reverent memories of those who are proud to feel that they have the blood in their veins of a brave and noble and God-fearing ancestry.

John Vincent, a pious minister, lived more than two centuries ago. He had, we read, been so harassed for his Nonconformity, that though he had an unusually large family, no two of them were born in the same county. Towards the latter part of his life, however, during the Protectorate, he lived in peace at Thetford, and died surrounded by a family whose affection and piety had been the greatest of his earthly blessings. His eldest son Thomas had long been his companion and helper, and the marvellous promise of the youngest boy who, at seven years old, could repeat from memory the sermon that his father had preached in the morning to the rest of the family in the evening, to spare the old man's voice, gave him hope that he was leaving behind him gifts and graces that would serve the Master when he could no longer do so.

"Well done, little one," said Thomas Vincent, when the sermon over, and the group broken up, the two brothers wandered away together down one of the grassy paths. "I should say you did not miss a word; I could have fancied it was my father speaking. I wish I had your memory."

"Nonsense, brother," returned the child, "you have no need to envy any. I should like to be going with you to college to-morrow."

"Time enough, Nat.. Stay and help your good father. That is the Lord's work for you at present. Besides, what would the mother do without you?”

"Do you think father looks ill, Thomas?" asked Nat, with a look of unchildlike care upon his childish face.

"I think he gets more feeble. He has had a hard life, and yet a glorious, one, for it has been spent for God. Oh, Nat," continued the youth, throwing himself down upon the soft turf, "I wonder what my life-our lives-will be; do not you?"

"Yours will be a brave one," said the child, with the air of a prophet.

"Can you look into the future, little brother ?" asked the elder boy, smiling.

"Yes," replied Nat, gravely, his large eyes fixed upon the distant sky, now painted in gorgeous colours by the sun which had just disappeared below the horizon.

"I am looking there now, and I will tell you what I see-troubles

and difficulties, and dangers, and my brave brother overcoming them, and fearing nothing so long as he does the right."

"And you yourself," asked Thomas, his eyes kindling, though he still smiled.

"I do not see myself," said Nat, "perhaps I shall not be alive. Mother says I am not strong."

"Hush, foolish lad," said the brother, getting up, and putting his arm fondly round the child as he led him towards the house. "Come in out of the damp, and do not set up for an astrologer. What would our father say to hear thee talk so. The future is in

God's hands."

66

"I know it," said the boy. My prophecies are only guesses." Nevertheless Nat's guesses often came true; and had he not been such a simple-minded lad, and had not his bringing up been so wise and good, he might have become conceited from the influence his words and actions had upon the rest, all older than himself.

As it was, he was no infant prodigy; only little Nat, his mother's darling, and the pet of all the family.

Sixteen years had passed away since the brothers talked of their future in the happy old home at Thetford that summer evening in 1651-years that had brought with them many changes. The good old father had died, leaving his blessing to his children; the mother, too, was dead, and the family scattered. Thomas, the eldest son, had distinguished himself at Oxford, and after a few years of preaching he had joined a friend, a Mr. Doolittle, at Islington, in giving young men an academical education.

Little Nat had well fulfilled the promise of his childhood. At eleven years old he had been admitted to the University; at eighteen he went out M.A. of Magdalen College, Oxford; and at the age of twenty-one was ordained as rector of Langley Marsh, having preached publicly before he was twenty.

Meanwhile public events had also changed.

Brave old Oliver Cromwell had died in 1658, worn out before his time by work which none but he could have undertaken or achieved. He died, and there was no one in all England to take his place. After two years of confusion and mismanagement, the people looked with hope towards Charles II. who was waiting in France for this turn of affairs, and who quickly responded to their invitation. He was now established on the throne; but, alas, the hopes he had

raised were soon disappointed. Pleasure-loving and unprincipled, he neglected his subjects; only interfering to make tyrannical laws, one of which caused great suffering to a large body of excellent men, who had done nothing to deserve it. The Act of Uniformity was one of the worst Acts of Parliament ever passed; and by it two thousand honest men were ejected from their livings and reduced to poverty, for not conforming to articles of which their consciences disapproved. Among these were the brothers Vincent. Thomas, as we have seen, employed himself in educating young men, while Nathaniel obtained a situation as tutor in a private family.

Such was the state of things when a terrible calamity befell England. A calamity, as many thought, sent in direct judgment upon the profligate king and court, and the thousands who had followed their evil example. The year before there was a talk of the plague having visited Holland, and of the likelihood of its being brought across, and even of one or two cases having occurred in the suburbs of London; but these rumours were disbelieved by most, and soon forgotten by others. Early in 1665, however, the terrible disease broke out with great violence in St. Giles's and there was now no believing it or forgetting it again.

