They found the archbishop attending evening service in the church, and, after upbraiding him for his conduct, commanded him, in the name of the king, to restore the excommunicated bishops. The archbishop refused to listen to the barons, and defied them, and they with their swords cleaved his skull, and murdered him in the church.

The king was deeply affected, when he heard of the death of the archbishop. The king had spoken rashly, but he repented of what he had said, and sent messengers after the barons, to command them not to hurt the archbishop. The anger of the pope was greatly incensed against the king. Then, the pope had great power over kings. By the authority of the pope, king Henry was commanded to appear before the pope's officers, to be tried for the murder of the archbishop. The king made a solemn oath that he neither commanded nor assented to the assassination of the archbishop. He expressed his great sorrow on account of the words which he had imprudently uttered, and his willingness to submit to any punishment the pope's officers might deem it proper to inflict.

To obtain absolution from the pope, the king engaged"Never to oppose the pope's will, reserving his rights as a Catholic prince. Never to hinder appeals to the Roman see. To lead an army against the infidels in Judea, or against the Saracens in Spain. To recal all persons who had been banished on account of their partizanship with the late archbishop, restoring to them their estates and revenues. To abolish all laws and customs, lately introduced, to the prejudice of ecclesiastics. And to walk barefoot to the tomb of the archbishop, and receive punishment from the hands of the clergy, the monks of St. Austin."

Dr. Southey describes the punishment inflicted on the king in the following manner :

"He set off on horseback with a few attendants for Canterbury. When he came within sight of its towers he dismounted, laid aside his garments, threw a coarse cloth over his shoulders, and proceeded to the city, which was three miles distant, barefoot, over the flinty road, so that

in many places his steps were traced in blood. He reached the church, trembling with emotion, and was led to the martyr's shrine (Becket's tomb); there he threw himself prostrate, with his arms extended, and remained in that posture, as if in earnest prayer, while the bishop of London solemnly declared, in his name, that he had neither commanded, nor advised, nor by any artifice contrived the death of Thomas a'Becket; but because his words, inconsiderately spoken, had given occasion for the commission of that crime, he now voluntarily submitted himself to the discipline of the church.

"The monks of the convent, eighty in number, and four bishops, abbots, and other clergy who were present, were provided each with a knotted cord. The king bared his shoulders, and received five stripes from each prelate, and three from each of the other ecclesiastics. When this severe penance had been endured, the king threw sackcloth over his bleeding shoulders, and resumed his prayers, kneeling on the pavement, not allowing a carpet to be spread beneath him, and thus continued until midnight. After that hour he visited all the altars of the church, prayed before the bodies of the saints there deposited, then returned to his devotions at the shrine until day-break. During the whole time he neither ate nor drank; but after assisting at mass, and granting forty pounds a year for tapers to burn before the martyr's tomb, he drank some water, in which a portion of Becket's blood was (said to be) mingled. He then went to London. When he arrived he was incapable of any exertion, and so ill that his medical attendant found it was necessary to bleed him."

Such was the humiliation and punishment which the popish clergy could then inflict upon the king of England. The priests taught the people, that Becket was a martyr, that it was meritorious to visit his tomb. Fifty years after the murder the body was taken up, in the presence of king Henry the Third, and deposited in a rich tomb, erected at the expense of Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury. Most costly presents were brought to the tomb of Becket. Multitudes flocked from all countries to visit the place

where his remains were deposited; and the clergy of Canterbury obtained great wealth thereby.

Thank God, popery has not now such power to oppress as it formerly exercised. But we must guard against popery, for it is seeking to regain the power which it has lost. Popery is an awful system of error, wickedness, and cruelty.

A WANDERER RECLAIMED.

BY IRENE.

A BITTER cold and stormy night in December found us gathered about a round table, upon which lay a profusion of fancy articles, in rapid progress for Christmas eve. A bright light and blazing fire cast a warm and cheerful aspect over our cozy little parlour, and we felt doubly grateful for our comfort and happiness, as sometimes, amidst our mysterious whisperings and laughter, we heard the strong piercing blast, driving and whirling the snow in heaps, and piling the great white flakes higher and closer against the windows. The roads and walks without were drifted over, and almost impassable, so we felt quite secure from interruption, and worked with merry alacrity. Not long thus, however, for we were suddenly silenced by a gentle ring of the door-bell. Father dropped his newspaper, and Will's great black eyes opened wider in astonishment, and we all in surprise exclaimed

"Who would venture out such a night ?"

