their beautifully neat appearance at our meetings; their handsome wedding-dresses; the eggs consumed for their wedding-cakes; the wine, in their cottages, freely bestowed on weary pilgrims; their boots and shoes, which they are so much afraid of spoiling in the mud; the mules and horses, on which they come riding to their chapels; their pic-nic dinners, their social feasts of temperance and freedom. Above all, remember their thriving little freeholds— their gradual, but steady accumulation of wealth. Wherever they are fairly treated, the laborers of Jamaica are already most favorably circumstanced. Teach them to improve the structure, arrangement, and furniture of their cottages; and to exchange all items of finery and luxury for substantial domestic convenience-and it will be in vain to seek for a better-conditioned peasantry in any country of Europe.

III. Lastly, The moral and religious improvement of this people, under freedom, is more than equal to the increase of their comforts. Under this head, there are three points, deserving, respectively, of a distinct place in our memories. First, the rapid increase and vast extent of elementary and Christian education-schools for infants, young persons, and adults, multiplying in every direction. Secondly, the gradual but decided diminution of crime, amounting, in many country districts, almost to its extinction. Thirdly, the happy change from habits of a most licentious character. But while these three points are confessedly of high importance, there is a fourth, which at once embraces and outweighs them all—I mean the diffusion of vital Christianity. I know that great apprehensions were entertained-especially in this country-lest, on the cessation of slavery, the negroes should break away at once from their masters and their ministers. But freedom has come, and while their masters have not been forsaken, their religious teachers have become dearer to them than ever. Under the banner of liberty, the churches and meeting-houses have been enlarged and multiplied, the attendance has become regular and devout, the congregations have in many cases been more than doubled-above all, the conversion of souls (as we have reason to believe) has been going on to an extent never before known in these colonies. In a religious point of view, as I have before hinted, the wilderness, in many places, has indeed "begun to blossom as the rose." "Instead of the thorn," has "come up the fir-tree; and instead of the brier," has "come up the myrtle-tree; and it shall be to the Lord for a name for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off."

Letter xii., from the West Indies.

RICHARD MANT, 1776-1818.

RICHARD MANT was born on the 12th of February, 1776, at Southampton, where his father, the Rev. Richard Mant, was rector of the church of All Saints. He was educated at Winchester College, and afterward became a commoner of Trinity College, Oxford, from which he was elected a Fellow of Oriel in 1798. For a short time he acted as professor at this college, and afterward travelled on the Continent. On his return to England, he became, in 1813, chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and, in 1815, rector of St. Botolph's, Bishopgate. In 1820, he was consecrated Bishop of Killaloe, and in 1823 was translated to the see of Down, Connor, and Dromare, which position he retained to the day of his death, which took place on the 2d of November, 1818.

Dr. Mant owed his rise in the church to his professional authorship, and few writers of the present century have been more industrious. In 1817, in conjunction with the Rev. George D'Oyly, rector of Lambeth, he prepared an edition of the Bible, with a selection of notes from the best commentators of the Church of England. This was done at the expense of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, by which "D'Oyly and Mant's Bible" has been frequently reprinted. His other prose publications were mostly sermons and works of a religious character. He also published a volume of "Miscellaneous Poems;" another entitled "The Slave, and other Poetical Pieces;" and another called "The British Months," a poem in twelve parts, full of piety and accurate observations of nature. But Bishop Mant is now most known for his hymns, some of which are among the most beautiful sacred lyrics in the language, and for his other small poems on sacred subjects, which have a high degree of merit.

THE DROP OF WATER.

"How mean mid all this glorious space, how valueless am I!"
A little drop of water said, as, trembling in the sky,
It downward fell, in haste to meet the interminable sea,
As if the watery mass its goal and sepulchre should be.

But, ere of no account, within the watery mass it fell-
It found a shelter and a home, the oyster's concave shell;
And there that little drop became a hard and precious gem,
Meet ornament for royal wreath, for Persia's diadem.

Cheer up, faint heart, that hear'st the tale, and though thy lot may seem
Contemptible, yet not of it as nothing-worth esteem;

Nor fear that thou, exempt from care of Providence, shalt be

An undistinguishable drop in nature's boundless sea.

The Power that call'd thee into life has skill to make thee live,

A place of refuge can provide, another being give;

Can clothe thy perishable form with beauty rich and rare,

And, "when He makes his jewels up," grant thee a station there.

In the number of the "Gentleman's Magazine" for January, 1849, is a complete list of his works, which occupies nearly four columns.

