" many miles round, hardly showing like a crowd in that ex- " THE REAL OBJECTION.-There is good reason to believe that the objection to Paul's writings is not from the "things hard to be understood" which they contain, but from the things easy to be understood, the doctrines so plainly taught by him that "by grace we are saved," that "the wages of sin is death, but eternal life is the gift of God through Jesus Christ;" that our most perfect righteousness can never enable us to claim reward at the hand of God, nor our own unaided strength enable us to practise that righteousness; but that the meritorious sacrifice of Christ is the only foundation of the Christian's hope, and the aid of His Spirit the only support of the Christian's virtue. It is on account of these doctrines that Paul's writings are objected to, because they are humbling to the pride of the human heart, and therefore unacceptable to the natural man. Whately. DISMAL ART AND DISMAL LITERATURE.-A correspondent of the "Times" recently called attention to the morbid tastes of artists, or rather of the people, whose tastes artists have to study. "After a careful study," he says, "of modern English art, as represented by the Exhibitions, I notice one very strange and lamentable fact I allude to the ever-increasing love of our artists for gloom, misery, and squalor. Nature had been caught in all her vexed and tortured moods. There was every variety of atmospheric discomfort, ranging from the stormful purples of a thundercloud down to the softest film of morning mist; it was perpetual rain, fog, and cloud. Matters were worse when I came to figure painting. Here was death, squalor, misery, and tears, old women dying, dogs dying, horses in their last throes, felons in prisons and paupers in workhouses one long apotheosis of pain, sin, and suffering. In real life there is always enough of tears and agony, and shall art also become enamoured of suffering and death? My thoughts go back to the stately calm of Reynolds, the gracious bonhomie of Wilkie, and the pomp and happy splendour of Turner, and I ask myself whether these things are to be the traditions of an irreclaimable past." Is there not too much of the same tendency in literature? tion. These circumstances it belongs to the law to define and make provision for. The questions framed for the jury by the French legislators are respectively adapted to these three cases, and point them out with precision to their attention. The English have only one vague, general question by which they are all blended and confounded together. Guilty or not guilty admits no consideration of circumstances; circumstances are not submitted to the cognisance of an English jury; and, in truth, are but little the object of English judicature at all. The judge, indeed, may sometimes take them into consideration in his sentence, but, in most cases, he can do nothing; and, at all events, it is desirable that everything which ought to be done in a criminal prosecution, should be positively enjoined by the law. THE THREE R's. In our days of popular education it is amusing to read the arguments of a philosopher once famous, Dr. Mandeville, who, in his "Fable of the Bees," says: "Reading, writing, and arithmetic are very necessary to those whose business requires such qualifications; but, where people's livelihood has no dependence on these arts, they are very pernicious to the poor, who are forced to get their daily bread by their daily labour. Few children make any progress at school, but, at the same time, they are capable of being employed in some business or other; so that every hour those sort of poor people spend at their book, is so much time lost to the society. When obsequiousness and mean services are required, we shall always observe that they are never so cheerfully nor so heartily performed as from inferiors to superiors; I mean inferiors not only in riches and quality, but likewise in knowledge and understanding. A servant can have no unfeigned respect for his master as soon as he has sense enough to find out that he serves a fool. When we are to learn or to obey, we shall experience in ourselves that the greater opinion we have of the wisdom and capacity of those that are either to teach or command us, the greater deference we pay to their laws and instructions. No creatures submit contentedly to their equals; and should a horse know as much as a man, I should not desire to be his rider.' Lord Jeffrey, commenting on this, said: "Surely it does not follow that because the poor learn something, the rich may not learn more. Nor, even if it did, would there be any proof given that his learning must needs make a poor man despise his equals in knowledge; for, by the argument, they are only put facts on which this argument rests. on an equality. However, we utterly deny the whole of the As long as a man cannot live without labour, he will work, and no longer, whether he be ignorant or well informed. As long as servility is necessary to some men's livelihood, they will obey others who can support them. As long as servility is conducive to the fortunes, or sup posed interests of some men, or to their gratification, they will truckle and fawn to their superior, we much fear, without inquiring exactly whether he is their equal in learning or abilities." RHEUMATISM.