As the door opened the snow came driving across the hall with a shrill whistle, and then we heard a low, hesitating voice, say

66

'May I come in, and warm me?"

With ready permission, a young girl of eighteen years stood before us, whose dejected and outcast look would have awakened sympathy in a heart of stone. Her dark, matted hair hung loose about her wan face, and her eyes were black. A small faded silk bonnet half-covered her head, and a thin shawl hung upon her shoulders, leaving

her neck bared to the storm. The old worn cotton dress could scarcely have given warmth, for its scanty folds were stiffened with frost and whitened with clinging snow, while it rattled and creaked as she crossed the floor. The shivering creature followed our mother to a glowing fire on the kitchen hearth, where the grateful warmth restored her benumbed limbs, and made the life-blood course more rapidly through her chilled veins. She mutely watched the flickering blaze, now and then turning her large, mournful eyes upon the wondering group about her. No, or yes, were her short replies to the many questions put; but little by little, mother gained her confidence, and drew from her the story of her life, which, youthful as she seemed, was burdened with crime.

She told us of her motherless childhood, and of her betrayal in later years, and how her father drove her from his roof when he could not bear her degradation with his poverty. Ever since she had wandered from place to place, straying farther and farther from the path of virtue, till her forbidden looks and ragged remnants of clothing gained only rebuffs and harsh words at every door. Even the poor, who best know how to sympathize with a suffering fellow-creature, shrank from her presence, and refused her shelter.

She had walked long miles this wintry day, scarce knowing whither she went, and as the storm grew fiercer, and the darkness bewildered her, she begged at the door of the rich for a resting-place, but was driven away with harsh epithets, to feel more keenly her loneliness and suffering, as she turned from the sight of crackling, blazing fires and the sound of many voices, again to meet the wild storm and piercing wind. She was afraid to lie down and die, with a burden of unacknowledged and unforgiven sin bowing her to the earth, and with weary steps and sinking hope she sought our cottage home.

What an influence a generous-hearted mother may exert over her children! We beheld her ready sympathy, and in a moment half a dozen feet were in pursuit of something for the poor homeless wanderer. Soon a comfortable bed

appeared in the corner, and the desolate creature threw herself upon it, and quickly forgot her sorrow in a sound and refreshing sleep.

The snow still fell

The next day was the Sabbath. thick and fast, and lay so deep and heavy upon the ground that but few answered the call of the church-bells. By mother's persuasions Minny appeared with her hair neatly smoothed, and with clean apparel and thoroughly cleansed skin, looked like a new creature, and her face began to lose its downcast sorrow under the beams of kindness that had so long been denied her. She listened to our hymnswitnessed the family worship, and without hesitation read the Bible placed in her hands, whose holy pages had been closed to her for years.

That was a strange, holy Sabbath to the wanderer. It recalled the days of her infancy, when her mother taught her to pray, and when her childish voice mingled with the evening hymn; and no wonder the tears trickled through the slender fingers covering her bowed face, when she beheld the pure happiness of the family with whom she had found shelter, and contrasted it with the desolation in her own heart. A ray of sunlight had fallen upon her path, and revealed the precipice where her wayward footsteps had bordered. She shuddered as she wept, and felt how far she had wandered in darkness, but to our mother's entreaties that she would promise to begin a new life, she only replied in broken sobs.

"No one will receive me. I must wander, for everybody spurns me now, and drives me from their door, till my heart is almost stone. I have no home to go to."

"Can't she live with us?" softly whispered little Allie, as she climbed upon her mother's knee, and with her rosy, dimpled hand upon her cheek, tried to turn her head that she might look at her mother's face.

"I am sorry, Allie, but that cannot be; she shall stay till to-morrow, and we will see what can be done," was mother's sad reply.

The morrow came bright and clear, and the frosty snowdiamonds sparkled gaily in the sun. The sleigh-bells