and thereupon recalls the conduct of the Roman Church through three centuries of moral, religious, and political wrong-doing, taking care that every statement is borne out by accessible authorities, and certainly presenting the reader with a phase of Christianity from which the tenets of the Sermon on the Mount had been utterly effaced in their practical bearing to humanity. The pamphlet is curious from earnestness of the writer, who evidently regards the engulphing of the Church of England in that of Rome as not only possible but imminent.

MY LITTLE SCHOLAR: By M.W. (London:

Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row.)—We have much pleasure in noticing this pretty little production, not only because it is written by a con tributor to our pages, but because we regard it as the avaunt courier of much more important work. As a rule we abominate the religioustract style of literature-a style which the Society itself is evidently desirous of improv ing-but "My Little Scholar," though verging to the threshold of the goody, goody school, stops short of it, and is a simple, pretty story of humble life, which children will like to readand which teachers of Sunday-schools will do well to purchase.

PART I.

Many years since there was a sequestered little village about twenty-five miles from the city of B, and situated in the most unfrequented part of that remote county. It was at that time an out-of-the-way region, utterly unknown to the world at large, and half smothered in fable and tradition. Long after ghosts had been exorcised and laid at rest in other parts of the world, they maintained their foot-hold here. A quiet, shadowy lane, which ran through a wood near the village, had a goblin reputation, and was said to be haunted by the ghost of a hard-drinking miller, who had finished his life and his bottle at the foot of a large oak-tree which grew there. Whether this last tradition be true or not, it is certain that this little village was more subject to supernatural visitations than any village of its size in the country.

In those days, too, there was an old mill on the border of a tree-fringed stream on which the village stood. It belonged to a hard-fisted, hard-swearing, roystering fellow, named Billy Harold, who feared neither ghost nor devil, but had a peculiar eye to his own interest. It was a ruinous building, roofless and without sashes; the water-wheel had rotted and fallen into the pool below it; and the raceway had become broken, and discharged its foaming waters at random. The heavy beams of the building had sagged and settled away, and piles of rubbish, caused by the tumbling in of the roof and the gradual decay of the structure, had gathered in it. Dark granaries and store-rooms, and gloomy passages, made for no one knows what, were still standing.

The mill, however, bore the same goblin reputation with the lane. On certain nights in the year, when the wind howled through the trees, and a storm was raging, strange and unearthly sounds were heard issuing from it, and it became rumoured about that it was tenanted by unearthly visitants of rather cracked reputation.

These reports at last reached Billy's ears, and fairly excited his choler; for although he felt personally indifferent to the character of those who occupied his mill, yet, as tenants of that description are very apt to omit the payment of rent, he had no idea of having his property depreciated by their presence. Accordingly on one stormy night, when the thunder was crashing through the sky, the blue lights dancing about the old ruin, and the hobgoblins were said to be in high revel, he sallied out with his cudgel, and disappeared in the thick of the storm, directing his steps toward the mill, "determined," as he said, "to put a stop to such goings on.'' What took place there was never known; but above the roar of the elements the listening neighbours heard Billy's voice bellowing out curses and execrations; and as the lightning äighted up the interior of the roofless building, they caught sight of the undaunted Billy laying lustily about him, as if beset by a legion of adversaries. He did not desert his post until the bellowing of the storm had sunk into distant mutterings, and the forked lightning had subsided into a dim flickering in the distant horizon. Then Billy returned, with his cudgel under his arm, and his hands in his breeches pockets. He gave no account of his adventure, but merely shook his head, and said that if they came to his mill again, " they'd catch it."

Whether the fear of "catching it" kept off his visitors or not we cannot tell; but it is certain that from that time the building lost much of its wizard reputation, and subsided into a mere common-place ruin.

But this is a history of times past. Billy long since went swearing to his grave. Like all iron-souled characters, he left his mark in the memories of those about him; and as the green hillock which rested over his once sturdy breast was pointed out, the simple villagers seemed to wonder that the grass could grow so quietly | over the grave of one so redoubted; and not a few of the veterans who remembered Billy in his prime, when they were boys, ventured the prediction that when "Old Nick got hold of him he'd meet his match."