-A man had rheumatism, and in just one half-hour he learned that the following will cure it :-Iodide of potassium, quinine, glauber salts, onions, raw lemons, baked potato carried in the pocket, a horse-chestnut carried in the lemons, raw silk, oiled silk, gin and tansey, Turkish baths, a pocket, an eelskin tied round the leg, a suit of red flannel, chloroform liniment, hot water, cold water, hot lemonade, a baths, mustard and hot water, camphor liniment, electricity, trip South, a dry atmosphere, equable temperature, sulphur etc., etc.-American Paper. RAILWAY SERVANTS' ORPHANAGE.-Do our readers know that nearly a thousand railway servants lose their lives every year in the United Kingdom? The Board of Trade returns only record six to seven hundred deaths annually, but this only refers to those killed on the spot, not taking into account those who die afterwards from injuries received. Comparatively few insure their lives in the Accidental Insurance Company. The Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants have founded an orphanage, of which the chief establishment is at Derby. This contains little more than fifty orphans, the original scheme contemplating five times that number. At a recent election, twenty-seven urgent cases were brought up for election, and only nine could be received with the existing funds. If a thousand men were killed on one day there would be an immense outburst of public liberality, and columns of subGUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.-In French criminal trials by jury scriptions and donations in the newspapers. The need is not there are three distinguishable cases to which it is material to the less in that the deaths are spread over 365 days. At least attend. 1. The crime may have been committed simply. 2. It 1,500 orphans of railway servants are left almost totally unpromay have been committed with circumstances of aggravation. vided for every year. 3. It may have been committed with circumstances of extenua-pensation from the companies in cases of accident. As yet there is no power to claim com "Near the door, half hidden behind the pillar. I did not see him come in, but I perceived him soon after the service commenced, and I saw him go out directly the sermon was finished. Mamma was so long collecting her things together that by the time she moved and I was able to get outside the church he was not even in sight." "I cannot think well of a man who comes among us on the sly like that," persisted Mrs. Moreton. "The church is open to all," answered the rector, with his calm smile;" but had he, in accordance with your notions, blown the trumpet before him, it would have made no difference. After all, it may not have been Mr. Sinclair." In the afternoon all doubt, however, was removed. The stranger went into the vestry after service and introduced himself. "Mr. Sinclair is staying at the Abbey with Sir Felix Hampton," said Mr. Moreton on joining his family at the tea-table. "He will lunch with us tomorrow, my dear. Make him welcome for all our sakes." The last words were somewhat diplomatic. With out actually owning to himself that such precaution was necessary, he endeavoured to protect his guest from any unpleasant insinuation, by suggesting the idea that it might be to her advantage to be agreeable. Sir Felix's name would not, he thought, be without effect. To convince Mrs. Moreton that Mr. Sinclair did her husband no wrong in taking back the charge only temporarily confided to him, was impossible. The abstract justice of the act was beyond her comprehension. Like many a mind narrowed to its own interests, hers could only see the palpable loss incurred, and would not understand that this was but the logical result of the situation. Mona's good sense often stepped in to counteract the incurable weakness of her mother's reasoning, and it was chiefly to her that Mr. Moreton looked to prevent or explain away any solecisms or unwelcome remarks with which his wife would sometimes startle people. Remember, my dear, that we have enjoyed a good income for twelve years, for which we are indebted to Mr. Sinclair, and that he is very kindly disposed towards us," said Mr. Moreton the next day, as the handsome carriage of Sir Felix Hampton stopped before the Rectory gate. All the morning, in different words, he had been labouring to impress this one lesson upon her mind, and at the last moment repeated it. "Do not let Mr. Sinclair think us graceless or ungrateful," he added with a smile that had some entreaty in it as he left the room to welcome his guest. Perhaps the fact that he came in Sir Felix Hampton's carriage insured him the reception he met with; certainly not his own merits, for Mrs. Moreton made it evident that she condescended in receiving him amiably and in overlooking the small claim he had to her attention. Her husband wished her to make herself agreeable; she did so, as she understood the request. Elegantly dressed in a light flowing material, suited to the warm temperature of the day, she sat in negligent grace upon a couch, with her two girls not far off, toying with a piece of tapestry, not doubting that her own and daughters' beauty would make a favourable impression which might, she hoped, be turned to account some future day. She was one so occupied with herself and what belonged to her as to have little discernment of the character of others. To Mona, who saw more clearly, the role her mother assumed was no small mortification. Mrs. Moreton set her features into what might be termed a benevolent smile, and questioned her visitor about his return to England