a portion of the rock was thrown up, and smote him on the forehead, leaving an indelible mark to remind him of his danger and deliverance. But the man of God, when they came to search for him, was found arched over by the fragments of broken rock in the mine, uninjured, and rejoicing in the Lord. This magnanimous miner exhibited in this act an amount of disinterested love and charity which has seldom been equalled, and is never found but in connexion with the love of Christ. Here is none of that unholy daring of which we have instances among the heroes of Greece and Rome, who, actuated solely by a love of notoriety, inflicted upon themselves tortures, and even death: but that pure Christian charity, which, at all hazards, even at the sacrifice of life itself, seeks to save the immortal soul of man. This is the kind of charity we have met this day to elicit, to strengthen, and to direct, and without which it is impossible that the great objects of Missionary enterprise can ever be accomplished.-Rev. R. Young.

A GENUINE PHILANTHROPIST. THE Island of Rona is a small and very rocky spot of land, lying between the Isle of Skye and the mainland of Applecross, and is well known to mariners for the rugged and dangerous nature of its coast. There is a famous place of refuge at its north-western extremity, called the "Muckle harbour," of very difficult access, however, which, strange to say, is easier entered at night than during the day. At the extremity of this hyperborean solitude is the residence of a poor old widow, whose lonely cottage is called "the lighthouse," from the fact that she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little window at night. By keeping this light and the entrance of the harbour open, a strange vessel may enter with the greatest safety. During the silent watches of the night, the widow may be seen trimming her little lamp with oil, fearful that some frail bark may perish through her neglect; and for this she receives no manner of remuneration: it is pure and unmingled philanthropy. The poor woman's kindness does not even rest here; for she is unhappy until the benumbed and shivering mariner comes ashore to share her little board, and recruit himself at her glowing and cheerful fire; and she can seldom be prevailed upon to accept of any reward. She has saved more lives than Davy's belt, and thousands of pounds to the underwriters. This poor creature, in her younger days, witnessed her husband struggling with the waves, and swallowed up by the remorseless billows,

"In sight of home and friends that throng'd to save."

This circumstance seems to have prompted

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her present devoted and solitary life, in which her only enjoyment is doing good.-Inverness Courier.

VOLTAIRE AND ALEXANDER
POPE.

VOLTAIRE, when in London, was very intimate with Pope; he was familiar at his table, and introduced to the circle of his acquaintance; but gratitude, and a respect for the laws of hospitality, make no part of the morality of infidels. One day, when he knew the poet was from home, he called on his ancient mother, who lived with him, and told her that he should be sorry to displease her, but really it was so hard living in London, that he had a poem, a severe lampoon upon her, which he was going to publish, but would recommend it to her to give him a sum of money to suppress it. The fear of the poor old woman at length prevailed over her indignation, and she bribed him not to publish; which he agreed to on one condition, that she should never mention the subject. She promised, and she kept her word. Having succeeded so well once, he made a second attempt on such an easy prey. Either he applied again too soon, or her indignation was not subsided; but Pope came in that moment. His mother was in a violent and uncommon passion; and he insisted to know the cause. She informed him, as well as she could for rage. Voltaire had neither time to make off, or to frame some lie for his excuse, when the little man, who was never wanting in filial respect, flew with violence on the long, lank Frenchman, striking him with all the rage that honest indignation could supply him with. Voltaire in attempting to make a precipitate retreat, fell over a chair. It is needless to observe that there ceased his connexion with our poet.-Gentleman's Magazine.

COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND.

IN Hays's "Female Biography," published in 1803, we are told that by the side of the road between Penrith and Appleby, appears an affecting monument of the filial gratitude of Ann Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, Dorset, and Montgomery: on this spot she had last parted with a beloved mother, a separation she was accustomed to recall to her mind with tender sorrow; and in commemoration of which, she erected a pillar, its base a stone table, known by the name of "Countess Pillar," on which were engraved her arms, a sun-dial, and the following inscription:

"This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting in this place with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the

