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relaxing breath of relief, a roaring gust caught the stout craft, swung her over, and crashed her on the rocks. The brave boat gave one lurch, and sank. A brief struggle was seen here and there, a hand or two rose for a moment out of the water, a few barrels and planks floated off, and all was over.

On shore one heavy, universal groan had been succeeded by every demonstration of grief. Some women sobbed and shrieked, while others sank helpless to the ground. One man poured forth oaths and imprecations; another hung his head in dumb sorrow. Among these varied expressions of distress and sympathy they were startled by a cry that drew them, in haste, to the water's edge. There, entangled in a mass of boards and cordage that had drifted in, was seen an arm and a pale face.

Quickly they drew the man out, and discovered that it was Tom Walters. There were still signs of life; but all knew, after that fearful dashing, and with that cruel wound upon his head, that he could not recover, and that their sea-mate had made his last run to the harbour. Oh, how it cut them to the heart to see his wife, kneeling beside him, wipe away the trickling blood, and press her lips to his, as though she would breathe life into them again, pitifully calling him by name, and entreating him only to look at her and their poor frightened children. But no answering word or look came to her piteous appeal, and, stricken with fear, she swooned by his side. Friendly hands, kind if rough, bore them gently to the little home, and placed him carefully upon the bed, while others restored her to consciousness and grief.

For a considerable time the numbing effects of the blow kept him motionless; then his limbs began to strain, and a delirium came upon him. Again he seemed to live over the violence of the storm. All that night, and far into the next day,

lasted the fight of the unconscious sufferer to reach his wife and loved ones. Brave fight, but hopeless, for every effort only left him farther from them.

The next day was calm and bright. Every where over land and sea rested the peaceful sunshine. Scarcely a breath of wind ruffled the smooth surface of the ocean; only at long intervals came the groundswell, like the worn-out sobbing of a child. With the peace of nature came rest to the throbbing brain and weary limbs of the unconscious sufferer, and, in the afternoon, he fell into a quiet sleep that lasted until the sun was drawing near to the west. Its rays rested about the pale, drawn face like a benediction, and, caressingly, seemed to kiss him from his sleep.

He

Slowly his eyes unclosed and looked about with consciousness. They all came to his side, and Mary brought their children-sturdy little Tom, his father's miniature, and fair wee Kathie, their hearts' love. motioned her to place them on the bed beside him; and with one hand resting on her curls, and an arm about his shoulders, with his last look into their faces, he told them, oh, so lovingly, how they were always to be good and thoughtful; how Tom was to be brave and manly, and help his mother, and shield his little sister when he was gone. Then he drew them close to him, and pressed repeated kisses on their lips, until they bore them, wonderingly,

away.

Then his old sea-mates came, his life companions, and, clasping his hand, promised, unasked, to care and protect his loved ones, then turned away to hide from one another the manly tears they could not check. And last came the nearest of all, his wife, poor Mary. Into her eyes he gazed, as though he would bear their light with him, even within the grave. Oh, the pang of that last, never forgotten look, till,

through softening time, it becomes the one most cherished memory of her being! Then, with his last farewell, his eyes closed, and his head turned wearily upon the pillow.

For several moments he lay in silence, then his lips moved, and, bending down, his wife caught, with surprise, the whispered words, "The tide is coming in!" and they could not understand, but thought he wandered. But again the lips uttered faintly, "The tide is coming incoming in, Eva."

Eva! Their long Ah, now they knew.

dead child! Yes, the tide

was coming in to Tom. To them it was going out-out from the now darkening cliffs of old England. The tide that had borne him forth long years ago, that had carried him far and wide, had rocked him to WATERDOWN, Ont.

sleep on its heaving bosom, and tossed him in sport on its foaming billows; the tide he had known and loved in storm and sunshine. And it was going out again, to Mary, to little Tom and Kathie, and to his old sea-mates; but to him it was coming in. It was lifting him gently, lovingly, without a fear, without a pang. Nearer and nearer it bore him; till he saw the shining walls, and the faces of the waiting ones bathed in the morning sunlight. Now it was bearing him, with full flood, into the harbour of God's city; and now it was creeping up, and up, and up the golden sands of the eternal shore. A smile lit up his face, his hands were outstretched. Father and child were reunited. The arms dropped back, the features relaxed-the tide was in.

PULPIT AND

THE preacher and journalist have much in common. The preacher, if a true shepherd and not a hireling, is anxious to promote in individual hearts the reign of the higher law, and in the State the righteousness that exalteth a nation. The journalist who takes the right view desires the same things. I have heard an occasional journalist speak of the function of publisher or editor as simply that of purveyor, with no option but to serve up whatever a majority might be likely to relish, irrespective of moral quality; and this on the ground that if he did not do so, someone else would. Such doctrine is the doctrine of a scoundrel. Even the making of a pair of boots cannot be divorced from moral obligation.

