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during gratitude which the American people owe to the memory of James Abram Garfield, while it may be connected for a time with the financial and legislative policy of a paramount political party, will rest eventually and securely upon the

fact that his name is one more upon that roll of the famous dead which a citizen of the United States is justly entitled to refer to in the spirit of religious thankfulness and with the glow of a patriot's pride.

A NEW ACTION ON AN OLD BATTLE-FIELD:
BY THE REV. WILLIAM ARTHUR, M.A.

THE Civilta Evangelica of September
28th contains the following account
by Signor Luigi Capellini, Minister
of the Military Church in Rome, and
colleague of Mr. Piggott and Signor
Sciarelli, in which Capellini relates
his operations this year among the
camps and quarters of the Italian
army, assembled for autumn man-
œuvres on the scene of one of the
most famous victories of Hannibal.

Ever since last March, says Signor Capellini, I was aware of the intention of the War Office to conduct great manœuvres on the plain by Lake Trasimene, near to the city of Perugia. I spoke to certain ladies, benefactrices of the work among the soldiers, and wrote to others, telling them of a plan I had formed for the summer. The ladies, pleased with the design, encouraged me by their language, and provided me with all I wanted for my expedition. I was thus enabled to procure two thousand New Testaments, two thousand portions of Scripture, one hundred Bibles, and four thousand religious books, of which a great part consisted of the works of Desanctis, received from the Rev. Dr. Stuart. I put all these in boxes, numbering as many as the camps scattered over the region to be explored; and to prepare the way for easy distribution I had these boxes sent off to the different cities lying nearest to the

respective camps.

From Rome I started for Rieti,

where lay the first of the camps marked on my route. Along the road, thinking of the difficulties which might arise in scattering the good tidings, the words of St. Paul came to my mind: Be sober in all things, suffer hardship, do the work of an evangelist, fulfil thy ministry

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...Preach the Word; be instant in season, out of season.' Thus did I feel that the evangelist must have a deep sense of the high calling with which he is invested, in order that he may, in the loving and faithful discharge of it, go in search of lost souls, and not grow weary till he has found some of them and brought them back into the fold, and then he must watch over them as one who shall give account.

On reaching Rieti I found the regiments belonging to the garrison of Rome, and it would be needless to tell how old acquaintances, friends and brethren, acted on seeing me. After a long and fatiguing field-day, all the troops were now resting to recover their exhausted strength; and as my vehicle had to drive through the midst of them I was soon recognised, and was greeted with long-continued cheers, which lasted till I had to stop. When I had opened my trunk, and made the carriage go at a slow pace, I began distributing Testaments and portions, books and tracts, right and left, along more than a mile and a quarter of road.

Blessing God for the favour granted to me, I entered Rieti, and having gathered together a few brethren known of old, we went out to the camp, where I had the happiness of holding a very edifying religious service. Then, having

visited and comforted some brethren who were ill, I prepared to set off for Spoleto, promising to all that we should meet again when the different corps of the army should be concentrated.

In all the various quarters of the camp at Spoleto some favoured the distribution and helped it on, while others hindered it with all their might. Sometimes when I came to the corner of a camping-groundwhere there was already huxters, fruit-sellers, and so forth my presence would be treated as suspicious, but when once a few Testaments, tracts or books had got among the ranks of the soldiers, and the name of the giver was circulated among the tents, there came a crowd which increased and importuned around me. Some officers seeing this unusual commotion, came up looking at me, examining me and putting questions. They took books and opened them with an air of mystery, hoping to find something to warrant them in stopping the distribution. An idea which God had given me saved and protected the distribution of the Word. Opposite to the first page of every book I had pasted a printed ticket, with these words: The undersigned giver of this book will be glad to learn by whom it has been read, what impression it has made, and also to give further explanations respecting the truths contained in it, and to send others of the same kind, to any one who desires it. Rome, Via delle Coppelle 28.-Luigi Capellini.'

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Indeed, some officers, recently promoted, who formerly, when noncommissioned officers, had been

quartered in Rome, and had there attended our evening schools and evangelical meetings, seeing my name remembered me with interest, and, showing me the greatest attention, certified me with flattering words to their superiors, who all gave me permission to distribute, to speak, and even to ask the soldiers to enter into correspondence with me, after my return to Rome. The hand of the Lord did help me, and I heard His voice saying to me: 'I will never leave thee; I will never forsake thee.'

