hours in some one or other of the spacious marquees, and prayer-meetings were largely attended. Physical exercise for the young people was promoted under good regulations, and temperance was the rule of this interesting community. The bay is exceedingly fine, and at the time I was there there were more than five hundred persons bathing along the shore. Men of business come here to escape the heat of the city; sickly mothers to recruit their strength; school teachers with narrow means secure their seaside holiday-people of unfashionable tastes, who do not go to the snow regions of the White Mountains; and the discipline is so good, and order so well preserved, that there is no need for a police force, and though property is open to depredation, it is as secure as if enclosed in palace walls. I met here with many spiritually-minded persons, and I can truly say that I was greatly refreshed by the novel scene, and by my pleasant intercourse with these earnest Christian people.

The great cities are very unlike each other, and pre-eminence is claimed by the partisans of each. Boston is to the genuine Yankee as great as is Chicago to the newly-arrived adventurer, and even Brooklyn people appear to look down upon New York. On the whole I prefer Philadelphia; it is a charming city, and as the centre of Pennsylvania it is worthy of the old settlement. Its pure marble, its house for every artisan, its noble park, its street arrangements, make it a most attractive place, and having regard to its peculiar adaptation, the wonder is that the seat of Government was ever fixed at Washington. Among other institutions visited in this city was the Penitentiary. Here was a man pointed out by the governor as the identical man described by Dickens in 1862* as in a dying condition, having then completed two years of his imprisonment. He says, "In another cell there was a German. With colours procured from the yarns with which he worked, he had painted every inch of the walls and ceiling quite beautifully. He had laid out the few feet of ground behind with exquisite neatness, and had made a little bed in the centre, that looked, by-the-by, like a grave. A more heartbroken, dejected, wretched creature it would be difficult to imagine." It shows how easily an amiable disposition may be imposed upon. This incorrigible fellow is still in prison, and still in the decorated room, but in 1873 he is plump and jocose, and expressed his firm intention of remaining in his quarters as long as the governor was inclined to be kind to him.

We hear much of the corruption of judges and public functionaries. It is a mournful fact that in the halls of the Capitol, as in the municipal chambers of some leading cities, anything can be done "for a consideration," and men have a known price. In New York the state of things is shameless, and in Chicago at this moment four aldermen are picking oakum and working out their sentence for receiving bribes. But it is not the true American so much as the foreigner of degraded reputation who does such injury to American society. I scarcely heard any prayer offered in public without a reference to this alarmingly prevalent sin.

No one should emigrate to the United States who hopes to turn his knowledge of book-keeping and clerkship to account. Your American citizen rarely brings up his boy to a trade; apprenticeship is

* "American Notes." By Charles Dickens. 1862.

scarcely known; the youth, a citizen of the future, cannot take a menial situation, and therefore he seeks a clerkship or a government office. The Irish are the porters, the waiters, and the drudges; the Dutch, German, and Swedes are the small traders. What America wants is the skilled mechanic, and it is no use sending any one else. An admirable movement exists in Canada for receiving outcast boys and girls sent out by Miss Macpherson from the streets of London, and Mr. Brace does the same work in New York. Thousands of these children are taken out of the gutter, and no sooner do they arrive in Quebec or in the West than a demand is made for them, and they find homes without difficulty. Upon inquiry I found that this beneficent effort is so worthy of support that I cannot but express a hope that friends in England will give it their generous aid. It is a singular fact that the children of Roman Catholic emigrants do not as a rule remain Romanists. They come of age, and many being then American citizens, refuse longer to be controlled by the priests. In America the inducements to temperance are great. You sit down to dinner, a tumbler-glass is placed before you, and no wine-glass; iced water and iced milk are at your right hand, and iced tea or coffee can be had for asking. Your neighbours, right and left, take no wine, and it is a remarkable thing to hear a champagne cork drawn; ale and beer are seldom called for, and no custom of drinking "for the good of the house" is observed. The fact is, you are not expected to take strong drink. No doubt the climate is exhilarating, and lassitude and fatigue are less felt; no doubt there is drinking in the saloon, beneath the hotel, of liquors and ardent spirits to a large extent by business men. But the fact remains that drinking is not the custom, and as a consequence, nutritious foods are much more taken. In ten weeks I saw two drunken men. I never heard a driver of a public vehicle, excited by liquor, cursing or abusing his fellow-driver, and I never witnessed such street rows as frequently disgrace our London streets. My visits to the poorest parts of great cities were frequent, and I went in company with the police, and this is the result of their experience and of my own observation.

The great feature of each town is the handsome architectural character of the places of religious worship. The most costly sites, the most convenient arrangements, the most comfortable in fittings, even to luxuriousness, belong to the churches and the Sunday-schools. Common schools are everywhere neatly built in red brick, with white stone dressing, and with ample playgrounds. The superintendent is usually a man of superior ability, and the teachers are mostly females, well trained, and teaching on the

class system." No monitors or pupil-teachers are to be seen, and the teaching, so far as I saw in about thirty schools, was thorough. The class-rooms are lined with slate midway round the room, occupying about four feet in depth. The desks are single, with space to pass between, and the order and discipline are perfect. The great defect in these institutions is the want of provision for infants, children not being admitted before five or six years of age. Even in the mission schools of the Children's Aid Society, where food is given in the middle of the day, it is a rare thing to see a ragged child, the poorest being fairly clothed. In German districts there are German teachers, and the same for Swedes and Norwegians. The coloured schools are equally well

appointed, but a few black children are now found in the white schools. The schools are free, and the religious instruction is limited to Bible-reading, followed by a service of prayer and singing, very reverently performed.

