It may well have seemed strange to one who had watched so long the tender intimacy between the two, to find Jesus refusing to say what was to become of His most favoured follower. St. Peter might naturally have felt that that close communion had marked out St. John for no ordinary destiny. Surely he who had enjoyed such privilege must have been both qualified and intended for exceptional service, and some indication of what it was to be would not be denied. The early Church could not be persuaded that our Lord's answer conveyed no positive information. Men insisted for a time in reading into it a prediction which it did not contain. The notion got abroad that St. John should not die, but should survive to witness the Second Advent. And, indeed, his life prolonged far beyond the average span countenanced the belief. He outlived all his great comrades; and when at last he was taken to his rest, it was said that disciples used to visit his grave, and to fancy that they could detect a pulsation of the earth above his remains, which told that the buried apostle was not dead but sleeping.

There are few, I suppose, who cannot understand and sympathise with the curiosity of St. Peter. Instinctively we try to sketch out for ourselves the possible future of those who are dear to us, those whose lives have been intertwined with our own. Some of us can look back to school and college days and remember how we indulged our fancy by portioning out the characters of the unacted life-drama among playmates and class-fellows now dispersed in countless directions, though some have long since finished their brief parts upon the stage and gone hence to be no more seen. Yes! how often we have gathered up our impressions of friends and companions, our ideas of their aptitudes or defects, their natural advantages or their drawbacks, and then have strained our gaze into the coming years and pictured to ourselves their varying fortunes! In after days we put St. Peter's question with a sadder curiosity, with a deeper pity, because we know more of the changes and chances of this life, and have come to distrust our powers of conjecture. We have ourselves been taught what Christ taught him, that another is girding us: that two may be standing close to each other like St. Peter and his friend, intended, like them, during a great part of their lives, to work together, whose paths may diverge widely before the end; and we become cautious in forecasting the fate of any. How full the lives of any number of men are of inequalities-inequalities in means, in influence, in reputation, in length of days! We see those who have started in the race under the same outward circumstances, under the discipline of the same institutions, with characters often very similar, so strangely assorted by and by, that we never cease to wonder at what men call the caprice of fortune. Nevertheless, we speculate on what awaits those for whom we care.

No

prophet of unerring ken may have disclosed to us, as Jesus disclosed to St. Peter, what our own future is to be: we may but feebly guess at it ourselves. Yet with that sympathetic human interest, to which not even the self-seeking are strangers, we cannot help asking what will become of others before they die.

It has been said that such speculation receives but little encouragement from our Lord. Men have turned with disappointment from the answer which He gave to Peter as a hard saying. They have taken it along with those stern invitations to detachment from kindred and friends which look out upon us again and again from the Gospel page, and they have asked themselves sadly whether the true following of Christ demands the surrender of the heart's warmest affections, and of all solicitude in regard to the careers of others, however near and dear. Certain it is that in the case before us such solicitude is rebuked as a piece of ill-timed curiosity. "What is that to thee?" As though our Lord would say "The future of thy friend is no concern of thine: leave that to Me. It is for thee to see that thou heedest thine own call and failest not in thine own duty. Thou hast to glorify Me by hard service and by suffering. Do thy part, and follow Me."

Yet, surely, we have here our Blessed Lord's treatment of a particular case, His prescription for a peculiar nature, from which it would be unwise indeed to argue that He begrudges the loving thought we expend upon others. Those other severe injunctions of His to which I have referred belong to a time when, if He was to be followed at all, it could only be by summary decision, by sacrifices of which all men could take knowledge, and which bore witness to an entire, uncompromising devotion. Such a time could not recur. It was not to remain for ever true that discipleship involved hatred of father and mother, and wife and children, and brethren and sisters. It was, indeed, to be an everlasting essential that Christ's right should be held supreme: that no ties should excuse from His service, and no claims on earth compete with His. But the Gospel was soon to be revealed as the great consecrator of these very affections which the first disciples were called upon to renounce. When the first fight of afflictions was over, when the first soldiers of the Cross had been baptised with their Master's baptism, then it would be seen that His spirit blessed alike the public and the private life of men: that where He was best served, there were surely to be found in fullest, purest exercise, the ministries of friendship and the sweet charities of home.

