their assumed faith, or even fancied repentance, was hollow and insincere. And the more I thought, and read the word of God or the offices of the Church, so much the more I felt convinced that the only sure preparation for a death of hope was a holy and religious life. Mere protestation of repentance and faith in Christ on a deathbed, though it is possible they may sometimes be sincere, yet I fear are generally delusive, at any rate most unsatisfactory.

But there was another very serious fact, which perplexed and annoyed me, if possible, even more than the former,—that was the discovery of several cases of hypocrisy amongst those whom I had considered the best of my parishioners. Some of my most regular church-goers were detected in dishonest practices. My schoolmistress, who appeared the pattern of everything which was good, sadly misbehaved herself. I thank God that there were also many, who always, as long as I continued at Somerton, conducted themselves as faithful servants of Christ. But the discovery of so many serious blots, where I had believed all to be good and fair, greatly disheartened and perplexed me.

One sign of the small influence which I could exert in removing great and radical evils, appeared in the difficulty of getting my parishioners, even those who professed themselves attached to me, to correct the smallest deviation from propriety to which they had been accustomed. They were continually sending to me to baptise their children, though in perfect health, at home, instead of bringing them to church; and I had either to break the positive rule of the Church, or to appear ill-natured by refusing. The greatest

difficulty was found in getting any of the congregation to join in the responses or psalms, or to frequent the holy communion. It occurred to me, that if, in mere external duties, my exhortations and influence had so little effect, there was a fearful probability that in weightier matters, such as the rooting out sinful habits, and turning their hearts to God, a still greater deficiency would be found.

The reader will be aware that I had by this time made the discovery, which every earnest clergyman will make sooner or later, that "all is not gold that glitters!" My picturesque parsonage and venerable church, the cheerful smiles and even hearty goodwill of my parishioners, though in themselves things for which I might well be thankful, yet concealed beneath them many things which it was fearful to think on, and perplexing to know how to deal with.

The manner in which I became gradually acquainted with the real state of my parishioners will be best illustrated by an incident which shall be related in the next chapter.

3*

ONE day, as I was occupied in my study, Rachel (my servant) announced that one of my parishioners wished to speak with me. I desired at once that the person should be admitted. It was a young woman of about thirty, of prepossessing appearance, though poor in her attire. She carried a baby in her arms, and her eyes were filled with tears.

"Sit down, good woman, and let me know what is your business with me. Rachel tells me you are one of my parishioners, but I do not remember to have seen you at church.”

"I live with my husband at Woodend, two miles from the church; so, sir, as we are but a mile from Chorley church, we go there, sir, when we are able."

The distances did not appear to me quite correct; however, I was glad to hear that she and her family did not neglect divine worship. pray, what is your

"And pation ?"

husband's name and occu

"Jacob Junks, sir. He keeps a cart and horse, and carries things from Ashford. But, O sir,”—and here she burst into a flood of tears,-" O, sir, our poor horse died last night, and I am afraid we shall be ruined."

This did seem indeed a very great misfortune; and I hastened to assuage the poor woman's grief by assuring her that I would render what little assistance I was able; and taking out my purse, I bestowed half a sovereign on her.

Mrs. Junks rose from her seat, and curtsied very modestly, with a profusion of thanks and benedic. tions, but did not seem prepared to leave the room. "If I might make bold," she said at last, "to ask another favor”—

"What is it, good woman-what is it?"

Why, sir, if you would just please to put down the particulars of the case on a piece of paper, and set your name to it, that I may take it to some of the gentlefolks; and maybe I shall get a few shillings more, which may help to buy us another horse."

Here it occurred to me, that though I had given her relief myself without any strict inquiry, it would not be right for me to certify the fact of the death of the horse without some more sure evidence than the mere word of Sally Junks.

"You said the horse died last night; pray, where does it lie?"

"O, sir," said Sally, "it is in the green lane just by our cottage."

"Very well; I will walk that way in the afternoon, and see it."

Accordingly, after my in-door labors were over, and my next Sunday's sermon finished quite to my satisfaction-a labor which, though I did not grudge it, yet when completed always brought a considerable relief and gratification to the mind-being thus released from care, I took my hat and set off for Woodend. It was a delightful day in spring. The trees and hedges were just in full foliage, the air was redolent with the perfume of honeysuckles and cowslips, every copse re-echoed with the song of birds, and the sleek cattle were luxuriating in the fresh pastures. For a while I kept the footpath by the side of a pleasant stream; then climbed the brow of a gentle eminence, which commanded a delightful view of the surrounding country. My spirits were in harmony with the beauty of the day and scene; and I felt very grateful to God for having ordained. that I should serve him amidst scenes so lovely. It was about three months after my arrival at Somerton, while all was bright and sunny, and no clouds had arisen to dim my path.

After a short hour's walk I arrived at Woodend, where I found Sally Junks, with her baby and two or three other children.

“Well, I am come to see the horse, Mrs. Junks; where is he?"

"I will go with you, sir, to the end of the lane." "That's a fierce dog of yours," I said, pointing to a most ferocious-looking bull-dog, which was chained to an old barrel.