friendship, like a diamond, radiates steadily from its transparent heart.

This sentiment was never experienced in greater depth and purity than by David and Jonathan Trueman, brothers of nearly the same age. Their friendship was not indeed of that exciting and refreshing character, which is the result of a perfect accord of very different endowments. It was unison, not harmony. In person, habits, and manners, they were as much alike as two leaves of the same tree. They were both hereditary members of the Society of Friends, and remained so from choice. They were acquainted in the same circle, and engaged in similar pursuits. "Their souls wore exactly the same frockcoat and morning-dress of life; I mean two bodies with the same cuffs and collars, of the same color, button-holes, trimmings, and cut."

Jonathan was a little less sedate than his older brother; he indulged a little more in the quiet, elderly sort of humor of the "Cheeryble Brothers." But it was merely the difference between the same lake perfectly calm, or faintly rippled by the slightest breeze. They were so constantly seen together, that they were called the Siamese Twins. Unfortunately, this similarity extended to a sentiment which does not admit of partnership. They both loved the same maiden.

Deborah Winslow was the only daughter of one of those substantial Quakers, who a discriminating observer would know, at first sight, was "well to do in the world;" for the fine broadcloth coat and glossy hat spoke that fact with oven less certainty than the perfectly comfortable expression of countenance. His petted child was like a blossom planted in sunny places, and shielded from every rude wind. All her little-lady-like whims were indulged. If the drab-colored silk was not exactly the right shade, or the Braithwaite muslin was not sufficiently fine and transparent, orders must be sent to London, that her daintiness might be satisfied. Her countenance was a true index of life passed without strong emotions. The mouth was like a babe's, the blue eyes were mild and innocent, and the oval face was unvarying in the delicate tint of the sweet pea blosBom. Her hair never straggled into ringlets, or played with the breeze; its silky bands were always like molasses-candy, moulded to yellowish whiteness, and laid in glossy braids.

There is much to be said in favor of this unvarying serenity; for it saves a vast amount of suffering. But all natures cannot thus glide through an unruffled existence. Deborah's quiet temperament made no resistance to its uniform environment; but had I been trained in her exact sect, I should inevitably have boiled over and melted the moulds.

She had always been acquainted with the Trueman brothers. They all attended the same school, and they sat in sight of each other at the same meeting; though Quaker custom, ever careful to dam up human nature within safe limits, ordained that they should be seated on different sides of the house, and pass out by different doors. They visited the same neighbors, and walked home in company. She probably never knew, with positive certainty, which of the brothers she preferred; she had always been in the habit of loving them both; but Jonathan happened to ask first, whether she loved him.

It was during an evening walk, that he first mentioned the subject to David; and he could not see how his lips trembled, and his face flushed. The emotion, though strong and painful, was soon suppressed; and in a voice but slightly constrained, he inquired, "Does Deborah love thee, brother?"

The young man replied that he thought so, and

he intended to ask her, as 800n as the way opened.

David likewise thought, that Deborah was attached to him; and he had invited her to ride the next day, for the express purpose of ascertaining the point. Never had his peaceful soul been in such a tumult. Sometimes he thought it would be right and honorable to tell Deborah that they both loved her, and ask her to name her choice. "But then if she should prefer me," he said to himself, “it will make dear Jonathan very unhappy; and if she should choose him, it will be a damper on her happiness, to know that I am disappointed. If she accepts him, I will keep my secret to myself. It is a heavy cross to take up; but William Penn says, no cross, no crown.' In this case, I would be willing to give up the crown, if I could get rid of the cross. But then if I lay it down, poor Jonathan must bear it. I have always found that it brought great peace of mind to conquer selfishness, and I will strive to do so now. As my brother's wife, she will still be a near and dear friend; and their children will seem almost like my own."

A current of counter thoughts rushed through his mind. He rose quickly and walked the room, with a feverish agitation he had never before experienced. But through all the conflict, the idea of saving his brother from suffering remained paramount to his own pain.