MEMOIR OF MRS. D. ROBINSON,

DERWENT COTTAGES, DURHAM. MRS. DINAH ROBINSON, of Derwent Cottages, in the Shotley-Bridge Circuit, was awakened to a sense of her guilt and danger as a sinner before God in her own house. Two persons were conversing in her presence, one of whom was suffering acutely from toothache. His friend said, "How could you lead that pain for twenty or a hundred years?" The sufferer replied, he could not sustain it. "Then," replied the other, "how will you bear the wrath of God? for if you continue to sin, you must dwell with everlasting burnings." These words arrested Mrs. Robinson's atten

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tion: they were as a nail fastened in a sure place" by the Master of assemblies. considered her ways, sorrowed on account of sin, and rested not until she had obtained the pardon of her transgressions by faith in Christ Jesus. She rejoiced greatly in having found the "pearl of great price;" and while relating to others what God had done for her soul, she entreated them, most earnestly, to seek the same grace.

For a considerable time she walked in the light of God's countenance, growing in grace, and increasing in the knowledge and love of Christ; but owing to unwatchfulness during a season of severe trial, she lost the joyous sense of her acceptance with God, but continued carefully to walk in the fear of the Lord.

In August, 1844, the Lord chastened her with severe affliction. While in the furnace she grieved before God on account of her declension in the divine life, and pleaded earnestly that he would restore unto her the joys of his salvation. Her strong cries and tears were heard, through the one Mediator Jesus Christ. She prevailed, and again rejoiced in the glorious liberty of the children of God. From that time the love of Christ dwelt richly in her heart, her bodily health was partially restored, her vows were paid unto the Lord, and she sought, by greater devotedness, to evidence the gratitude of her heart for that great goodness which had been displayed towards her.

It pleased God to call her again to pass through the fire. During the early part of this affliction, she was severely tempted; the enemy came in like a flood; but He who has said, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be," lifted up a standard against the cruel foe, and

bruised him under her feet. While reading the hymn,

"Would Jesus have the sinner die," &c.,

she was overpowered with a sense of the amazing love of God in Christ, and gave expression to the overflowing of her grateful heart in such a burst of holy rapture and delight as manifested that she felt herself to be just on the verge of heaven. With strong confidence she exclaimed,—

"My soul would leave this heavy clay
At that transporting word;
Run up with joy the shining way,

To see and praise my Lord."

On

From this time her confidence in God through Christ remained unshaken. frequent occasions she triumphed over the weakness of her body, and sung the praises of her God and Saviour with joyful lips. At other times she agonized in prayer for the conversion of sinners, and the revival of the work of the Lord; pleading in faith that the Spirit might be poured out from on high on her relatives, friends, and neighbours. On one occasion, after thus pleading with heaven, she said, "God will revive his work among you." Nor did she pray in vain : it is done according to her faith: already the shower of blessing has descended, several have been baptized for the dead, and have filled up her place, and those of others who had died in the Lord. As life hastened to its close, her bodily weakness became extreme; but her soul was kept in perfect peace. Fully and firmly relying upon the atonement of Christ, she felt that death was deprived of its sting, and joyously anticipated the hour of her departure into eternity. She frequently thanked God that she had not to seek religion upon her death-bed, and often expressed a wish to depart and be with Christ. though she was anxious to enter in and share the glory of her Lord, no murmuring word escaped her lips; she felt that to live was Christ, while to die would be gain.

But

Her death was calm, peaceful, and joyous. She passed through the valley and shadow of death without fear, and evidently felt what the poet expressed,

"A convoy attends, a ministering host

Of invisible friends."

"Do you not hear," said she, "that glorious music?" and then added, "O how beautiful!"

ABSALOM'S TOMB.

"Now Absalom in his life-time had taken and reared up for himself a pillar, which is in the King's dale: for he said, I have no son to keep my name in remembrance: and he called the pillar after his own name: and it is called unto this day, Absalom's place." (2 Sam. xviii. 18.)

The Hebrew word translated "place" in the above quotation literally means a "land," but may properly be considered as a monument or pillar; and was situated in the "King's dale," on the edge of the valley of Jehoshaphat, near the brook Kedron, and between it and the Mount of Olives, on the north-eastern side of Jerusalem. The monument now shown as Absalom's tomb is most probably merely a representation of that pillar, as it cannot for a moment be imagined that the tomb as it now appears was the work of the "King's son." In the greater part of its construction its character is decidedly classical, and is not surpassed by any piece of workmanship met with in that part of the country. On examining a cut of the structure in question, it will be observed that it con

sists of a square mass faced with (bastard) Ionic columns, and that above this rises a cylindrical dome, terminating in a pointed cone, surrounded by what has been considered by some a lotus, and by others a flower-pot.

