party; and most of his orthodox hearers were indignant at his suggesting that they in St. Giles' were blameworthy as well as the Queen's men in the Castle. "It is an easy matter," says Wodrow, "to censure a man's conduct in such a juncture as then existed. The town was fortified against the Regent. One Parliament was held in the Canongate for the King; and another in the town for the King's mother. The town was under the power of the Castle, which was kept by the

Queen's friends. It therefore behoved Mr. Craig to be cautious of what he spake, and to level at what he thought wrong on both hands. His peaceful temper, in wishing the breach to be made up, ought not to have been blamed." It was blamed so harshly, however, that Craig at last resigned his charge; and before Knox returned to Edinburgh, he had left it for Montrose, where he remained as minister of the town for two years.

SOME time ago a friend of mine, a novelist and a poet, was presented with a handsome bust of Thomas Carlyle. It was a striking piece of art, displaying, in its wrinkled massiveness, the weird and rugged characteristics of the seer during the latter years of his life. One could have wished that the artist had caught the features of his subject when life was in its prime, with the glow of hope and conscious power resting upon the, as yet, unworn face; but to my friend this almost painfully realistic picture was a priceless gift.

The presentation of this bust stirred within us interesting reminiscences of days when life was young, and when we two stood together at the footlights of the literary stage, full of felt but untried energy. At that period Thomas Carlyle was the central figure in the world of philosophic letters. There was a sonorous vigour and a robust honesty about his utterances that attracted us. It was the voice of one crying in the wilderness in the interests of truth, as opposed to conventionalities and shams. To young men, especially, this voice was deeply fascinating.

Had not every thoughtful youth already seen through the outer crust of this wicked world, and discovered that within it was full of dead men's bones? To change the figure, the rails of life had been laid on false principles, and here was the projector of a new system of progression, who should conduct his followers safely as well as

expeditiously into the great citadel of truth. One of our keenest desires, in those days, was to make a pilgrimage from the Northern City in which we then dwelt, to worship at the shrine of the prophet, and, if we might not actually gaze upon the stern, calm face, we should at least see the house in

which he dwelt. My own turn came first in the order of time. It was my first visit to London, and on a charming afternoon, in the month of July, I found myself in Chelsea. I had been commissioned by a provincial Athenæum to engage as lecturers for the succeeding session men of eminence in literature and science. I had already been successful

in securing the services of such distinguished men as Anthony Trollope, Hepworth Dixon, John Morley, and Professor Huxley, and why should I not at least make application to Thomas Carlyle? I had, indeed, little hope that my mission would prove successful in this case; but it would give me a decent pretext for intruding upon the hero I had come to worship. I had failed to provide myself with his address before leaving London, but that, I

felt, was a small matter in seeking a man of such world-wide renown. The first person I met was a policeman, who pondered deeply when I had put the question.

"What does he do?"

"Do," I repeated; "you surely know Thomas Carlyle, the author, the man of letters?" He shook

his head stubbornly, as if he was not to be coerced into knowledge that was beyond his duty.

"Perhaps you are a stranger," I said; "you have doubtless but recently joined the force."

"No, I have been in Chelsea for five years."

Five years in Chelsea, and yet he did not know Thomas Carlyle! What could I do but turn away from this greatly privileged yet wilfully ignorant person in disgust. I had to pass along the full length of an avenue, shaded with richly-scented lime and chestnut trees, before I could regain my composure. I went into several shops, but my inquiries met with replies that were equally unsatisfactory. Could it be possible that the man whose name was at the time on everybody's lips, as the greatest thinker of the age, was not known by his next door neighbour? The thought, I felt, was a humbling one. Had I asked the same question at the extremest settler in the backwoods of America, or, for that matter, in the wilds of Timbuctoo, I should have received a more satisfactory reply. By and by I met a smart Yankeelooking workman, and repeated my interrogation.