The promised ride could not be avoided, but it proved a temptation almost too strong for the good unselfish man. Deborah's sweet face looked so pretty under the shadow of her plain bonnet; her soft hand remained in his so confidingly, when she was about to enter the chaise, and turned to speak to her mother; she smiled on him so affectionately, and called him Friend David, in such winning tones, that it required all his strength to avoid uttering the question, which for ever trembled on his lips: "Dost thou love me, Deborah ?" But always there rose between them the image of that dear brother, who slept in his arms in childhood, and shared the same apartment now. Let him have the first chance," he said to himself. "If he is accepted, I will be resigned, and will be to them both a true friend through life." A very slight pressure of the hand alone betrayed his agitation, when he opened the door of her house, and said, "Farewell, Deborah."

In a few days, Jonathan informed him that he was betrothed; and the magnanimous brother wished him joy with a sincere heart, concealing that it was a sad one. His first impulse was to go away, that he might not be daily reminded of what he had lost; but the fear of marring their happiness enabled him to choose the wiser part of making at once the effort that must be made. No one suspected the sacrifice he laid on the altar of friendship. When the young couple were married, he taxed his ingenuity to furnish whatever he thought would please the bride, by its peculiar neatness and elegance. At first, he found it very hard to leave them by their cozy pleasant fireside, and go to his own solitary apartment, where he never before had dwelt alone; and when the bride and bridegroom looked at each other tenderly, the glance went through his heart like an arrow of fire. But when Deborah, with gentle playfulness, apologized for having taken his brother away from him, he replied, with a quiet smile, Nay, my friend, I have not lost a brother, I have only gained a sister." His self-denial seemed so easy. that the worldly might have thought it cost him little effort, and deserved no praise; but the angels loved him for it.

By degrées he resumed his wonted serenity, and

became the almost constant inmate of their house. A stranger might almost have doubted which was the husband; so completely were the three united in all their affections, habits, and pursuits. A little son and daughter came to strengthen the bond; and the affectionate uncle found his heart almost as much cheered by them, as if they had been his own. Many an agreeable young Friend would have willingly superintended a household for David; but there was a natural refinement in his character, which rendered it impossible to make a marriage of convenience. He felt more deeply than was apparent, that there was something wanting in his earthly lot; but he could not marry, unless he found a woman whom he loved as dearly as he had loved Deborah; and such a one never again came to him.

Their years flowed on with quiet regularity, disturbed with few of the ills humanity is heir to. In all the small daily affairs of life, each preferred the other's good, and thus secured the happiness of the whole. Abroad, their benevolence fell with the noiseless liberality of dew. The brothers both prospered in business, and Jonathan inherited a large portion of his father-in-law's handsome property. Never were a family so pillowed and cushioned on the carriage-road to heaven. But they were so simply and naturally virtuous, that the smooth path was less dangerous to them than to others.

Reverses came at last in Jonathan's affairs. The failure of others, less careful than himself, involved him in their disasters. But David was rich, and the idea of a separate purse was unknown between them; therefore the gentle Deborah knew no change in her household comforts and elegancies, and felt no necessity of diminishing their large liberality to the poor.

At sixty-three years old, the younger brother departed this life, in the arms of his constant friend. The widow, who had herself counted sixty winters, had been for some time gradually declining in health. When the estate was settled, the property was found insufficient to pay debts. But the kind friend, with the same delicate disinterestedness which had always characterized him, carefully conIcealed this fact. He settled a handsome fortune upon the widow, which she always supposed to be a portion of her husband's estate. Being executor, he managed affairs as he liked. He borrowed his own capital; and every quarter, he gravely paid her interest on his own money. In the refinement

of his generosity, he was not set.sfied to support her in the abundance to which she had been accustomed; he wished to have her totally unconscious of obligation, and perfectly free to dispose of the funds as she pleased.

His goodness was not limited to his own household. If a poor seamstress was declining in health, for want of exercise and variety of scene, David Trueman was sure to invite her to Niagara, or the Springs, as a particular favor to him, because he needed company. If there was a lone widow, peculiarly friendless, his carriage was always at her service. there was a maiden lady uncommonly homely, his arm was always ready as an escort to public places. Without talking at all upon the subject, he practically devoted himself to the mission of attending upon the poor, the unattractive, and the neglected.

If

Thus the good old bachelor prevents his sympathies from congealing, and his heart from rusting out. The sunlight was taken away from his landscape of life; but little birds sleep in their nests, and sweet flowers breathe their fragrance lovingly through the bright moonlight of his tranquil exist

ence.

EDMUND D. GRIFFIN.

