Demosthenes, when insulted by the populace, did the same; while the mourners at ancient funerals drew their hoods over their heads. Hence the black cap has a distinct symbolic meaning; the judge puts himself as it were into mourning for the person who becomes doomed at the act, as though he were already dead. This, though throwing considerable figurative signification round the act, scarcely explains how it became and continued so decided a feature of our legal procedure.

Another explanation of the solemnity, if it does not contain the true origin of the custom, bears the impress of greater likelihood, the reasons of adoption being more definite. In early times the judges were for the most part ecclesiastics, and in spite of the Church's prohibition that no one in holy orders should pronounce sentence of death, they were, by virtue of their judicial office, often called upon to do so. Hence the judge, when the sentence of death had to be passed, laid aside his clerical character, and putting on his cap to cover the clerical tonsure, thus showed that he acted now in his civil capacity alone. The great number of clerical judges made the custom almost universal, and we do not hesitate to accept this as the reason why the act is observed to this day.-William Andrews, F.R.H.S.

CCXXIV. OF POETRY.

The subject-matter of poetry-derived from nature, man, and God-is the physical, intellectual and moral beauty of the universe; its end the elevation of the soul.

Milton said that, in comparison with science, poetry is "simple, sensuous, and passionate" (or impassioned); that is to say, remarked Coleridge, by way of paraphrase, "single in conception, abounding in sensible images, and informing them all with the spirit

of the mind."

Ruskin says that poets of the first order are "men who feel strongly, think strongly, and see truly." And Trench affirms, "The loftiest poetry is not merely passion and imagination, but these moving in the sphere of highest truth." Viewing things largely and relatively, he presents them to view in their totality; for he is

"No mere child of Time,

But offspring of the Eternal Prime." While many things may be affirmed of poetry,

or brought forward to illustrate it, it is impossible to give any definition which is exhaustive; for poetry is the action of the highest thought and deepest feeling, in regard to outward nature and to man, as viewed in their harmonious co-relationship to each other and to the great Creator, for the evolving of spirit-truth; such action being imaginatively, emotionally, and musically expressed by the truest and best words in perfectly rhythmical language. "Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world; "it rather removes films from the eyes that look. Love is its source, and love is its end. It perceives subtle analogies in things that differ, and that contrast itself is a kind of relation." It seeks to atone nature, thought, and action, while ascending the stream of being towards unity. Finding the ultimate chord of the universe, the poet joins in its harmonies. Every true touch on the poet's lyre awakes sympathetic vibrations which, rising in harmonic waves, pulse for ever on throughout the sentient universe.

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CCXXV. F. R. HAVERGAL'S BOOKS IN ARABIC.

We have before us a "Catalogue and Price List of Publications of the American Mission Press, Beirut (Syria), 1883," extending to 32 pages. The titles or descriptions are given both in English and Arabic, and the prices in piasters. The piaster is equal to about 4 cents, or twopence. The catalogue has 4 pages devoted to translations of the Scriptures in whole or part, and in various bindings; then 5 pages with lists of educational and scientific works; then about a page each of poetical and historical works. Religious works occupy 61 pages; then come lists of works published at the expense of the American Tract Society, and of the London Religious Tract Society; then sermons, controversial and miscellaneous works. Among the valuable publications issued in Arabic by the London Religious Tract Society, we are pleased to observe Miss Havergal's "LITTLE PILLOWS" and "MORNING BELLS." CCXXVI. DEAN STANLEY ON THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

"You and I, as well as Bunyan, have met with Mr. By-ends, and Mr. Facing-both-ways, and Mr. Talkative. Some of us, perhaps, may have seen Mr. Nogood and Mr. Liveloose, Mr. Hatelight and Mr. Implacable. All of us have at times been like Mr. Ready-to-halt, Mr. Feeble

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CHAPTER XXV.

