themselves with Charles Walton and his sister, and she would have given worlds to know how it fared with those she loved.

That the victory had been won by the cavaliers she was aware, but at what price it had been bought, she could not tell; and she trembled to think of it. No one, indeed, spoke to her upon the subject, for Dry was silent; and for reasons of his own, he took care that she should be visited by none but the landlady of the inn.

At length two pieces of intelligence reached him, on the third day after their arrival in Coventry, which made him resolve to pursue his journey into Yorkshire. The first of these was communicated to him by one of his own servants, to whom he had sent shortly after the skirmish, and was to the effect that the great majority of the people of Bishop's Merton had espoused the royalist cause, and that messengers had arrived from Lord Walton, ordering him to be apprehended immediately, if he made his appearance in the place. With this

news, however, came the money he had sent for; and on the evening of the same day Dr. Bastwick brought him the second piece of information, which was merely that a troop of the parliamentary horse would pass through Coventry the following day, on their road to Hull, where Sir John Hotham was in command for the parliament. It was added that Master Dry might march safely under their escort, and he accordingly spent the rest of the evening in buying horses and equipage for himself and Arrah Neil, and set out the following day on his journey.

The tedious march towards Hull need not be related; during the whole of the way the old man rode beside his charge, plying her with soft and somewhat amorous words, mingled strangely and horribly with texts from Scripture, perverted and misapplied, and graced with airs of piety and devotion, which those who knew him well, were quite aware had no share with his dealings or his heart.

Arrah Neil paid little attention to him-answered seldom, and then but by a monosyllable. To escape was impossible, for he had now two servants with him, and she was never left alone for a moment, except when locked

into a room during a halt: yet she looked anxiously for the opportunity, and whenever any objects were seen moving through the country as they passed, her heart beat with the hope of some party of cavaliers being nigh, and giving her relief. Such, however, did not prove the case, and about noon of an autumnal day, they entered the town of Hull.

Here Mr. Ezekiel Dry separated himself from the troop, with thanks for their escort, and made his way towards the centre of the town, where stood the house of a friend, with whom he had often transacted business of different kinds. The friend, however, had since he saw him married a wife, and was absent from the town; and though Mr. Dry assured a demurelooking maid-servant, who opened the door, that his friend, Jeremiah, had always told him he might use his house as his own, the maid knew Jeremiah better than Mr. Dry, and demurred receiving any guests during her master's absence.

When the worthy gentleman had finished his conversation, and made up his mind that he must seek an inn, he turned round to remount his horse, and was somewhat surprised to see Arrah Neil gazing round her with a degree of light and even wonder in her look, for which he perceived no apparent cause. The street was a dull and dingy one; most of the houses were of wood, with the gables turned towards the road, and from the opposite side projected a long pole from which swung a square piece of painted wood, representing in very rough and rude style, the figure of a swan the size of life. Yet over the dark and timestained face of the buildings, up the line of narrow street, round the windows and doors carved with quaint figures, ran the beautiful eyes of Arrah Neil, with a look of eager satisfaction which Ezekiel Dry could in no degree account for. They rested principally upon the figure of the swan, however, and as that emblem showed that it was a house of public entertainment, thither Mr. Dry turned the horses' heads, and bade her alight at the door.

Arrah sprang to the ground in a moment, and entered the house with an alacrity which Mr. Dry had never seen her before display. Something

appeared to have enchanted her, for she almost outran the hostess, who led

the way, saying, "This way, pretty lady-this way, sir." But when she stopped at a door in a long open corridor, Arrah Neil actually passed her, exclaiming

"No, not that room; I should prefer this," and without waiting for an answer, she opened the door and went in.

"Dear lady, you seem to know the house quite well," said the hostess; "but yet I do not recollect having seen your pretty face before."

"Talk not of such vanities," said Mr. Dry, with a solemn tone; "what is beauty but the dust, and fair flesh but as a clod of clay?"

