the third, I begged that he might be tied up; but I had far better have tied my tongue and suffered in silence. Mr. Anderson thought my complaints very reasonable, and ordered the beast to his kennel; but Celestina-pity me, my friend! Oh, I was "a hardhearted monster,-a wretch, to wish to deprive the innocent animal of his natural liberty; my conduct was a sample of the tyranny of man, who always domineers over the weak; it was a sample of my conduct to a wife: was I not aware that liberty was the gift of Heaven, and that he who deprived the meanest creature of its birthright was a miserable wretch!" Oh, how my ears have ached with the reverberation of her reiterated reproaches! Thus we have gone on for a whole week, and this abominable Solomon is a stumbling-block in the way of my marriage. His barking might be borne, but he bites."

Pooh, pooh," replied Ormond, “ why should you quarrel with your intended about a dog? You must put up with it till the wedding-day is over, and the first thing you do the next morning will be of course to shoot him."

"I have tried to comfort myself with that idea, but these disputes have drawn forth so much of Celestina's character, that I begin to be alarmed at the prospect of the future. She is so capricious, wilful, unreasonable-in fact, quite a spoiled child." Ormond, after changing his travelling dress, accompanied his friend to the drawing-room, where they found their host, the intended father-in-law of Jefferson, and shortly before dinner was announced they were joined by two ladies: the first, a pretty woman, about twenty-five, the young wife of an old gentleman, who was in conversation with Mr. Anderson at their entrance, was scarcely glanced at by Ormond; but the sight of the second sent the blood to bis heart, and thence, though he was all unused to blush, it mounted, in despite of all his efforts at stoicism, to his temples. It was she, that lovely, sparkling unknown, whose eyes had found their way to his heart one well-remembered night at the opera, and whom he had vainly sought for since. His confusion caused him so much embarrassment, as he paid his compliments to the ladies, that his friend began to be ashamed of the awkward brideman he had chosen, but the announcement of dinner put an end to all further difficulties. Ormond seized the opportunity, and, perceiving that Jefferson was very backward in proffering his services, offered his arm to Celestina, and thus contrived to sit next her at dinner, in the course of which he used all his art to penetrate the character of a woman, whose conduct gave so much uneasiness to her future husband. She was so young and unsophisticated, so slender and buoyant, so much a child, that you felt almost inclined to inquire after her doll. Her figure, at once regular and delicate, presented a most charming contour. Her large black eyes, whose cloudy radiance seemed to presage lightnings, and yet shone with the brightness of innocence, spread a charm around her which it was difficult to withstand.

It is needless to follow the proceedings of dinner, although to Ormond they were of very considerable importance, so great was the charm of the fair girl by whom he sat, so original were the few remarks she let fall; her manner was so marked by the playful impetuosity of a spoiled child, and yet so chastened by womanly dignity, that he much wondered that his friend Jefferson, his senior, by the way, of some five years, should have taken the affair of the dog so much to heart. The dinner ended at last, the ladies withdrew; and the younger gentlemen, after paying proper attention to their host's claret, left him and his more ancient friend to enjoy the last bottle and the last scrap of politics by themselves, and sought the more agreeable charms of female society. They found the ladies in the billiard-room, where Celestina was making the balls bound as wildly as her own joyous spirits. They agreed to form a party, two against two, and drawing lots for partners, Fortune for once was wise, and the affianced pair were opposed to Ormond and Mrs. De Quincy.

Celestina entered into the game with all the vivacity of infancy, now laughing at her adversaries, then scolding her partner, and herself when she failed; vexed when she could not laugh, and laughing after each vexation. The game was nearly ended, and Celestina danced with joy. Three points more would win the game, and if the red ball were pocketed it would be secure. It was Jefferson's turn, and, according to his custom, he took a long and steady aim, but, whilst he was deliberately poising his cue, the impatient Celestina rested her white hand on the cushion, and looked into his eyes. His aim was altogether distracted, and he pocketed his own ball without touching any other, and the game was lost. Celestina screamed aloud, and stamped her little foot. You abominable creature!" cried she; "a child could have made the stroke," and her eyes flashed lightnings.

