and integrity of its discipline, and was, and ever must be, considered the act and the era of usurpation. As long as it was exacted only from those who voluntarily joined their community, taking upon themselves its pains and its privileges, it was salutary to its own body, and at least innocent to its native legislation: as long as this order of things had continued-professing one belief, conjoined in one body, and under one head,—had it been to the 100 millions of the present day, it had not been unjust (had it been necessary) to have enforced from a disobedient member the fulfilment of the laws to which he had bound himself; or, in default, to have deprived him of their protection and immunities.

Providence has not permitted that so happy a state of things should continue that a spirit of divine unanimity should animate the whole Christian world-that it should be one fold, having one shepherd; it has not allowed such brotherly love to draw close the social bond: but, divided as we are, reason, the practice of the Jews,-who constrained not the stranger and idolatrous nations that surrounded them-of the early Christianswho pretended not to coerce the pagans, the Jews whom they succeeded, or even the members of their own body, but received only voluntary gifts-in fine, common justice, that requires people to be bound but by the laws of nature, virtue, and of God, without their own consent, but in laws of human institution by their consent alone-all attest that tithes should be enforced only upon those who acknowledge the right, and reverence the claim. No one who has not blinded his reason, or warped the affections of his heart, but must feel that God, who demands the voluntary offering of our hearts and souls, must look with abhorrence at the forced oblation of our bodies and goods to those who are, or profess to be, His ministers. Neither can I help approving the tenth offering as a most wise and equitable exemplar to be followed by all classes of religionists, to be collected of their own particular members, for all those laudable purposes to which they were anciently applied for raising and repairing churches, maintaining the clergy, succouring the poor and infirm, &c. &c.

Man is a religious animal-and where is the monster that has no religion? Every man ought to be a member of some religious community, if he hope for the society of his fellow men, or the favour and protection of his God: if he wish not, indeed, to outlaw himself to men, to nature, and to heaven. Each man would then have a body to whom voluntarily to pay his tenth, even to trade-gettings and earnings, brought freely for the best, most humane, and christian of purposes: for who, having a love for religion, which is a love of God and one's neighbour, would deny his willing share of assistance to the great ends of society-the welfare and happiness of his brother men? What then hinders but that every man in this realm pay a free and willing tithe for the benefit of his fellows-each to that religious community to

which his conscience, his opinion, or his honest prejudice, may bind him?

Do not imagine, my dear Sir, that I for one instant compromise my own religious principles by any of these remarks. How many orders of the Catholic church are supported by the benefactions of the charitable-giving their charitable offices for charitable alms? That my religion is not built upon tithe heaps, its three centuries of existence in this country, in all its spiritual membership and hierarchy and likewise in the unfriendly realms of Asia, and the republics of America-triumphantly attest. That Dissenters need it not to perpetuate their faith, by acts of Parliament, or otherwise than by common consent, is equally clear. Let those whose church dies with the dying tenths, advocate their forcible and legal exaction from strangers, from paupers, and perhaps from enemies themselves. If they have but the virtue of the serpent, they will relinquish, though unwillingly, by degrees, that which they cannot hold, and which will, perhaps, else be wrung from them at once by the hard hands of revengeful and pitiless, because injured men: let them slide gently down the hill, and not wait to be thrown over the precipice: let them stoop meekly who cannot long stand-that their end may have à requiem from a few, and not an execration from all!

I remain, dear Sir, yours truly,

J. A. G.

THE ACTRESS.

(Continued from Page 475.)

It would be in vain to describe the bitterness of Walter's agony. He lived through it, but its violence gave a shock to his whole being which he never wholly recovered. After the first paroxysm of grief had subsided, he remained in a state of utter listlessness; his friends left no means untried by which he might be aroused, but as the capacity for happiness seemed totally to have left him, and as all their efforts only tended to awaken him from indifference into agony, they ceased from inflicting what so many with less judgment, though with equal goodness of heart, are in the habit of doing,-kindnesses which far more deserve the name of persecutions. His child was studiously kept from him, for the sight of her never failed to bring on one of those convulsions of grief over which he had no control, and which at times seemed to threaten his dissolution. His usual manner was that of complete apathy to all about him. His movements seemed merely mechanical; he would stroll through the streets, he would stand still till he became an object of wonder to the passers-by, then, as if a sudden thought flashed through his brain, rush from the spot and shut himself up, though not so closely as that the sounds of his agony might not be heard by those about him. These

paroxysms became less frequent, though their ravages were still visible in his pale, wasted, trembling frame, which seemed as if a breeze might scatter it into fragments. Day after day did he continue in this state; day after day did those around him trace the marks of visible decline. What was to be done? There was no selfishness in Walter's grief; there was no hope from an appeal to his reason; he did not voluntarily yield to grief—she had suddenly come upon him and crushed him; and to have expected him to have made an effort to recover from the shock, would have been as reasonable as to have expected activity of brain in a man on whom a heavy weight had fallen. The only chance of his recovery seemed to rest on a complete change of circumstances, choosing those which were the best fitted to restore the tone of his mind, when once a consciousness of externals came back upon him. Accordingly they determined to remove him from London; and as the cottage which we have formerly mentioned was vacant, and its nearness to his sister made it desirable, she was urged to prepare it for his reception as speedily as possible. Lady Brandon, whose anxiety and affection for her brother had increased by time, and the eventful circumstances it had brought with it, needed no second hint; and with all the promptness of which her nature was capable, and with unceasing activity (rare, from the indolent habits she had contracted), exerted herself to prepare a new home for her brother's reception. With the instinctive tact which is so frequent and so beautiful a characteristic in woman-the kindness which almost deserves the name of Genius, in the suddenness and refinement of its inspirations,the externals which she contrived to place around him were such as could only bring with them pleasant associations; at the same time she carefully removed all those which were likely to awaken the memory of past misery. Books of a lighter kind,—such works of art as were within the reach of her private purse, flowers, all placed in twilight rooms where no glare might break in upon the aching eyes of the sufferer,-even to the murmur of honey-bees in the garden and the contrivance of a fountain on the lawn, where the cool drip of the falling shower on some water lilies beneath might lull the sense of the sufferer into repose. Nothing was forgotten that her hands, head, or heart could achieve, to aid in restoring her unhappy brother to life, for his present mere existence scarcely deserved the name. To Uplands he came; and it was not long before the blessing they so earnestly desired waited upon their efforts. The peace, the freedom, the freshness, the beauty, the old familiar interchange with nature, the careful introduction of the gentle excitements of a country life, all came like mild sunshine upon the chilled soul of Walter. The long locked up springs were unloosened, floods of tears descended, and, where there had been a dreary desert, gave hope of coming fertility,