So too, as I have said, we cannot infer from our Lord's rebuke of St. Peter condemnation in all cases of anxiety like his. No. Doubtless He who read all hearts and knew the needs of each, saw that in this particular case it was necessary to call off the thoughts of His apostle from what, under other circumstances, would have been a

"the thousand peering littlenesses" of a gossiping age have ever dared to assail it.

As we think of her who has been so often and so sorely bereaved, and to whose cares and sorrows the hurrying years bring such swift increase, let us thank God for this pure ray of sunshine amid the gloom of her latest affliction. For the third time she is called to see one of her nearest and dearest cut off at the very meridian of usefulness. Next to that highest consolation which comes of faith in a Heavenly Father's unchanging love, what can sustain her like the thought that each life she mourns has been a beautiful and beneficent life, and that each will endure in reverent remembrance?

Critics of the Prince's public career, well able to appreciate it, have given us their estimates of it both from the pulpit and from the press. The verdict is unanimous, and I am confident it will never have to be revised. His place is assured among the Royal worthies of England. The country, which even now cherishes the memory of the Sixth Edward, and of Henry, Prince of Wales, will not forget Prince Leopold. It is not for me to recapitulate those recent services of his of which all men have taken knowledge. I need only remind you of those wise and helpful utterances which would have done credit to a veteran thinker, and which proved him to be no mere nominal patron of social science, but an earnest, intelligent promoter of all humane and enlightened enterprise. Only let me add, as I can upon the authority of the one who knew him best, that his latest thoughts were occupied with the condition of the poor in our great cities, and that it was his heart's desire to help forward some hopeful scheme for mitigating the discomfort and unhealthiness of their homes.

It may rather be expected of one who has stood in my peculiar relation towards him that I should lift the veil, if only for a few moments, from the less-known years during which he was preparing, amid omens so uncertain, for the useful work he lived to do. Reminiscences crowd upon me of days when he was the affectionate, true-hearted boy, now so playful and now so thoughtful, so wistfully alive to all that was going on in the great outside world, adding, while health permitted, to his intellectual stores, and delighting in all accomplishments which could enliven the quiet life he had to lead. A student, in the full sense of the term, he could hardly be called at any time. It was painful to him, indeed, to find that he was so regarded. Neither by health nor by temperament was he fitted for the steady application and patient research which we associate with the word. But if he was neither a student nor a bookworm, he had a bright and quick intelligence, and a genuine love of culture, and he took an unaffected delight in the society of cultivated people. widely and promiscuously in several languages. His keen observation, his penetration into char

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acter, his sound judgment, and his retentive memory struck all who held converse with him; and from his early days he was the most interesting and entertaining of companions. Impetuous and impatient at times, he was ever ready to confess a mistake and atone for it; and he was far too honest to resent the plain speaking of those who had won his confidence, and whom he knew to be intent upon his good. It was by his transparent candour and thorough fidelity that he became endeared to all who served him, and firmly attached every friend he made. In the letters of condolence which have poured in since his death from friends of all ranks, and ages, and professions, nothing is more touching than the uniform testimony borne to the constancy with which he clung to those to whom he had once given a place in his affections. "It seems but yesterday, though it was before his marriage,' writes one of the chosen companions of his University days, "that the Duke wrote to me how pleasant it was to find that, as the interval between his Oxford life and his present life increased, his friends of the dear old days did not forget him." It was a sign that he was unspoilt, it was a proof of the winning simplicity of his character, that such remembrance was always a delight to him. Never, indeed, did he seem so happy as when he could break away from formal engagements to renew relations with some old and congenial acquaintance, and recall with astonishing accuracy the smallest details of former intercourse, asking, by name, after one and another relative, whose existence, only casually known, it seemed incredible that he should remember.

But no reminiscence of those boyish days to which my mind reverts equals in interest that of his Confirmation, which took place more than fifteen years ago, on the first anniversary of the day of worst danger in an almost fatal illness. I can fancy I see him standing before the Primate whom he truly revered, and whom we have not ceased to mourn, of whose great services to the Church of England he spoke not long ago in language of touching eloquence.

"He stood beside the altar-rails-
Upon the altar-step he trod,
Where rank nor princedom aught avails
To screen the eye of God.

With undefined and nameless joy
(Half sorrow, if we closer scan),
He reverently bowed, a boy
Upon the verge of man.'