THE NEW ORDER.

a

T was a cold March day of black east wind, with drizzling rain, when Frieda Burnley set foot on English ground, after three years' absence. The contrast between the cold North and the sunny South was very marked; and having left behind her flowers and sunshine, brilliant colouring, and soft airs, filled with the subtle fragrance of orange groves and violets, the barren dreariness of the country between Folkestone and London was anything but like a welcome to her fatherland.

It must be confessed that, on a March day like this, dear old England wears her least inviting aspect.

"The wind is enough to cut your head off," an old gentleman remarked, as he struggled into Frieda's carriage, with a mountain of rugs, his eyes only appearing over a huge comforter, which, if it kept out the cold, shortened his breathing, and made him gasp like a walrus. "Terrible biting wind," he said; "it has been trying to rain for the last twentyfour hours, and can't manage it. Phew!" Frieda shuddered. "It is fearfully cold," she said. And then she wondered if the old gentleman had any weight at his heart which made the cold to him, as it did to her, but a secondary trouble, and only another element in a condition of things which was anything but cheerful. For Frieda had been summoned by a telegram to return at once to Broxholme.

Mr.

Hunter's long condition "of failing" had ended very suddenly; he had died three days before, in his sleep. So much the telegram had told, but no more; and yet Frieda knew there was a great deal more to hear and to learn when she arrived at Broxholme. She had felt that all things were not so serene at Broxholme as she had been led to believe. Mr. Hunter had been persuaded by George to remove to the little place near Conglesbury, and "The Chestnuts" was now Frieda's destination. George was master there of his aunt and his uncle, and having long ago given up "medicine," was reigning as the "young squire:" though he was obliged to put in an attendance at the much-disliked office in Broxholme for form's sake, Mr. Hunter still receiving a very large share of the business profits.

Frieda had stayed on at Rome and Florence with Penella, with a sense of delight in her art, and a misgiving about herself in remaining so long abroad, which had kept up within her one of those

wars "between two opposing desires and wishes that most of us who know anything of self-examination understand.

"I am right to use the gifts God has given me," she would often say to Penella, who had worked to so much purpose in copying pictures that she was rapidly saving enough money to enable her to think of returning to England, and making a home for Amy.

Meanwhile, Amy was perfectly contented. She never expressed any wish to see her sister. She was petted and indulged by Mrs. Hunter, who never could help spoiling every one who depended on her and was capable of being spoiled. It was

weak sort of indulgence, which had worked mischief with George, and was now equally unwholesome for Amy; but it was a weakness that was so amiable that, though it grew with years, no one could protest against it.

Mrs. Hunter's tender heart went forth to the querulous, selfish invalid; and as she could not have Frieda to pet and indulge, she accepted Amy Johnstone in her place, and had spent her time in ministering to her, and Mr. Hunter, ever since they removed to "The Chestnuts." George was so entirely master of the occasion that he was beyond the reach of her indulgence. He kept his own interests so well to the front, and indulged himself so much, there was literally nothing to be done for him.

As the fly from the station wound along the road towards Conglesbury, Frieda's heart sank within her. There would be no hearty welcome from her generous old uncle; nothing to do for him to show she was grateful; nothing to be done for him any more. "I ought to have lived with him. I ought to have come back when I had that last letter from Aunt Ellen. Oh! it is too late now. David was right: he thought I was making a mistake when I first left Aunt Katherine. And yet, if it were all to come over again, I believe I should not be able to resist doing the same.'

As Frieda thought thus, the fly turned in at a large iron gate, which stood open, and rumbled up a smooth gravel drive to the door of a pretty, many-gabled house, of no particular style of architecture, though uniting a good many in its small way. All the blinds were drawn down, and the servant who opened the door looked very solemn. "A man servant!" Frieda thought, "how things are changed."

There was no Aunt Ellen coming out to meet her now, no neat maid-servant Phoebe, waiting to take her bag. Very solemnly the man led her to the door of the library. The next minute she found herself clasped in her aunt's embrace.

"I want Frieda; I want to tell her all," poor Mrs. Hunter wailed. George, don't take her away from me."