rather freely, throwing into her manner a kind of patronage which, to most men, would have been either highly amusing or offensive. The effect upon Mr. Sinclair was not easy to ascertain. Some of her inquiries and remarks he answered, others he did not appear to hear, having at that moment addressed his host; but the handsome face never altered its expression, and the firm, wellshaped mouth never relaxed into more than a faint smile, yet in all that he said or did ran an unimpeachable politeness and a gentleness that only served to give the lady greater boldness of speech and a fatuitous reliance upon her power of influencing. The luncheon was over, and Mr. Moreton was gone into his study to fetch some papers for Mr. Sinclair's inspection, when Mrs. Moreton unmasked her battery. She had a battle of her own to win, of which her husband knew nothing. "We have been thinking, Mr. Moreton and I, that you may not really be in any hurry to come to Hillesden, that you would never wish to inconvenience us, and would gladly give us full time to look about and arrange our affairs, a year at least. This change will be such a loss to us. My son, who is at college, has yet another year to remain, and we could not possibly keep him there with less income than we have at present.' "Oh, mother, mother! Mr. Sinclair ought not to be troubled with our affairs. How can you?" exclaimed Mona, in a tone of remonstrance, flushing crimson with shame at the indelicacy of this appeal. "With less income than we have at present it would be impossible to finish his college education," continued Mrs. Moreton, waving her hand towards Mona as if she were brushing away a buzzing fly. "His father has set his heart upon his entering the Church. Another year, and he could take his degree, could you not leave us in possession another year?" Hurrying quickly through the last sentence that she might not be interrupted, Mrs. Moreton smiled persuasively upon her auditor, glad to have touched the point she intended, heedless alike of his confusion and Mona's distress, whose cheek flashed again with mortification as she vainly tried to stop her. Don't, mamma, oh, please don't." Mr. Sinclair drew himself up in his chair, his lustrous eyes glowing with strong feeling. The silence that followed this strange episode was not entirely the result of surprise. He was thinking of Helen, and fearing her influence if he deferred entering upon his work. Now that the battle was so nearly won, he was most unwilling to turn back. Had he not all but put his hand to the plough? When his features regained their former repose he glanced towards the two girls. Nita was smiling; the proposition pleased her. Another year at the Rectory was a pleasant prospect. Though only a temporary advantage, she saw how much good might come out of it for Edward. "No, no, mother, that cannot be-it is most unjust; my father will be so vexed," Mona said, thinking chiefly of him and repudiating her mother's request with the energy of her honest nature. "Please, Mr. Sinclair, forget what has been said; my mother is too anxious about Edward," she whispered low and hastily, as Mrs. Moreton turned her head aside at her husband's entrance. Mr. Moreton had found the papers he had been seeking, and handed them to Mr. Sinclair. They related only to the parish, which was a reason for the ladies to leave the two gentlemen together. While they bent their heads over the pages, Mrs. Moreton, signing to her daughters to follow, left the room triumphant. "If he has any feeling, he will leave us in peaco another year, and that will be something gained," said she, throwing herself into one of her pretty easychairs. "I am glad I said it; your father never would have had the courage to ask for a reprieve." "Oh! mother, how could you?" said Mona, reproachfully. "It was very thoughtless of you to interfere, Mona. It was the cleverest thing I ever did," she added, exultingly. "My father will not think so." "Your father will not object to the benefit, and will perhaps be less distrustful of my diplomacy for the future," laughed Mrs. Moreton. "And by the man's face I think he will listen to me. I made an impression. You know, girls, he never said a word in opposition, nor did he even once give an opinion of his own. With a little tact I believe I could do what I liked with him. I shall propose to your father to leave the negotiations with Mr. Sinclair to Why do you shake your head, Mona? Has Mr. Sinclair uttered one syllable of dissent from us since he entered the house? He is, I am sure, a good, easy sort of man." me. "I read him very differently," replied Mona. Nita only knew that he had a handsome face, and thought it a pity that he stooped. "Mr. Sinclair is a good, easy sort of man, not so polite as I expected from his manners at table, since he has gone away without taking leave of me," repeated Mrs. Moreton to her husband when he joined her after the departure of his guest. "He sent you a message, my dear-his compliments and excuses." "That is nothing; I thought better of him," she answered, ruffled at what she termed a discourtesy, and dropped for a time all further reference to Mr. Sinclair. For many days after this visit Mr. Moreton went about his parish as usual. He told nothing of what had transpired in the hour's interview after luncheon, nor was he aware of what had occurred during his short absence from the dining-room. Mona did not tell, not supposing that anything would come