I hear again those grave and tender counsels which went to every heart, and never faded from his memory. "If," said the Archbishop, "a Confirmation is a solemn thing always, am I wrong in saying that it is peculiarly solemn here and today? Look back, sir, twelve months. Is not this the anniversary of a day of great anxiety in yonder palace, which might have ended very differently, might have filled loving hearts with

the deep sorrow of a fresh bereavement, and prevented you, sir, from ever standing forth, as to-day, to make this declaration before the Church on earth of a hearty desire to spend the years of manhood, and the health and strength which God. has renewed, in His service? That dark cloud has passed away. Thank God for His kindness! Let us hope that it has left behind it but a refreshing influence, in a deepened sense of our nearness at all times to the world unseen: less fear of meeting sudden danger since Christ has taken away what makes sickness and death terrible, and a more ardent desire to do God's work while it is day, seeing that, at the longest, our time is short." Later on in the charge occur these remarkable prophetic words "If, sir, it shall be your lot in life to follow in the footsteps of your honoured father, to take your part in fostering the arts of peace, to encourage what is high and good in taste, in intellect, in moralsto contribute your full share, as he did, to the social improvement of this nation-who shall say that God does not therein assign to you the highest of all employments in which a prince can be engaged? If God seemed, by the leadings of His providence, to call you to such work, it would be right to embrace it even though it were irksome, and even though it did not lead to great results. Thank God that these duties are so noble, so highly esteemed, so wide in their usefulness, and that He has placed them within your reach. To follow in the footsteps of an honoured father, to repay a mother's watchfulness by lightening the load of many cares through affectionate help in weighty duties which age, as it wears on, may cause at last to be burdensome; setting your face steadily against all frivolity and vice, to bear a part in leavening English society in a pleasure-loving age with good principles enforced by the good self-denying example of an earnest, useful life, loving literature and the arts, and cultivating an enlarged charity; this, sir, I hold to be, indeed, a high vocation. If Christ calls you to it, I know no higher mode in which a Christian man may show his gratitude to God for past mercies, or better advance Christ's cause among his fellows, while he receives blessings in return in his own soul."

How faithfully the noble ideal here held up was chosen and pursued, you know full well. But there is good reason to believe that those solemn lessons which the good Archbishop drew from the experience of frequent sickness and

repeated approach to death, were not thrown away. It was true of the Prince that he recognised profoundly the uncertainty of this life and the constant nearness of the life beyond. Wide as was the circle of his interests, and great as were his powers of enjoying whatever God gave him taste and strength to enjoy, he knew how frail was his tenure of all that this world had to offer, and he did not shrink from expression of this conviction to intimate friends. Even the overflowing happiness which his marriage brought him did not abate it. It was but the other day, in the midst of busy and successful work in a northern city, that he wrote thus to one to whom he knew that his removal would be the greatest of sorrows: "Should anything happen to me, do not mourn for the dead, but live for the living!" Noble words! in the strength of which many a heart bereaved by his departure may well rise up and betake itself with renewed faith and hope to duty!

It is the eve of his birthday. He had looked forward to spending it with those dear ones who can never greet him again in this world. He loved such anniversaries, and kept in mind an astonishing number. But mere length of days he did not covet for himself. He was wont to say how miserable a thing it seemed to him to outlive one's working powers, and to be laid aside and forgotten before the end came. Those who, loving him dearly, have seen him so often called to suffer, and also knew what possibilities of suffering and disappointment never ceased to haunt his young life, cannot but rejoice in his perfect peace. The thoughts of not a few such travelled away yesterday from those splendid obsequies in the sumptuous chapel, where it was his wish to lie, within sound of the sweet anthems, to that painless world where the weary are at rest, and no torment shall touch them for ever. But, as we bade adieu to all that was mortal of him, the question of the text must have occurred to one and another, bound up in that unfinished career, "What shall this man do?" What influence shall he exert now? How shall he, being dead, still speak from that last resting-place to kindred and friends and country? And to many a heart, wrung with loving regret, there was borne, I doubt not, the sweet assurance that "his works do follow him "-the firm conviction that the world will be permanently the better and the happier for one more example of a blameless Prince, and for one more guiding voice heard "in the rich dawn of an ampler day."

