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hen the consciousness came upon him that what he saw written there was indeed true; a consciousness which seemed for the moment to stun him with its shock of intense grief.

How Edmund Lindsaye got through that afternoon he never knew. He was in that state of tension only occasionally experienced when people seem endowed with an unnatural acuteness of observation, which makes every detail of the scene before them firmly imprinted on their mind. Edmund seemed to notice the exact position in which every person in the court was sitting, the expression of their faces, nay, the very movements of a fly that was creeping upon the wall, and every word that was spoken, struck upon his ears with an almost metallic sound; but his only longing was to be alone, and think quietly over the blow which had befallen him. He had however, summoned his strong powers of self-control to his aid, and to all outward appearance was as attentive and interested as usual; even on his way home allowing various acquaintances to engage him in conversation, although they afterwards remarked how ill Lindsaye was looking

When at last he reached his chambers he threw himself down, laid his arms on the table and buried his head in them. He remained long in this position without stirring, trying to realize the shock that had come upon him. Jack Ansley dead ! Jack, whom he had seen last so full of health and spirits. Dead ! could it be? And then rose up in full tide the feeling of all he had lost. His only friend, and what a friend he had been ! And then Edmund remembered Jack's warm cordial manner and real love for him; his honest pride in all his (Edmund's) college successes. Lately especially Edmund had begun to feel as though Jack were the only person to whom he could turn for sympathy-secure in his trustiness and warm hearty interest, Edmund had looked forward to talking over his present doubts and difficulties with him when they next met ; and now—? And then he began to think over Jack in that tender halo of merit with which we always surround the dead in the first moment of our bereavement; and as he remembered his simple childlike faith and pure life felt as if he had never valued him properly before, and in the exaggeration of the moment told himself he had been unworthy of such a friend.

Edmund Lindsaye was not a man to whom a friendship was a light thing. His feelings were very deep and warm in spite of the outer crust of reserve; and his grief at his friend's loss was real and sharp, although he went through his duties as usual, giving no outward token.

The next week Edmund received by post a book, a little shabby copy of Bishop Wilson's “Sacra Privata ” with Jack Ansley's name on the fly leaf; and a few lines from Mr. Ansley which accompanied it told that Jack had just before his death desired it should be given to Edmund, saying, "Send it to the dear old fellow, with my love."

So Jack had thought of him even at the last! The little remembrance touched Edmund deeply, and he wrote back to Mr. Ansley a letter of warm sympathy, which however received no answer and Edmund felt just a little chilled, not that he had any reason to expect Mr. Ansley should write to him again, as he argued with himself; but having expressed his feelings so much more openly than usual he felt in proportion thrown back upon himself when his unwonted little effusion was left unnoticed. He went home during the Michaelmas Vacation; but he did not derive much refreshment from the change. The atmosphere and surroundings of his home had become uncongenial to him. Something was said about “Was not that Mr. Ansley who died the other day a friend of yours, Edmund ?" and he had answered shortly in the affirmative, mentally shrinking from the careless question, and thinking how strangely ignorant his sisters were of his real interests. On their part they thought Edmund had grown graver and more silent than ever ; and his father secretly worried about him, fearing either that he was overworking himself or that he was not contented with the profession he had chosen. About a week however after Edmund's return to town he received a long letter from Mr. Ansley. He began by apologising for not having replied to Edmund's letter before, and thanking him much for the sympathy conveyed in it. He went on to say that he must always feel the deepest interest in one who had been such a friend of his own dear son's, and to ask several questions about Edmund's present scene of work, seeming as if almost by intuition to guess at some of the doubts he was experiencing; and wound up by assuring him of a hearty welcome from all the family whenever he could make time to pay them a visit at Needthorpe.

And Edmund as be carefully put the letter away felt a strange longing to accept the invitation. The following spring accordingly he found himself again in the train for Bickley pool; but he felt as if ten years rather than two had passed over him since he last travelled along that line with Jack Ansley.

315

HARVEST.

The bare grain in the furrow lies,

Sweet emblem of the tomb,
In certain hope the blade will rise

After the Winter's gloom.
The gentle dews of vernal morn,

The breathing touch of Spring,
Fill the sweet valleys thick with corn

Until they laugh and sing.
The broad sun flings maturing beam

Far o'er the waving plain,
The reapers' sickles brightly gleam

Thrust in the rustling grain.
The golden sheaves, bathed in the light

Of Cynthia's full rays, Gaze silently upon the night

In attitude of praise. “Praise waiteth," as the laden wain

Houses the bounteous store,
Echo of souls' immortal strain

Garnered for evermore.
The harvest of the world is near,

The reaping angels wait,
Till the LORD's summons they shall hear,

To speed from Heaven's gate.
Earth! Earth! a shadow passes o'er

Thy golden fields again,
When harvest moons will rise no more

Upon the garnered plain :
When through the stubble, and the tares

The wrath of God will burn, Nor cries, nor terror-quickened prayers,

The tide of judgment turn. This is thy respite, this thy day,

The harvest day of grace, Ere earthly harvests pass away Before th’ Eternal's face.