TRUE KNOWLEDGE

What is true knowledge?-Is it with keen eye
Of lucre's sons to thread the mazy way?
Is it of civic rights, and royal sway,
And wealth political, the depths to try?
Is it to delve the earth, or soar the sky;

To marshal nature's tribes in just array;
To mix, and analyze, and mete, and weigh
Her elements, and all her powers descry?
These things, who will may know them, if to know
Breed not vain-glory: but o'er all to scan
God, in his works and word shown forth below;
Creation's wonders, and Redemption's plan,
Whence came we, what to do, and whither go-
This is true knowledge, and
the whole of man."

THE LORD'S DAY.

Hail to the day which He who made the heaven,
Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blest,
Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest!
Hail to the day when He by whom was given
New life to man, the tomb asunder riven,

Arose! That day His church hath still confest,
At once Creation's and Redemption's feast,
Sign of a world call'd forth, a world forgiven.
Welcome that day, the day of holy peace,

The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed,
And man's Redeemer; for the soul's increase
In sanctity, and sweet repose bestow'd;
Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease,
The rest remaining for the loved of God!

THE CHURCH BELLS.

What varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles
Sweep o'er the ear and claim the heart's reply!
Now the blithe peal of home festivity,

Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells;
Now the brisk chime, or voice of alter'd bells,
Speaks the due hour of social worship nigh:
And now the last stage of mortality

The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells.
How much of human life those sounds comprise-
Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb!
Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise,

Such as befit our being, free from gloom Monastic-prayer that communes with the skies, And musings mindful of the final doom.

PRAYER.

Ere the morning's busy ray
Call you to your work away;
Ere the silent evening close

Your wearied eyes in sweet repose

To lift your heart and voice in prayer
Be your first and latest care.

He, to whom the prayer is due,

From heaven, His throne, shall smile on you;
Angels sent by Him shall tend,

Your daily labor to befriend,
And their nightly vigils keep

To guard you in the hour of sleep.

When through the peaceful parish swells

The music of the Sabbath-bells,

Duly tread the sacred road

Which leads you to the house of God;
The blessing of the Lamb is there,

And God is in the midst of her."

And, oh! where'er your days be pass'd,
And, oh! howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on Him whose eye surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways.

Abroad, at home, in weal, in wo,
That service which to heaven you owe,
That bounden service duly pay,
And God shall be your strength alway.

He only to the heart can give

Peace and true pleasure while you live;
He only, when you yield your breath,
Can guide you through the vale of death.

He can, he will, from out the dust
Raise the blest spirits of the just;
Heal every wound, hush every fear;
From every eye wipe every tear;
And place them where distress is o'er,
And pleasures dwell for evermore.

HORACE SMITH, 1780-1849.

HORACE SMITH, the brother of James, and co-author with him of the famous "Rejected Addresses," I was born in London, in the year 1780. Besides his share

1 See under biography of James, page 373. Of the "Rejected Addresses," Horace wrote No. 1. "Loyal Effusion," by W. T. F., (William Thomas Fitzgerald;) No. 3, "An Address without a Phoenix," by S. T. P., (anonymous;) No. 4, "Cui Bono," by Lord B., (Byron :) No. 6, "The Living Lustres," by T. M., (Moore;) No. 8, "Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matilda,

of the "Addresses," he has distinguished himself by his novels and historical romances, and was a frequent contributor to the periodicals and annuals, and in light literature was one of the most entertaining writers of his day. He died at Tunbridge Wells, whither he had gone for his health, on the 12th of July, 1849.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

*

*

BY W. S. (SCOTT.)

*

As Chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,
When light first flash'd upon her eyes-
So London's sons in nightcap woke,

In bedgown woke her dames,

For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,
"The playhouse is in flames."

And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window-pane:

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,

And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport

A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The Ticket Porters' house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide
Across red Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne;
And daisy white and hoary thorn,
In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,
As from a lofty altar rise;

It seem'd that nations did conspire,
To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon'd firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all.

(anonymous;) No. 9, "A Tale of Drury Lane," by W. S., (Scott;) No. 10, "Johnson's Ghost;" No. 11, "The Beautiful Incendiary," by Hon. W. S., (William Spencer;) No. 12, "Fire and Ale," by M. G. L., (Matthew Gregory Lewis, otherwise called Monk Lewis;) No. 15, "Architectural Atoms," by Dr. B., (Busby;) and No. 21, Punch's Apotheosis," by T. II., (Theodore Hook.)