Oh Nature, what a gentle nurse art thou! Oh kind Nature, that takest the sufferer to thy bosom, cooling his burning brow with thy soft breezes, or speaking peace to his restless heart in the quiet voices of the whispering leaves; thou canst cheer him out of idleness by the clear deep song of the happy busy brook, or beguile, his weary eyes to rest on thy blue hills and airy distance, thus leading his onward thoughts to a far country where all shall be love and peace. Thou art indeed a mother to thy children. There comes no disappointment with the love of thee, thou ever rich fulfiller of ever constant promise! Thy very change is beauty-change in thyself, but constancy to those who love thee; and though for awhile we may desert thee in quest of fancied good, which too often proves reality of evil, like a tender mother again thou takest the poor wanderer to thy bosom, soothest the eyes that have wept a world of tears since last they parted from thee, with thy healing beauty; lulling the quivering nerves with the silent music of thy wondrous harmonies, and repeating o'er and o'er again thy never-forfeited promises of peace! The first and most important result of Walter's altered condition was shown in his change of feeling towards his child. In his agony of grief it needed but a glimpse of her to produce one of those earthquake shocks of emotion which all were so anxious to avoid, from the excessive state of exhaustion which they induced. In his state of apathy his eyes had rested on her fixedly, but hopelessly, as though the power of affection had died within him. Now he clasped the little creature to his heart, as though she were his dearest treasure-wept out that heart's agony,-and when the frightened child received his almost convulsive caresses with a wondering fearfulness, he would suppress the violence of his emotion, that he might calm the heart of the little trembler.

The love of children is one of the most beautiful events in the history of human progression. It is a continuation (with some the commencement) of the great work of redemption from selflove, the one great enemy with which man has to grapple. By its agency those who have never felt a single emotion, save for themselves, are taught to find their happiness in ministering to that of another, without seeking a return; and although much of the selfism of pride, love of power, or the gratification of its own peculiar objects at the expense of feeling to others, may mingle with and alloy what should be the purest feeling on earth, yet its ultimate tendency is to lead man a step nearer to the Divine nature, by cultivating within him the spirit of universal love.

Walter's recovery was now certain; his heart and intellect were once more at their beautiful work; no longer lying in chains, at the mercy of a set of rebel nerves, which had so cruelly held him in subjection. Gradually he could look with melancholy complacency on the world around him, and though at times this

would be broken up for awhile by a return of one of his former paroxysms-though a suddenly roused memory, a breath, a tone, the sight or even perfume of a well-remembered flower, might be sufficient to place him as it were beyond the reach of his own mastery, yet these sudden starts of memory became more and more remote, till at length they disappeared altogether. He could now bear to look into Flora's eyes, and see her mother there, and imprint on them kisses more exquisitely tender for her sake; and dearly did he delight to trace the awakening image of her whom he had lost-no, not lost-for a change had come o'er him; the spirit of her whom he had loved seemed near him wherever he went; his soul still seemed to hold communion with hers. In his solitary wanderings in the calm moonlight, and in the silence and darkness of the night, she was ever present with him; he was no longer alone; and it was as a blessed promise to his soul that there shall be no ultimate disunion hereafter for those who have loved here in spirit and in truth.'

We must pass briefly over the events that happened during the time that elapsed from Walter Brandon's return to Uplands, and that at which our history commenced. Lady Brandon's restoration to her brother's society was the most heart-easing sensation she had experienced since parting from him. The thought of her having been left sole possessor of their uncle's property (he had died shortly after her marriage) had often been a very painful one to her, and now she hailed the opportunity that Walter's coming into the neighbourhood would give her of rendering a thousand little services, which would be to her a constant source of pleasure. Walter's renewed intimacy with his sister, on the contrary, was far from being unalloyed by pain; he had long since discovered Sir James to be other than the worthy, high-motived man that he had supposed, though, until he came into immediate contact, he had not felt the full amount of sacrifice his sister had made in yielding to the circumstances around her. Sir James looked with an evil eye on the coming of the new tenants to Uplands; though externally he preserved an air of studied civility, the hollowness of which, detected as it was by Walter, effectually prevented his becoming a frequent guest at the Hall. Time had deepened the Baronet's defects; the want of energy in Lady Brandon preventing all chance of his redemption from them. His whole life was one degraded act of prostration to the world, its forms, its external observances, its prejudices. His house, his gardens, his grounds, were in a continual state of alteration, not from the progression of his own taste, but because Fashion had waved her wand, and commanded old things to pass away.' His conduct to his wife was regulated by the same arbiter; no one had ever heard him utter a harsh word to her; and, on the contrary, no one could record against him the indecorum of an expression or of a sign of endearment. To his child

No. 104.

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