We must, therefore, take them upon trust. Yet, even here, so far from being warranted to exult over the remarkable success of his missionary enterprises and those of his fellows, we should have lamented, had we been in their place, that, between the means of success and their results, there was so great a discrepancy. Bearing in mind, then, the time spent, the money at their command, and the fact that, besides those upon out-stations, and those belonging to other Protestant societies, there are now within the frontiers thirty missionaries, of the congregationalist persuasion alone (Ibid. p. 44), our readers will do well to peruse the following statement of results, as given us by Mr. Moffat. (To be concluded in our next.)

FEAST OF THE TRANSFIGURATION.
MATIN HYMN.-(SALIS. BREV.)

AUTHOR of worlds! Restorer of our days!

O Christ, thou King of kings, and dreadful Judge!
Upon our prayers, and likewise on our praise,
Look gracious down!

Our lauds and all our vows to Thee we pour,

When night invades, O! teach us Thy meet praise,
O! warm our songs, and join them evermore,

Maker of Light.

Between the seers, Elias and Moses, lo!
With face refulgent as the sunny ray,

And garments white, as white as is the sun,
Thou glitteredst bright.

Offspring of GOD, the Father witness'd THEE,
As Thou the glory art of Angels holy,

The world's Salvation, Way, Life, Strength to be,
Thee we believe.

Glory and strength, Creator, Thee attend,

Who dost all things sustain, and govern all,

Who in Thy kingdom's throne reign'st without end,
Both One and Trine.

Φ.

FEAST OF THE TRANSFIGURATION.

VESPER HYMN.--R. B.

ALL ye who seek the Christ,
Lift up your eyes on high;
The sign of endless glory there
Is given you to descry.

All glorious is that we see,
Existing infinite,
Sublime, exalted, limitless,

Older than heav'n and night.

King of His people Israel, this
King of the Gentile nations,
Promis'd to Abraham and his seed
Throughout all generations.

Him to whom all the Prophets
Consenting witness bear,

The attesting Father now commands
Us to believe and hear.

JESU, who unto babes Thyself
Reveal'st, Glory to Thee,

To the Father, and the Spirit good,
Through long eternity.

Φ.

THE FEAST OF THE APOSTLES ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL.

(VESPER HYMN.-R. B.)

IT is the Eternal Light, whose beauteous ray
Steepeth in blessed fires this golden day,
Which crowns the chief Apostles, and to us
Sinners, throws open wide the heav'nward way.

The world's Preceptor, with Heav'n's Janitor,
Fathers of Rome, Judges of all our race,
One, conqueror by the sword, one by the Cross,
Hold laurell'd in the eternal senate place.

Oh! happy Rome, hallow'd with glorious blood
Of this, the princely apostolic Pair,

Thou purpled in their gore excell'st alone
All that the world hath else, splendid or fair.

Glory eternal to the Trinity,

Honour and power, and shouts of joyful praise,
Who all things ruleth in the Unity,
Ever and ever through unending days.

THE ANGELUS.

Φ.

"OH MARY, CONCEIVED WITHOUT SIN, PRAY FOR ME, WHO HAVE RECOURSE TO THEE."

THERE are few things that strike a thinking Protestant more, upon his first sojourn in a catholic country, than the spirit of perpetual prayer by which the Catholic Church is especially distinguished. In England, one day of the week is set apart for the holy duty of prayer, and having spent almost the whole Sunday in the churches, the congregation disperse, the gates are locked, and for the rest of the week Almighty GoD seems forgotten in the more exciting duties of pleasure or of business. In Catholic countries, on the contrary, religion seems to mingle in every pursuit; it is the first recollection of the morning, the latest memory of the night, and if ever such favours are granted, there best could a man learn sensibly to feel the perpetual presence of the Omnipresent GOD. Scarcely has the sun began to rise upon the world, ere the churches are crowded by men, who give gladly to GOD the first moments of the new day, He has vouchsafed to their prayers. And while the feeble dawn but barely suffices to chase the shadows of the night, the divine sacrifice