"Is that the chap who speaks about shooting Niagara?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "he did write a figurative pamphlet on that subject."

"I guess it was rather a big job," he replied. "I have heard say he lives in Cheyne Row, and if you will come along with me I will show you where it is."

As we parted, he said, "I don't know Frederick the Great, or Wilhelm Meister, or any other of the chaps you have been speaking of, but I know this, that the man who could shoot Niagara and say he had come home again to tell the tale, must be a 'cute hand at making stories; that's all."

On leaving my guide, I soon reached the door of the prophet, whose greatness was apparently unknown in his own country. The building a most unpretentious one-consisted, if I remember correctly, of two storeys, and formed one link in a terrace of similar construction. I was shown into the library. The room had evidently at one time consisted of two apartments, but the only division now was a curtain, partially withdrawn, which afforded a pleasant view into a charming little nook of a garden behind, dim with the foliage of rare plants, and heavy with the breath of sweetly-scented flowers. I cannot distinctly remember the arrangement of the books-my impression is that the walls of the apartment were lined with a neat open shelving, moderately high -the cases being filled with tomes tastefully bound in shades of varied colour. The apartment was furnished chastely, and from the disposition of the furniture, and the tidy and comfortable aspect of the room generally, the place seemed, so far as these matters were concerned, to be presided over by a feminine ruler possessing at once a cultured mind and an eye for artistic arrangement. The master spirit, however, was not at home; and I learned from my guide, his

niece, that my mission, so far as the provincial Athenæum I represented was concerned, was not likely to come to a successful issue. I took my departure from the place with some regret. To me, Thomas Carlyle, in the flesh, ever remained the "Great Unknown," but had I not stood in his sanctum, in the midst of those wise but silent witnesses of many of his great intellectual conflicts and triumphs-witnesses that must have been cognisant of groans as well as anathemas, both loud and deep, over the noise, pretence, and shallowness of the age in which he lived!

What shall I say of my friend, to whose profound admiration my impudent and superficial regard bears but poor comparison? His turn, also, came to visit London. In spite of his innate modesty, he was drawn as by some uncontrollable spirit-magnetism to the shrine at Cheyne Row. He must, however, worship afar off. For two mortal hours he hovered in front of a plainlooking building, dreaming strange dreams of the great impulses of literary and philosophic thought that had, first of all, throbbed the brain of the subtle thinker, and afterwards thrilled the pulses of the vast world outside. At Craigenputtoch, Carlyle had conceived the indescribably sublime opinions and the grotesque humour of Sartor Resartus; the prose epic of the French Revolution, and other works; but here, and in these rooms, had he not written his marvellous Essays, his Chartism, the sardonic Latter-Day Pamphlets, the Life of John Sterling, and that master-piece of special pleading, Oliver Cromwell? Surely it was worth wandering all these weary miles from the distant provincial city to stand for a brief space on such classic ground. What if the grey old man, who had accomplished such miracles of work, should step from his own door into the street beside him? Would he not feel impelled to rush forward and, falling at his feet, tell of the appreciation, the love, the profound spirit of worship that had drawn him hither? But no; it was enough for him to have seen the habitation of such a man. He turned away, he sought his home in the north, but only to discover, when hundreds of miles from the spot, that he had been looking at the wrong house. For long my friend was disgusted, not with Carlyle, for whom his love, in spite of his recently-published Reminiscences, is as great as ever, but with himself.

In the circumstances, the reader will not wonder at the delight which the presentation referred to at the beginning of this article imparted to him. What he may do with this bust when he can permit it to be placed beyond his reach no one can tell. Doubtless, like the bust of Pallas, which it truly is to him, it will ultimately find a niche "above his chamber door;" but there is one fact of which I am fairly sure, and it is this, that so long as the bust of Thomas Carlyle remains under his roof, there is no surety that the Second Commandment will be observed by him with anything like literal strictness.

