degrading. But when, as amongst the peasantry of Catholic countries, there exists a general belief in gracious help and sympathy, to be obtained from holy and loving beings, be they called Virgin or Saint, whose characters are such, that to imitate them must refine and elevate; although this may rank as technical superstition, it cannot be baneful. Dangers of course may result from a dependence on hypothetical help to the neglect of personal effort, but it is a question how far that is an effect which may not equally be laid to the charge of all religious faith. Do not let it be supposed that I am arguing in favour of accepting a belief for which there is no reasonable basis; on the other hand, I would fain that men would look far more closely to the reasonableness of their creeds; but I recognize none the less that all good Ideals, even though superstitious (i.c. illusive as far as their objective existence is concerned) are ameliorating and softening influences.

Even were it true, as the Agnostics would have us believe, that the Great Mystery is impenetrable, and that it is a sad waste of time and energy-which might otherwise be usefully employed to the benefit of humanity to spend ourselves in speculations on Lunar Politics, it would still be idle to hope, whilst man remains a rational and imaginative creature, that he will give up this insoluble riddle; and I for one greatly doubt whether the riddle is not given to us, in order that in attempting its solution, we may through the play thus afforded to our minds and imaginations, grow stronger, as well as more patient and tender. SENEX.

N modern days, when Cook and Gaze
Make travelling so easy,

From Rea to Rhine, or Black-gang-Chine,
Or Iceland cool and freezy.

And tourists flee by land and sea,

To Paris, Rome, or Cairo ;

With book in hand, and journey planned

To suit the merest tyro.

When deeds of yore, and legend lore

Of Giant, Sprite, and Fairy,

Or false, or true, are brought to view
By Baedeker the wary;

One may try and try again,

But the search is all in vain

To light upon a subject for a rhyme,

And I know I shall be told

That my story's dull and old,

And I've wasted both my paper and my time.
I can only say tant pis!
Blame the editor-not me,

For he's worried me for copy night and day, t
So I've done my very best,

If it does not stand your test,

Turn the leaf and travel further on your way.

Where the Rheinfels ruins stand

Yet proud and hoary;

Scene of many a pageant grand,

And battle gory:

At its feet the flowing Rhine,
Brightly gleaming;

By its sides the clust'ring vine
With berries teeming ;

Lies the township of St. Goar,
With its linden-shaded shore.

Could you see it, you would say,
Oh would that I could stay!

Oh would that I could rest here evermore!

* Anglice-The Initiation.

† A poetic license with a vengeance.

But had you lived in good old days
When Charlemagne was King,
And heard about those good old ways
Whose praises some folks sing;
You had shunned its lovely shore,

And whispered-evermore

I will keep a proper distance from the township of St. Goar. But I'm assuming that like me,

You've renounced your S. and B.,

And a teetotal champion are, and true,
Which you're anxious to confess

By attaching to your dress,

The pretty little ribbon badge of blue.

And now to tell what once befell
A gallant Knight of yore,

Who riding late, approached the gate
That led within St. Goar.

The gate was closed, the warder dozed,
And yet the Knight could hear

A joyous throng, and dance and song,
Betokening good cheer.

Dismounting from his trusty steed,
Who, like his master, craved a feed
And bed whereon to lie,

With lusty blows he struck the gate-
For weary men are loth to wait-

When bed and board are nigh.
Up rose the drowsy warder then,
From out his little stony den,

And cried-" What would you here?" "Withdraw your bolts," the Knight replied, In tones that would not be denied,

"I'll pay you well, ne'er fear."

The warder grinned a roguish grin,
Then drew the bolts to let him in,
And said, with solemn face,
"Right welcome, sir, but you must know
That strangers first must undergo

The customs of the place."

Then straightway rang a noisy bell,

Whose tones the townsfolk knew full well,

For in a moment more,

A hundred sturdy burghers came,

And led the Knight, in angry frame,

Up to the Toll-house door.