While the soldiers withdrew into their tents to read the books they had got, conversation on religion between the officers and me became animated. After a long time one of their number, who heretofore had never spoken a word, and who had declined to accept a Bible, all at once said: 'But these are heretical books.' 'On the contrary,' I replied, 'they are Christian books.' The officer, hereupon, looking somewhat embarrassed, added: ' But what may your opinions be?' 'We,' I replied,

believe that we can be saved only by the merits of Jesus Christ. We do not believe in the Roman priesthood, because Christ is for ever the only true and eternal Priest. believe that there is one only Mediator between God and man-the man Christ Jesus. We seek a salvation which is freely given, and not one which is sold for ready-money. We believe that we are redeemed, regenerated and saved by the blood of Christ shed upon the Cross, the true labarum, or banner of redemption and liberty. We believe only in one Teacher, one Master, one sole Infallible, and He is Jesus Christ.'

The officer, hearing this and more from me, appeared serious and impressed; and, after a moment or two, reached out his hand, and taking a Bible, said to me: 'Have you more of these books? Have you given

any of them to my company?' I promised him soon to return with books, so that his men might also have the precious volume to read. Any one may guess whether I did not speedily return with the books, and whether I did not make use of the opportunity which the Lord thus offered me to speak of the Gospel in a new field.

The day following, the troops were marched for field-exercises, and I, with the evangelist Carnevali Filippo, hired a carriage to follow them, but the ground becoming rough, we had to quit the vehicle and follow on foot. When the hour came for repose, I set to work speaking of heavenly things with some of the men, and in the meantime my assistant went to distribute books among the bandsmen of a certain regiment. His efforts were not opposed; on the contrary, the soldiers, like men hungry or thirsty, closed round him to receive the precious gift, and affectionately pressed the hand of the giver. But afterwards the envious and crafty devil came into the field that had been sown, to scatter tares. The bandmaster, seeing the books in the hands of his subordinates, no sooner had assured himself that the person who gave them was out of the way, than, seized by some scruples, he ordered all the men to give up the books; and causing a deep pit to be dug at the foot of a tree, he buried them. The men were greatly vexed and thought of resisting, but the menacing shadow of military discipline de

terred them. And they, like Reuben when he pondered how to save Joseph from the pit, tried to devise a way to save the buried Bibles. But that was almost impossible; for, once marched to their camp, the distance was so great as to forbid a return to that spot. Meanwhile we, having finished our operations in another quarter, were making for our carriage. But a certain feeling prevented me from setting off, and indeed made me go backwards to see if the soldiers were reading the books, with any attention or relish. It was Providence that moved me to this step. No sooner was I recognised than some bandsmen privately came to tell me of the Vandalism of their bandmaster, describing to me. the spot where their books were buried. At the end of a considerable march and some effort, we reached the place described. We dug away carefully, and soon began to pull out the volumes full of earth, and often with the leaves torn by the tools used in burying them. Then we returned to the camp, where we were awaited by the men with feverish anxiety. When they saw us coming back with the books which had been theirs, they raised a cry of joy. I gave back to each soldier his own book, and they, having cleaned and recleaned them from the dirt and earth, put them in their pockets, and set off well pleased. At this sight, I thought of St. Paul's words: We may boldly say, The Lord is my Helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me.'

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ENGLAND A HUNDRED YEARS AGO:
BY THE REV. W. J. DAWSON.

IT is a matter of common remark
that the last hundred years have ef-
fected a more rapid transformation
in the moral, social and political

life of England than any two centu ries that preceded them; but it may be doubted whether there are many, save specialists and historical stu

dents, who have anything like an accurate idea of how vast the change really is. A chapter of brilliant antithesis is readily built up upon the contrast between what was and what is: and for the casual reader the pictorial survey of the times afforded by the concluding chapter of a modern history, or the sparkling paragraph of a modern newspaper, is permitted to suffice. We gain from such sources a vague idea that the good old times were not so good as we believed them, and perhaps that is all. We gather some consolation beneath the modern burdens of poor-rates and schoolboard levies, from the reflection that at least we have no press-gang and we have a morning paper. If our finer taste has been shocked by vulgar tirades against the past, and equally vulgar laudations of the present, we at least are led to believe there is some basis of truth from which both praise and blame arise. It is, however, only when a patient and laborious author devotes his powers to a particular period, or a particular life which was set amid all the ebbings and flowings of such a period, that the public begins to realize how vast is the gulf that divides them from the past. It is precisely this service which Mr. Trevelyan has rendered to his generation by his publication of the Early History of Charles James Fox.