"I was looking at you," said poor Jefferson, with a contrite aspect.

"Looking at me! I never look at you. I tell you, you have done it on purpose!"

"We shall win the next game," supplicated Jefferson. "Win it by yourself then. I shall play no more." So saying, the wilful girl walked to the window, and began to play the galopade in Gustavus upon the glass.

Vexed to his soul, poor Jefferson challenged Mrs. De Quincy and Ormond, offering to play alone against them, but Mrs. De Quincy declined, and, seating herself on a bench overlooking the table, declared she would rather take a lesson from the young men. They began to play, Ormond with indifference, Jefferson measuring each stroke with the utmost care, and, from too great nicety, missing several. Celestina still drummed the galopade upon the window. At length, just as the game was thrown into Jefferson's hands, and he, with the characteristic indecision of weak minds, was balancing his cue, and pondering upon his stroke, she threw open the window and called to the gardener, who was passing below.

"Where is Solomon ? Let him loose directly. It is inhuman to deprive him of his liberty. Send him to me directly."

The man obeyed. Solomon bounded in through the window just as Jefferson had adjusted his cue. At a signal from his mistress, Solomon bounded on the table, and seized the allimportant ball; Jefferson flew to rescue it, and for his pains was bitten through the hand. In his desperation he struck the brute with the but-end of the cue, and the dog retreated under the table howling.

"

"What, Sir," cried Celestina, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes flashing with anger, "do you dare to beat my dog! Poor Jefferson thought within himself, now is the time to show my marital authority; and, holding out his bleeding hand, he struck the dog again.

"You wretch!" cried Celestina; and she raised her little hand with the full intention of repaying Solomon's wrongs on the ears of Mr. Jefferson; but, at the moment, Mrs. De Quincy quitted her elevated post and ran to interfere.

"Celestina!" she cried; and, by a violent effort, that most irascible of spoiled children withheld her hand. But tears of passion rolled down her beautiful cheeks. Solomon, emboldened by the turn of fortune in his favour, crept from his intrenchment, and commenced an attack upon his foe, but the judicious Ormond quietly took him by the neck and tail, and, throwing him out of the window, closed it against him.

Meantime Miss Anderson had gained the door and opened it; then turning back, her face all glowing, and some bright drops of pearl still sparkling on her cheeks, she thus addressed her future husband

"Wretch that you are, I hate you! do not deceive yourself, I will never be yours. You strike Solomon! I had rather be beaten myself. I detest you; do you understand me? I hate and abhor you, and I won't marry you."

So saying, Celestina, accompanied by Mrs. De Quincy, quitted the room, and drew to the door with a noise that shook the

room.

"Well," said Ormond, after a silence of some minutes, to his friend, who remained lost in thought, with his chin on his breast, and his hands clasped before him, "well; what think you of this gentle exhibition of your intended?"

"I won't have her; my mind's made up. I tell you I would sooner marry a fury.-Marry, indeed; why was I ever such a fool as to think of marrying? I and I had such a comfortable little establishment at home; all so quiet, so regular. Rachel is an excellent cook; James, the best of valets, never gives me any trouble; and Bob is so good a groom, that my horses are never lame; what the mischief possessed me when I wished to marry?and to fall in love with a tigress.-I've done with it. But what shall I say to her father? The wedding-day is fixed, and, despite all she has said in anger, I shall be obliged to fulfil my engagements; and if I meet her again-"

Leave that to me, my dear friend," said Ormond, "it is easily arranged. You have an uncle, a rich uncle ?"

Certainly, my uncle Edwards, from whom I have great expectations. Ah, when he dies I am sure of ten thousand." "Well; he is dying. He had an apoplectic attack last night." "He had? How came you to know it?"