COLQUHOUN.

316

Reviews and Notices. Stoicism, by the Rev. W. W. Capes, Reader in Ancient History in the University of Oxford, forms one of the series on “Ancient Philosophies,” published by the S. P. C. K., and is an excellent sequel to “Plato” and Aristotle” in Blackwood's “ Ancient Classics for English Readers.” It is one of the features of the present day that men of real learning are willing to write small books for the million. The three that we have mentioned give & thoroughly good conspectus of Greek philosophy as it emanated from the brain of Socrates, who must be regarded as its true founder and far-seeing prophet. “Stoicism,” in our judgment, would have borne some compression, and the author seems to us in his early chapters rather to evade the bearing of Stoicism on the condition of the Church. Thus in referring to Nero's persecution of the Stoics, it would seem obvious to speak of it in connection with the persecution of the Christians by the same Emperor. But the parallel is nowhere intimated. At the end of the book, however, there is a satisfactory chapter on "Stoicism and S. Paul,” in which the defects of the Stoic Philosophy at its best are freely pointed out.

We are glad to meet Mr. J. H. Parker again in the field of architectural literature, in which he is so great an adept. His A B C of Gothic Architecture, which has just appeared, will be found a useful factor in general education. We are glad, therefore, to see him asserting anew the claims of his favourite study, for we are persuaded that a correct knowledge of Gothic architecture is one of the best aids a person can possess for making travel, whether in England or abroad, interesting and instructive. The little volume abounds in plates, which for the most part have not been used in

any of Mr. Parker's previous manuals, and it is only by use of the pencil or pen that architecture can be really understood. In another edition we should be glad if Mr. Parker could give us a chapter on Anglo-Saxon architecture, which seems to us to possess a relationship to Early English Gothic which we have never seen pointed out. This is especially the case in church towers. The towers of Sompting and Earls Barton, for example, with their beautiful external decoration, seem naturally to lead up to that of Middleton Stoney, so that comparing them together it is difficult to understand how the whole period of Norman architecture can have intervened.

The Church of England Past and Present, a Popular Lecture, by the Bishop of Carlisle, (S. P. C. K.,) will be found very useful for circulation. It is written in a vigorous style, and gives a fair view of a question which is being widely discussed, viz., “What is the true character of the Church ? and what are men's duties in relation to it?"

Devotions for Ember-tide, (Knott,) seem to us as well done, and present the office of the Priesthood in its true light.

Home Daughters (Robinson, Walsall) is a sensible little pamphlet on the duties of girls. It does not go very far or very deep into a question which is becoming of serious importance, inasmuch as it is disturbing the peace of many families, but what it does say is true and sound, and we commend it to the notice of young ladies emerging from the schoolroom to find themselves assailed by innumerable new theories as to their position and powers.

The Monthly Packet (Walter Smith, London) which is now entirely devoted to the same class of persons, continues its valuable work of education with undiminished zeal. There is no doubt that a careful study of this useful periodical will do much both for the minds and morals of girls passing into womanhood, although we must confess that the papers on an “ Untrained Governess” give us a somewhat appalling idea of the labours supposed to be necessary for teachers and pupils alike in the pursuit of the “higher education of women." A new feature in this magazine of late has been translations from the Greek Tragedians, by Gerard W. Smith. It is a task so difficult that we cannot expect to be fully satisfied with the manner of its accomplishment, and we quite admit that these renderings of the trilogy of Æschylus have considerable merit, but it is almost painful to see how completely the incisive force of the splendid original is lost in many passages which in their English dress become tame and commonplace. For instance, in the magnificent prophetic scene of Cassandra, when the chorus praise her fortitude and endurance, Mr. Smith makes her answer,

“Had I been happy this ye had not said,” destroying entirely the delicate beauty of the reply, which should have been rendered thus :

“No one of the happy hath this said to him.” Again, when Clytemnestra, describing the slaughter of her husband, tells how the drops of his life-blood fell on her, she calls it by the thrilling term of " the murder dew," and this Mr. Smith reduces to the “ gory dew.” The explanatory notes are good, but one should have been given to show that the "toils” in which Agamemnon was “meshed” were his bathing robe, of which Clytemnestra fastened the sleeves so that he could not use his hands for defence when attacked.

Correspondence. [The Editor is not responsible for the opinions of the Correspondents.]

To the Editor of the Churchman's Companion.
Answers.

the earliest period, as S. Basil, Bishop

of Cæsarea, 379, tells us that the people INTRODUCTION OF CHANTING.

of his time, "rising before it was light, SIR,—It is generally believed that went to the house of prayer, and there chanting descended to us from the Jewish in great agony of soul made confession of Church, and was more or less practised their sins to God, and then rising from in the Eastern Christian Church from their prayers proceeded to the singing of

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