"Why should I not express to you, my lord, a desire which I have long had in my heart? This desire is, that being surrounded by ministers and members of the Church the most enlightened and most devoted to God and to his word, you should digest and present to Parliament a plan, not to _effect_ (_sic_) a reform of the Church, but to _establish the authority_ (_sic_) which should be charged with its reform and government. It seems to me that the best way would be to establish a body similar to that which governs the Episcopal church of America, composed of three chambers, that of the bishops, that of the presbyters, and that of the members of the Church, the two latter being ordinarily united in one. The Americans of the United States have received so much from you (they have received every thing, even their very existence), why should you not take something from them? I am convinced that sooner or later a reform _must_ take place in the government of the Church of England: it is important that it should be done well. I think that there would be some hope of its being accomplished in a good sense, if it were done while you, my lord, are Primate of the Church, and while Victoria is Queen of England."
Every thing seems to tend to an entire revolution in the British ecclesiastical system, and the coöperation of Dr. Merle and other continental writers with those who are agitating the subject in England--demanding the separation of the church from the state--makes the prospect of such a separation more imminent than it has ever been hitherto.
When from thy side, love, In silence and gloom, Half broken-hearted Fate tore me away, All humbled in pride, love, I thought in my doom, That Hope had departed For ever and aye!
But Fate may not banish From memory's store, That blissful communion Of years that are flown, Nor make yet to vanish The lustre which o'er Our fond thoughts of union, So tenderly shone.
And still o'er the ocean My fancy takes flight, Where oft I see gleaming Thy figure afar; And I think with emotion, That sometimes at night, We watch the same beaming And tremulous star.
The sunsets so golden. That stream round me here, But call up thy shadow The landscape between: And when in the olden Dim season so dear, It tripped o'er the meadow With step of a queen.