"How came I to know it? My dear fellow, don't waste time inquiring, but set off at once! It will enable you to come to a decision. Absence is a sure test, and if this wild girl

really loves you, absence will try her. At any rate, the news of your uncle's illness will give you an excuse for absenting yourself for an indefinite time, without entirely breaking with this fair dragon."

"It is a good idea. Let us seek Mr. Anderson."

They found Mr. Anderson in his private room, which he dignified by the name of a study, but when he heard Mr. Jefferson's statement, he looked rather blank.

"Come, come, my friend," he said, "I have heard all about that foolish affair of the dog you ought not to take offence at it. A child's trick, a child's trick! A wife will know better. I trust you are not playing me false."

Ormond, seeing Jefferson wavering, stepped forward. "I assure you, my dear sir, that such is not the case. I myself, I am sorry to say, am the bearer of this sad news; but, knowing that there was no conveyance to town till the evening, I concealed them until the latest moment, in order to spare the feelings of my friend. The coach will pass your door within a quarter of an hour, and we must take our leaves hastily, though unwillingly." "If it must be so, it must," said Mr. Anderson, slowly rising out of his comfortable arm-chair. "I like not to see marriages delayed. You will return quickly."

"As soon as possible," murmured Jefferson.

"Will you not take leave of the ladies?" said Mr. Anderson. "Alas! it is impossible," replied Ormond, with great quickness; "my friend has not yet prepared anything for his departure."

"But you, at any rate, need not depart, Mr. Ormond," remonstrated Mr. Anderson. "No, no, we shall keep you as a hostage for Mr. Jefferson."

By no means displeased at this arrangement, Ormond hurried Jefferson away, and, after receiving from him a letter to Celestina, renouncing all claim to her hand, and referring particularly to her behaviour respecting the dog, with a slight reference to the superior excellence of his cook Rachel, Ormond at last succeeded in starting his friend and his pattern valet James, the one in, the other outside the coach, and then resumed his way to the house with a tranquillised mind. Here he passed a delightful evening, the enfant gâté was all smiles, and when he bent over her at the piano and requested his favourite pieces, the joyous, pure, and free-hearted glances that met his eyes carried him away into the regions of enchantment. And when, at her request, the trio, Mrs. De Quincy, Celestina, and Ormond, joined in a glee, he sang (he had many times been praised for his pure bass) he sang with an earnestness, a desire of doing well, that he had never felt before.

When he sat in the quietude of his own room, he thought to himself, is this the spoiled child of whom I have heard so much! the girl, whose mind is nothing but a light thing, that can be turned by the power of society? I cannot believe it. She is evidently a child of nature, totally unacquainted with the artifices which teach the practised to conceal their feelings. It is evident that she does not love Jefferson, and I feel very certain that I love her myself. I shall lose no time in acquitting myself of my commission, and he will have no cause to complain if I turn to the fair one he abandons.

Days passed on, and Ormond was lost in the contemplation of this young girl, whose beauty had a seduction for him which he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge. By turns thoughtless as a child, and pensive as a woman, in wild spirits in the morning, and melancholy at night, petulant and serious, she seemed an enigma, and Ormond hesitated. A letter from Jefferson roused him. Absence had calmed his spirit, and he begged his friend, if he had not already delivered the message with which he was charged, and altogether broken the match, to act the part of a peacemaker, and endeavour to move Celestina in his favour. No, no, my friend, thought Ormond, I cannot allow you to be thus fickle you surrendered Celestina, and have now lost all right to interfere. However, I will put an end to this at once. If she refuses me, she may take you and welcome, but not otherwise. Brimful of valour, he determined to seek Celestina; and at length found her sitting in a pleasant summer-house, with Mrs. De Quincy. The sunbeams poured full upon her beautiful Italian head as she bent over her work, and reflected from her banded hair, shone around her like a glory. As Julius entered, she raised her head, and, dazzled by the light, requested him to draw down the blind. The window looked out upon a lane which ran at the back of the garden. As Julius unfastened the string which kept up the blind, he perceived the head of a man, who, by the aid of the inequalities of the wall, had clambered up to the

window, and, in this extraordinary spy, he recognised his friend Jefferson. His first thought was to throw one of the flower-pots under his hand upon the intruder's head, and crush him like a second Pyrrhus; but his virtue triumphed over this homicidal temptation, and he contented himself with drawing down the blind, giving no sign that he had perceived Jefferson, and shutting the window, which, on second thoughts, he re-opened.

