WILLIAM TINDAL.

ABOUT 330 years ago, William Tindal translated the New Testament into English. This so offended the papists that they strangled and burnt him at Antwerp. Before the epistle to the Romans there is a prologue to the reader, which concludes in the following

manner:

"Now go to reader, & accordynge to the order of Pauls wrytynge, even so do thou.

"Fyrst-beholde thyselfe in the lawe of God, and se there thy just damnacion

"Secodarely-turne thyne eyes to Christ, and se there the exceedynge mercye of thy moost kinde and louynge father—

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Thyrly-remember that Christ made not this attonemet that thou shuldest anger God agayne: nether dyed he for thy synnes that thou shuldest live stif in them: nether clensed he the, that thou shuldest retourne (as a swyne) vnto thyne olde podel agayne: but that thou shuldest be a new creature, & lyue a new lyue after the wil of God, & not of the fleshe. and be diligent least thorow thyne owne negligence & vnthankfulness, thou lose his fauoure and mercye agayne.

"farewell."

THE SEA OF GLASS.

"I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire."--Rev. xv. 2. It is impossible for any language adequately to describe the appearance of the rising or setting of the sun in the Egean Sea. Whether in dim perspective through grey evolving mists, or amidst hues of liveliest purple, the isles and continent of Greece present their varied features; nor pen, nor pencil, can pourtray the scenery. Let the reader picture to his conception an evening sun, behind the lowering cliffs of Patmos, gilding the battlements of the monastry of the Apocalypse with its parting rays: the consecrated island surrounded by an inexpressible brightness, seeming to float on an abyss of fire; while the moon in milder splendour is rising full over the opposite expanse. Such a scene I actually witnessed, with feelings naturally excited by all the circumstances of local solemnity; for such, indeed, might have been the face of nature, when the inspiration of an apostle, kindling in its contemplation, uttered the Alleluias of that mighty voice, telling of salvation, and glory, and honour, and power.-Dr. Clarke's Travels.

ORIGINAL PIECES BY THE YOUNG.

WINTER NIGHT AND HOME.

Written December 30, 1859.

LIKE some vague dream hath vanished the brief dim winter day,
And hurriedly the night comes on in wild and wierd array;

With brow of gloomy portent, and hoarse voice whose tones presage
The nearing of the storm-fiend in his blind and reckless rage.
He comes amid the appalling din of elemental strife.

He comes on cloud-car tempest-borne, through skies with fury rife. While I press with heart undaunted, and with steps that must not tire;

Onward through the pelting rain-storm, homeward through the plashing mire.

Homeward! how the heart-joy kindles when that welcome word is

spoken;

When the chains that toil weaves round us all at once are loosed

or broken.

Blow ye winds with wilder fury, shroud the sky in thicker gloom, One light yet shines undarkened, 'tis the beacon-star of home. Home, my home! what there awaits me?

attracts me there?

What sweet charm

No silvery floating lamp-light, and no velvet-cushioned chair,
No garniture artistic, no sculptured marble's gleam,

No harp for minstrel-fingers, no painter's pictured dream,
No crimson-curtained parlour where lights and shadows play,
Like glory in the forest isles when fades the summer day.

And yet it hath a beauty, an enchantment all its own,

There is quiet at its fireside, to some grander homes unknown; There's the glow of English comfort in its pleasant hearth-light's

shine,

And the joy of English freedom in this humble home of mine.
Nor lacks it all refining grace while books diffuse a charm,
Which gilds its rustic homeliness like sunshine rich and warm.
Here while storms without are raging, in this sheltering nook of ours,
We may range the realms of fancy, pluck from fairy-lands the flowers;
We may fire with proud indignance, with the patriot's noble rage,
Or thrill with sweet emotion o'er the poet's dearer page.
And while such delights we number as the treasures of our store,
Who shall dare presume to pity? Who shall say that we are poor?

Not of self alone regardful, while in covert bright and warm;
There are who roam unsheltered in the cold unpitying storm;
One thought for those who wander homeless while the tempest raves;
One prayer for those who struggle for dear life with ocean's waves;
And then one faith-illumined glance at that eternal home,

In realms of sunny calm where earth's wild storms never come.
Leicester.
RUTH.

As stated in our number for December, we wish to continue the mode we adopted last year of offering Rewards for the best Original Papers, written by the Young. Our object is to excite and encourage our young friends to practice the art of composition; an art which, we have reason to fear, is not taught to the extent it should be, and in many cases not taught at all, in our public schools. The advantages of good composition are great, even when confined to private correspondence. Who is not pleased to receive a well-written letter; in which the thoughts of the writer are clearly expressed, the spelling correct, the stops where they should be, and the writing itself, not mere scribbling or flourishing, but plain and easy to be read?

With regard to the Prizes we wish to say, that last year we found some inconvenience in having mentioned the names of the books we should give; as in some cases we found that some other book than one of those we had named would have been more suitable for the writers. This year we shall not mention them, but for every month we shall offer a handsome Book, from half-acrown to five shillings in value, to those whose papers we approve and insert. We do not limit the precise age of the writers, but it would scarcely be fair to the younger if we went beyond eighteen ; and, therefore, in every case we shall require the age of the writer to be mentioned. And yet, though we fix eighteen as the age beyond which it may not generally be desirable to pass, yet we may deem it right, in some peculiar cases, to reward a writer whose age is a little in advance of that. The reward we present this month, mentioned below, is one of these. The writers are all free to take any subject they please, and write in either prose or poetry as they choose.

This month we present "Spenser's Faerie Queene" to "RUTH, Leicester," for "Winter Night and Home," which appears this month.

And, in place of an Enigma, we offer "Des Carrières Historie De France," for the best translation of the two verses of a French Hymn on page 49 of this number.