The pulpit is an august institution. Previous to the introduction of printing, it did much of the thinking for the people. It does so still. I cannot say whether the golden age of the pulpit is some age of the past, or whether its influ ence and its glory are to find their climax in some day yet distant. I do not say

#

PRESS.*

It

that the influence of the pulpit has declined. I only say that the influence of the newspaper, whether for good or for evil, has advanced, and is advancing. The newspaper is read everywhere. reaches those who listen to preachers; it reaches also those who do not. The pulpit finds its special opportunity one day in the week; the daily newspaper six days out of seven. It has been estimated that the annual issue of United States and Canadian newspapers and publications, other than books, would be equal to over one thousand square miles of white paper surface every year. But, you inquire, one thousand square miles of what sort of matter? I reply unhesitatingly, the larger portion of the matter printed is wholesome. Take an ordinary issue of the average newspaper of England, the United States or Canada; take an average issue of the Toronto Globe and judge for yourself how much is wholesome, how much stimulative in right directions, how much restful and recreative, how little really objectionable. No doubt, were a destruc

* Extracts from an address given by Mr. John Cameron, founder and manager of the

London Advertiser, before the London Ministerial Association.

tive critic to go over the six issues of the best daily newspaper ever issued, he could cut out this bit and that bit as something that "never would be missed." But let the destructive critic apply the same process to the preacher's two sermons a week. Would there be no diminution in bulk in that quarter also?

When one considers the pressure under which the daily newspaper is necessarily produced, it is surprising how few the mistakes of fact, how great the average accuracy. I venture this assertion, that in every well-conducted newspaper the average of inaccuracies, as compared with that which is accurate, would be small indeed. I must admit that reporters are not always fortunate in condensations of sermons. Many of the phrases employed are theologically technical, in some cases outworn. St. Augustine himself might find his work cut out for him in presenting in two or three inches of space a discourse which, if reported verbatim, would fill a newspaper page. If I were a preacher I should always be glad to furnish the reporter a suitable brief condensation of my sermon.

Not long since I heard a sermon to young men, from a minister who is incapable of being intentionally unjust; and yet, as I listened, I would have given something for ten minutes in which to answer. Nothing about the modern newspaper seemed to suit my friend.

He

advised young men to confine their newspaper reading to ten minutes, and that ten minutes chiefly to the headings. I do not know whether he meant that young men and others should devote their spare time solely to books like Bacon's Essays, Gibbons' Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, or Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic. I have nothing to say against the reading of strong books; but let me ask my clerical friend if he or his clerical brethren adopt any such rules for the filling up of their own leisure hours? They must, of course, leave out of the comparison any reading which is done as a part of their professional work, as against those whose day's work is of a different nature. Without the evening paper the evening fireside of many would be rather lonesome. The young man who did not read his newspaper would soon find himself out of touch with the movement of the world.

Mr. Moody, at Toronto, took a line different from that of my clerical friend. He said truly that newspapers reached a hundred persons where the speaker's voice reached one. "God bless the newspapers!" he exclaimed.

Different

also was the view of the able American divine who recently said of the daily newspaper: "Malign it, criticise it, tear it to pieces as you may, it is a Gibraltar of power. Into its columns comes the artist, scientist, author, artisan, statesman, and minister of the Gospel. Such combined intelligence and knowledge would move the world if properly utilized."

The newspaper is important as the principal bond of democratic unity in the community. Nothing unites a community like a common public opinion, a common fund of information. The newspaper is read in common by rich and poor, Jew and Gentile, learned and unlearned, the preacher in the pulpit and the sinner on the street. The importance of this common bond of democratic unity may appear more clearly as years go by. For good or ill, the democracy proposes ere long to have the governmental machine run to suit its views. It is rather important to have it suited with what is right and what is wise. Mr. Kidd, in his recent book on the subject of social evolution, points out that no democracy of the antique world can be brought into recognizable comparison with the democracies of the modern English-speaking world. The latter, with the political equality of the franchise in their hands, are now pressing forward to betterment of their condition along the line of social equality-i.e., a fairer distribution of necessaries and of leisure. Modern democracy has the advantage of being well informed of everything that is going on throughout the world, and that this is so it owes to the modern newspaper.

The pulpit often brings charges against the press of political partisanship, with laments over the difficulty, amid the strife of contending voices, of arriving at the truth. Well, the restless activity of the Atlantic is better than the calm of the Dead Sea. Active-minded people need an occasional outlet for their feelings, and these outlets are afforded by election contests and political discussions. Journalists espouse the side to which they lean, but do not divide any more than the people as a whole.

If I sometimes criticise the pulpit, I am no unfriendly critic. Deeply important and worthy to be upheld must be the work of those who have to do with character-building and its consequences. Without the Bible, the Sabbath, the pulpit, society would soon sink into license, recklessness and insecurity, as is shown by the practical heathenism into which new mining and other settlements fall when without these influences. The

collateral value of Sabbath services is great. Apart from the effect in sharpening once more the edge of spiritual life, blunted through the week, many must have noticed the effect of the changed point of view, in a certain fertilization of mind, which makes things intellectually clearer and easier on Monday than they were on Saturday.