Jefferson had tormented himself with doubts ever since his return to London. His friend's silence surprised him; and, as the dread of Solomon vanished, his remembrance of his mistress's beauty grew stronger. His impatience grew at length so strong, that, after sending his letter to Ormond, he could not wait for a reply, but got on the first coach, and was set down near Mr. Anderson's house. Then again irresolution came upon him. He did not know in what character he should be received, and whether, if Ormond had followed his first instructions, his visit would not be considered as a gross insult. He recollected that Celestina was accustomed to sit in the summer-house in the afternoon, and it occurred to him that by climbing to the window he might gather sufficient from the conversation between her and Mrs. De Quincy to satisfy his doubts. There were seldom any passers in the lane, and, as the summer-house was situated at an angle of the wall, and the bricks were worn, the ascent was easy. He was in the act of ascending when he espied Ormond, and he drew back, flattering himself that he was unperceived. As soon as the blind was let down he regained his position, and esta blished himself with his feet resting in a gap in the wall, and his hands firmly grasping the iron balcony of the window, and thus, with his head snugly ensconced behind a flower-pot, he settled himself to listen.

There was a long silence. Ormond was seated on a stool very near Celestina, but he knew not how to begin a conversation, and he looked with imploring eyes towards Mrs. De Quincy, who, though she understood him full well, for she had read his thoughts long before, would not help him. At length, with a wicked meaning in her speech, she said, "Have you heard nothing of Mr. Jefferson lately?"

Ormond saw her meaning, and hesitated for a moment; but, quickly resuming self-possession, he answered, "Yes, Madam, I have received a letter from him, announcing his return, and he has commissioned me to inform you of it."

"His uncle has then recovered?"

"I presume he has; but his illness was only an excuse, to afford my friend a delicate opportunity of withdrawing for a few days."

Celestina raised her head, and fixed her expressive eyes upon Ormond.

"If your friend," said she, with an emphasis on the word friend-" If your friend thought it necessary to absent himself, be assured, that I do not desire his return. Pray write, and tell him so."

"You should not be so revengeful," said Mrs. De Quincy, with affected good-nature; "if he repents and confesses his faults-if he confesses himself guilty of being bitten-if he throws himself on his knees, and implores your pardon, ought you not to grant him pardon ! "What an excellent woman," said Jefferson, behind the flower-pot.

Miss Anderson was silent for a few moments, and then she softly said to Ormond, at whom, though sitting at her feet, she scarcely dared to look-"You, doubtless, are of Emily's opi nion?'"

A thrill ran through the frame of Julins, as, gently bending towards the beautiful girl, who sat motionless, her eyes cast down, but her emotion betrayed by the undulation cf her snow-white garment, he murmured" It is I who seek for pardon: I, who love you, and whom the very thought of this marriage plunges into despair. Celestina, my fate is in your hands, the happiness of my life depends on a word. Say, I beg of you,-on my knees I beg you tell me that you will not marry him." Celestina answered not, but the pressure of her hand, which he had seized, answered for her.

Mrs. De Quincy, with a wicked smile, quietly said, "It is certainly praiseworthy to plead a friend's cause, but there is no need of so much warmth. Besides, it is not good manners to whisper."

