street from the castle to the Minerva, I saw and was seen by many persons. A novel sight indeed! A prisoner of the Inquisition held in custody by the arms of the French Republic! The Capitaine Rapporteur was very obliging, and I am sure felt personal sympathy with me. I will not repeat the conversations which I had with him. I will only say that I was greatly cheered, and I could not help feeling as if I were free and my own master. I determined to try if it were so. In an anti-chamber were several sets of military accoutrements. In a moment I had dressed myself cap-à-pie as a French soldier. The doors on to the landing were open, and the egress not guarded by a single individual. It was half-past five in the evening. I did what any one else would have done, and I did it with a smile. I descended into the Piazza di Minerva, passed through the Strada Piè di Marmo, the Piazza del Collegio Romano, and walked through the Corso, disguised as I was. I changed my dress at, where money was prepared for me. A carriage with post-horses was speedily ready, and a passport. At seven, P. M., I passed the walls of Rome, blessing the Lord, and committing to him my country, my brethren, and that infant church which will one day be an example to all the churches, so that it may again be said of the Romans, that 'their faith is spoken of throughout the whole world.'

"In six hours, I arrived at Civita Vecchia, rested till daylight, presented several letters, and embarked on board a steamer of war. The whole of that day I passed in the port, engaged in thanking my God, and in praying to him to provide for me in all respects. I wrote a farewell letter to the brethren in Rome, which I got a person to post. The next day we sailed for Toulon, and from thence I went to Marseilles, where I was unable to remain.

"I need not tell you the exultation of our beloved brethren in Paris. Already we have held many prayer-meetings to thank my first and truc Deliverer. But I hope never to forget the gratitude which, under God, I owe to the dear brethren of the Evangelical Alliance, who have indeed set an example the most edifying of Christian charity."

We need not detail all the influences, direct and indirect, which were employed to effect this great object. The English throughout have acted with holy intrepidity and promptness, the French with fear and trembling-with some duplicity, and a considerable partiality towards that much abused commodity which "answereth all things.” As to Rome, her conduct has of course been almost ludicrously hypocritical, but she has fallen into her own pit, and Dr. Achilli is now safe and well in London. To God be all the glory.

POETRY.

-*

THE ARSENAL.

"This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms,
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing,
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with the awful symphonies!

I hear e'en now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the dreadful groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before
In long reverberations reach our own.

us,

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade,
And, ever and anon, in tones of thunder,

The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man! with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
Aud jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,—
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and sports,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals and forts.

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;
And like a bell with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 'Peace.' 'Peace,'-and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies; But, beautiful as songs of the Immortals, The holy melodies of love arise."

"FORGIVE AND FORGET."

GREAT Father! listen to the feeble voice

Of one who fain would seek her God in prayer,
And bid my longing soul in thee rejoice,
And let me feel that thou art ever near.
I do not ask for wealth or worldly power,
"Tis not for wisdom that I bend the knee;
These cannot cheer me in a dying hour,

When every moment draws me nearer thee.
I do not wish in fashion's halls to dwell,
Where pleasure holds her court in rich array;
I do not ask for beauty's brightest spell,

These are too fleeting-these will pass away;-
But I would ask a heart, that soon forgives
A bitter word, or injury sustained;
And gladly thine atoning word receives,

And tries to hide how much it has been pained.

I ask a heart that freely will forget

The harsh reply—the chilling look of scorn,
And never tells th' injustice it has met,

Nor all the rude unkindness it has borne.

My Father grant me this-this heart be mine,
Oh! may I in thy love be truly blest,
And when all earthly cares I must resign,
Take me above with Thee to be at rest.

MARY SELWYN.

"BENEDICITE OPERA."

"O ye wells! Bless ye the Lord! Praise Him, and magnify Him for ever!" In German land, I've seen them fling

Their waters from the ground,
A cloud reveal'd the steaming spring,
While snows were circling round.

I saw, too, crystal fountains burst
In many a sparkling rill,

Prompt for the weary travellers' thirst,
Their cooling cup to fill.

Hard by, the medicated streams
Bubbling the wells beneath,
Reflect Bethesda's healing gleams
On sickness nigh to death.

Thus cold, or hot, or healing, these
Thy varied plans fulfil,

God of the waters! Thee they please
Working thy loving will!

But thou, secluded modest well!
Whom no man passeth by,
Cans't thou no allegory tell
To lift His glories high?

Let me look down on thee once more,
In this thy tranquil space,
Lo! though 'tis now the midnight hour,
The starry skies their radiance pour,
And shew, as thro' "an open'd door,"
A Heav'n below thy face!

Wisbaden.

THE MYSTERY OF GODLINESS.

H. V. T.

Th' essential Image of th' Eternall Good,

That by His Word, the world of nothing made,

Came down from heav'n, and took true flesh and blood

Of Abram's daughter, ever-blesséd mayde!
Hee did not take the Angell's purer forme;

But of his love to us, no love deserving,
Abast himselfe, and was esteemed a worme;
And was bothe borne and died for our preserving.
O mistery, all humaine sence transcending,

O love most infinite, O grace! O glory.

Behold heav'n ope, and God himselfe descending,
To save the lost, and to make glad the sory.
Stand ope, ye living temples of the Lord;
Stand ope, and entertaine this heavenly word.

Ancient Devotional Poetry.