"Frieda has been travelling night and day, Aunt Ellen," George said; "she will like to rest;" and then he held the door open for Frieda to pass him, in a manner which was unmistakable.

Frieda's room was on the first floor, at the top of the staircase, and George ushered her in, saying:

"It is a nice house you see. I will ring for a servant to light a fire. I hope you will be comfortable."

"Oh! George, George, I cannot think of the house: I am only thinking of our good, kind uncle, to whom we have been so ungrateful."

"Ungrateful! nonsense! he was quite happy, poor old man; he wanted for nothing. There has been nothing to vex him of late; he got quite used to things."

"When was it?" Frieda asked, sobbing.

"On Sunday evening. We thought he was asleep in the library, he always took a nap after dinner, we dine at half-past seven; and when Aunt Ellen went to him with a cup of coffee, he was dead."

"There," he said, turning to Phoebe, who now appeared-"light the fire, and attend to Miss Burnley; perhaps you would like your tea sent up here, Frieda."

But Frieda could only sink down exhausted and self-reproachful.

"I would rather be alone, George," she said; "it is all so sad."

"Yes, indeed, miss, it is sad," said Phoebe. "I do believe the poor dear master might have lived longer, if he hadn't been routed out of his old habits. We are all so mighty grand now; and, if it were not for my dear mistress, I should not stay, I can tell you, Miss Frieda. The dear master was very partial to you, miss; and was so proud of that picture you sent last Christmas. He had it hung before his bed, and took every one up into his room to see it."

"When and where is the funeral to be?" Frieda asked.

"The day after to-morrow, at the Cemetery. There, I will go and get you a cup of tea, and that will do you good, for you look weary and tired out."

There is nothing more perplexing than the apparent success of those who, as we say, little deserve it.

That the selfish and self-indulgent ones should have their hearts' desire, and the unselfish earnest workers should often, as it seems, be toilers in vain, and spending their strength for nought, puzzles us. But there are keys for the solution of this problem, as for many others, and it is to be found if we look for it in the right way.

There can be no doubt that the selfish seekers after happiness never find it. They are chasing a shadow, and what looks to us as the substance is after all something which cannot be grasped; while all who have had any experience of life can bear witness to the reality of the happiness which is entirely apart from any selfish aim.

It comes to us unawares, in the very thick of the battle; it is the foretaste of the future; it is as the drop from the heavenly water springs, the draught from the fountain which is the outcome of that peace which flows like a river, and "maketh glad the city of our God."

Light and colour can only come from the sun and it is safe to say that all things

which can brighten life with any real happiness must come from Him who is our Sun and Shield.

The problem, rather than the solution of it, pressed on Frieda heavily during the next few days.

George seemed so completely to have gained what he wanted, with no trouble or exertion. Amy Johnstone also was living a life which suited her; and though she grumbled still, and lamented over Penella's absence, and sighed over imaginary sorrows, she was on the whole more amenable than when Penella was working for her support, and perhaps also a little more grateful.

It seemed to Frieda that the two days before the funeral would never end, and it was very hard to realize the hope of immortality in a home wholly given up to the utmost pomp and circumstance of mourning. The lawyer and doctor's manner a little puzzled Frieda: they were both deferential to her. So was the great Mr. Bigsby, and others also who came to the funeral.

It was over at last, and Frieda's wreath of white flowers had been the only ray of brightness in the gloom. She had carried it to the grave, and dropped it on the coffin, with many tender and grateful thoughts of the kind friend who was gone for ever. Much that Mrs. Hunter told her of the last years was comforting.

"He never let a day pass without reading the Bible, and he used to make me sit with him, and go over the hymns he liked best.. He was so patient: and when we removed here he took all the alterations without a murmur."

"They ought never to have been made," Frieda said; “it was too inconsiderate."

"Oh no, dear, no; it is quite natural the young should wish for what money can bring, and of course dear George likes to have things as other young men have them. We must remember that."

"Always the same thing," Frieda thought, "excusing him and trying to make others excuse him. A different treatment might have answered better, but it is too late now."