fall to the ground without the permission of her heavenly Father, and that the Son of Man, when on earth, "had not where to lay his head." Her father, finding her still resolute, put his threat into execution; only, however, in part, for he settled on her a small income, to keep her, he said, from bringing further disgrace on her family. Brought up as she had been, in the most perfect seclusion, never permitted to make the acquaintances usual at her age and suitable to her father's rank, when driven from the paternal roof she knew not which way to turn, until remembering the good old Mr. M, my father's friend, she applied to him for my address, and for immediate protection and advice. It is needless to say that with him she found a shelter, and by his advice I made arrangements with an amiable, pious family, to take her as a boarder. It was settled that she should make herself useful, in order to compensate for the very small salary she was able to pay. Here she enjoyed all the privileges of Christian society, and here she became daily strengthened in the love of God and faith in Christ. She was afterwards united to one who, possessed of ample fortune himself, received her, pennyless as she was, as from the Lord: they are not indeed "unequally yoked together," but walk together in the truth, dispensing good around them, and bringing up a numerous family "in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." At different times I have been staying with them, and since the glad days of early youth, have never enjoyed so much of earthly happiness as in their domestic circle: in them is beautifully illustrated the divine truth, that "all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose."

THE AUTHOR OF "THE LISTENER."

THE pages of this Magazine have often contained solemn warnings of the shortness of life, and the transitory nature of every earthly tie; but this year God himself seems to be repeating the lesson to our readers with double force. Not only have they to lament her loss, who for so many years had laboured with such energy in their service as Editor of the Magazine, but now another of our earliest and most valued contributors is taken from us. Mrs. Wilson, better known to the public as Caroline Fry, breathed her last on Sept. 17th.

A few lines, extracted from a letter, written shortly after the bereavement, will, we doubt not, interest many of our readers.

'It was only on the 24th of August that we were sent to Hastings, in the hope that the shortness of breath, and the severe cough from which she suffered, would give way to the mild air of that place. It pleased God to order otherwise. She became worse there; and in returning homewards we stopped here, the final restingplace of her earthly course. She departed yesterday afternoon, as gently as can be imagined, having by the skill of our medical man been greatly relieved of pain for the last two or three days.

'Till within the last hour, utterance was used to speak of the love, truth, and faithfulness of God in Christ, and in terms the most touching.

'Her desire to depart and be with Christ, which had for years been so strong, and which many Christians felt to be peculiar to her, as that they could not attain to, she desired might be understood, without any mistake, to arise from her abhorrence of sin, and the daily, hourly desire to be delivered from its burden, its present burden, the indwelling sin of her nature. Nothing occupied her during the latter part of her course in this sickness, but the joy set before her, so bright, and so serene.'

So late as the July Number of this Magazine, a paper of hers was inserted, entitled 'The Second Advent;' and ardent longings after home are some of the last sounds which we hear from her voice, as she shows us how even the carrier-pigeon, on his homebound flight, reproaches our unwillingness to leave this land of our exile. Her heavenly Father has now satisfied every longing. She has reached her home, and is at rest; but she is not lost to us. If she blooms no more as a sweet flower in our earthly garden, she may be to us as a star; no more indeed within our reach, but alluring us by the brightness of her example, to that higher sphere where she now shines for ever and ever.

LUTHER AND ARCHDEACON HARE.

It is a well-known saying of old Dr. Johnson, that he liked a good hater. It must have been on the principle that a strong shadow implies a very bright sunshine; and our readers will agree with us that a good hearty lover is a far more pleasing object. We call on them now to sympathise with the honest heartfelt love and admiration expressed by one great and good man towards another; for we cannot resist the temptation of transferring to the pages of our Magazine some extracts from Archdeacon Hare's masterly defence of Luther, in a long note, itself a treatise, appended to his Sermons on the Mission of the Comforter. Those who can obtain the two octavo volumes to which we allude, will provide themselves with a rich treat; and those who cannot, will not regret having even the scanty extracts our space allows us to offer. The only perplexity is how to select where all is so valuable. Perhaps nothing will serve our purpose better, both as an illustration of the style of the author, and the fulness of thought which marks it, than the contrast between the shadows of popery and the religion of Luther, to which Mr. Hare is provoked by Mr. Newman's charge, 'When are we to escape the city of shadows, in which Luther would bewilder the citizens of the Holy Jerusalem ?'

"You can hardly read a page of Luther, either in the four folio volumes of his Latin works, or the twentytwo thick double-columned German quartos ;-you can OCTOBER, 1846.

hardly read a single letter, however slight and short, among the 2324 in De Wette's collection, without being imprest with the conviction that religion, with Luther, is not a thing of words and phrases, not a thing of habit or custom, of convention or tradition, not a thing of times and seasons, but an intense vivid reality, which governs the pulses of his heart and the motions of his will. Different opinions, however, have been maintained as to what is a reality, and what a shadow. To savages, to those whose senses overlay their other faculties, even to the early Greeks, as we see from the first lines of the Iliad,—the body is the reality, the soul or spirit the shade. The same inversion is found under all forms of superstition. Indeed, this is superstition, to seek and lose the reality in the form, in the symbol, in the outward work, in the outward ordinance; and this superstition was pervading the whole Church, from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot, when Luther arose to call it back from the worship of forms to the worship of realities. It was because he saw hardly any thing but shadows, and masks, and empty forms, the spawn of the limbo of vanities, moving to and fro in the death-dance around him; because the spirit of life had slipt away from institutions and ordinances, which may once have had life, and a meaning, and a practical purpose, but which were now become purposeless, and hollow, and cavernous, for all manner of evil lusts to revel in; and because, when, in his yearning after realities, he threw his arms round these hollow forms, they crumbled to dust in his fervent embrace; because he could not bear to live in a world of shadows and fictions, amid a swarm of "unreal mockeries;" because he felt through all the depths of his heart, and soul, and mind, that God and Christ, and salvation and justifica