of the mass is offered up for the benefit of the poor, who flock hither to assist at it before the labours of the day begin. The later masses are attended by the prosperous and rich, who have lingered on their pillows until the sun is high in the heavens. After the services of the day are over, instead of churlishly closing its gates, the temple of GOD is left open to all who come hither to pray, and seldom indeed is it wholly deserted. The rich man enters to thank Heaven for its favours, the poor man to beg a blessing on his daily toil. The mother to pray for her child, the wife for her husband, the virgin for a safe retreat in some cloistered solitude, the unhappy and injured, often for the foe that has caused their misfortunes. Some for themselves, others for their friends, each and all have some petition to make, and thus they learn to look upon Almighty God as the immediate dispenser of all good gifts. There at least pride is forgotten, and the gifts of fortune are of no avail. The noble kneels by the side of the beggar, the prince often prays amid the lowest of his people. The high-born dame, whom scandal dares not openly assail, prays near the reclaimed and weeping Magdalen of the streets, the spotless innocence of an Aloysius, by the repentant agony of an Austin. Well does the Catholic Church teach both by precept and by practice that spiritual equality which brought the blind and the lame to the feast of the Lord, which admits no distinction of rank or pride, and which makes the right dispositions of the heart the sole prerogative of the children of GOD. Even far from the churches, the piety of the people has frequently provided some memorial, by which in the midst of their worldly affairs their hearts may be reminded of the "one thing which is necessary”—salvation. The streets, the crowded thoroughfares, the marts of business, ever contain some monument of religion, rude indeed, and such as the eye that looks to the execution of the work, and not to the pious intention of the artist, will turn away from in disgust; but which the pious children of the soil, thinking of Him whom it represents rather than of the representation itself, gaze upon with feelings alike of respect and love. In the lonely ways of the mountain, by the river side, in the gloomy forest, everywhere you meet with some religious emblem to remind you that these are the works of the living GOD. It is lovely while wandering among scenes, where each step you take tells of the might and power of Him who framed them, and while your mind is exalted to the contemplation of His omnipotence, and you pause in your silent admiration, when a rude cross strikes the eye, a Madonna perhaps with the infant Saviour, and you suddenly remember that He who piled moun

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tain upon mountain, who scattered His magnificence over the desert plain, was once an infant weeping for your sakes in the stable of Bethlehem, a man expiring for your salvation on the altar of the cross. Often also in the silence of the night (I speak of Lisbon) you are awakened by strains of music that move the very soul to tears, they are so plaintive, and so touching in their devout simplicity. You listen for a moment, and then you know, that while you are pillowed on the couch of luxury, and health and happiness are handmaids to your repose, the priests are bringing the adorable sacrament to some poor dying wretch, who has no longer any consolation except in religion, no longer any hope except in him who thus comes to meet him in the hour of his utmost need! You mutter a prayer, perhaps, and once more sink into slumber; but the piety of the Catholic inhabitant is not so easily satisfied by a passing prayer; he rises from his pillow, and places a candle in his window; while those who meet the procession in the streets turn aside from their own destination, and follow it for a space, joining their voices in a hymn of gratitude to the good JESUS, who thus comes to visit them lowly and disguised from all save those who see him with the eyes of faith. Three times in the day the bells toll the Angelus Domini," and then every head is bared, and every voice is joined in prayer. And this brings me to a story. While residing in Lisbon, I became acquainted with a friar, whom to know was to love as a man, and to venerate as the faithful servant of his Heavenly Master. Being frequently in his company, I could not avoid remarking that the tolling of the "Angelus" always produced a singular effect upon him. If he were in the streets, it mattered not who were his companions, or what might be the weather, he paused until the bell had ceased to toll, and bared his head while he repeated the prayer of the Church. I have seen him standing thus, alike when a burning sun darted fire on his head, and when his grey hairs were tossed by the pitiless storm, tears streaming from his eyes, and his face bearing such a look of mingled agony and love as St. Peter's might have had, when he first wept over his three-fold treachery to JESUS. I have always observed that for a long time after his prayer was ended and his tears had ceased to flow, he would remain silent and abstracted, and when he spoke again, conversation would invariably assume a sadder and more serious tone than it possessed before. I had one day wandered farther than I was usually in the habit of doing, and I came to a spot lovely as any that ever smiled beneath the sweet skies of the south. There orange trees had formed their fragrant groves, and acacias mingled their