EDMUND D. GRIFFIN, the second son of George Griffin, a leading member of the New York bar, and the author of a volume published in 1850, entitled The Gospel its own Advocate, was born at Wyoming, Pennsylvania, September 10, 1804. He was a grandson, on the mother's side, of Colonel Zebulon Butler, who defended the valley against the British attack w ich terminated in the memorable massacre of 1778. When two years old Edmund Griffin removed with his family to New York. He revisited Wyoming with his father in his thirteenth year, and attending religious service on the Sunday after their arrival, Mr. Griffin was requested in consequence of the absence of the clergyman to read a sermon. Not being very well he asked his son to read in his place, a request with which the boy, accustomed to obedience, after a moment's modest hesitation, complied.

After passing through various schools young Griffin was prepared for college by Mr. Nelson,* the celebrated blind teacher of New York. He entered Columbia in 1819, and maintained throughout his course a position at the head of his class. After a few months passed in a law office in 1823, he resolved to engage in the ministry of the Protestant Episcopal Church, soon after commenced his studies in the General Theological Seminary, and was ordained deacon by Bishop Hobart in August, 1826. The two following years were passed in the active discharge of professional duty as assistant minister of St. James's church, Hamilton Square, near New York, and of Christ church in the city, when he was compelled by a threat、 ened affection of the lungs to abandon the labora of the church and the study. By this relaxation, combined with the invigorating effects of a three months' tour, his health was restored, but, by the advice of his friends, instead of recommencing preaching he sailed for Europe. After a tour through England and the Continent he returned to New York on the 17th of April, 1830. Within a week afterwards he was called upon to complete a course of lectures on the History of Literature, commenced by Professor McVickar at Columbia College, and necessarily abandoned at the time from illness. He complied with the request, and at once entered upon its execution, delivering within the months of May and June a course on Roman and Italian literature, with that of England to the time of Charles the Second. These lectures, though prepared almost contemporaneously with their delivery, were so acceptable by their warm appreciation of the subject and scholar's enthusiasm, not only to the students but also the trustees of the college, that the plan of an in

Mr. Nelson became totally blind in his twentieth year, when about completing his studies at college. He was poor, and had no one to look to for his own support, or that of his two sisters. With great resolution he determined to continue his studies and fit himself for the duties of a teacher. He taught his sisters to pronounce Latin and Greek, and from their reiterated repetition learnt by heart the text of the classics usually read in schools. A gentleman, out of sympathy with his endeavors, and confidence in his abilities, intrusted him with the education of his two sons. He succeeded so well with these, that, in a few months, he announced himself as the teacher of a New York school. He soon became widely known, and so succcessful that he gathered a handsome income from his exertions. He afterwards became a professor in Rutgers College.

dépendent professorship of literature, for Mr. Griffin, was proposed.

The early part of the ensuing college vacation was spent in visits to his friends, and plans of study and future usefulness in his sacred profession. After a Saturday morning passed at the college with Professor Anthon in planning a course of study of the German language, to which he proposed to devote a portion of his remaining leisure, he employed the afternoon in a walk with his brother at Hoboken. He was taken ill on his return home with an attack of inflammation, sank rapidly, and died on the following Tuesday, August 31, 1830.

The news of his decease reached Bishop Hobart at Auburn, where he too was lying in a sickness which was to prove, within a few days afterwards, mortal. It is a fact of interest in the history of that eminent prelate, as well as in the present connexion, that the last letter written by him was one of condolence with the father of Mr. Griffin on their joint bereavement.

Mr. Griffin's Literary Remains were collected by his brother, and published with a memoir, written with characteristic feeling and taste, by his friend Professor McVickar, in two large octavo volumes. They include his poems, several of which are in the Latin language, and written at an early age; a tour through Italy and Switzerland in 1829, with extracts from a journal of a tour through France, England, and Scotland in the years 1828, '29, and '30; extracts from lec+tures on Roman, Italian, and English literature; and dissertations, written while the author was a student at the Theological Seminary. These were selected from manuscripts, which, if published in full, would have filled six octavo volumes. By far the greater portion of those printed, the journals and lectures, were necessarily written in great haste, and probably without any anticipation that they were to appear in print. The journals are the simple itinerary of a traveller, making no pretensions to any further literary merit; the lectures are more elaborate performances and possess much merit; the poems are few in number.