"He is pleading for me ;-what will she answer?" said Jefferson, who began to find his position unpleasant. Celestina rose, and, crossing the floor, sat down by the side of her friend, and hid her face in her bosom. At this moment

Jefferson tried to put aside the blind; a motion which was observed only by Ormond, who, changing his position, and approaching Mrs. De Quincy, said aloud -"Allow me to fulfil my commisston. What answer shall I send to Jefferson ?" "Very proper," said Mrs. De Quincy, with a sort of maternal gravity; it is time to make up your mind. If you love Mr. Jefferson, all these disputes are childish. If you do not love him, say so; and your father, I am sure, will not put any constraint on your feelings."

"I do not love him," said Celestina, in a firm voice. Ormond looked round to the window, and perceived by the movement of the blind that these words had reached the ears of Jefferson.

"But you accepted him," said Mrs. De Quincy, in a halfmocking tone.

"I was so young and foolish," remonstrated Celestina. "I liked the thought of living in London; the match pleased my father; and I accepted the hand of Mr. Jefferson, without considering the importance of such an engagement. I am sure he did not look on it in any other light. Fortunately, experience has shewn us that we are not made for one another. I do not blame him; on the contrary, I am ready to confess that I alone am in the wrong. But I could not be happy with him. Why, then, should I marry him?"

"But if he comes back," said Ormond, "how will you receive him?"

"I shall repeat what I have now said."

What! if he appeared suddenly before you, in a humble, suppliant attitude?"

"Yes;-I tell you I don't love him, and I never will marry him." Ormond, who stood close by the window, suddenly drew up the blind, and discovered the unhappy Jefferson to the astonished ladies.

"Good day, my dear friend," he cried; "how are you?" Tired out with his fatiguing position, and overpowered by the smothered laughter of the spectators of his misery, Jefferson let go his hold, and tell prostrate in the lane.

Need we say more? No. Let us end like a good old nursery tale. But a few days more elapsed, and Ormond and Celestina were married; and Jefferson, like a sensible man, comforted himself with Mr. Anderson's good cheer, and danced at the wedding; the same night Solomon most unaccountably disappeared, and, what is more wonderful, was never inquired after.

PROGRESS OF CHRISTIANITY IN ENGLAND.

ITS INTRODUCTION AND EARLY STATE.

We know very little respecting Christianity in England under the Romans. That it flourished, and probably prevailed extensively, seems little doubtful: but beyond this, we know nothing with certainty. The great persecution which raged against the Christian religion during the reign of Diocletian, extended to Britain; and the town of St. Albans preserves in its name the memory of an eminent citizen, who, along with many others of his fellow countrymen, whose names are not recorded, perished for their attachment to their faith. Towards the concluding period of the Roman dominion, the British ecclesiastics appear to have enjoyed some consideration in the Christian world, and to have shared in the noisy verbal theological disputes which agitated the church. Pelagius and Celestius were both Britons, the first being supposed to have been born in Wales, and the second in Ireland. These two men were travelling companions; they arrived in Rome about the beginning of the fifth century; and afterwards, by the propagation of their opinions, chiefly respecting original sin and freewill, raised a controversy, which extended to every part of the world where Christianity was professed.

The wars and rapine of the heathen Saxons extinguished almost every vestige of Christianity in England. Churches were destroyed, ecclesiastics were massacred, and the country appears to have been almost if not entirely destitute of all recollection or memory of that religion which, under the civilizing influence of Rome, appeared to have taken firm root within it. Then occurred that memorable incident recorded of Gregory surnamed the Great, which took place before he reached the papal chair. Passing through the streets of Rome, he was struck, in the market place, by the sight of some fair youths, who were exposed for sale as slaves. Impressed with the beauty of their forms, and their fair complexions, he inquired of what country they were, and was told that they were Angles, and belonged to a pagan race.

