presenting our infants at the font. Our heavenly FATHER shows His mercy in enduing them with His HOLY SPIRIT. It is to parents, sponsors, and teachers, that I would address my earnest entreaty that they would ponder on these things, not treating them as matters of no individual importance, mere theological questions to be decided by men in authority, nor as a party question of High or Low Church, nor so to be influenced by approval, or condemnation of the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Bishop of Exeter, nor above all as an unessential belief in which they have no concern, but let them remember, to them, and their children, it is an eternity of life or death. "For he that believeth and is baptized, shall be saved." There is no difficult task to be performed, for since the time of the Apostles, to the present moment, the Fathers of the Church have maintained the doctrine, that as Tertullian saith, "In Baptism the HOLY GHOST Cometh down and halloweth the water." You bring your children to this Holy Sacrament, and offer your hearty thanks with the Priest, who declares, "That it has pleased our most merciful FATHER to regenerate this infant with His HOLY SPIRIT, to receive him as His own child by adoption, and grace, and to incorporate him into His Holy Church." We all have deep reason to praise GOD for this His inestimable graciousness, in ordaining a means, whereby S. Paul saith, "Whatsoever we be that are baptized, we are washed by the Blood of CHRIST." But dare we express praise or gratitude, if we are no better than heretics, and doubt that "He spiritually performeth that which He doth declare and promise by His visible and outward signs?" It has been wisely ordained in Article XXVI. of our Church, "That neither is the effect of CHRIST's ordinance taken away, nor the grace of God's gifts diminished from such as by faith and rightly do receive the Sacrament ministered unto them, which be effectual because of CHRIST'S institution and promise, although they be ministered by evil men. If, therefore, the sanctity and fervent prayers of the ambassador of CHRIST are unnecessary, how derogatory and presumptive is it to say that the prayers of parents, sponsors, or Saints, are influential in procuring for the infant that free gift of grace, which He has promised to ALL who come to Him. GOD forbid that I should be supposed to advise you to bring your babe as an offering to CHRIST without humble prayer. But beware of imagining that your intercession is necessary for the gracious fulfilment of His promise. Receive your Christian child with grateful and heartfelt thanks for this inestimable blessing vouchsafed to it in that laver of regeneration. And should your babe lie hopelessly in the arms of death, fear not, O father, tremble not, O mother, though in your ears may still sound the doctrine that your infant may or may not have been made a recipient of grace, and that your want of devotion and prayers may be the cause of its having received the outward form, and not the in ward grace. Fear not, I say, but look with the eye of faith on the HOLY SPIRIT, resting on your child's, as it did on our blessed SAVIOUR's head, though sinless as He was, and needing no repentance, it was for our sakes that the Son, equal in Godhead, equal in glory, and of co-eternal Majesty with the FATHER, and the HOLY GHOST, received a visible demonstration of the descent of the Spirit in Baptism. Resign your infant into His hands, for "they have faith imputed to them for the promise' sake of GOD." "I write to you, little children, because your sins are forgiven you for His Name's sake;" and "In heaven their angels do behold the face of My FATHER." But should life be granted to your offspring, instruct them in the pure doctrines of the Holy Catholic Church. Teach them the Catechism as a true exposition of that faith which maketh wise unto salvation. Strengthen them by a frequent perusal of the Prayer Book, which was compiled by the good and learned for the upholding and confirming them in that belief which is set forth in the Book of Life. "Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you. Mothers, to you is entrusted the early culture of your children's minds; behold in them the men and women of the next generation, and consider what manner of men you would have them to be. Not tossed about by strange doctrines, but let each be able to give an account of the hope that is in him. That as in baptism they have been engrafted into CHRIST'S Body, (His Church,) so they may from time to time be strengthened and refreshed by the ordinances of that Great Mediator, Who not only died for our sins, but will write His laws in our hearts, cause us to walk in His statutes and judgments, and will be with us even unto the end of the world. "Raise Me then a Holy Priesthood," saith the LORD, "zealous of good works. Raise Me those sons and daughters, in My Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church; that their light may so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify My FATHER which is in heaven." J. G. H. A. THE PICTURE. THE home of Effie Moreton was one of those pretty rectories so plentiful in "Merrie England." It was an old rambling house, with casement windows, and gables half hidden by the ivy which climbed over them. There were roses, too, trained over the house, growing in luxuriance, mingling their damask and white and pale pink blossoms, and drooping over the window, together with a passion flower, that had grown there many and many a year, and vied with the roses in its profusion of long green wreaths and starry flowers. Effie could gather them from her window in one of the gables, which looked out over the garden and the lime trees, and the shrubberies, to the common purple with heath, and the dark woods, and sloping meadows, till the view was bounded by the green South Downs she so delighted in rambling over. Close by stood the old Church, with its grey tower, standing high above the cottages which clustered around it; old thatched cottagesmany of them, post and plaster, with rough stone steps, and quaint wooden porches, half hidden in honeysuckle; just such as would have delighted an artist. Such was the home in which Effie Moreton had passed all her life, and no other would ever be so dear to her. It was not only that she knew every nook and corner so well, or that she was a great favourite among the poor there, and knew all their history, and took a deep interest in them and their affairs; nor that there was the name of "home" connected with it; all these charms, and many more, S. Olave's had; but there was one greater than all; it was linked with memories of