of it, nor did she care to see her father vexed. If the story came to his ears at all she thought it ought to be through her mother, and kept to herself any opinion she had about Mr. Sinclair sending his compliments instead of taking a personal leave. That he bowed low as he opened the dining-room door when they left the room, did not compensate for the averted eye and very quiet demeanour. Mona had the humiliation of feeling that her mother had not gained his respect, and could rarely think of Mr. Sinclair without a twinge of pain. By the others the visit was soon apparently forgotten; on her it had cast a shadow, which remained. Though Mr. Moreton neglected no duty, and went about his work as usual, she perceived a difference in him. More and more plain and earnest were the words of exhortation to the sick or the careless, in the cottage and by the wayside, as he encountered the one or the other. For some years his health had not been robust, yet no one looked upon him as a confirmed invalid. He was not a strong man-he never had been-nevertheless, he got through as much work as the clergy of any of the neighbouring parishes. The Sunday after Mr. Sinclair's visit Mona waited behind the rest, as she often did, to walk home with her father. Instead of leaving by the vestry door as usual, Mr. Moreton returned to the church, and went slowly round it, stopping in front of the pulpit. "A hireling whose own the sheep are not," he repeated, in a low tone-" surely I have not been that! Pardon my shortcomings, and grant-oh, grant that none but a pure gospel may ever issue from this spot!" he said, aloud, and then stood for a few minutes still and silent. Desirous not to disturb him, Mona moved gently away, looking back with a vague fear of approaching sorrow stealing over her. He soon joined her, and they walked down the aisle together. At the end he looked back-it was a long, lingering look, which deepened into greater tenderness as he stood in the old churchyard, glancing from one grey stone to another, where "the forefathers of the hamlet slept," and then rested his eye on the venerable walls, mantled with a profusion of dark-leaved ivy, in which the birds built and chirruped so merrily. "What is it? You seem sad. Have you heard from Mr. Sinclair? Are you going to leave Hillesden soon?" asked Mona, softly, clasping his hand. "I thought Mr. Sinclair offered you to stay on if you liked?" "He did, but I do not see my way to do so; and yet my people, my little flock, I should grieve to leave them to give them over to-" "Do you not like Mr. Sinclair?" asked Mona, surprised, her sympathetic heart having been drawn to him because, with all his worldly prosperity, he had not appeared happy or at ease. "He is a young man compared with me, and has no experience of the care of souls; no knowledge beyond the theories picked up in the world, and his world is a very different one from ours. The great needs of human nature must be always the same, but the necessary remedies are not always understood. It is the fashion to run after a favourite physician, and also among physicians to keep for a period to one nostrum, and when that has lost its novelty to take up with another. Alas! that there should ever be a fashion in religion! The faithful minister cannot follow it. For him whatever is new is suspicious. There is no improvement upon the old, old storythere are no discoveries in fundamental truths. More eternal than the hills is God's word; they may pass away, but that never, nor can it be changed by all the embroidery that men and women are trying to put upon it. I fear we shall see something of this at Hillesden. Mr. Sinclair hinted at some alterations more in accordance with the times." To Mona, who thought her father's way of conducting the service perfect, no alterations could be other than deteriorations. This desire on the part of Mr. Sinclair lowered him in her estimation, and the fine, intellectual face lost something of its attractiveness. There was yet the remembrance of the soft, grey eye, so expressive, as she supposed, of kindliness and goodness, and to this she referred. “But Mr. Sinclair looks so benevolent, so full of what poets term 'the kindly charities of life.' I am sure he wishes to do right." "It may be so; God forbid that I should judge him harshly! He is at all events a resolute man, and will act according to his convictions, whatever they may be. If they are not correct he must be censured for them as much as for his actions." Mona did not answer, she was puzzling her young head over a question that older ones have often settled on the wrong side. "My child, if a thing is not right in itself, no earnestness of purpose can make it so," observed Mr. Moreton, guessing her thoughts. "It is but vain casuistry to attempt it. Will you remember that throughout your life?