In forgotten pamphlets and remembered diaries; in the poetry of Cowper and the vindictive satire of Churchill; in the private correspondence of a George Selwyn, the published letters of a Horace Walpole, the scanty records of the passionate invective of Burke, the sheets that hold the terrible eloquence of Junius, and even in the yellow pages of the old club books, with their scrawling memoranda of bets and debts-Mr. Trevelyan has found the materials for his vivid and startling picture of

life and manners in England a hundred years ago. The foibles and the petty feuds, not less than the mighty public passions that stirred the hearts of our forefathers, have due recognition, and are stated with their truesignificance. We hear, as in some magic telephone, the confused hubbub of drawing-rooms where dicers' oaths and dicers' gold rattle amid whispers of the latest scandal, or the next projected bribery; and we hear, too, with even more terrible distinctness the sea-like roar of the vast mobs who besiege the House of Commons clamouring for Wilkes and liberty, and freedom of the press. We are brought face to face with corruption in politics, incompetence in councils, depravity in morals, and scepticism in religion. The picture

is true and vivid; it is also sad and hateful. The first impulse is to ask, Where are the ten righteous men who saved such a Sodom from its doom? But we must remember that Mr. Trevelyan's picture is not the portraiture of English life as a whole. It gibbets in the infamy of history many a wearer of a coronet and ribbon; but its atmosphere is that of the club-room, the drawing room, and the senate. Free and full acknowledgment is made that there were noble politicians, who kept themselves unspotted from that bad world in which they lived, and walked among the base throng like Faithful in the fair, clothed in different raiment, on which the mud of slander could not stick. And there are many of us who cannot forget that far away from that gilded scene of faithlessness and vice, on many a moor and mountainside, George Whitefield and John and Charles Wesley, and their fellow-helpers, were accomplishing the highest labour of the patriot, and the holiest mission of the saint, in the endeavour to spread scriptural holiness throughout the land.

John Wesley was a more powerful agent than Charles Fox in moulding the forces of the eighteenth century. He will fall far short of a true and honest estimate of the latter half of the century who leaves out Wesley and his work. Wesley was as accurate and observant a chronicler of another side of national life as was Horace Walpole of his. It has been said that the history of England throughout a large portion of the eighteenth century is simply an epitome of the works of Walpole; but such a claim is only correct, if correct at all, concerning the political and aristocratic history of England. Walpole was a cynic for whom the times were out of joint, but who never felt the least desire to set them right. Macaulay has endeavoured to prove that both he and Boswell were without sense or heart, yet strangely endowed with a marvellous power of observation; but it is clear that Walpole was a great deal more than a fribble and a fool. He was bitter and dyspeptic; he had a passion for writing foolish verses and building stucco-palaces; he affected to be cosmopolitan in taste and French in manners; but, with much that made him almost contemptible, he had a terrible faculty of reading character. He had delicate nerves and refined tastes, and the debaucheries of society were as unsuited to the one, as its coarse habits were to the other. He had known enough of politics to despise them, and of society to detect its hollowness.

Once only, to our knowledge, does he mention the name of Wesley, and he speaks of him in a letter which, if translated into good Latin, says Mr. Trevelyan, might pass muster as an extract from the familiar correspondence of Gallio.' He says that he has been at one opera lately, and that was Mr. Wesley's. He remarks that the boys and girls who sung had charming

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voices and sung hymns to Scotch ballad tunes, but so long that one would think they were already in eternity, and knew how much time they had before them.' Mr. Wesley he sketches as a lean, elderly man, fresh-coloured, his hair smoothly combed; wondrous clean, but as evidently an actor as Garrick.' He concludes by mentioning that the sermon was spoken very fast, and that towards the end the speaker exalted his voice and acted very ugly enthusiasm.' The tone of criticism expressed in these brief sentences is in perfect keeping with the man. Of the deeper issues of his times he knew and cared nothing. He could photograph with indelible minuteness the political actors of his day; he could patiently trace the windings of some dead scandal or some new intrigue, and even rise to something like a malicious enthusiasm when he had ferreted out his prey; he was at home among classics; but of the greatest religious movement since the Reformation he was profoundly ignorant, and never sought to be enlightened. It is perfectly characteristic of the man that he entirely failed to understand the passion and the pathos of the greatest of Italian poets. For the immortal Dante he could find no better phrase than that he was like 'a Methodist parson in Bedlam.'

Yet,

To turn suddenly from the diaries of Horace Walpole to the journals of John Wesley is like changing the tainted air of a playhouse for the health and breadth of nature. in spite of all his coxcombry and cynicism, we cannot help half-respecting Walpole for the clearness of his vision and the genuineness of his indignation. Cabinet ministers and statesmen 'reeling into the ferry-boat at five-and-forty, worn out with drunkenness and gout; London in the time of Wilkes, distracted, without government and

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