THE HOSPITAL FOR SICK CHILDREN. UNTIL the 20th of December, 1882, Glasgow was the only city in Europe of any importance without an hospital for sick children. The little sufferers had

rea

hitherto been accommodated in the infirmaries, but, for obvious sons, it was not always desirable, either for themselves or for adult patients, that this state of matters should continue. Now Glasgow can boast of an hospital exclusively for children, and it is one of the finest, if not the most perfect, of its kind in Britain. The chairman of committee and the archi tect visited the most modern of the children's hospitals in England, in order that they might see and improve upon the leading features of each.

The site chosen for the hospital is on Garnethill. Outwardly the building is plain but substantial, the only ornament being an alto-relievo above the entrancedoor, indicating the purpose of the institution. The hospital is for the treatment of non-infectious diseases and accidents. There are three wards, in the first 20, in the second 19, and in the third 18 beds. There is also an isolation ward, where any casual infectious cases may be treated. The first and third wards are for medical cases, the second for surgical. On going into any of the wards, one is struck with the cheerful and comfortable appearance of everything. There are seven windows in the first ward, illustrating the story of the "Babes in the Wood; " seven in the second, with the story of "Sing-a-Song-of-Sixpence;" and five in the third with the "House that Jack Built." These windows were all the gifts of children. They are beautifully coloured, and make wall pictures unnecessary. The sisters and nurses in each ward are delighted to let visitors see the arrangements and comforts for the patients in their department.

It is most interesting to go round the wards and talk to the children. One would expect in an hospital to find the children melancholy, and probably fractious with pain. Not so; they look bright and happy, and to all of them such a change must be a most blessed one. They are all dressed in little scarlet jackets, the uniform of the ward. The clothes in which the children came are taken away by the parents, or sometimes it is necessary to destroy them, in which case clothes have to be provided for the children on leaving. On each crib there is a movable board, on which at meal times to place food, and at other times toys, which are always acceptable gifts to the hospital. Some of the children are quite unable to sit up in bed; others are so far Convalescent as to be able to move about in the wards. In Ward 1 there is a pale-faced little girl of about three years, sitting up in bed; she does not seem to be suffering, and on asking the nurse the nature of her complaint, we are told that it arises chiefly from neglect and starvation. When brought in, some weeks

ago, she was literally a living skeleton, and there seemed little hope of her life being saved. By dint of care and properly administered food, she is now nearly well. She seems a great favourite with the nurses, who, she tells us in her baby way, call her a "noosance." In another cot is a bright little boy, who sits up very erectly to show us how soldiers look." He taps his chest very cleverly to let us see how the doctor treats him. Bronchitis is a complaint from which several of the children suffer.

In the Surgical Ward all is equally bright, and although most of the children have been or will be operated upon, yet they are very cheerful. This ward is usually the most crowded of all. It is furnished the same as the lower

ward. One bright little girl of twelve, named Polly, is quite an old friend. She has been

operated upon for hip disease, and has been in the hospital for a long time. At first she was quite confined to bed, now she is learning to go about on crutches,

and is beginning to walk quite cleverly with them. She is very useful, and does many little things to She is a help-rolling bandages, and such like. great reader, and has read nearly all the books she can get. Her favourite stories are those of poor London children. What a fascination those tales have for children of all grades. They tell of children and are for children, and truly "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Several of the little ones in this ward are able to go about. One little boy, whose foot is recovering from an operation, comes along with only the well foot on the ground, resting on, and pushing before him a "Go-Cart."

The cases in the Third Ward are similar to those in Ward 1. It is, if anything, brighter than the others, as there are windows in the roof, and consequently more light. There is one little boy with a happy and more comical face.

He is "an actor," he proudly informs visitors. He was hurt in one of the theatres by a ladder falling on his leg, but is fast recovering. In quite a dramatic attitude he sits up in his cot, and with great animation recites,

"Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Be bloody, bold, and resolute-laugh to scorn the power of man,

For none of woman born shall harm Macbeth."