"Well, I am sure!" said the landlady, who was what Mr. Dry would have called a carnal and self-seeking person, but a very good woman notwithstanding. "Ah, sir, what you say is very true; we are all nothing but clods of earth; there can be no doubt of it: it's very true, indeed."

Finding her so far docile, Mr. Dry determined to make a still greater impression, in order to insure that his object of keeping Arrah Neil within his grasp, should not be frustrated by the collusion of the landlady. He therefore set to work, and held forth to her upon godliness, and grace, and self-denyingness, and other Christian virtues; touching a little upon original sin, predestination, election, and other simple and easy subjects, with a degree of clearness and perspicuity such as might be expected from his original station and means of information. The landlady was confounded and puzzled; but as it was utterly impos sible to tell what he really meant, by the unconnected images, quotations, and dogmas which he pronounced, she was unconvinced of any thing but of his being a vehement puritan, which she herself was not.

However as it did not do to offend a customer, she shook her head and looked sad, and cried from time to time, "Ah, very true! God help us! poor sinners that we are ;" with sundry other exclamations, which though they did not convince Mr. Dry that she had not a strong hankering for the fleshpots of Egypt and the abominations of the Amorites, yet showed him that she was very well inclined to please

him, and made him believe that she would fulfil his bidding to the letter.

He accordingly called her out of the room as soon as he thought he had produced his effect, and explaining to her what he pleased to call the situation of his poor ward, he warned her particularly to keep the door locked upon her, to suffer no one to hold communication with her, and especially to prevent her from getting out, for fear she'd throw herself into the water or make away with herself, which he represented to be not at all unlikely.

The hostess assured him that she was deeply grieved to hear the young lady's case. She could not have believed it, she said, she looked so sensible and cheerful.

"Ah," replied Mr. Dry, "you will see her dull enough soon. It comes upon her by fits; but you must attend very punctually to my orders, or something may take place for which you will weep in sackcloth and ashes."

"Oh, sir, I will attend to them most particularly," said the landlady. "What will you please to order for dinner, sir? Had not I better put the lady down a round-pointed knife? Is she dangerous with her hands?"

"Oh no," answered Mr. Dry. "It is to herself, not to others, she is dangerous. And as for dinner, send up any thing you have got, especially if it be high flavoured and relishing, for I have but a poor appetite. I will be back in about an hour; and in the meantime, can you tell me where in this town lives one Hugh O'Donnell, an Irishman, I believe?"

The landlady paused and considered, and then replied, that she really could not tell; she had heard of such a person, and believed it was somewhere at the west of the town, but she was not by any means sure.

The moment Mr. Dry was gone, the good woman called to the cook, and ordered a very substantial dinner for the party which had just arrived; but then putting her hand before her eyes, she stood for the space of a minute and a half in the centre of the tap-room, as if in consideration, then saying, "There is something strange in this affair! I am not a woman if I don't find it out." She hurried up to the room where she had left Arrah Neil, unlocked the door and went in. Arrah Neil was leaning on the sill

of the open window, gazing up and down the street. Her face was clear and bright; her beautiful eyes were full of intellect and fire; the look of doubt and inward thought was gone; a change had come over her, complete and extraordinary; it seemed as if she had awakened from a dream. When the landlady entered, Arrah immediately turned from the window, and advanced towards her. Then laying

her hand upon her arm, she gazed in her face for a moment so intently that the poor woman began to be alarmed.

"I am sure I recollect you," said Arrah Neil. "Have you not been here long?"

"For twenty years," replied the hostess; " and for five and twenty before that in the house next door, from which I married into this."

"And don't you recollect me?" asked Arrah Neil.

"No," replied the landlady, "I do not; though I think I have seen some one very like you before-but then it was a taller lady-much taller."

"So she was," cried Arrah Neil. "What was her name?"

"Nay, I can't tell, if you can't," replied the landlady.