The square basic mass has evidently been hewn from the rock, whereas the dome is of masonry, and is, doubtless, an addition to the original construction. Its primitive character is therefore considerably altered; and we are induced to think that the square mass before-mentioned formed the ancient Jewish tomb, and the columns with the metopes and triglyphs were sculptured at a subsequent period, and the dome of masonry added at a still later date. The square mass is excavated, and evidently of a sepulchral character, as there is an opening in the upper part of the cone leading into the room, having niches in its sides. And, as a further proof, there are immediately adjoining other tombs excavated in the same manner from the same rock. Le Bruyn gives the height of this monument as thirty feet, the base of which is a square of eighty-two feet and a half. The custom for those who pass to

MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. THE eldest daughter of a family intimately acquainted with mine, was brought up in the convent of Saint Agnes, at Seville, under the care of her mother's sister, the Abbess of that female community. The circumstances of the whole transaction were so public at Seville, and the subsequent judicial proceedings have given them such notoriety, that I do not feel bound to conceal names. Maria Francisca Barreiro, the unfortunate subject of this account, grew up a lively and interesting girl, in the convent; while a younger sister enjoyed the advantages of an education at home. The mother formed an early design of devoting her eldest daughter to religion, in order to give her less attractive favourite a better chance of getting a husband. The distant and harsh manner with which she constantly treated Maria Francisca, attached the unhappy girl to her aunt by the ties of the most ardent affection. The time, however, arrived when it was necessary she should either leave her, and endure the consequences of her mother's aversion at home, or take the vows, and thus close the gates of the convent upon herself for ever. She preferred the latter course, and came out to pay the last visit to her friends. I met her, almost daily, at the house of one of her relations; where her words and manner soon convinced me that she was a victim of her mother's designing and unfeeling disposition. The father was an excellent man, though timid and undecided. He feared his wife, and was in awe of the Monks; who, as usual, were extremely anxious to increase the number of their female prisoners. Though I was aware of the danger which a man incurs in Spain, who tries to dissuade a young woman from being a Nun, humanity impelled me to speak seriously to the father, entreating him not to expose a beloved child to spend her life in hopeless regret for lost liberty. He was greatly moved by my reasons; but the impression I made was soon obliterated. The day for Maria Francisca's taking the veil was at length fixed; and though I had a most pressing invitation to be present at the ceremony, I determined not to see the wretched victim at the altar. On the preceding day, I was called from my

stall at the Royal Chapel, to the confessional. A lady, quite covered by her black veil, was kneeling at the grate through which females speak to the Confessor. As soon as I took my seat, the well-known voice of Maria Francisca made me start with surprise. Bathed in tears, and scarcely able to speak without betraying her state to the people who knelt near the confessional-box, by the sobs which interrupted her words, she told me she wished only to unburden her heart to me before she shut herself up for life. Assistance, she assured me, she would not receive; for rather than live with her mother, and endure the obloquy to which her swerving from her determination would expose her, she would risk the salvation of her soul! All my remonstrances were in vain. I offered to obtain the protection of the Archbishop, and thereby extricate her from the difficulties in which she was involved. She declined my offer, and appeared as resolute as she was wretched. The next morning she took the veil, and professed at the end of the following year. Her good aunt died soon after; and the Nuns, who had allured her into the convent by their caresses, when they perceived that she was not able to disguise her misery, and feared that the existence of a reluctant Nun might by her means transpire, became her daily tormentors.

After an absence of three years from Seville, I found that Maria Francisca had openly declared her aversion to a state, from which nothing but death could save her. She often changed her Confessors, expecting comfort from their advice. At last she found a friend in one of the companions of my youth; a man whose benevolence surpasses even the bright genius with which nature has gifted him; though neither has been able to exempt him from the evils to which Spaniards seem to be fated in proportion to their worth. He became her Confessor, and in that capacity spoke to her daily. But what could he do against the inflexible tyranny in whose grasp she languished?