""

"Ah!" replied the ecclesiastic, "they would not be Angles but angels, if they were but Christians!" Pursuing his inquiries, he exclaimed, "Why should the Prince of darkness have such splendid subjects? Why should the mind be so dark when the form is so beautiful?" Through him, Austin and other monks were sent to England to preach Christianity. Ethelbert was then king of Kent, and he received the missionaries with great respect. His answer to their propositions is worthy of a more enlightened age :-" Your words and promises are very fair; but as they are new and uncertain, I cannot abandon that religion which I and the whole English nation have so long followed, to give credit to them. Nevertheless, as you are strangers here, and are come so far, through a desire, as it appears to us, of imparting to this kingdom the knowledge of those things which you believe to be true and most beneficial, we will not molest you, but receive you with kind hospitality, and take care to supply you with everything which you may want for your support; nor do we forbid you to persuade as many as you can, by preaching, to embrace the religion which you profess.' The King appointed Canterbury for the residence of the strangers: and his conversion was followed by their obtaining many proselytes. The new religion soon spread over Kent and Essex, and Ethelbert built the church of St. Paul in London. Under several of his successors Christianity declined, but, in the reign of Edwin, who was a prince of great sagacity, and under whose protection it again revived, it extended its influence as far as the province of Northumbria. This king, however, previous to adopting the new opinions, held a council of his kingdom, and by its determination was the established religion of the country to be confirmed or the new one adopted. Each councillor was required to give his opinion in rotation. An extract or two from Bede will show how cordially Edwin's views were reciprocated by his followers. Coifi, the high-priest, thus addressed the assembly:"Consider attentively, O king, the nature of the religion which is now preached to us, for I can assure you from my own experience, that the religion which we have hitherto professed has no virtue in it. None of your subjects ever applied himself with greater zeal to the worship of our gods than I; and yet many of them have received greater favours and honours from you, and have been more fortunate in everything which they undertook to perform or acquire, than I have. Now, if these gods could do any thing, they would rather promote my interests, who have been more careful to serve them. Wherefore it now remains that if, upon due examination, you perceive that this new religion which is now preached to us is better and more efficacious, we admit it without delay." The speech of another, as coming from an illiterate Saxon councillor of that rude age, is peculiarly striking. "The present life of man, O king, compared with that space of time beyond, of which we have no certainty, reminds me of one of your wintry feasts, where you sit with your generals and ministers. The hearth blazes in the middle, and a grateful heat is diffused around, while the storms of rain and snow are raging fierce without. Driven by the chilling tempest, a little sparrow enters at one door, and flies delighted around till it departs through the other. While it stays within our mansion it feels not the winter's storm; but when this short interval of happiness has been enjoyed, it is forced again into the same dreary scene from which it had escaped, and we behold it no more. Such is the life of man, and we are as ignorant of the state which has preceded our present existence as of that which will follow it. Thus situated, I feel that if this new faith can give us more certainty on this important subject, it merits our belief." The other councillors expressed themselves in a similar manner; and after Paulinus, one of the missionaries, bad delivered a discourse, Coifi, animated by its eloquence, exclaimed—“ Formerly I understood nothing that I was worshipping, and the more indus. triously I sought for truth the less of it could I find. But in this system, the gifts of eternal life and happiness are clearly unfolded to us. Therefore, O king, I advise that our useless temples be immediately consigned to flames and to "execration." Edwin and his nobles were then baptized with many of the people, and thus Christianity was established. "Christianity," says Turner, "has never been admitted into any country in a manner more worthy of itself, or more creditable to the intellect of its converts. Both Ethelbert and Edwin received it like dispassionate sages. Their faith was the offspring of a judgment deliberate and just." The gospel soon spread over the other provinces, and Sussex was the last which acceded to the revolution in its religious system. Civilization, morality, and a taste for literature, were its immediate fruits. When the Christian clergy were established and monasteries arose, the poor were taken under their protection, and thus gradually drawn away from robbery and bloodshed. A channel of

communication was now opened between Britain and the more polite parts of Europe, so that there was now some hope of the introduction of arts and sciences into this country. An ecclesiastical power was reared, which, at one time opposing the King, and at another the domination of the nobles, favoured the emancipation, and contributed much to produce the freedom of the people.