The railroad travelling is, on the whole, pleasant, the pace is rapid, the vibration considerable, but the carriages are really comfortable, and the opportunity of moving, lounging, and walking is complete. Then the provision of iced water is very refreshing. Bibles and other books are found in some trains, with an inscription on the cover, "Read and return." The system of checking luggage and sending it on to your hotel is perfect, and only one class being provided; the rate of three cents. or three-halfpence a mile is very moderate. It is a curious fact, however, that the Pulman drawing-room cars at advanced fares are used by the rich, giving evidence of aristocratic tendency, while travellers on long routes hire places in sleeping and hotel cars, and retain exclusive possession of them through the journey. The engines are very powerful, the engineers are well-covered in and screened, and instead of a shrill whistle, the train comes into each station with a deep-toned bell, tolling just as though people were being rung into church.

Having travelled South and West, and in Canada and New England, for eight weeks, I arrived at New York at the commencement of the sittings of the Conference of Evangelical Christians. It is quite impossible to describe the course of these meetings, much less the spirit in which they were conducted. The numbers of delegates from all parts of Europe and America, the attendance daily for ten days of thousands of persons, the subjects of discussion, are evidences of the success of the gathering, while the full reports by the daily press, and the attention paid by public bodies, showed that the influence spread far and wide among the population of the city. The clergy of all denominations are a great power in America, and the happy spirit of union and concord is manifest in all their public action. There is no rivalry, no envy, hatred, or uncharitableness, no need to pray for the healing of divisions; and well might the President say, in receiving the delegates at the White House in Washington, "Gentlemen, I am happy to welcome you to a land where the people enjoy the blessing of perfect religious liberty."

It was universally felt that such a conference could not have been held elsewhere than in New York. In London the same hospitality might have been shown, but the same conditions of religious equality do not exist. The Young Men's Christian Association rendered noble service, and the generous arrangements of the Hon. W. E. Dodge and of Drs. Schaff and Prime, the honorary secretaries, are beyond all praise.

What other persons may say I do not know; the result of my observation is this: that no words can convey the sense I have of the importance of the meetings held, as inaugurating a new era in the history of Christian union.

This union has always been dear to me, and is doubly so now. Personally I have been brought into close contact with some of the best and most benevolent American citizens, as from childhood I have learnt to honour and esteem the representatives of a country for which one whose name I bear had such a true regard. It is with pride that I quote words of

his written in 1835 (Visit to the American Churches, by Andrew Reed, D.D., and James Matheson, D.D.), which seem to forecast the future, now realised in 1873.

"So far as England and America are concerned, peace, intercourse, and union should be employed and sanctified as means of energetic co-operation for the conversion of the world. This is the end to which we should be steadfastly looking in all our intercourse; and, great as this end is, it may be thus contemplated without despondency. These nations are singularly prepared by Providence for this high service; so much so, indeed, as to indicate that it is consigned to their hands. Where shall we find two nations placed so advantageously on the surface of the globe to this end? Where shall we find them in possession of so much of the world's commerce, which is a direct means to this end? Where shall we find a people whose civil and religious institutions are so prepared to bless mankind? and where shall we find any people who are so ready by desire and effort as these to bestow whatever makes them distinguished and happy upon all other nations? Blot out England and America from the map of the world, and you destroy all those great institutions which almost exclusively promise the world's renovation; but unite England and America in energetic and resolved co-operation for the world's salvation, and the world is saved."

Winter Glooms.

HE winter morn wakes sad and slow
Beneath a sullen firmament;
The cock crew out five hours ago

But doubtingly, as if he dreamt.
The noon creeps up-no light-no sun;
The sombre fogs hang chill and drear.
By four o'clock the day is done,

And Life grows short and shorter, Dear. The ragged skies are patcht with cloud;

Out roars the echoing waterfall;
The winds come howling fierce and loud;
The door creaks hoarsely in the hall.
The birds are silent in the wood,
Save here and there some moaning dove,
Or redbreast heavy with its mood,

And Life grows faint and fainter, Love.
The meadows spread all wan and drencht;
Slack snowdrifts lean against the hedge;
The knotted fallows, deeply trencht,

Are frozen fast: upon the edge
Of whitening pools the cattle stare-
While hoar with icy rime above
Gaunt bushes meet the tingling air,

And Life grows cold and colder, Love.
Give me your hand. 'Tis true and firm.
What matter how we thus grow old?
Or life speeds out? or fires that burn
Decay so fast? Ah, still enfold
My life with yours; warm heart, warm hand,
They thaw the frosts of Time, and clear
All shadows, till in happier Land

Our life grows bright and brighter, Dear.

