and fostered the devout in all lands by his earnest love and zealous faith.

'Then to his early home did love repair,

And cheered his sickening heart with his own native air.'

The foul cruelty and barbarism of the Middle Ages find their 'soft green isle' in the pilgrim monarch, St. Louis, 'like some bright angel.' Lastly, the seventeenth century is called up before us, the 'light without love,' when religious controversy was raging among the Puritans, Presbyterians, and Nonconformists of all shades, and the study of the Scriptures was universal, in too many cases without learning, love, or obedience; and here the quiet calm holy lives depicted by Izaak Walton, the gentle pastor and poet George Herbert, the learned Hooker, the wise Donne, and the devout Sanderson, all following their peaceful course, through all the rude tumultuary quarrels around them.

Multitudes of other instances might have been given, but these mark sufficiently how the worst times have never been devoid of faithful disciples awaiting their Lord. 'Bad and good give their several warnings' that these are the last days. Faith that hopes for the coming of her Lord 'counts them like minute bells at night;' but how will it be with those who cling to this world's delights, and deafen their ears to every warning that might waken them in time to be on the Lord's side?

'Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die,

Touch us with chastening hand and make us feel Thee nigh.'

Turn now to the Advent of the Lyra. There again the Jerusalem stands in thought for the Church; but there is a bright hopefulness in the comparison of the winter buds beneath the withered leaves, to the little children crying Hosanna!' while 'Priest and Scribe looked on and frowned.' Who has not felt that in the children lies the hope of the future?

All these four Advent hymns in the Lyra belong to its first intention to be 'a sort of Christian Year for teachers and nurses.' Therefore they are very brief, very simple, but like nothing so much as an 'arrow in the hand of a giant,' feathered and polished gracefully, but with a keen, piercing, and weighty point, that sinks deep and can never be forgotten.

WATCHING: A DREAM OF ADVENT THOUGHTS.

I THOUGHT in my dream that I stood upon the sea-shore, where, with several young companions, I had been bidden to watch for the dawn which should herald the coming of our Lord.

As night wore on, my fellow-watchers must either have left me, or fallen asleep, for when I spoke to them no voice came back out of the darkness, and at length I became conscious that I was alone.

Lonely and sad, my heart began to fail. The work that had been given me to do lay unfinished and uncared for at my feet; the lamp that had been given to light my way burned dimly and unheeded on the shore. Then I said, 'Why should I alone watch?-to what end is all this vain and weary waiting? I will lie down and sleep until the morning.'

But suddenly the sound of voices roused me; and looking up, I perceived that the shore was peopled with groups of men and women and children. Each carried a lamp, in such a manner that the hands were left free to work at various occupations; and I perceived that, although all seemed continually on the watch for daybreak, each was employed in some kind of business. Some were mending their nets, some preparing for a launch; others were engaged in polishing such precious stones as might be found on the coast, while from time to time a cry of distress would reach the shore, and the life-boat would be put off, with its crew of brave men, who, each with his lamp bound on his forehead, stood waiting for any desperate work that might offer.

The very children were employed; and as they laboured, the plaintive notes of their chants reached my ears, and sounded like the voices of love and longing for an absent Lord:

'Adonai, we wait for Thee,

Let Thy light break o'er the sea;
All our lamps for Thee are burning,
Every heart for Thee is yearning.
Adonai, O Light of light,

Let Thy day dawn on our night.'

So the words rang.

Then in the pause that followed I thought I heard

a child saying, 'Father, are the lamps indeed burning?'

'Surely, my child,' he said. 'What ails you?'

'I am very tired,' she answered, and I cannot see my work any longer, dear Father. I think some one will have to finish it for me, and I will rest a little while.'

A sad grave look came into the father's eyes as he took the unfinished task, and saw his little one fall asleep by the side of her mother, who appeared to have been already sleeping for some hours.

I observed that from time to time one and another among the groups of watchers would in like manner seem to faint, and his strength fail, from bodily weakness or fatigue. Now it would be some aged man, now some little child, that would lie down on the shore and fall asleep; but even then the lamp would burn on in the clasped hands, sometimes with more lustre than before; and with his face toward the eastern horizon, the sleeper seemed still to watch for the coming day.

And now a sudden light thrown on the pathway made me aware that some one was standing beside me. In his hand he bore a cross of flame, and I felt its reflection on my forehead as I looked up.

'My child,' he said, 'what are you doing alone here in the darkness?'

Half wearily, yet half ashamed of my weariness, I replied that I had been bidden to watch for the Master's coming.

Then he laid his hand on my head, and said, 'Blessed are all they that wait for Him.'

On this I took courage, and asked if it were possible that he knew this Lord for whom I had been bidden to watch.

'Surely,' he replied; for I am His servant and martyr, Andrew. Long ago on these shores I heard His voice, and followed Him; and now on this night of every year, it is granted me to return to earth to cheer those who in the darkness of this world toil on in hope of the promised day.'

'I am not one of those,' I said, as I mournfully recalled my own sad and useless vigil.

'True,' he replied gravely. 'Yours has been no true watching, for you were wholly occupied with yourself and your own loneliness, dreaming instead of working, lest the day should break, and an eternal Sabbath dawn on your unfinished task.'

May the Master forgive me,' I murmured, and teach me what I know not.'

'It was for this I came hither,' said he. 'Awake from these dreamings and come with me; so shall you learn how in their different lives those who love Him watch for the coming of their Lord.'