After Billy's days the mill became more and more dilapidated. Time and Storm wrote their story upon it in strong characters. Everything about it ran wild; the grass formed into a green sod in its chambers; and ivy and other plants clambered over its walls; the trees which had been young in the days of Harold grew to be giants, and drooped over the ruin; and the willows trailed their thread-like branches in the quiet lake whose waters once turned its wheel. Things remained thus until a newcomer arrived in the village. He was a plain, unpretending man, a blacksmith by trade. He took a fancy to the ruin because he found that it could be got at a low rent, and his means were limited. He paid no attention to the tales attached to it, but hired it of the descendants of Billy Harold, and in good earnest set about converting it into a smithy. In a very short time the black smoke from the chimney and the roar of his forge told that he had commenced his work, and the clink of his hammer could be heard from morning till night. He was a stalwart, powerful man, slow of motion, and earnest of speech. His hair was short and slightly grizzled, and his features were heavy and massive, and bore a harsh and forbidding expression that belied his character.

The traditions respecting the mill were still fresh in memory, and many looked askance at one who could venture thus recklessly to plant himself in such an ill-omened spot; and rumours became rife that he and the ghostly frequenters of the place were on terms of better fellowship than they should be. He however took no notice of the rumours, nor of the cold looks that frequently met him, but went on with his business, hammering away at his horse-shoes, and patiently waiting for better times. His only companion was a child of about seven years of age, who seemed as lonely and unpretending as the old man. He took no part in the plays of the other boys of the place, but sat patiently at the door of the forge watching his father at his work, and helping him in such things as his strength would allow; and when the day's labour was over, he would put his hand in that of the old man, and walk with him quietly to a small house which he had hired in the outskirts of the village. As time waned, and the shop

was daily opened, and the smith was seen at work at his forge, and it was also seen that he remained unmolested, the tide of public opinion changed, and it was then openly asserted that none but a man of good repute could thus stand his ground against the powers of darkness; that it was a shame that he should not be encouraged. And thus by degrees John Biggs became one of themselves; part and parcel of the town; and his shop became the gatheringplace of all the idlers and gossips of the village. Gradually, too, the urchins of the place began to seek the acquaintance of little Tom Biggs, for so the boy was named, and his quiet, gentle ways soon won them. They saw that he was but a feeble, sickly little fellow; and when he stood looking patiently on at their boisterous games, they not unfrequently changed them to those of a more quiet description, in order that he might join them. There seemed some tie, however, to link him to his father, more close than that which usually exists between parent and child; and although his actions were checked, and he came and went as he pleased, he usually stole away from his playfellows, and passed his time at the forge, watching his father at work, with eyes that seemed never to weary.

un

The shop was dusty and dark, and begrimed with soot and smoke, aud full of dim corners and odd angles, in which were heaped old iron, and broken barrels, and odds and ends of rubbish which had remained there from the time when the place had been used as a mill, and which, as there was much more room than he knew what to do with, John had never removed. In the midst of it rose the huge chimney of the forge, built upon the bare earth, and extending upward until its end was lost in the smoke which eddied about the rafters of the roof. Horse-shoes, hinges, bolts, and various articles of iron-ware were hung on pegs, or ranged about in different parts of the place.

In the dim recesses of the shop, and in the dark passages of the mill, and in the old ruined chambers, the boy used to pass much of his time, until he seemed to grow almost as strange and goblin-like as the former unearthly tenants who had made the place their haunt.

Time waned, and he grew more quiet and still. He no longer joined the other boys at their play, but was seen the most of the time sitting at the door of the smithy, or lying beneath the shade of the trees which overhung it. His pale cheek and feeble gait, and the painfully patient look which sat upon his young face, told that all was not well with him. John, too, worked less assidiously at his forge, for he might be seen at times sitting under the trees, with the child's head resting on his knee, endeavouring to amuse him with tales of other times and other lands; for John had lived abroad.

By degrees summer passed away, and the brown shade of autumn crept among the leaves. Little Tom no longer walked to the forge, but his father carried him there in his arms; and as yet they were as much together

:

as before but the child's cheek grew more and more wan, his eye more lustrous, and the sad, quiet expression on his face deepened; but he never complained. Time passed by, aud John came to his work alone, for little Tom had taken to his bed.

