within having shed its transforming influence all around. I had often read the 45th of the Madeley Hymns in reference to the future, but I little thought how completely it would be realized. The hymn begins with, “That man no guard or weapon needs,” and the last three verses you will perhaps excuse my transcribing— “His love possessing I am blest, Secure whatever things may come; Whether I go to east or west, With him I shall be still at home. If placed beneath the northern pole, Though winter reigns with rigour there; His gracious beams would cheer my soul And make a spring throughout the year. Or if the desert’s sun-burnt soil My lonely dwelling ere should prove, His presence would support my toil, Whose smile is life, whose name is love.” Many of the Irish Protestant clergy are coming out in the spring, with large quotas of their flocks, driven out as they are by the violence of those who refuse to pay the church tithes. I met one of this description the other evening at the bishop’s, a warm-hearted and spiritually minded Irishman; his details were most affecting, but highly interesting, and I thought I could see a striking providence in their being thus compelled to flee at this present time to a country where they were so particularly needed, and where their own temporal comforts would be so materially increased. The good bishop quite rejoiced over his anticipated treasure. TO MRS. MORTIMER. Thornhill, January 18, 1833. * * * The delight of a warm bed the Canadian can fully appreciate. The other morning the thermometer stood 18° below zero, or 50° below freezing point, and during last night I conceive it must have been much lower: it is now near the middle of the day, and the glass is only 1° above zero, and yet, difficult as you may feel it to credit me, it seems to me a mere nothing. I can hardly imagine that I am in the midst of a Canadian winter, that horrible and terrible of previous anticipation: the fact is, that the severe weather only lasts for two or three days at a time, which is far different from a continuous season of four or five months, and though sharp and searching in itself, yet fire, clothing, and due attention, bring all to a common English temperature; and then the air is so cheering and bracing that you smile cheerily, rather than feel oppressively. But, in reality, I can hardly proceed in my description, not for want of words but of ink; for it not only freezes in the ink glass while on the table, but after I place it on the hearth and thaw it, the pen-full freezes while I am writing; so that I am obliged to stop ever and anon to thaw it in the pen, and yet with this acme of congelating miseries, I smile and laugh and go battling on; but all this sounds worse than it really is, so do not be alarmed. ON EMIGRATION. TO MRS. MORTIMER.