the departed. Long before Effie could remember, her mother died. She was very fair and good, they said; and to Effie it seemed as if she was a guardian angel watching round them still; but she had no actual reality to connect with her; all was bright, spirit like; there was nothing of earth in the thought of her, or the little baby brother, who lay buried with her. : It was not so with another memory; she could remember Blanche, her elder sister, so sweet and gentle, with the soft dark eyes, and exquisitely lovely face and the smile that came like sunlight over it. Effie could recollect her clearly, though she was very young when Blanche died; recollect her more clearly than any one suspected and the thought of her had always a strange charm; it was to her like reading some wonderfully beautiful allegory, the deep meaning of which increased ever more and more, as one pondered over it. There was no one, however, to tell her anything about her sister, or help her to recal more distinctly what she did recollect. No one, except her only remaining sister, Edith. And Edith never named her; even after the lapse of many years, the agony of that loss was as great as ever; the aching void had never been filled up; she had sought to submit, to learn resignation, and in some measure, she had succeeded; but the light was gone from her life; all was dark and desolate. It was the lesson of her life to learn to submit, and the lesson of life is not learnt easily. Few, however, who knew her, and the steady, energetic way she performed her daily duties, would have guessed this, even those who knew her best; and Effie was far too young to do so, or dream that Edith's cold measured manner had been caused by the effort to hide the grief that was almost breaking her heart, and enable her to perform her many duties, and comfort her father. Effie could know no thing of all this; and she was often repulsed by Edith's calm cold ways, which sometimes made her doubt whether she really cared for her. There was no one else to make a companion of, for she had no playfellows, and she saw very little of her papa, for S. Olave's was a large parish, and he was devoted to the duties it entailed upon him. So she turned to her flowers and birds, and books, and felt as deep an interest in the heroes and heroines she read of, as if they really lived and felt, and sympathized with her. A dreaming, musing, little thing she was; very small and slight, with dark long silken curls, and soft dark eyes, and a singularly childish face; she looked much younger than she really was, and generally seemed very quiet and demure, till something excited her, and showed some of the energy and enthusiasm hidden by her quiet ways. Effie lived in a world of her own-a world of dreams; and Edith lived in reality; the cold touch of sorrow had crumbled her visions; the daylight had looked through her palace roof, and shown her the unreality of her bright dreams; she could live in a Dreamland no longer, and she could not understand Effie. That was the worst of it, and Effie was afraid of her, and kept all her fancies to herself. Edith knew enough of her to wish to put a stop to all this musing and unreality, and make ber more like other people-more like a child-(for Effie was much older than her years in some things.) But this was not very easy to be done. Edith considered long before she could come to any conclusion, and at last she decided to take advantage of an invitation often given, but never before accepted, from an aunt of hers, who had a large family, and had often wished to know her two nieces better. But she very seldom left home; she had only been once at S. Olave's, and Edith was equally disinclined to go to Compton Tracey. Her eldest cousin had been a very dear friend of Blanche's, had been with her through most of her last illness, until she died at Clifton; and Edith could not help thinking of Mildred in connection with that time, till the sight of her recalled painful thoughts to such a degree, that she quite dreaded seeing her again. That was unavoidable if they went to Compton Tracey; but Edith never shrank from anything, merely because it was unpleasant, so having decided it was best for Effie they should go, she steadily put her own feelings out of the question, talked the plan over with her father, settled time, place and all, with a quiet indifferent manner, as if she had no likings or dislikings either way. If Edith disliked it, however, Effie did no less. She had never left home in her life, and she could not endure strangers; and this was quite a journey; and then all those strange cousins-and to be left without Edith-for Edith was to return in ten days or a fortnight. She did not venture to remonstrate; but her eyes filled with tears, and her voice quite faltered, as she asked, "When are we to go?" "Next week, on Tuesday," said Edith, not choosing to see Effie's very evident dislike to the place. "Not on Monday ?" said Effie, feeling quite reprieved at the one day more than she expected. "No, Monday is so inconvenient; one never can get all the packing done on Saturday.' دو "Are all my cousins at home?" asked Effie next. "Yes, all. Do you know all their names? not," said Edith, laughing. I should think This allusion to the number of the " strange cousins" increased Effie's dismay, as she asked "How many are there?" Why really I must consider. Cecil and Edmund, Ellen and Lilly, and Clara, and little Betsy.” "And Mildred," said Effie, "she comes next to Cecil." "Yes, Mildred," answered Edith, with a sigh, and a passing contraction of the forehead. "She is twenty. You will not have much to do with her, except at lesson time, if she will take the trouble of teaching you with the others." The idea of being taught by a stranger was so unpleasant, that Effie tried to get away from the subject immediately, and asked—“ And Ellen-how old is she?" "Seventeen-engaged to be married, too." Effie's eyes brightened; there was a touch of romance in such an early engagement, and she liked romance, in spite of never reading novels. Edith did not notice the change of expression; she was not quick at reading faces; and Effie seeing she should hear no more about Ellen, continued-" Bessy is the youngest, isn't she? She is a great pet, I suppose-spoiled too, perhaps?" 66 Probably not; if your aunt were inclined to spoil her children, I should not send you there," answered Edith drily. Effie was silenced, and made her escape, to think over the wonderful event before her. THOUGHTS ON THE SEASON. THE leaves are falling fast, and all the flowers O sad yet joyful season, how my heart Strengthen my love with Thine own love divine; C. T. |