LINES ON LEAVING ITALY.

Deh! fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.-Filicaia. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Land of the orange grove and myrtle bower! To hail whose strand, to breathe whose genial air, Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power. To look upon whose mountains in the hour

When thy sun sinks in glory, and a veil Of purple йows around them, would restore The sense of beauty when all else might fail. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Parent of fruits, alas! no more of men! Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare, The yellow harvest loads the scarce tilled plain, Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon

From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading

soon,

E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave! Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, Distinguished e'en the peasant and the slave:

Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave,
Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace,
Nor spoil those charms which partial nature gave,
By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace.
Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair,
Thou nurse of every art, save one alone,
The art of self-defence: Thy fostering care
Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone,
And bids e'en canvass speak; thy magic tone.
Infused in music, now constrains the soul
With tears the power of melody to own,

And now with passionate throbs that spurn con

trol.

Would that thou wert less fair, at least more strong,
Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean!
Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong,
No memory of the brave, of what has been?
Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then
That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence-
Shades of departed heroes, rise again!

Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence!
Oh, Italy! my country, fare thee well i

For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me dwell,

The fathers of my mind? whose fame imprest, E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest

With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams,
E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest,

Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams?
Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost:
Too early lost, alas! when once so dear;
I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast,
And urge the feet forbid to linger here.
But must I rove by Arno's current clear,

And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood,
And wander on the mount, now waste and drear,
Where Caesar's palace in its glory stood,
And see again Parthenope's loved bay,

And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay

That floats by night through Venice-never more Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar

It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretched arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas! from thee. Fare, fare thee well once more. I love thee not As other things inanimate. Thou art The cherished mistress of my youth; forgot Thou never canst be while I have a heart. Lanched on those waters, wild with storm and wind, I know not, ask not, what may be my lot; For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind, Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought.

JOHN HENRY HOPKINS.

JOHN HENRY HOPKINS, the son of a merchant of Dublin, was born in that city January 30, 1792. He was brought by his parents to this country in 1800. After receiving a classical education at school, he passed a twelvemonth in a countinghouse in Philadelphia; assisted Wilson, the ornithologist, in the preparation of the plates to the first four volumes of his work; and was afterwards engaged for several years in the manufacture of iron. Mr. Hopkins married in 1816, and in 1817 was admitted to the bar at Pittsburg. He practised with great success until November, 1823, when he abandoned the profession to enter the ministry of the Protestant Episcopal Church. After his ordination as deacon, in December,

1823, by Bishop White, by whom he was also admitted to the priesthood in 1824, he became Rector of Trinity Church, Pittsburg, where he remained until 1831, when he removed to Boston as assistant minister of Trinity Church. In October, 1832, he was consecrated the first bishop of the diocese of Vermont, and has since that time resided at Burlington.

Bishop Hopkins is the author of several volumes on the evidences of Christianity, the primitive church, and the distinctive principles of Episcopacy, all of which exhibit research, and are written in a forcible and animated style. He has also published a number of separate sermons and pamphlets.t

Christianity Vindicated, in seven Discourses on the External Evidences of the New Testament, with a Dissertation. Published by Ed. Smith, Burlington, Vt., 1883.

The Primitive Creed Examined and Explained, the first part containing sixteen discourses on the Apostles' Creed, for popular use the second part containing a dissertation on the testimony of the early councils and the fathers, with observations on certain theological errors of the present day. Published by the same, 1884.

The Primitive Church, compared with the Protestant Episcopal Church of the present day, being an examination of the ordinary objections against the church in doctrine, worship, and government, designed for popular use, with a dissertation on sundry points of theology and practice. Published by V. Harrington at Burlington, Vt., 1885. A second edition, revised and improved, was printed the following year.

Essay on Gothic Architecture, with various plans and drawings for churches, designed chiefly for the "se of the clergy. Royal quarto. Published by Smith & Harrington, Burlington, 1836.

The Church of Rome in her Primitive Purity, compared with the Church of Rome at the present day, addressed to the Roman Hierarchy. 12mo. Published by V. Harrington, Burlington, 1887. Republished, with an introduction by Rev. Henry Melvill, B.D., at London, in 1839.