ALFRED NORRIS.

TILL

ILL now I never thought of writing a book. Not that I am unaccustomed to the art of composition, having not only indited many sermons since I became a probationer, but a pamphlet on the religious and physical condition of the poorer classes in our large towns, offered by me to a publisher ten years ago, but which it did not suit him to accept, except on terms to which prudence forbade me to accede. Still, I am doubtful if my gifts fit me to become an author, for I have never been what is called a "popular" preacher; though at the same time it is but justice to myself to mention that divers judicious persons have expressed favourable opinions anent my pulpit ministrations. One thing, however, is certain-my gifts, whatever they amount to, have never yet procured me a manse and stipend.

I was sitting some evenings ago in my parlour in the old town of Edinburgh. I was somewhat low in spirits, for the weather had been very rainy for some weeks, and the quiet street in which I live is particularly dull at such seasons. I was resting in my easy-chair by the fireside, and as my eyes were fixed upon the glowing embers I began, half-consciously, to make out pictures in them.

I know not how it happened, but that night the whole fire seemed thronged with old scenes and faces. They shifted and changed like the shadows on a green hill-side, allowing me time to recognise them, and then vanishing. There was the manse I was born in, with the little round window that looked like the eye of the house, high up in the front gable; the garden behind, with its trim walks edged with box; the grass plot, with its border of snowdrops and white lilies in their seasons, on one side; and on the other, separated from the manse by a low wall and a row of beech-trees, the sloping braes of the kirk glen with the burn wimpling between them. As to the faces-they were those of some once very dear to me, but who have long passed away, leaving me a lonely grey-haired man.

And as I mused over the old times, the thought somehow came into my mind to write the story of my life. I do it not with an eye to publicity, though if these experiences of mine are found in my repositories at my death, my executors are at liberty to make what use of them they please.

When I read the biography of any man, I am not satisfied unless it gives me a clear impression of who and what were they to whom he owed his being, and his first impulses towards good or evil. Judging of other minds by my own, I therefore purpose to give some account of my honoured parents and of my calf-days, before entering on the events of my riper and more experienced years. I must premise, however, that I have nothing striking or new to tell. But though my life hath been chequered by little that is strange and marvellous, though I have not been visited by unusual storms or blessed with much sunshine, I hold it a truth that the history of the humblest individual, faithfully rendered, hath in it both solemn and instructive lessons. Who, indeed, can paint aright the struggling inner life-the hopes, the joys, the sorrows, the weary, weary conflicts of an immortal soul?

I was born in an old-fashioned manse in a quiet southland parish. A bonny green spot it was, lying among hills that gathered round as if seeking to hide it in their bosom. It was a land of rich pasture and of springing water; every hillside had its rill, gushing and sparkling in the sunshine, and singing the praises of Him who can bless and beautify the solitary wilderness. Our farmers devoted themselves less to raising corn than to rearing cattle. numerous herds and flocks which speckled the face of the country were an animating sight; and I still seem to hear the deep lowings and bleatings which echoed from hill to hill, in the calm quiet evenings of summer. What the grassy slopes of Bashan and Gilead were to the pastoral tribes of ancient Israel, our hills were to the simple but independent race that dwelt among them.

The

In imagination I am again sitting on one of the green slopes. It is evening, and the shadows are fast lengthening on the grass. Around me, hill rises behind hill, none of them attaining great elevation, but green and smooth to the very summits. Here and there is a scanty sprinkling of brushwood; but trees there are none, except those patriarchal ones which shade the roofs of the lone farmhouses and shepherds' cots that peep out from the quiet openings in the hills. At different points streams glitter in the setting sun. Yonder goes a long file of milch cows towards a gate, lowing impatiently for the loitering milkers; how long and fantastic are the shadows of the cattle upon the sward! Hark to the bleating of the lambs from the higher pastures, and to the mothers' response!

And there beneath, to the right, is my old homemanse and kirk and kirkyard glinting in the evening sunshine. There is the quaint two-leafed door, innocent in our time of lock and key, and often left unbarred at night—with little Kate, our spaniel dog, lying on its step. Yonder is the mossy apple-tree, on a branch of which my poor brother Archie and I used to play at see-saw; with the great barberry bush beside it-many a pricked finger did it give us when gathering its fruit for my mother to pickle. That sunny orchard sloping so gradually to the little burn, what sports we have had under its old gnarled trees; the sunshine is still trickling like water down their trunks, and flooding the turf beneath with bright quivering patches. And on that stone seat under the large pear-tree, how often did my mother sit at her seam while we played among the trees at "hide and seek or "Jenny Jo"!

The kirk is ancient, and has the smallest of belfries. The people said the bell was cracked, which might account for the unpunctuality of many of them on Sabbaths. But to me it seemed to utter sweet music; and it was a proud moment of my life when old David, our betheral, permitted me for the first time to ring it. With what awe and reverence did I use to peep into the dusky hole in which it hung silent from Sabbath to Sabbath, for to me the bell was instinct with a strange, mysterious life, and I would not have been shut up alone with it for a world! In the dreary, gusty winter nights, indeed, the thought of it was a terror to me.