-it will save you from much anxiety, perhaps from sorrow, or even remorse. Bear in mind that the great apostle, with all his wealth of learning, never made one single attempt to justify his mistaken zeal, but regarded it as an accumulation of his guilt that he did it ignorantly in unbelief." "Will Mr. Sinclair like you to leave?" asked Mona, referring again to the change at which Mr. Moreton had hinted. "Most probably, if he really understands me, although he did not say so. It may be difficult for us to work together. More warmth in the service he desires! Yes, we want it, but the warmth that stirs from a state of torpor, that disperses the haziness through which man sees his most important interests, that melts his indifference, and makes him cling to the pure, simple word of God. He spoke with admiration of some things of which I do not approve, and referred to the 'revival' of recent years, meaning by that term a very different revival from what I desire to see in the Church. It will grieve me to see novelties introduced which will assuredly perplex, not strengthen, the faith of my simple-minded parishioners." The following Sunday Mr. Sinclair was again seen in church, this time in Sir Felix Hampton's pew, his grave intellectual face raised in fixed attention to the preacher with immovable calmness. The subject of the sermon, almost an elementary one, was the jailer of Philippi-his question and the apostle's answer. Though Mr. Moreton possessed no striking eloquence there was the pathos of simplicity, combined with the majesty of truth, in all that he said; an intensity of earnestness gave additional force to the Saxon language he always tried to use, because it finds readier access to the rural ear, as, with the courage of duty, he entreated his hearers never to be carried away by any changes that might be going on around them, and exhorted them to keep to the law and the testimony. They were to believe the promises of God as well as His threatenings, to believe them in their lives, and never suffer anything whatsoever to dim the brightness of His love towards sinners nor to stand between them and their Saviour, to whom every sorrowing weary man or woman or little child might find access if they would. "How shall I plead with you? How shall I warn you never to forsake the old paths for new?" he exclaimed, as he was about to finish, stretching out his hands in a supplicating attitude. "There is but one Name by which ye may be saved." He remained silent for a moment after uttering the last word, and thex sank back on his seat, a grey pallor stealing over his face. Finding that he did not stand up again, the little congregation began to disperse, some slowly and silently. They knew that their minister was ill, subject to spasmodic attacks, and had some idea that he was about to be superseded by the patron, whose presence with Sir Felix Hampton had already drawn attention to him. Others, less thoughtful, amused themselves with idle comments upon the stranger. "Oh, my! isn't he a stiff-un?" said a young lad who was loitering near the gate as Mr. Sinclair drove off with Sir Felix and Lady Hampton. "Stiff and crooked too, for all that he holds himself so proudly," said another. He proud! There was no pride in his fine eyes when he looked at me," said Elizabeth Beaumont, the village beauty. "The vain hussey!" growled an elderly woman who was passing and overheard the remark. "I don't believe he even saw you. What would a grand gentleman like that look at you for? It is my mind that he does not think much of any of us; he never moved nor turned his head from the time he went into the church till he came out of it. I wonder what he thought of our minister's sermon? He'll not preach as well hisself, I reckon. Eh, but how ill he looks! Hush!" The last pronoun referred to Mr. Moreton, who was advancing with Mr. Graves, the church warden, a rich man having an especial veneration for his own opinions, and who was now figuratively patting Mr. Moreton on the back. "You were grand to-day, sir; the trumpet gave no uncertain sound. I hope our smart young man over the way will profit by what he heard." "You are not referring to Mr. Sinclair?" said Mr. Moreton, in a cold, repellent tone. "Whom else should I mean? I know a fact or two, having made it my business to inquire about him. Why, Mr. Sinclair is one of those foreign birds that will coo a strange song in our aviary. I could have sworn that you knew it, too, or you would not have spent your strength in warning us to look sharp. These are remarkable days, and we are not yet at their climax." Mr. Graves had a phraseology of his own; to his own mind it expressed his meaning, and therefore he thought it would do so to others. "Mr. Sinclair asked the clerk a lot of questions yesterday about parish matters, and did not seem satisfied with his answers. I hope it will be long before you leave us, sir, though I know that Mr. Sinclair is going to be instituted, as they call it, to the living. For me, old faces are always the best." Mr. Moreton murmured a feeble "Thank you" as he left the churchwarden and moved homewards, absorbed in thought. With such a diversity of views as existed between him and Mr. Sinclair, he felt it highly improbable that they could go on well together, even had he been in circumstances to accept willingly the stipend of a curate. Mrs. Moreton's tastes were rather extravagant, nor could he restrain her as much as he wished. He had made a great stand to secure the education of his children and keep his son at college. He had, besides, contrived to pay an insurance to secure a thousand pounds for his family at his death; but that was all, and this. had cost him every personal sacrifice he could make. His frail life was all that stood between the objects of his affection and poverty or privation. Often had he fretted against it, and oftener still, turning to his eldest child as his confidante and consolation, had he endeavoured to prepare and strengthen her for the rough and difficult path before her. Mr. Sinclair did not appear in Hillesden again, |