The Novelties which Disturb our Peace. 12mo. Published by Herman Hooker, Philadelphia, 1844.

Sixteen Lectures on the Causes, Principles, and Results of the British Reformation. Phila., 1844.

The History of the Confessional. 12mo. Published by Harper & Brothers, New York, 185).

The End of Controversy, Controverted: a Refutation of Milner's End of Controversy, in a series of letters addressed to the Roman Archbishop of Baltimore. 2 vols. 12mo. Published by Pudney & Russell, and Stanford & Swords, New York, in 1854.

+ Sermon, preached by request before the Howard Benevolent Society, Boston, 1882.

Sermon, preached by request before the Church Scholarship Society at Hartford, Conn., 1332.

Sermon, preached by request, at Burlington, on the doctrine of Atonement, 1841.

Scripture and Tradition, Sermon preached at the Ordination of Deacons, New York, 1841.

Charge to the Clergy of Vermont, 1842.

Letter to the Right Rev. F. P. Kenrick, Roman Bishop of Philadelphia, 1842.

Second Letter to the Same, 1843, of which there were two editions.

Two Discourses on the Second Advent, of which there were four editions.

Humble but Earnest Address to the Bishops, Clergy, and Laity, on the Progress of Tractarianism. Published 1846.

Pastoral Letter and Correspondence with Rev. Wm. Henry Hoit.

Sermon before the General Convention of 1847. Sermon on Episcopal Government, preached at the consecration of Bishop Potter, of Pennsylvania, 1845.

Letter to Rev Dr. Seabury, on Tractarianism, 1847 Two Discourses, preached by request in the C. he 'ral of Quebec, on the Religious Education of the Poor. Puished 1835.

Lecture on the Defect of the Principle of Religious Authority in Modern Education, delivered by request b re the American Institute of Instruction, at Montpelier, about the year 1846 or 1847.

Discourse on Fraternal Unity, delivered by appointment before the Missionary Board, at the General Convention of 1850, in Cincinnati.

Address, delivered by request of the Selectmen of St. Alban's, on the death of General Taylor, President of the United States, 1850.

Address, by request, before the Prot. Ep. Historical Society, New York, 1851.

Lecture on Slavery-its religious sanction, its political dan

gers, and the best method of doing it away, delivered before the Young Men's Associations of Buffalo and Lockport. Publi hed by request, Phinney & Co., Buffalo, 1851.

Discourse, preached by request, in aid of the Fund for the Widows and Orphans of Deceased Clergymen. Boston, 1851. The Case of the Rev. Mr. Gorham against the Bishop of Exeter considered, 1849.

Pastoral Letter on the Support of the Clergy, 1852.
Ditto, on the same subject, 1854.

Defence of the Constitution of the Diocese of Vermont, 1854.

Tract for the Church in Jerusalem, 1854.

The True Principles of Rest ation to the Episcopal Office, in relation to the case of Right Rev. Henry U. Onderdonk, D.D., 1854.

Address, delivered by request before the House of Convocation of Trinity College, Hartford, Conn., 1854.

Discourse, by request, on the Historical Evidence of Christianity, at St. Andrew's Church, Philadelphia. 1854.

Published

Harry Croswell was in the early part of his life a prominent political editor of the Federal party. He commenced his career in The Balance, a paper published at Hudson, New York, which divided the honors with the Farmer's Museum at Walpole, as one of the first literary journals of the country. Mr. Croswell was associated in this enterprise with Ezra Sampson, a clergyman by education, who came to Hudson to officiate in the Presbyterian church of the village, but from lack of effectiveness as a public speaker retired from the pulpit. He subsequently gained a wide popular reputation as the author of a series of essays, with the title of The Bri f Remarker, which were collected from the columns of the Hartford Courant, and printed in a volume. The collection was republished in 1855 by D. Appleton & Co. The essays it contains are briefly written compositions, and are in a vein of practical common sense. Mr. Sampson was also the anthor of The Beauties of the Bible, a selection of passages from the sacred volume, and of an Historical Dictionary.

