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The Editor's Apology.

[R. C. Harding.]

In tne midwinter-tide, some years ago,
When English fields were piled with drifted snow;
When streams were ice-bound, and the north-east gale
Blew fierce and bleak, and made the stoutest quail—
A Bishop, none too readily, went down
To hold a service in a rural town:
A spot remote, among the hills and dales,
As yet unreached by traffic's iron rails.
Its one attraction—noted far and wide—
The artists' and the antiquaries' pride—
The ancient church, oak-panelled, diamond-paned,
With ivy overgrown, and lichens stained.
No hands profane had touched this house of prayer,
By way of « restoration » or repair;
And no more picturesque a pile is found
In any part of Britain's classic ground.
Yet, the old church—it grieves one to relate—
In some respects was scarcely up to date.
When summer suns poured forth their scorching heat,
'Twas cool and pleasant in this dim retreat;
The carven pews well filled with folk who found
Repose beneath the Gospel's soothing sound;
But in the winter months, the most devout
Would stay at home, nor dare to venture out.
Small comfort was there in the praise or prayer,
For deadly risk they ran who worshipped there.
The reeking walls were foul with mildew stains;
The keen east wind rushed in through broken panes;
While heavy drops plashed steadily and slow
From loosened tiles to time-worn stones below.

Amid the damp and cold and gathering gloom,
The Bishop felt oppressed, as in a tomb,
Chilled to the bones, and chill at heart to see
The scattered shivering groups of two or three
Who'd braved the snow and sleet, with Christian grace,
To worship in their old accustomed place.

With chattering teeth, with lips benumbed and blue,
The worthy prelate read the service through.
His surplice doffed, he quickly passed once more
Outside the ancient ivied Gothic door;
Then to the sexton said, in grief and pain—
« I'll not preach in this damp cold church again. »

Hard by there stood, ten feet away, or less,
The young reporter of the local Press.
He partly heard the simple words I quote,
And made, for future use, a mental note.

Dire was the penalty the Bishop paid—
Rheumatic pains his reverend joints invade;
A hollow-sounding cough attacks his chest,
Afflicts his days, and breaks his nightly rest.
Upon his couch he lies, unnerved and pale,
And listlessly unfolds his daily mail.
Some country papers come, but they are laid
Careless aside, unopened and unread.
Each post that follows brings him one or two—
Some marked with crosses, red, or black, or blue.

At last he opened one, and there he found
A paragraph with ink-lines scored around,
And as the hair rose slowly on his head;
These were the words the pious Bishop read:

Our Parish Church.—Full often in this place have we denounced the shame and the disgrace to let this noble building day by day perish, from sheer neglect, with slow decay. Something may now be done, for Bishop A., who held the morning service yesterday, declared, in terms much less polite than plain, « I'll not preach in this d—d old church again. » Strong language, this, it cannot be denied; but, we maintain, the words were justified.

The room swam round—he turned as pale as death,
Staggered and almost fell, and gasped for breath;
Then, in a state of nervous perturbation,
Sat down and wrote a note of explanation,
Trusting that he who edited the Press,
Having caused scandal and acute distress
By his unhappy slip, would have the grace
At once to give the contradiction place.

A few days passed, and then the paper came:
The note was there, signed with the Bishop's name.
To his request the pressman had attended,
But just this little footnote was appended:

[To the above we freely give insertion; but while we must accept his lordship's version, we still must add —nor can we put it shorter— we have implicit faith in our reporter.]