"What would ye, knaves," in vain he cried,

With hempen gyves his limbs were tied

And fastened to a ring.

Then spoke the chief with humble voice,

"Sir Knight, I pray you make your choice,

And say what we shall bring.

Wine or water! quick, decide, Sir!
Make your choice, and we'll provide, Sir,
Nor be long deciding !"

FLY LEAVES FROM MY DIARY.-No. 4.

LEO.

How NOT To Do IT-IN Two METHODS.

I.

AM, when at home, as little inclined to wander in search of fresh stimulants to devotion as a man well can be. Not only do the sensational services of revivalists, evangelists, and what-not, grate upon my nerves to an extent which assures me that, whatever they may do for others, to me they would only do harm-but even among the long established and orthodox churches of my neighbourhood, I am not prone to rambling. The clever author of "Wanderings among the Aisles" need never set his heart upon me for a companion in a second tour of exploration, for I should be out of health and temper both, before I had shared a fourth of his labours. We are the creatures of circumstances to an extent which, perhaps, we are too proud always to admit; but I see no shame in confessing that I could no more preserve my devotional feelings unimpaired, were I to alternate rapidly between the Rev. Mr. Bull of St. Boanerges and little Mr. Smiler of St. Simplicia-than I could preserve the charming caligraphy with which I occasionally gladden our editor's eyes under fiequent changes from a "J" to a Crow Quill. When I am from home I must perforce move my ecclesiastical quarters; and then probably I notice the changed

circumstances under which I find myself, more than a confirmed rambler would do. Notwithstanding my sedate and settled habits, like every man of middle age, I have seen some variety of forms of worship, and have often been struck by the strange diversity of roads by which different men profess to approach a common object. I have attended divine service in a music hall, in a carpenter's shop, in the upper floor of a palace, in a workhouse, in a hotel drawing-room, and in ever so many barns. I have heard a man preserve perfect humility in presence of six thousand fellow creatures, every one of whom had been directly or indirectly drawn to him by the fame of his eloquence. I have heard a man rant himself hoarse with commonplaces on a sea-beach, with his back to a piled up wilderness of cloud-rack, across which the lightning flamed incessantly, while endless peals of thunder rolled away, one after another, into sullen silence along its unearthly valleys. And I have heard a considerable number of ministers of various denominations, whose discourses left upon me no manner of impression of any kind-good, bad, or indifferent. These are common experiences enough, and the last is I am afraid the commonest experience of all. Spending my summer holiday this year, far away from home, and in a district which, while remaining pure country, has from various reasons an unusually educated and intelligent population—I have been much struck by what seemed to me two typical instances of common enough errors in the conduct of public worship. I relate them, not because I profess any special power of judgment in such matters, but because I think any candid expression of opinion must be worth having upon a subject which seems sometimes lapsing into downright (however decorous) indifference. The more ordinary my capacity for forming an opinion upon this particular point, the better shall I represent the great mass of hearers, whose needs have herein no sort of connection with their intelligence; and who must assuredly be fed, however vitiated their taste may seem to be. It is a serious thing for even one intending worshipper to be repelled rather than attracted; and since what repelled one would probably repel many, I take it that even the wisest in the pulpit will not refuse to bend down and listen to the humblest voice from the pews-so it be honest.

My first example comes from the side of dissent. The denomination is no matter, and the locality of the Chapel I shall not indicate, although the preacher I heard-being a temporary supply-had no connection with the district. The building, the congregation, and the set portions of the service, call for no especial comment. They were each in their way distinctly above the average, but presenting no very salient features of any kind. To one accustomed to a more imposing ritual, the whole would doubtless have appeared somewhat cold, but he would not have been able to deny that, of its kind, it was beyond reproach. The minister began to pray. Then whatever charm there had been, was at once rudely broken; and I began to feel that whatever I might be doing as I sat there-I certainly was not worshipping. An American reporter once, with a beautiful inadvertency of candour, described the supplications of a popular minister as "among the most