"I know what I called her, but I know nothing more," answered Arrah Neil. "I called her mother-and perhaps she was my mother. I called her mother as I lay in that bed, with my head aching, my eyes burning, and my lips parched; and then I fell into a long deep sleep, from which I woke forgetting all that went before; and she was gone!"

"Ay!" cried the landlady; "and are you that poor little thing?" and she gazed upon her for a moment with a look of sad, deep interest. The next instant she cast her arms round her, and kissed her tenderly. "Ah, poor child," she said at length with tears in her eyes, "those were sad times-sad times indeed. 'Twas when the fever was raging in the country. Sad work in such days for those who lodge strangers. It cost me my only one. A man came and slept in that bed, he looked ill when he came, and worse when he went. Then came a lady and a child, and an old man, their servant, and the house was full all but this room; and ere they had been here long, my own dear child was taken with the fever. She was near your

But

own age, perhaps a year older; and I told the lady over night, so that she said she would go on the morrow, for she was afraid for her darling. before the morning came, you too were shaking like a willow in the wind, and then came on the burning fit, and the third day you began to rave, and knew no one. The fifth day my poor girl died, and for a whole day I did not see you-I saw nothing but my dead child. On the next, however, they came to tell me the lady had fallen ill, and I came to watch you, for it seemed to me as if there was something between you and my poor Lucy-I knew not what-you had been sisters in sickness, and I thought you might be sisters in the grave. I cannot help crying when I think of it. Oh those were terrible days!" And the poor woman wiped her eyes.

"But my mother," cried Arrah Neil-" my mother?"

"Some day I will show you where she lies," answered the hostess; and Arrah wept bitterly, for hope was crushed out to its last spark.

"She got worse and worse," continued the landlady; "and she too lost her senses, but just as you were slowly getting a little better she suddenly recovered her mind; and I was so glad, for I thought she would recover too; but the first words she spoke were to ask after you. So I told her you were much better; and all she said was, I should wish to see her once more before I die, if it may be done without harming her;' and then I knew that she was going. I and the old servant carried you, just as you were, and laid you on her bed, and she kissed you, and prayed God to bless and keep you, but you were weak and dozy, and she would not have you wakened, but made us take you back; and then she spoke long with the old man in a whisper; but all I heard was,

You promise, Neil-you promise on your salvation.' He did promisethough I did not know what it was. Then she said, Recollect you must never tell her unless it be recovered.' Recovered or reversed, she said, I remember not well which, but from that moment she said nothing more, but to ask for some water, and so she went on till the next morning, just as day was dawning, and then she departed."

A short space passed in silent tears

on the part of Arrah Neil, while the good woman who told the tale remained gazing forth from the window, but at length she continued, "Before you could run across the floor again, my husband died; but with him it was very quick. He was but three days between health and death; and when I had a little recovered I used foolishly to wish that you could stay with me, and be like my poor Lucy; but you were a lady, and I was a poor woman, so that could not be; and in about six weeks the old man paid all that was owing, and took you away. It is strange to think that you should be the same pretty child that lay there sick near ten years ago."

"It is as strange to me as to you," said Arrah Neil; "for as I tell you I seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and for a time I forgot all; but since then all the things that went before that time have troubled me sadly. It seemed as if I had had a dream, and I recollect a castle on a hill, and riding with a tall gentleman, who was on a great black horse, while I had a tiny thing, milk white; and I remember many servants and maids-oh, and many things I have never seen since; but I could not tell whether it was real or a mere fancy, till I came into this town, and I saw the street which I used to look at from the window, and the sign of the house that I used to watch as it swung to and fro in the wind. Then I was sure it was real; and your face too brought a thousand things back to me; and when I saw the room where I had been, I felt inclined to weep, I knew not why.- Well, well may I weep."

"But who is this old man who is with you?" asked the landlady, sud

denly. "He is not the old servant, who was as aged then as he is now ; and what is this tale he tells of your being his ward and mad ?"

