my fayther? he was a wild Irishman; and my mither says, 'You know, Patrick, your fayther was a good one, my boy.' 'Jist so, mither,' says I. Patrick,' says she, 'your fayther says as he was a-going, Bring up Patrick for a sodger.' 'Yes, my jewel, says she. And will ye, my own heart?' says he. And I will,' says she. And sure enough she bought me this very coat on my back, becase it is lined inside the sleeve wi' red. That's right, my darling,' says he. And so I'm to be a sodger, my boys, and fight in the next Peninsular. 'And I hope,' says my fayther, that Patrick will be fortunate, and fight like I have at Badajos, Salamanki, and all that I have been through, and my boy must do the same. 'Och, and shan't he!' says she and so I'm off to Salamanki to fight the French. I say, fancy, my boys-what's the matter, thin?'

"Patrick's flow of eloquence had completely dumbfounded poor Walter. There seemed no chance of lack of conversation, and still less of forming character; for Patrick promised to absorb the former, and to remain in the latter respect very much what he was to his dying day. But, meantime, while he was laughing with clear, dark, intelligent eyes all round the room, eating prodigiously, and was completely scaring Walter on the idea of an insufficiency of provisions, he summed up the whole by catching a piece of bread and butter out of Jonah's mouth, and poked it into his pocket. 'And isn't it for my mither, Jony, my boy?'

"Walter found it was now high time to interfere. Poor little Jonah was really terrified, and Robert's sense of propriety evidently very much affected. Quiet was at last restored.

"Sir,' said Robert, the battle of Salamanca was fought between the English and French in Spain,—wasn't it?'

"This looked calm and educational, and Walter breathed again. "Yes, it was.'

"And the English won it, didn't they, sir?'

"'Yes.'

"Under Lord Wellington?'

"And wasn't he jist an Irishman, and no Englishman at all? and wasn't my fayther cousin by the mither's side to the Lord Wellington ?

and wasn't it the Irish beat the battle o' Salamanki? and wasn't it the Lord Wellington who rid by my fayther in the last charge, and said, Go it, my boy; give 'em a taste of shillaly! Go it; you're the fayther of Patrick!' though I wasn't born, but Lord Wellington knew I should be.'

66

'This subject was sure to get up a talk, for the volume of Patrick's wit was endless.

"Tea was over. James had not spoken; he had eaten plentifully, and was rather tired; nothing had disturbed him. He had looked up from time to time at the Irishman, and wondered at him, but only his eyes were disturbed-no other part of him; and now all was over, he folded his hands in front of him, and, looking quietly up at Walter, said, 'Please, şir, are we to come again next Sunday?'

"No, my little man,' said Walter; 'not so soon.'

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'Henry had been silently at work, helping the others and watching Walter, fetching the kettle and taking it back, fully pleased, as if the room and entertainment were his own. He had not eaten much, but he laughed in his quiet way at Patrick, and sometimes looked a little frightened.

"Please sir, may we go?' said Jonah, who had hardly yet recovered from that kind of hiccoughing sob which had followed his outburst of grief, and continued like rain which will not stop, long after the sun has come out.

"'Yes.'

"Please, sir, will you write a note, and tell mother about the pincloth ?'

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Och, did ye hear him now? tell his mother about his pincloth! as if she wouldn't see it, neither, when it's all slommocked wi' mud. Och, now, if I raaly wont-'

"But Walter stopped him, and tried to comfort Jonah by writing the note. The little boy took it gratefully.

"Thank'ee, sir, for my tea,' said he, matting down his glossy hair, and bowing; and so saying, sedately went out.

"The booby,' said Patrick, laughing: if I won't meet him in the lane and upset him, like my fayther upset Boneyparti in the ditch at Rodrigo, when Boney walked up and said, Hollo, my hearty! what are you?' 'Patrick's fayther that is to be,' said my fayther; then up wi' his bagonet, and stuck him to the wall. Won't I jist?' fore Walter could stop him, the young soldier had dashed out, shouting with laughter, and full of murderous intentions to turn Jonah into a Frenchman."—pp. 39-43.