Mr. Croswell wrote his editorials with vigor, and, in accordance with the prevailing spirit of the press at that time, spoke with great bitterness of his political opponents. An article published in the Wasp, a journal also under his direction, on Jefferson, led to a libel suit, and the celebrated trial in which Hamilton, in defence of the editor, made his last forensic effort. Mr. Croswell afterwards removed to Albany, where he established a Federal paper. He was here prosecuted for a libel on Mr. Southwick, a leading democratic editor, who recovered damages. Mr. Croswell called on his political friends to enable him to meet the pecu iary requirements of their service, and on their refusal to do so retired from editorial life, and a few months after entered the ministry of the Episcopal Church,

394

THE ORDINAL

Alas, for me, could I forget

The memory of that day

Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet
E'en sleep can take away;

In dreams I still renew the rites
Whose strong but mystic chain
The spirit to its God unites,

And none can part again.

How oft the Bishop's form I see,
And hear that thrilling tone
Demanding, with authority,

The heart for God alone!
Again I kneel as then I knelt,

While he above me stands,
And seem to feel as then I felt
The pressure of his hands.
Again the priests, in meek array,
As my weak spirit fails,
Beside me bend them down to pray
Before the chancel rails;
As then, the sacramental host
Of God's elect are by,

When many a voice its utterance lost,
And tears dimmed many an eye.
As then they on my vision rose,
The vaulted aisles I see,
And desk and cushioned book repose
In solemn sanctity;
The mitre o'er the marble niche,
The broken crook and key,
That from a Bishop's tomb shone rich
With polished tracery ;

The hangings, the baptismal font,—
All, all, save me, unchanged,—
The holy table, as was wout,
With decency arranged;
The linen cloth, the plate, the cup,
Beneath their covering shine,
Ere priestly hands are lifted up
To bless the bread and wine.

The solemn ceremonial past,
And I am set apart

To serve the Lord, from first to last,
With undivided heart.

And I have sworn, with pledges dire,
Which God and man have heard,
To speak the holy truth entire
In action and in word.

O Thou, who in Thy holy place
Hast set Thine orders three,
Grant me, Thy meanest servant, grace
To win a good degree;
That so, replenished from above,
And in my office tried,

Thou mayst be honored, and in love
Thy Church be edified.

In 1829 Mr. Croswell was admitted to the priesthood, and became rector of Christ church, an ancient edifice in the vicinity of Copp's Hill burial-ground, Boston. He continued his poetical contributions, which were almost exclusively on topics connected with church ordinances, or the duties and affections of Christian life. A portion of these were collected and appended by Bishop Doane to the first American edition of Keble's Christian Year.

In 1840 Mr. Croswell resigned the rectorship of Christ's, and accepted that of St. Peter's church, Auburn. He remained in this parish for four years, and during that period married, and became the father of a daughter.

In 1844 he returned to Boston to take the rectorship of a new parish, in process of formation by a number of Episcopalians and distinguished men of that city, among whom may be mentioned Mr. Richard H. Dana and his son, on the principle of a rigid adherence to the rubrics of the prayer-book in its worship, an enlarged system of parochial charity, and a provision by collections and subscriptions in the place of pew rents for the support of the rector, leaving the seats of the church free to all comers. An upper room was fitted up in an appropriate manner, and on the first Sunday in Advent, 1844, the new rector commenced the services of the parish, which, from this commencement, took the name of the Church of the Advent. Morning and evening prayer was henceforward continued every day of the year.

In conducting divine service, the rector, during the mutual acts of prayer and praise turned in the same direction with, instead of, as usual, facing the other worshippers, and preached in the surplice instead of changing it for a black gown. These practices gave great offence to the bishop of the diocese, Dr. Eastburn, who at the close of his first confirmation service in the church, expressed his disapprobation, coupled with a censure of a gilt cross placed over the communion table. This was followed in a few days by an official letter to the same effect addressed to the diocese by the bishop. Dr. Croswell, believing himself unjustly censured, responded in a letter, citing authorities from the primitive and subsequent ages of the church in defence of his plan. He also complained of the bishop for uncanonical conduct in publicly censuring a presbyter without giving the opportunity of defence by means of a trial. Both parties believing themselves in the right, no accommodation was made of the matter; the bishop refu-ed to visit the church unless the practices he objected to were di-continued, and the parish held their course. In consequence of this, candidates for confirmation were obliged, accompanied by their rector, to resort to other churches to receive the rite. In spite of this unhappy difficulty the parish prospered. The rector was indefatigable in the discharge of the duties of charity, sallying forth at all hours and in all