All the cases are interesting, and to most of them a sad history is attached. They are all children of the poor, yet who would think it? They are so neat, clean, and happy, one can hardly imagine the sad homes from which many of them have come. The return to those homes is a sad prospect, but, in many cases, the sight of what an effect cleanliness and air have had upon the children is beneficial to the parents. One poor little girl was brought in some time ago in a dreadful

state of dirt. She recovered, and was able to return home. She told her friends how she had enjoyed being clean, and when, some time afterwards, she had to be brought back, her mother proudly announced that she had given her a bath before bringing her. One little boy, upon whose foot a most successful operation bad been performed, had been ordered by the doctor to go up and down stairs several times a-day as the best exercise for him. He had done so for some time, and was greatly benefited by so doing. When he went home, his parents, who lived on a flat level with the street, hearing of this, removed to an upper flat, in order that Jamie might not miss his daily exercise. All the sisters and nurses in the hospital are ladies who seem to have the confidence of the children, and a refining influence is brought to bear upon them. Before meals, the children reverently sing this grace

"Be present at our table, Lord,

Be here and everywhere adored; These mercies bless, and grant that we May now and ever thankful be. Amen." The following evening prayer is repeated by the sister and children :

"Almighty Father, we praise Thee for all the mercies of this day. We are now going to lie down upon our beds and take our rest. Watch over us all this night, and let Thy holy angels keep watch about our beds.

"Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me."

In many cases these devotional exercises are continued by the children after they return home, and the influence must be for good.

There is attached to the hospital a beautiful little mortuary, the gift of a gentleman interested in the institution. The floor is of marble, the lower part of the walls black tiles, and the upper white, on which there is a wreath of dark grey, with the words, "Not dead, but sleepeth." There is a cross of dove-coloured marble, in the centre of which is a basso-reliero, sculptured in white marble, representing the heavenward flight of a mother with two children. It is lighted from the roof by an amber-coloured dome light, with a white star cut upon it. There is nothing repulsive nor dismal in connection with this, only a feeling of solemnity pervades the mind, as one thinks how the Good Shepherd cared for His little ones, and, in taking them to Himself, releases them from all pain and suffering. Friends may have the funeral from the mortuary, and service may be held there instead of at their own homes. The blessing of such an institution is incalculable in affording relief and skill to children who otherwise could have no attention paid to them.

This hospital has been in full operat on for rather more than a year, and has proved to be a most beneficial institution. As may be imagined, it is impossible to carry on such a work without adequate funds, and as the hospital is entirely dependent on voluntary contributions, the directors hope for liberal support. More especially do they hope for contributions from young people, or for the sake of the young whom God has blessed with health and surrounded with all the comforts which make this life easy. Not to the poor only does such pain and suffering come; but when we see our own little ones individually tended, cared for, and everything done to help them to bear their sufferings, surely for those little ones who are neglected and often left to perish, sometimes for want of thought "or the knowledge how to do better, as well as for want of heart," should we stretch forth our hands to aid and assist such a work. How many little ones,

"Without a strife,

Slip, at a moment's notice, out of life," whose lives might, by the care and nursing of an hospital, have been saved, and so influenced for good that they, on their return home, might have influenced others? As will be seen, only a limited number of patients can be treated in the hospital, but the directors are very anxious to have, in connection, an out door dispensary, where many cases could be treated, and advice given to hundreds who could not find admission to the hospital. Funds are urgently needed for this and the upkeep of the establishment, and our Lord, who said "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye bave done it unto Me," will accept of the offerings for His own name's sake, and for the relief of His little ones.