"Nat, is it you? You should not have come. Do you not know the risk you run," said Thomas Vincent, as a tall young man hastily entered the apartment where, among books and papers, his brother sat, on a bright spring day.

"I felt that I must see you,” replied Nathaniel, “ and, if possible, take you back with me into the country. Is it true that you not only refuse to leave London, but intend to go into the midst of the terrible pestilence?"

“It is true, my brother,” replied Thomas, who had grown into a fine, well-made man, with a handsome countenance, and an expression, less eager and restless, but as determined and fearless as of old, "the people need me. I am not afraid of death, and I think it is God's will.”

"I know your courage, but consider," urged the younger man, "that your life may better serve God than your death. It is not only I who say this; your colleague, Mr. Doolittle, a wise and pious man, thinks you have no call to the work, and all the brethren beg you not to risk a life that is so valuable."

“Nat, I have considered and I have prayed, and I feel that I am

called to this special duty. The churches are emptying, the dying people are neglected and forsaken, and wickedness abounds in the midst of disease and death."

"I saw a dreadful sight as I came along," said Nathaniel, in an awestruck tone. I passed a tavern, where men sat drinking and playing cards and singing loud songs, amid roars of laughter. It sounded horrible after the groans and sad sights I had been through, and I hastened by, shuddering. But just then one of the men came out, half tipsy, and still sing a dissolute song, and suddenly he sat down on a doorstep, putting his hands to his head, and turning deadly white. I was going towards him, but a watchman went up to him, and persuaded him to rise and stagger on a few paces till they reached a house, where he went in, and the watchman fastened the door, putting the key in his pocket, and marking the house with a red cross. 'He won't come out till the dead-cart calls for him, unless he recovers. I will let the doctor know.' The man said this to me as he walked away, and I heard groans inside the house."

"So they die, and no man careth for their souls. Brother, I must go. God calls me to the work, but you must leave London at once; your duty is elsewhere."

After an affectionate parting, the younger brother set out on his return journey—not an easy one-for London Bridge and every thoroughfare was crowded with carts, coaches, and foot-passengers, with luggage and without, persons of all classes and conditions, in health and already stricken, old and young, with friends or alone, all with the same aim and with the same scared look in their faces as they hurried from the infected city. F. M.

PRAYER: ITS REASONABLENESS AND EFFICACY.* THE chief objection to prayer is based on the supposed uniformity

of Natural Laws. The argument seems to be "We know nothing of any deviation from the course of Nature; therefore there is none and can be none. It is, therefore, unreasonable to expect any such deviation in answer to prayer, and therefore unreasonable to pray."

In such an objection we presume to think there may be some * Prayer: Its Reasonableness and Efficacy. By Newman Hall, LL.B. London: Hamilton, Adams & Co., 32, Paternoster Row.-Fourpence.

fallacies, which those who exact so much accuracy from others should themselves avoid. Do sceptical philosophers never forget the laws of exact science when they assail the faith of Christians? Do the lovers of positive truth never jump at conclusions somewhat beyond the bounds of positivity? Do they never leap to supposed demonstrations in a manner they would avoid in their own scientific investigations?

Ignorance seems to be confounded with knowledge. It is supposed that our not knowing an alleged fact is knowledge of its non-existence. "I do not know that a certain event ever happened; therefore I know it never did happen." But surely far more is inferred than is contained in the premisses. In proportion to the range of my investigation, my non-discovery of something may render me cautious how I admit the testimony of another explorer; but surely my failure to discover it would not warrant my assertion that it was undiscoverable because non-existent. I may have spent my life in exploring the physical universe, but I have not yet reached the outmost bounds of it, nor examined everything within it. It is not safe to reason from the little province I may know something of, so as to dogmatise as to what can or cannot exist throughout the vast empire of God. From what I know of the phenomena of fifty years, I should hesitate to pronounce an infallible judgment as to what always was and always will be. Is my ignorance of a thing's existence equivalent to my knowledge of its non-existence ?

Grant that the knowledge of a barbarian or a child is far less than that of a philosopher; but the knowledge of a philosopher is only that of a child compared with what is still unknown-it is but as the sea-shore pebbles to which Newton likened his discoveries, while the great ocean of truth rolled undiscovered before him. If I am ignorant of a fact, I cannot of course affirm its actual or even probable existence; but is it philosophical to deny its possibility, especially when I have authentic testimony that others have witnessed it? Surely, although we may never have witnessed any deviation from the course of Nature, it is not unphilosophical to admit the possibility, nor even to acknowledge the fact on authentic testimony.

Another fallacy results from the ambiguous meaning of the term Law. In government a law is an edict, made by competent authority and executed by the appointed officer. But what is Law in the realm of Nature? Do positive philosophers see it or hear it? Where is it written, and by whom enforced? We observe resemblances in