THERE is nothing in the approach to Athens to excite the most enthusiastic. The road stretches along, with young trees on either side, covered with thick dust; and you wrap yourself in your coat to secure you from the dirt and a sharp, cold wind which is blowing in your face, till the Acropolis bursts into view, and the embers of your dying enthusiasm are once more rekindled. The steep, bold, picturesque eminence of Lycabettus (the ancient Anchesmus) on the north, round which no special store of classic associations gathers, soon shares your interest; and then the long, bleak back of Hymettus, in the east, comes into view. The eye is busy taking in the varied features of the landscape from point to point, and trying to trace any features of the supposed parallel which has earned for Edinburgh the title of Modern Athens. It must be a very lively fancy which could make out a direct resemblance betwixt the "grey metropolis of the north" and the new German-looking city which now fills the plain between the Acropolis and Lycabettus-a more northern site than ancient Athens, which was mainly built around the base of the Acropolis. But at the same time there is enough in the general features of the scene, the bold, picturesque outline of hill and rock, as one draws near, to warrant the parallel. We drove We drove rapidly through the narrow streets of the outlying portion of the city; up Hermes Street, which is the Bond Street of the modern Athenians; into a square, in front of the palace, which stands on a slight eminence, at the distance of a few hundred yards, and settled ouselves comfortably in the Hôtel de la Grande Bretagne. This, or the Hôtel d'Angleterre, which is the older of the two, and the most frequented, are the hotels where visitors chiefly congregate; and both, by their title, strive to suggest some ideas of accustomed comforts; and the suggestion is not discredited. I found myself, upon the whole, most comfortably quartered in the Grande Bretagne during the three weeks I remained in Athens.

What shall I say of the architectural glories of the ancient city which still survive? I visited them all, of course; and in my visits to some of them, enjoyed the companionship and all the advantage of the special knowledge of Mr. Finlay, the well-known historian of the Byzantine Empire, whose residence at Athens was then a point of attraction to all visitors who could claim any interest in his friendship. His kindness did much to make my stay pleasant. As in all such cases, however, my chief pleasure was in the treasured memories of the spots, rather than in any details of their ruined grandeur. Details are apt to

weary; reverie over the past exalts and delights the imagination.

To stand for the first time on the Acropolis, amidst the ruins of the Propylæa and the Parthenon, is certainly an epoch in one's life. The ravishing view on all sides, especially towards Megara and Corinth; the Acro-Corinthus visible in the purple distance; the fragments of an art, the most exquisite the world has ever seen, at your feet or over your head; the blending of the past with the present; the fleets of Xerxes and Themistocles as they encountered in the bay of Salamis, with the iron-clads of England and France anchored peacefully together; the glories of the Panathenaic procession, as it passed in proud triumph through the very gateway where you pause, the marks of the chariot wheels still visible on the marble floor, with the mean figure, in presence contemptible, of "the Apostle of the Gentiles," as he stood on the rocky height below and addressed the "men of Athens; "the traditionary prison of Socrates on the left, with the Pnyx in front, where the eye can still see traces of the Bema, from which Pericles persuaded and Demosthenes thundered;-a soul would be dead which did not own the inspiration of such a moment and such a scene. The contrasts are sufficiently painful betwixt the ideal pictures of the past as they rapidly crowd upon you, and the actual spectacle; the tumbled marbles, the ugly tower on the right wing of the Propylæa-a bastard addition of a French Duke of Athens in the fourteenth century-the bare outline of the country here and there, the meagre untended fields; but the force of splendid association carries you along, and makes you forget all unsightly objects of waste, or neglect, or raw renaissance, and transports you beyond bounds; especially should the hush of a spring evening be around you, when the ardour of the sun is dying into softness, and all the hills and the Southern Sea are shivering in that clear, tremulous, spiritual light which, nowhere more than in Greece, touches and glorifies nature at such an hour. Whatever else may be changed, these great features of earth and the glory of sky are the same on which gazed the Athenians of the age of Pericles.

It is to the student of classical antiquity, of course, that the Acropolis is chiefly interesting. All its highest associations are associations of the age of Pericles (B.C. 460-429.) He it was who built the magnificent "Entrances" (Propylæa), in the main gateway of which I now stand. Through this portal advanced the periodic processions of the Panathenaic Jubilee. In the narrow space between have trod the feet of the noblest Athe