The Saxon Heptarchy was united under the dominion of Egbert, a prince of great accomplishments. He was a patron of the arts, and founded a noble library at York, of which Turner furnishes a catalogue. On the same authority Bede is said to have "addressed a long letter to him, which remains." The studies pursued in York in the eighth century are also given. They were, Grammar, Rhetoric, Poetry, Astronomy, and Natural Philosophy. He adds :"But though literature in the seventh and eighth centuries was striking its roots into every part of England, yet it was in the monasteries almost exclusively that it met with any fit soil or displayed any vegetation. The ignorance of the secular part of society was general and gross. Even our kings were unable to write. Withred, King of Kent, about the year 700, says, at the end of a charter, I have put the sign of the holy Cross, pro ignorantia litterarum, on account of my ignorance of writing.' There are several letters, however, extant, from the Anglo-Saxon kings at this period, which show some mental cultivation; the great Alfred was a notable example. In the century preceding Alfred the Great, the chief intellectual luminaries were, Aldhelm, Bede, and Alcuin :the first was a celebrated poet, as also was the latter, who was besides the friend and preceptor of the Emperor Charlemagne. He was born in Northumbria, and studied at York under Egbert while he was archbishop. He composed many works on the arts and sciences, for the use and instruction of Charlemagne, with whom he ultimately attached himself in France. He was indefatigable in exciting the Emperor to the love and encouragement of learning, and in the collection of MSS. for its dissemination.

Bede, the well-known early historian of the primitive Church, was born in 673. He was put under the care of the Abbot Benedict at seven years of age in the monastery of Weremouth, Northumbria, his native place. In the year 702 he was ordained priest. In his own simple unaffected narration, he says, "I passed all the time of my life in the residence of this monastery, and gave all my labours to the meditation of the Scriptures, and to the observance of regular discipline, and in the daily care of singing in the church. It was always sweet to me to learn, to teach, and to write. From the time of my receiving the order of priesthood to the fifty-ninth year of my life, I have employed myself in briefly noting from the works of the venerable Fathers these things on the holy Scriptures for the necessities of me and mine, and in adding something to the form of their sense and interpretation." Bede was the author of many works, in biography, history, &c. He died in 735, aged 62. The second Council of Aix-la-Chapelle bestowed on him the title of Venerable.'

The year 849 was distinguished by the birth of Alfred, whose history is so well known as to require no notice here. His great acquirements, his exile, and his subsequent restoration, occupy a prominent part in the Anglo-Saxon annals. After twelve years of peril and calamity, he acquired the sovereignty; and his comprehensive mind conceived and executed the magnanimous policy of subduing the minds of his enemies to the peaceful obligations of agriculture, civilization, and Christianity. To effect this, he required of them to exchange their Paganism for the Christian religion.

A new religious system spread in Europe in the tenth century— the Benedictine order of monks became the most celebrated in Christendom; and in England a character arose for its propagation, whose genius constituted him the most remarkable man of his country and age, and whose ambitious ascendancy in civil and ecclesiastical affairs renders him the most prominent actor in several reigns. This man was Dunstan. This extraordinary person was born in 925. He was of noble birth, and his education consisted of all the branches of knowledge which were taught at the time. His intense application to study produced a violent illness, which had a remarkable effect upon his subsequent character and conduct in life. His monkish contemporaries furnish marvellous details of his saintly exploits. One of them relates that when the whole family were standing about his bed dissolved in tears and expecting every moment to see him expire, an angel came from heaven in a dreadful storm, and gave him a medicine which restored him to perfect health in a moment. Dunstan immediately started from his bed, and ran with all his speed towards the church to return thanks for his recovery; but the devil met him by the way, surrounded by a great multitude of black dogs, and endeavoured to

