The Constitution of Clarendon, by which the clergy were admitted to be liable to process at common law, became in this respect a dead-letter, and the benefit of clergy survived and increased in the blood of "St. Thomas of Canterbury." It was now extended to laymen who chose to claim it, and no further evidence of clerkship was necessary than that the claimant should be able to read or write. If he gave these proofs, he was given over to the ordinary, who put him to his purgation, or laid upon him some ecclesiastical penance, as in the case of real clerks. As this privilege was applicable in all cases of capital felony, and there was no limit to the number of times it might be enjoyed, the worst evil-doers in the country got off scot-free-at all events, they saved their necks-and the peace of the community was disturbed accordingly. The solemn farce of purgation became, in many cases, too ridiculous to be gone through, or else the ordinary would not give himself the trouble to witness it; and as the alternate punishment he was empowered to award was for the offences of actual clerks, it followed, as a matter of practice, that a lay-ruffian on receiving benefit of the clergy was ipso facto discharged of his crime and its consequences.

The abuse of the privilege became so flagrant that a statute of Edward I., called the Statute of Westminster the First, provided that clerks convicted of felony, and delivered to the ordinary, were not allowed to go free without purgation, "so that the king shall not need to provide any other remedy therein." A statute in the 25 Edward III, recites the complaints of sundry prelates, that the secular judges had actually hanged clerks, "in prejudice of the franchises, and in depression of the jurisdiction of Holy Church;" and goes on to direct that "all manner of clerks," convicted before the secular judges of treason or felony touching any other than the king, shall have the "privilege of Holy Church," and be given up to the ordinary. The Archbishop of Canterbury, however, promised, at the same time, safely to keep and duly to punish such clerks, "so that no clerk shall take courage so to offend for default of correction;" a promise reiterated by another primate to Henry IV.

It may easily be imagined, however, that this promise was evaded. Not only did the ordinary ex-officio incline to the merciful side, but he found it no light matter to receive, punish, maintain, and keep all the scoundrels that were "admitted to clergy." Favoritism had also free scope, and the worst criminals might be abroad with impunity, while offenders in smaller things were undergoing punishment. By 4 Henry VII., c. 13, it was ordered, that the benefit of clergy should be allowed but once to persons not in orders; and all who received the benefit were to be branded with a hot iron on the brawn of the thumb with the letter M if they were murderers, and T if they were felons of a less degree. The branding was to be done by the jailer in the open court, before the convict was delivered to the ordinary. Eight years afterwards, when a master was murdered by his servant under circumstances that excited much popular indignation, advantage was taken to pass an act to deprive all laymen who should thereafter murder their masters of the benefit of clergy.

Henry VIII. dealt the hardest blows that the institution received until quite modern times. A statute passed in the fourth year of his reign took away clergy from all murderers, and from certain felons, unless they were actual clerks.- Chamber's Journal.

THE BEGGAR'S DEATH.

BY SCHUBART.

The beggar on his lonely bed,
In wretchedness is dying;
And yet, effulgent on his head,
A crown divine is lying.

Come, quiet earth and silent grave,
His limbs forsaken cover;

He lays on you his wanderer's staff,
His pilgrimage is over.

On riches, honor, pleasures, strife,
No trust of his is centered;
He hastens naked from this life,
As naked it he entered.

A Christian man, he dies in bliss,
When kings may be forsaken;
A treasure beyond price is his,
A faith in Christ unshaken.

Rough is the bier on which he lies,
On pauper help depending;
No funeral pomps for him arise,
No purchased tears descending.
Into the common earth his frame,
In careless haste, is hurried;
And in his grave obscure his name
Is now forever buried.

Yet God, for His great day of grace,
Is that poor name retaining,
The mute entreaties of that face
Not, like mankind, disdaining.
He whom the princess of the land
On earth were coldly spurning,
Will soon be at his God's right hand,
In seraph glory burning.

My God! if 'tis Thy wise decree
That here in want I languish,

May I, like Lazarus, in thee

Find comfort in my anguish! May angels bear my soul, like his, From this poor world of sorrow, To endless plains of heavenly bliss. To an eternal morrow.

EVENING THOUGHTS.

BY MARY.

"Who loves not the twilight ray,
Tinged with purple, blue and gray;
And, when day's last tint is gone,
Gently the night comes on."

The hours of day are numbered. 'Tis faintly giving out its dying sigh upon the bosom of the night. Its glowing orb is taking a lingering farewell, ere it is closed for the night beneath its mountain lashes. Slowly, sadly, yet beautifully, are the darksome shadows coming over the earth, stealing through the valley and climbing yonder mountain; and in unison with the scene, sad, sweet thoughts come gently stealing o'er the heart. I have said, "sad, sweet thoughts;" but this is no time for thought; it is feeling, pure and peaceful, even though tinged with sadness, that belongs to this hour. Thought belongs to the day, and is the busy offspring of the head; feeling is that of the heart, and, like some of our forest birds, is slumbering amid the turmoil of the day; but

"the voices of the night Wake the better soul that slumbered To a holy, calm delight."

Thus the morning of youth, the noon of manhood and womanhood are slowly, gradually disappearing through the twilight veil of middle age, and this behind the night of old age and the grave.

Thus must fade the aspirations of ambition beneath the gathering shadows of real life, and the golden dreams of youth beneath the cold, silent steppings of the Angel of Death. How many, in the morning of their days, have laid high schemes of usefulness in the service of a beloved and loving Master, and have hoped by their future endeavors to win many friends to His cause from the perishing souls around them. But the twilight shadows of an early grave are closing around these schemes; the youthful reaper sees his sun slowly going over the mountain; his sickle must be dropped when but a feeble handful of the golden grain can tell what he has done in the great life-harvest.