And be

And now let us pass on to the end of the narrative, and contrast with this Patrick's death on the battle-field.

"Hollo, Patrick, my boy, and it's we who are to be in the attack on the enemy at the dawn of the morning. Sure enough, they are gathered like poppies in the corn, thick as mustard, with the river behind them, and no escape; and their cannons frowning at us in a row, with their mouths wide open, as if they said come and be killed.' "Faith, and is it so? and shall I be my fayther's son, thin?'

6

said Patrick, starting up, and rubbing his eyes prepared to get ready. 'And sure enough, my fayther ever said I should follow in the steps of glory; and won't my mother rejoice in her pavilion; and won't their leddyships Blarnie and Killarnie have a feast that day of oats beyond common, when the news of my being in the fight is read in large letters in the news!' How long Patrick would have gone on, it is hard to say; but there was no time to lose, for the stir along the whole line, the silent movement on every side, announced that in a few minutes the regiment must be in action.

"The dawn of morning was fast breaking.

"What are ye at, Patrick?' cried his comrade. "But no answer came for two or three minutes.

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Sure! and I'm praying to the King of kings to guard me in the day of battle, and pardon me if I'm killed.'

"You fool,' said his comrade; what a Methodist you are.' "Methodist or not, I'm treading his footsteps who showed me the way to heaven, and I'll tread them to the end. Didn't I tell him as he was dying, 'Maisther, God bless you! I'll by God's help follow your voice till I die?' and didn't he say-God bless him- Patrick, meet me in glory?' and wasn't he a frind to me and all of us? He was no man of words without acts.'

"But the signal was given, and all were afoot. The dawn was advancing to morning, and the long red lines of the enemy appeared with their white turbans, three times the number of the English; the artillery were drawn up in long and terrible array. A single shot from the enemy's cannon issued from the ominous line; the ball struck on the ground before the British, and driving up a cloud of dust, it bounded far over the heads of the line and buried itself in the sand beyond.

"The signal was given; the herald had gone forth, and the blast of his breath bore death.

"Five minutes, and smoke and flame, groans and crying, the crash of arms, and the thunder of artillery, eclipsed every other sight, and drowned every other sound. Twice in that awful hour Patrick's name was heard mentioned approvingly by the commanding officer, and twice Patrick gallantly and bravely did honour to his own and his father's name; but far more than either, to Walter's. Amid the volleys of oaths, the curse, and the blasphemy, which hung on other lips, not one escaped his. He had promised Walter once, by God's grace, to break through the habit of swearing, and he did.

"Once more. The infantry had borne it well; in line and square they had sustained the terrible charge, and sustained it nobly. Once more the enemy's cavalry charged. Five furious horsemen dashed desperately on, with their sabres uplifted, and their pistols ready to discharge; Patrick was in the kneeling line, his eye was steady, and his hand firm. They fired: the foremost horseman reeled in the saddle and fell with violence over the horse's neck to the ground; his foot slipped from the stirrup, and the horse, with distended nostril and eye bloodshot galloped riderless away. The second received a wound in his chest; his pistol fell, his figure bent over the horse's neck, and the animal bore his master from the field. The third dashed madly

on; he presented his pistol full at Patrick's face; the boy never swerved, but discharged his musket, and the same instant that the musket ball pierced the brain of the horseman, the pistol-bullet struck him in the chest. He fell.

"He was drawn into the middle of the square: they tore off his shirt, and from the dreadful wound the blood fell in torrents; he bent his head back on the shoulders of two soldiers. His face was rapidly paling with the torch of death.