obstruct his passage. This would have frightened some boys, but it had no such effect upon Dunstan; who, pronouncing a sacred name and brandishing his stick, put the devil and all his dogs to flight. The church doors being shut, an angel took him in his arms, conveyed him through an opening in the roof, and set him softly down on the floor. After his recovery he pursued his studies with the greatest ardour, and soon became a perfect master in philosophy, divinity, music, painting, writing, sculpture, working in gold, silver, brass, and iron, &c. When he was still very young he entered into holy orders, and was introduced by his uncle Athelm, Archbishop of Canterbury, to King Athelstan; who, charmed with his person and accomplishments, retained him in his court, and employed him in many great affairs. At leisure hours he used to entertain the king and his courtiers with playing on his harp, or some other musical instrument; and now and then he wrought a miracle, which gained him great admiration. His old enemy the devil was much offended at this, and prompted some envious courtiers to persuade the king that his favourite was a magician, which that prince too readily believed. Dunstan, dis. covering by the king's countenance that he had lost his favour, and resolving to resign rather than be turned out, retired from court to another uncle, who was bishop of Winchester. This! good prelate prevailed upon his nephew to forsake the world and become a monk; after which he retired to a little cell, built against the church wall of Glastonbury. Here he slept, studied, prayed, meditated, and sometimes amused himself with forging several useful things in brass and iron. One evening, as he was working very busily at his forge, the devil, putting on the appearance of a man, thrust his head into the window of his cell, and asked him to make something or other for him. Dunstan was so intent upon his work that he made no answer; on which the devil began to swear and talk obscenely, which betrayed the lurking fiend. The holy blacksmith, putting up a secret ejaculation, pulled his tongs, which were red hot, out of the fire, seized the devil with them by the nose, and squeezed him with all his strength; which made his infernal Majesty roar and scold at such a rate, that he awakened and terri fied all the people for many miles around. So far the legend. "The man who set England in flames," says Turner, "was Dunstan, a man certainly formed by nature to act a distinguished part in the varied theatre of life. His progress to honour is worth our contemplation, as it affords a curious instance of great talents perverted from the path of glory by injudicious tuition and an inordinate ambition." It was Dunstan's early choice to have settled in private life, and he became deeply enamoured of a female friend. But his uncle refused to sanction his marrying, and wished him to devote himself to the Church. His disappointed hopes threw him into a violent illness, during which the preaching of the monks and the fear of death overcame him; and thus Dunstan, while ardent with passions not dishonourable to youth, was driven forcibly from civil honours, and afterwards excluded from social life. In obedience to duty, fear, and importunity, but in direct contradiction to his own wishes and prospects, he became a monk. But his blighted passion and fanaticism rendered him incapable of the calmness of true devotion, and fed the malady by the extravagant severities he imposed on himself. He fancied himself assailed by the powers of darkness. With his own hands he made a cell so unlike anything of the sort, that his biographer, who had seen it, knew not what to call it. It was five feet long by two and a half wide; its height the stature of a man. Its only wall was its door, which covered the whole, and in it a small aperture to admit light and air. Here occurred many of those wonderful things which were probably first related by himself, and believed by his superstitious auditors. The fame of his trials and his sanctity went to the remotest parts of the kingdom; and Edmund, the successor of Athelstan, invited him to court. The predominant passions in Dunstan's character were ambition and impetuosity. The path of life to which he was forced did not extinguish those energies. His supe rior mind and all its acquisitions still remained; but it was necessary that all its peculiarities should thereafter be displayed in the language, garb, and manners of a monk. He was well received by the king; his ambition was revived, and he now aspired to establish his own power on the aggrandisement of his order; and it was not long before he had the custody of the temporal as well as the spiritual affairs of his sovereign. The public purse being now at his disposal, he planted religious establishments all over the kingdom. He became the champion of the Benedictine reformation, found abundance of supporters, and the revolutions he patronized gathered strength every day. The people reverenced the new monks for their assumed sanctity and severe regularity. Thus the crafty project ended in governing the nation by the