Now, it is no part of my purpose to attempt to give many suggestions to those who fill our pulpits. I would here like to give my tribute to the high character of our Canadian ministers, and to recognize the important services they render to society in many unacknowledged ways. I shall not add to the controversy as to the length of sermons or services, except to say they should err on the side of brevity. I once experimented, in a particular service, by asking twenty reliable persons whether they had followed, without wandering, the "long prayer. Eighteen confessed they had not.

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As an optimist, I would like the pulpit to be more generally optimistic in tone. Optimism is of God. Pessimism is of the devil. Optimism is hope, and hope is healing.

"God's in His heaven;

All's right with the world."

I would advise the young minister to resolve, no matter how old his body may grow, to keep mind and heart always young. I sometimes think the young

preacher comes too easily, for his full development, into his position of a certain authority and consideration-more easily, for example, than beginners in other professions. Emerson, you remember, for the would-be orator prescribed a course of mobs.

Public opinion will probably demand that in future more emphasis shall be placed by the pulpit on one concrete question, namely, that relating to the material well-being of the masses. An increasing number of people are no longer content to be told that the only treasure to which they have a right to aspire to a share is treasure in heaven. These looming social questions should be studied and discussed by the pulpit from the standpoint of sympathy and justice. Widespread is the belief of multitudes that the distribution of the necessaries, the luxuries, the leisures of life, is not only unequal, as all can see, but unjust. In exaggerated cases we readily see that this is so. It is impossible that one man can rightfully possess $500,000,000 on any principle that would not allow him rightfully to possess also the whole continent of America, or the whole world. What is the pulpit doing to settle this pressing world problem?

To conclude: In what ways can pulpit and press best co-operate to advance the highest interests of society in our day and generation? A beginning of co-operation might be found in recognition by each of what is best in the other.

UNCHANGING.

BY ANNIE CLARKE.

"I CHANGE not!" Words of love and truth, combining
To cheer our faith and make our weakness strong;
The darkness flies before their radiant shining,
And all our sorrowing is turned to song.

We grasp the promise in its strength and sweetness,
Smiling to think that fear had made us weep;
And, lulled to silence by its blest completeness,
Fear folds her sable wings, and falls asleep.

"I change not!" Lord, we need no other token
That Thou to us wilt ever faithful be;
If but one word of love had e'er been spoken,
That word had proved Thy love's eternity.

VICTORIA, B.C.

AIRLIE'S MISSION.

BY ANNIE S. SWAN,

Author of "Aldersyde,” “Maitland of Laurieston,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER III.

"WHAT are you making, Cousin Janet?"

"An antimacassar for the bazaar next month. I have so much to do for bazaars I never have any time to sew for myself," said Janet Keith, a trifle impatiently. "You ought to lend a hand, Airlie, seeing it is for the zenana missions?"

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"Oh, I don't know. I do work and ask no questions. I believe it is somewhere in India. I think it is to provide medically trained nurses for the zenanas, to try and convert the women in them. I don't see much good in it myself. They must be quite used to their way of life, and I believe will be happier as they are. There are many things in missions I don't approve of, Airlie. I think all this education for the masses at home and abroad only tends to make them discontented with their station and circumstances in which it has pleased God to place them."

Janet Keith delivered her statement with a kind of quiet triumph, and looked at her cousin as she spoke as if desirous to see what effect it would have on her. They were alone together in the drawing-room at Errol Lodge one gray March afternoon, Airlie lying on a couch midway between the fire and the oriel window, from which she could see the green slopes of the Braid Hills, and the still snow-capped peaks of the Pentlands standing out clearly against a dark and lowering sky.

"Do you think so, Cousin Janet?" was all Airlie said just then, and Janet saw from the expression of her face that she was thinking of something else. It was a sweet, true, winning face in its repose, pathetic

a little in its paleness and wornness, for Airlie Keith was not yet making much progress towards health.

"If I were able, Janet, I would argue the question with you," she said at length. "I think I could prove that you are mistaken. If you had any idea of what the women of India suffer in the zenanas, you would not speak so heartlessly. I only wish I had health."

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What would you do?"

"Go through the necessary training for zenana work. Perhaps, if I had my choice, I would prefer work like my father's, but a woman singlehanded would be of no use in Tahai. It requires a man of decision and force of character to deal with the natives there. They need someone whom they can stand in awe of as well as love."

"Would you really rather do that than live here, Airlie? If you were only well, we would show you how very pleasant we in Edinburgh can make life."

"I don't doubt that, Cousin Janet. I am very happy here with you all, but if I were well I should not dare to sit still in pleasant idleness when there is so much to do and so few to do it."

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