"GOD bless ye all! Ye're very kind to me. I die, oh so peaceful! Through JESUS CHRIST I've long begged to be forgiven, and I made up my account last night. Sure, and I made my little cross in the square as he used to bid us, to make sure we'd not gone to rest without seeing how matters stood above. Make way, there, for sure I can't see, and it's all dark! Stand back, it's so hot there's no breathing! Sure, I'm dying, and there's no mistake then!'

"Patrick,' said an officer, coming up, for the cavalry had ceased charging, and the enemy were retreating fast; Patrick, you have acted bravely and well, and I have directions from the commanding officer to tell you that you'll be promoted.'

"Ah, sure, and I'm glad, sure I am; but there's no more promotion for Patrick in this lower world, I've done. Carry everything there is for me to my poor old mither: sure, and won't she fret when she hears as I'm gone! But she'll like to hear of the promotion: she'll clap it on to her tales about my fayther. I'm sinking, hold me up a little; there, just a little more. I'm so cold! Oh, what'll the King say on the other side, will He receive me there, poor sinner as I have been? LORD JESUS, receive my spirit: I've tried to serve Thee, poor infirm thing that I am, LORD JESUS-' and with a sigh the Irish boy's spirit passed away.

"Another witness sped, Walter; another voice to bear testimony. It creeps towards the day: the night of toil is over; the dawn, Walter, the dawn is breaking fast. From the baker's shop and the battle field the dawn of morning wakes. Happy Walter!"

What can we add to this-but a specimen of this noble book? We are not ashamed to confess, that as we read this, and other equally touching details, we could not repress a tear; and we think that all will be anxious to read a book, second to none which has lately issued from the

press. Going Home, if a little exaggerated, as some of our contemporaries say, is nevertheless a most beautiful and touching tale, and will, if we mistake not, command more than an ordinary number of readers. At all events it ought to do, for it contains much beautiful writing, and many pleasing, as well as touching scenes drawn from life. Mr. STRETTON's Church Catechism is a laudable attempt to provide a manual for the use of catechists, and is calculated to be very useful. Mr. Stretton will, perhaps,

pardon us, if we suggest that a greater use should be made of illustrations, or picturing out, for which there is undoubtedly much scope. Archdeacon Bather's book would furnish a hint, as we consider that one of the most valuable books we have.

CHURCH NEWS.

were

THE thirteenth anniversary of the consecration of the parish church of S. Peter's, Leeds, has been celebrated with the usual effective choral Services, in which the Bishop of the diocese took part. The sermons preached by the apostolic Bishop Selwyn. The choir was strengthened, on this occasion; and the congregations were, as usual, very large. Though Dr. Hook has not yet overcome his prejudices against Gregorians, and models his services after the old Cathedral type, rather than the Plain Song restored by Marbecke, we nevertheless owe him many thanks for leading the way in choral celebration, and for introducing order and decorum, where before all was confusion and disorder.

New churches have been opened at Felton, Herefordshire; at Bacup, where the Rev. J. Heyworth, of Henbury Hill, near Bristol, erected the church at his own expense, and provided an endowment; at Coalham, where a private person, Mrs. Newcomen, of Kirkleatham Hall, near Redcar, has built and endowed a church. The church of S. Cuthbert, Fishtoft, has been thoroughly restored. The foundation-stone of a new church to be built at Shrewton, diocese of Salisbury, was laid by the Bishop on Tuesday, the 5th of September. The following account in the Guardian, is so full of interest, that we gladly extract it :—

"The diocese of Salisbury has been forward in promoting all measures which tend to the revival of the Church of England. A great advance was made under the superintendence of the lamented Bishop Denison; and we have no reason to doubt that Bishop Hamilton, if his life is spared, will meet with equal encouragement. Tuesday, September 5th, was an important day to the inhabitants of Shrewton, a village within a few miles of Stonehenge. The old church, long reputed the most ancient in the neighbourhood, has been for some time in an almost ruinous condition. The ministrations of religion had, for a long period been confined to a solitary service on Sunday;