Then it seemed to me that he touched my eyes, and I awoke just as the sun was setting in the sea. Hardly knowing whether I were dreaming still or not, I saw that St. Andrew was still with me, and I followed him as he took his way across the sands, and by many a familiar road, until we reached a large city. Then it seemed to me that we stood in the chapel of a large school. Evening prayer was just ended, and the air still thrilled with the last Amen, sung by several hundred boys, who were preparing to leave the chapel. Suddenly they were recalled by one whom I took to be their master, and with surprise and something of anxiety they again sat down.

The Master's voice was troubled as he spoke these words; 'My boys, I have the deep sorrow to announce what every master and every scholar here will feel to be no ordinary loss. As we assembled for chapel tonight, I received the heavy tidings that one of our number who left us this morning in the fullness of that strength and vigour of which we have been so justly proud, will come among us no more. Douglas Armstrong is dead. This afternoon he sacrificed his own life in the effort to save another from drowning.'

The Master paused for a moment, and then continued, 'I know that to most of you this intelligence will bring a feeling of bitter disappointment, and to many a keen sense of personal loss; for it could hardly be but that one so gifted and so truly good should have had a large number of friends.

'But at this moment I ask you to try and turn your thoughts from yourselves-from all that you have this day lost-from all this school has lost, to the rich legacy he has left us in one of the noblest examples of Christian boyhood and youth that it has been our lot to witness.

'And as in the days to come you miss his genial temper, his quick consideration for others, his patient tolerance of dullness or weakness in a junior if only accompanied by honesty of purpose-his impatience, nay scorn, of the wit, however brilliant, that masked what was irreverent or impure: then thank God that even for a few short months you had such a friend-that such a visible proof was granted us that a boy can be not only high in school and famous in the field, but that he can be also brave and humble-minded, popular and yet religious.

'Some among you may remember last Sunday afternoon, after the usual Greek Testament reading, a conversation begun by him on the connection between this Saint's Day and the approaching season of Advent, which was evidently much in his thoughts. As I stood but now in his study, trying to realize the fact that he would work there no more, my eye fell on a print, which many of you are familiar with as an illustration of the Parable of the Ten Virgins, under which he had written in pencil the words, "Lest coming suddenly He find you sleeping." It lay side by side with the Greek play which he had been preparing.

"Thus working-thus watching, he has, we doubt not, passed where the noble qualities which promised so bright a future will find their perfect development.

'I ask you now to kneel again for one moment of silent prayer, that whether death call us to our Lord, or His sudden Advent break in upon our daily life, we too may be found ready. And as you recall the love that is yours in your several homes, think in your prayers of that home which has to-day been made desolate.'

The whole school knelt, and there was a silence which was scarcely broken by the half-suppressed grief of several of the younger boys. Then, as they rose and went out, I observed that the organist was still kneeling, his face buried in his hands. His pupil had found the voluntary, and waited nervously with the stops in his fingers, but still the organist knelt.

'I am not ready for Thy coming,' he murmured, 'not ready! for I have worshipped music rather than Thee.'

St. Andrew's hand was on the musician's head, and he was saying, 'Be strong, be patient; make a full proof of thy ministry; the Lord is at hand.'

At length the organist rose, and laying aside the march that had been placed before him, touched the keys, and the organ wailed forth its tender grief, rising into a strain of quiet hope, and then falling into the melody suggesting the words-The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them.'

As we passed from the chapel into the quadrangle, the Master was still standing in conversation with one of the tutors. The sad tones of his voice reached me, and I said to my companion, 'Sir, had you no word of comfort for the Master as well as for the musician?'

St. Andrew smiled. One stands with him,' he said, 'whom you see not. I passed him but now on his way from Paradise, whither he had conducted the soul of the boy for whom they mourn. He is an angel of light, and the consoler of many.'

'I would ask one more question if I might. You spoke to the organist of his ministry?'

'And such it is,' he replied. For true music is the voice of God, the very breath of the Lord to the souls of men. It is indeed a ministry; but how few are its faithful priests! Alas! that men should occupy themselves with the noises of earth, and drown the harmonies of Heaven with the clanging discords of their own jealousies and conceits!'

As he said this, the whole scene faded from my view, and we seemed to stand in the ward of a hospital, where most of the patients were asleep. The door opened noiselessly, and a young nurse entered, shading with her hand the lamp she carried. She made her way to a bed by the window, where an old man was lying awake.

'Not asleep yet, Joseph?' she said, speaking in a low voice so as not to disturb the other sick men.

'Nay, it's no sleeping I'll do to-night,' he said, trying to smile; 'but what art thee up for, Sister Alice-it's not thy night?'

'It is not very late yet,' she said, though it's later than I thought. To-morrow is Advent Sunday, and I got thinking-but you must have your draught, and try and sleep.'

He shook his head. 'Was't about t' coming of the Lord thee were thinking but now?' he said.

'It was.'

'Dost think He'll come to-night, Sister?'

'Nay, I cannot tell,' she replied; "but whether He cometh at evening or morning, or the cock-crowing, blessed are those servants, whom when He cometh He shall find watching." You are not afraid of that day?' she added.

'Nay, I can't say I b'aint a bit that way,' he replied; but still I seems to have a comfortable hope too. The Lord has taken such a sight o' trouble wi' me, and waited that long for me, that I'm off of thinking He'll be the One to cast me out. But do 'ee go to bed now,' he continued, 'you're main young for this sort of work. Come when He will, I knows the Master will find thee ready. And now,' he added intreatingly, if thee'll only draw back t' screen so I can see the sky and that girt star t' corner, I'll lie and watch for thee and me; that's what I can do.'