About this time the approach of Napoleon's army threw the town into general consternation, and the convents were opened to such of the Nuns as wished to fly. Maria Francisca,

whose parents were absent, put herself under the protection of a young Prebendary of the cathedral, and by his means reached Cadiz, where I saw her on my way to England. I shall never forget the anguish with which, after a long conversation, wherein she disclosed to me the whole extent of her wretchedness, she exclaimed, "There is no hope for me!" and fell into convulsions.

The liberty of Spain from the French invaders was the signal for the fresh confinement of this helpless young woman to her former prison. Here she attempted to

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put an end to her sufferings by throwing herself into a deep well, but was taken out alive. Her mother was now dead, and her friends instituted a suit of nullity of profession, before the Ecclesiastical Court. But the laws of the Council of Trent were positive; and she was cast in the trial. Her despair, however, exhausted the little strength which her protracted sufferings had left her, and the unhappy Maria Francisca died soon after, having scarcely attained her twenty-fifth year.-Rev. Blanco White.

PEELER, THE DOG OF THE POLICE. DURING the recent investigation relative to the manner in which the policeman Daly came by his death at Kingstown, a little active and inquisitive dog, of the Labrador breed, was seen from time to time during each day running in and out of the room, as if he took a personal interest in the inquiry. The dog was admired, and a gentleman in the police establishment was asked to whom it belonged. "O!" said he, "don't you know him? we thought every one knew Peeler, the dog of the police." The gentleman then proceeded to give the interrogator the history of this singular dog. It appeared from the story, that a few years ago, poor little Peeler tempted the canine appetite of a Mount St. Bernard or Newfoundland dog, and was in peril of being swallowed up by him for a luncheon, when a policeman interposed, and with a blow of his baton levelled the assailant, and rescued the assailed. From that time" Peeler" has united his fortunes with those of the police: wherever they go, he follows; whether pacing with measured tread the tedious "beat," or engaged in the energetic duty of arresting a disturber of the

public peace. He is a self-constituted general superintendent of the police, visiting station after station, and after he has made his observations in one district, wending his way to the next. He is frequently seen to enter a third-class carriage at the Kingstown Railway, get out at Black Rock, visit the police-station there, continue his tour of inspection to Booterstown, reach there in time for the train as before, and go on to Dublin to take a peep at the "metropolitans;" and having satisfied himself that "all is right," return by an early evening train to Kingstown. He sometimes takes a dislike to an individual, and shuns him as anxiously as he wags his tail at the approach and frisks about the feet of another for whom he has a regard. There is one man in the force for whom he has this antipathy; and a day or two ago, seeing him in "the train," he left the carriage and waited for the next, preferring the delay of half an hour

to such company; and when the bell rang, with the eagerness with which the protracted joy is sought, he ran to his accustomed seat in the third class." His partiality for the police is extraordinary. Wherever he sees a man in the garb of a constable, he expresses his pleasure by walking near him, rubbing against and dancing about him: nor does he forget him in death; for he was at his post in the funeral of Daly, the policeman, who was killed at Kingstown. He is able to recognise a few in plain clothes; but they must have been old friends of his. Wherever he goes he gets a crust, a piece of meat, a pat on the head, or a rub down on his glossy back, from the hand of a policeman; and he is as well known amongst the body as any man in it. We have heard of the dog of Montargis, the soldier's dog, the blind beggar's dog, and the dog of the Monks of St. Bernard, and been delighted by stories of their fidelity and sagacity; but none are more interesting than "Peeler, the dog of the Police," "whose heart, enlarged with gratitude to one, grows bountiful to all."-Saunder's News' Letter, Dublin.

A TALE OF HORROR.

MARION CAMERON, it appears, was a pious young woman, and sincerely attached to the cause of the persecuted. Her brother lost his life in 1680; from which period, onward to the Revolution, the furnace of persecution glowed with a much fiercer heat than formerly. Murders were now common in the fields; and many were shot by the soldiers without trial, and even without warning. It appears that Marion Cameron, with two other individuals, had been surprised by a party of dragoons, and had fled for their lives in the direction of Daljig. They hid themselves in a moss in the vicinity, and, being overcome with fatigue, they cowered down to rest. In this situation, helpless and exposed, they engaged in prayer, and resigned themselves entirely to the disposal of Him in whose cause they were