THE poet is the celebrated Robert Browning, and the preacher is a Welshman, who for some years was a minister in London. Mr. Robert Browning pays a warm tribute to Mr. Jones' eloquence, and tells us that it was a fancy of his that "in certain respects and under certain moods a younger Carlyle might, sharing the same convictions, have spoken so, even have looked so; but the clear-cut Celtic features, the lips compressed as with the retention of a discovered prize in thought or feeling, the triumph of the eye, brimful of conviction and confidence-these, no less than the fervency of faith and hope, were the orator's own." The sermons will be found to be of a high order, glowing with deep feeling and abounding in spiritual emotion, and the reader can almost conjure up "the bright and glancing surface manner, the thorough earnestness, a sensibility quivering through that rich and flexible voice, and an illumination of intellect in every expressive feature," to which Mr. Browning bears witness. We must give one quotation from a beautiful sermon entitled "Destroyers and Builders," if only because it speaks so charmingly of those homes " Round the Fireside" of which Sunday Talk is meant to be read. The preacher is talking of the "beauty of the lives and homes of private Christians. The Nehemiahs and Ezras and Joshuas do their work, but these other men do the hard work after all. I do not suppose Nehemiah or Joshua did the cutting of the stones. The working-men did it all. I glory in the quiet Christian families of

1 "The Divine Order," and other sermons and addresses by the late Thomas Jones, of Swansea, edited by Brymner Jones, LL.B., Barrister-at-Law, with a short introduction by Robert Browning. London: Wm. Isbister, Limited, 56 Ludgate Hill. 1884.

England, and I am sure I shall have the hearts of Englishmen with me while I do so. The flowers of the garden do nothing. You see them there in the evening and in the morning in the same place; they never move a step from where they are. They are willing to grow silent and beautiful; they never pass through the garden gate, yet they have a wonderful influence. What a world would this be without flowers! The flowers are the poetry of the earth, and not only so, but a fragrance emanates from them by day and by night which pervades the atmosphere, and makes the summer air genial and pleasant. The families of England seem to be much like that. There are thousands of quiet private Christian people who take no prominent part in the great work, whose names never appear in public, and who stand on no platform. There is no report about them in any newspaper. Silently, quietly, reverently, piously, they serve God in their little country homes. In saying this, a thousand cottage homes rise before my mind. I see them lie resting in the embrace of the Welsh hills like children in their mothers' arms-homes of piety, the abodes of reverence. I would sing the glory of home. I will praise the quiet piety of the family, the Christian household. These Christian homes are the foundation works of God's temple in our England. God bless the Christian homes of England."

SWIFT HOURS.

LIKE the foam on the waters the hours pass away,
They have sped like the waves since the break of the day,
When the hills were all burnished with golden-hued
rays,

And the woodlands rejoiced in a chorus of praise.
At the eve the sweet songsters are met to rejoice,
While the earth, air, and ocean unite in one voice:
See the firmament shining at eve and at morn,
As the temple of God which the angels adorn;
See the beauty of earth, and the beauty of heaven,
Full of joy and of song, unto man freely given.
Let the glory of God be our purpose and aim,
And with nature rejoice, and give praise to His name.
MARGARET RUSSELL DOW.

DIFFICULT PASSAGES: WHAT DO THEY MEAN?! PERHAPS no question is more frequently asked round the fireside than-"What does this text or this passage mean?" It is one of those questions which is much more easily asked than answered, and those to whom it is put will welcome such a book as Dr. Paton J. Gloag, the scholarly minister of Galashiels, has just published, and in which his object is to bring the result of modern Exegesis to bear upon the interpretation of some difficult passages of Scripture. Among the subjects taken up and discussed by Dr. Gloag in a spirit of great fairness, with the most adequate knowledge of modern theories, with great critical sagacity and acumen, and, above all, with shrewd common sense, are the "Blasphemy against the Holy Ghost,' ," "Our Lord's Blessing to Peter," "Saved as by Fire," "Women veiled because of the Angels," "Baptism for the Dead," "Paul's Thorn in the Flesh," "The Spirits in Prison." Those interested in such questions-and all of us should be so interested-will find Dr. Gloag's book of the greatest possible interest and value.