"Mad!" cried Arrah Neil-" mad! Oh no! 'Tis he that is wicked, not I that am mad. He and another dragged me away from those who protected me, and were good to me-kind Annie Walton, and that noble lord her brother, while they were fighting on the moors beyond Coventry. I, his ward! He has no more right to keep me from my friends, than the merest stranger. He is a base, bad man—a hypocritea cheat. What he wants, what he wishes, I know not. But he had my poor old grandfather dragged away to prison, and he died by the road."

"Your grandfather?" said the widow "what was his name?"

"Neil," answered the poor girl— "that was the name he always went by."

"Why that was the old servant," said the hostess. "He had been a soldier, and fought in many battles. I have heard him tell it often. But this man, this man has some object, young lady. He knows more of you than perhaps you think. He told me that you were mad, and his ward-but he knew not that you had a friend so near at hand, who, though she be a poor, humble woman- Hark! there are people speaking at the door. 'Tis he, I dare say. Say not a word to him, and we will talk more by-and-by. Do not be afraid-he shall not take you away again so easily, if there be yet law in the land. But he must not find me with you;" and thus saying, she opened the door and left the

room.

IN our last number we endeavoured to sketch for our readers some of the characteristics of that antique system of Church Theology,which, caricatured by the wantonness and ambition of the Roman despotism, debased by the ignorance of the Eastern Churches, and usually denounced as antichristian, wherever not wholly forgotten, by the majority of European and American Protestants, a party of modern divines have attempted the daring enterprise. of reviving in the Church of England. We spoke with the freedom of lovers of truth, who have nothing either to gain or to lose by party triumphs; and we have the satisfaction of knowing that among those whose praise is really enviable we have been understood as such. We felt it necessary to moderate the self-applauses of each party alike in this discussion; an ungracious task, but a necessary one. We took the liberty of warning one party the more popular one among ourselves-that something more is needed for these days than very shrewd and keen exposures of a body of glowing and eloquent writers, whose obviously enthusiastic style and temper makes it mere child's play to gather and set forth in all the prominence of critical italics their ardent escapades; that these singular and restless times, "heaving with life to come," demand not the common-place genius of cavil and demolition, but the rarer gift of conciliation and reconstruction; the power that recognises in extravagance itself but the outcry of a mighty want; and watches-not to mock, and reject, and deny-but to explore the seat of evil, and meditate the means of remedy. Replies of the sort that in their infinite varieties now abound in every book-shop, weary us unspeakably; they are so very conclusive and so very profitless-so triumphant and so hollow; they are so like that most provoking of all things,

*

Who

clever parliamentary debating, when some great national question is before the House. A mighty Church Ideal is presented to the public eye; it may be a very hopeless one; it may be feebly portrayed- unskilfully, erroneously; but for our lives we cannot laugh at it. We could serve up the whole history-the conspiracy, the Jesuitry, and all-in the most piquant of possible Articles; but positively we have not the heart to do it. would be content with the Church of Christ as it is, that has any adequate conception of what it was meant to be? Who that believes as surely every man believed, till the truth of God's unfathomable election was made to supersede the equal truth of His own visible Constitution-that the universal Church of Christ was intended to be the public perpetual witness of God in the world; His City and His Kingdom-can look without sadness at the meagre, ineffectual, and nominal thing that Church really is, and long has been, when contrasted with the wonderful manifestation of a divine brotherhood it presented in those early times we read of in Scripture, and in those writers who take up the story where Scripture has left it? And what a poor thing it is-what a grievously unsatisfactory thing-when we ask for some earnest effort upon grounds of consistent theory, to make the Church the world's purifier-to put us off with elaborate proofs that others have failed in the attempt; when we want positive principle, to give us only negative refutation; when we require the elucidation of one truth, to tell us some other that nobody denies; when we ask what is the office of "the pillar and ground of the truth," to inform us that we are justified by faith; when we long to know the significance of that Church of the New Testament against which hell's gates were never to prevail, to enumerate all the foolish