It was at about eight o'clock on a bright starlight night at this time, that John Biggs was at work in this shop. He had a heavy job on hand, and was labouring earnestly to finish it, his face fairly glowing with exertion and with the reflection of the fire. Gathered about the forge, but far enough off to be out of reach of the red sparks as they flew from beneath the blows of the ponderous hammer, might be seen the indistinct forms of two or three idlers, who had dropped in to chat over the news of the place, and to watch the labours of the untiring artisan, who, with his arms bare to the elbow, and with a thick leathern apron to keep off the sparks, kept steadily on at his work. It might have been observed that his whole manner was restless and uneasy, and there was occasionally an anxious glance at the door, as if he expected or feared the arrival of some one.

"How is little Tom?" inquired one of his visitors, upon whom his look was not lost. "It's a long time since he was here."

"A month," replied John; "but he's better now; he'll be out soon, very soon."

As he spoke, he struck a heavy blow upon the red-hot iron which he held, and bent his head down as if to examine it; then turning away, went back into the shop to search for something.

A neaning glance passed between the former speaker and one of the group, but nothing more was said. When John came back he did not go to the fire, but went to the door and looked up at the sky.

"The night has set in dark, John, hasn't it?" said the other.

"Yes, very dark, dark indeed," said John, partly to himself and partly in reply to the question.

He stood at the door for some time, and was just turning to re-enter, when the sharp sound of a galloping horse caught his ear, and he stopped to listen. In a minute afterward a horseman checked his horse in front of the door, and holding his hand before his eyes, to shut out the bright light of the forge, called out:

"John Biggs, are you here?" "Ay," replied John, laconically. "Mr. Lindsey wants to see you to-night. He's very ill. Can you come?"

"Ay," replied John, in the same laconic way. "And can you bring Harry Lindsey with you? He's been with little Tom all day.'

"Has he? God bless him!" ejaculated John. "I'll bring him.”

The man gave his horse a sharp cut of the whip, and galloped off. John walked into the shop and took up his ponderous hammer, but he had struck but one or two blows with it before

he rested it on the anvil, and stood gazing in the fire.

There was a movement to go in the group. for they saw that there was something weighing heavily on the mind of the blacksmith, and with an instinctive feeling of delicacy they left him to himself. He did not observe their departure, but long after they had gone continued absorbed in thought.

"The good have gone, and are going," said he, sadly, "while I, a poor, useless hulk, am left. He was a good man! God bless him and little Harry. God bless the boy!"

The fire in John's forge became dim, and at last went out. John looked round for those who had loitered there, but they were gone, and he closed the shutters of his shop, bolted the heavy door, and went to his home.

He walked with a sturdy step until he came to the door of his house; bnt it might have been observed that there he hesitated, and the expres sion of anxiety deepened on his face as he entered it. He crossed a narrow hall, and went into a small room, which had usually been occupied by himself and his child before Tom had taken to his bed.

He looked anxiously about. There was a little chair drawn near the fire; the well-worn hat and coat of the boy huug upon a peg, and beneath was a pair of small coarse shoes. John took the shoes in his hand and eyed them wistfully; then placed them gently down, and, going to the hearth, stood with his arms folded and looked into the fire.

At that moment the door of an inner room opened, and a woman entered.

"How is he?" inquired John, in a subdued voice.

"He's better," was the reply. "Harry Lindsay is with him.”

John followed her into the child's room. His eye rested for a moment on Harry, and then wandered to the bed on which lay little Tom, wasted by disease. The bright look of childhood was gone, and had given place to an expression of patient suffering. He seemed prematurely old. His dark eyes brightened, however, as he caught sight of the blacksmith, and he stretched out his arms to him.

"How is it with you, my little boy?" said John, as he got on his knees by the bedside, so as to bring his face on a level with that of the child. The boy placed his thiu arms about his father's neck, and drew his face down on the pillow, and nestled his cheek against it.

"I'm better, father," he said, endeavouring to smile, and turning his face so as to look into the kind eyes which were gazing upon him.

"And you'll be well soon, won't you, Tom?" said John, cheerily.

"Oh! very soon, very soon," replied the boy. "And when you get stronger," said John, I'll carry you down to the old willows, and I'll make up a bed of the fresh hay, and you can lie there near the forge, and watch the fish swimming about in the pond; and you'll be