But, cheer up, desponding one! The sun of the eternal to-morrow shall far outshine the feeble rays of that of to-day; the sheaves you hoped to bear home, in the full evening of life, will be outworn by the "everlasting crown and joys upon your head," with which you shall return to Zion. Yet we should earnestly work the great work of life ere the night of death comes on. Let it not find us idly resting on past attainments, with but half the labor done; with but half the victory won between our own evil nature, the world that lieth in iniquity, and the great adversary. We do not fear the quiet, onward tread of the night march, nor to lay us calmly down on our peaceful beds, yet we feel that, much as the fading

hues of evening resemble the departing mortal breath, there is more in the latter to awaken our most anxious interest.

To the guilty conscience the night brings no sweet repose. Nothing but weary tossings to and fro, and anxious longings for the morning light are his. The condemned criminal loves not the gentle approaches of the night. No wonder he trembles as it draws near, knowing it to be the precursor of a fatal to-morrow. The sense of a misspent day destroys the repose of night, so the remembrance of a useless life destroys all peace in the near view of death. Otherwise reason might nerve the soul for a more courageous passage through the dark valley.

We know of one of those, "who, through fear of death, are all their lifetime subject to bondage." Friends attempted to dispel her fears by asking her, if, as her place was prepared on her entrance into this world, she could not believe that a place would also be prepared for her in the world to come? Her reply was, that she felt a vast difference between the two. Oh! if the would-be comforters of all such would relate to them the old but ever new Easter story of Him who overcame death, and if they really believed it themselves, how might the clouds be dispersed on many an evening sky! Even now, as of old, how many there are to whom such words seem but as idle tales, even while their lips repeat-" The third day He rose again from the dead"-and, "I believe in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting."

We have lost a dear friend. She was a sweet example of meekness and gentleness, and an ornament to her name. Would that all who bear the name of Mary were so! Well, the shadows gathered suddenly and swiftly around her; but the evening was light around her bed; too bright for the comprehension of the remaining feeble mortality. Innumerable hosts of bright and shining ones were seen, and strains of heavenly music were heard, even while the last departing rays were flickering in their socket. The bright beams of the Sun of Righteousness shone gloriously through the dark valley, and all was peace. Thus we lay them to rest, one by one, and thus we hope to be laid away with kind hands, not to—

"Sleep in solemn night;

Sleep forever and forever;"

But to rest, to sleep in Jesus and be blessed forever. Welcome, then, ye shadows! Come, holy twilight! Be it now, in life's morning, or when hoary hair shall adorn our heads. A triumphant welcome to the "chambers of clay" and the "green curtained bed."

THE WORM WITHIN THE CIRCLE.-One day a converted Indian was asked with a sneer, "what has your religion done for you?" Seeing a worm by the side of the path, he took it up, and put it down before the man; then gathering some straw he placed it in a circle round the worm and lighted it. The worm feeling the heat of the flame, began to writhe. The Indian then took it up in his hand and turning to his opponent, said with a beautiful simplicity, "This is what Christianity has done for me. I was a worm of the earth, and the flames of hell were gathering round me, when Jesus came and had pity on the worm. He took me in his hand and snatched me from ruin. What more could I wish that he had done."

A DAY IN THE COUNTRY.

BY THE EDITOR.

At 7, A. M., the carriage stopped at the door. A double team, bear in mind, gentle reader. For it is with horses as with the human speciestwo are better than one. Only in this case one limped. And a limping pair moves with unsteady steps, to whichever of the aforesaid species the said pair may belong. "My friend," said we to the owner, "to ride behind this limping horse will disturb the harmony of this day's music." "Lame, is he? Had him shod yesterday. Shoe hurts him."

"Friend, let me give thee a piece of advice. Frederick the Great had a great horror of new boots, as everybody else has. For these pestering unbroken boots cover one's feet with corns for a life-time. He kept a clean footed aide-de-camp expressly to break his new boots; that is, to walk in them awhile until they were fit for a royal foot to wear without pain. Sometimes the aid wore them too long, and then his royal master would try his own boots; that is to say, he gave the aid a sound kicking. Now, friend, keep an extra horse to wear the shoes till they are bent and shaped for the poor hoofs that must every day tramp up and down the rough roads of the world."

A "Jersey span" was next given us. That is, a pair as ill matched in color, weight, and speed, as nature could well make them. A venerable elder, a legal friend and his wife, were our companions-we four, and no more. The legal friend was the elder's son, and we happened to be the pastor of both. Leisurely we rode up a mountain, winding hither and thither, as such roads usually do. And then, for a distance of some eight miles, through a succession of dells, or small valleys, scooped out of the top, or backbone of the mountain. Small farms, interspersed with mountain forests, dot these valleys. Numerous brooks babbled through meadows newly-mown. Almost every grass field had groups of mowers. In one six, all in row, swung their large scythes through the heavy grass. Like the slow swinging of a pendulum were the regular cuts of these mowers, one of whom was a female. A tall, erect woman, of Amazonian form, led five men as tall-mowed away before her strong followers as briskly as if she had been sweeping her parlor. Others of her sex, elsewhere, spread grass, and handled the rake, with equal skill. Strictly speaking, this is not woman's sphere. But haymaking comes but once a year. And when it does come, it ought to be attended to. We must make hay while the sun shines. And if there are not men enough to make it, why, then, let the ladies lend a helping hand. These mountain girls are a buxom-looking set, blooming like the wild roses around them, with color enough in their cheeks to furnish half a dozen "city cousins" with innocent blushes the midst of their hardy toil, they have an eye to the preservation of their beauty. Large sun-bonnets and gloves shield their fair skin against the burning sun. Occasionally our road suddenly emerged from the mountains that limited our view, and landscapes of enchanting beauty would open before us across the fertile valley of Lebanon. The air was laden

In