THE SKETCHER.

Otago Witness, Issue 1704, 19 July 1884, Page 25

THE SKETCHER.

THIERS.

M. Thiers was 74 years old when he became supreme ruler of France, after the siege of paris. At the general election held during the armistice he yaa returned to the National. Assembly by 27 constituencies put of and the majority of those who voted for him cer tainly did so in the belief that he would bring about the restoration of constitutional monarchy. The thorough-going Republicans had everywhere jojued with the extreme Bonapartists in voting against him. The quasinational plebiscite given in his favour came from his having been placed on the Kstts de conciliation drawn up by tbo Legitimists, Orleanists, and that mass of unclassified electors who like a strong Government, and rally hopefully round the foremost man of the day whoever he may be. For eighteen years these electors had been the mainstay, of the Empire ; but as there could be no question of restoring Napoleon 111 they accepted M. Thiers as ttie most experienced of living statesmen 5 and the only one who seemed to have firmness and prestige enough to cope with the revolutionary forces. M. Thiers also had the support of those moderate Liberals who were Republicans in theory, but who, with the fear of Gambetta and of the impending Commune before their eyes, would have been quite willing in the winter of .1871 to welcome a constitutional monarchy under' Louis Philippe II as the best of Republics, The National Assembly met af Bordeaux, whitherM. Gambetta had transferred the seat of Government after leaving Tours. ' The Gr^nd Theatre was prepared for the reception of the deputies ; and M. Thiers, ajiter the first vote, of (he Assembly, which appointed him Chief of the Executive, took up his residence at the P^feoture in the apartments which M. Gambetta had vacated. V Pah I w°hat a smell of tobacco !" he exolaimed, when he strutted into the ex -dictator's study ; and ' presently ' Mdme Thiers, hir sister Mdlle Dosne, and the solemn M. Barjbhelemy St.' Hijaire, addecf their lamentations to* his. They'b.a4 been gopg the rb^nt| of the house, and found all' the fpoms tenanted by harigers;op of M. Gambetta's Government, who had pot yos revived notice to ay|if:, and who, Hoped" perhaps thaj; thesr 'Lajghfl r<stattl the}r posts under the new admimstrfetiop. All these gentlemen smoked, read' Radical newspapers, refreshed themselves witFi absinthe or beer, while transacting the bhsin.ejm o£ the S.tate, ana played billiards in thej.r leisure mordents. They were dismissed in g g^pk bef qre the day When Iff, Tblera returned to the Prefectoral Mansion it had been swept and garnished, and there was a guard of honour on duty to see that no intruders* forced their way into the Chief's nvpgenge, bs in tbe freo and easy days of the proconsulate. Napoleon-like, M. Thiers at once went to inspect this guard, and entered into conversation with the private soldiers. "Have you been under fire?" he inquired of one. The soldier drew himself up, and not liking to aay " Sir," which might not be regne^fuj enough, nor "Monsieur le prea.idenj;,'' since the great Uttfe man before biro -wa.s not officially President, ha answered, •• Oui, mon Exeoutif." Thiers laughed. " Why not that title as well as another ?"

M. Thiers was nettled at seeing that the .Republicans objected quite as much as the Royalists to see him occupy the royal aparfc-

ments at Versailles. "Stupid fellows V 1 he exclaimed on seeing a caricature which represented him as a ridiculous pigmy, crowned with a cotton nightcap, and lying in an enormouF bed surrounded by the majestic ghosts of the Bourbon kings. Then half -angry, halfamused, he ejaculated with his usual vivacity — " Louis XIV, was not taller than I, and as to his other greatness, I doubt whether he would ever have had a chance of sleeping in the best bed of Versailles if he had begun life as I did." Shortly after this, M.,'Mignet meeting Victor Hugo apoko to him in a deprecating way about the fuss which had been made over this question of the royal apartments. " I don't know," answered the poet—* " Dcs idies de diclature doivent germer toua ct ciel-la." (Ideas of dictatorship would be likely to sprout under that tester.) This was reported to Thiers, who at once eried — " I like that ! If Victor Hugo were in my place, he would sleep in the king's bed, but he would think tho dais too low and have it raised."

His collections are very fine, and it is to be noted that he had always been most chary of showing them to strangers. He would never lend them to public-exbibitions lest they should get damaged, and when parsons unknown to him applied for permission to view them, a polite letter of excuse, signed by a secretary, was the invariable reply. The painter Oourbet, who acted as Fine Art Minister Ao the Commune, was astounded when he made his first survey of M. Thiers' treasures, and he valued the bronzes alone at £60,000. There waa among them a horseman on a attributed to Leonardo da Vinci ; and two bronze mules' heada found in a vineyard of Dauphine, and supposed to ba tho ornaments of a Roman arm-chair, were wonderful specimens of Greek art, as it waß believed. But M. Thiers' assemblage of raie Persian, Chinese, and Japanese objects was also nearly unique. His lao cabinets were only rivalled by those in the Apollo Gallery of the Louvre, presented to Marie Antoinette by the Jesuit missionaries, After the overthrow of- the Commune, Mdma Thiers and her sister spent months in driving about to all the bric<a-brao shops in Paris, and identifying the curiosities which had been looted from their house. As they prudently paid all that the dealers demanded, and aßked no questions, they were pretty successful in their searches, and most of the- Btolen articles gradually found their way back to M. Thiera' new mansion; which waa built at a cost of £40,000, voted by the National Assembly. Thiers continued to reside at the Prefecture of Versailles during the sessions of the Assembly, but he came to the Elyse'e during the recess, and he kept a certain kind of state there. It waa quite impossible, however, for such a man to submit to any of the restrain^ of etiquette. He wan a bourgeois to the finger? tips. His character was a curious effervescing mixture of talent, learning, vanity, ehildisf) petulance, inquisitiveness, - sagacity, ecatfttlfl patriotism, and Belf-seeking ambition. He waa a splendid orator, with, the Bhrill voice of an old costerwovnan j a savant, with the preaumption of a schoolboy,; a kind-hearted man, wit^ tho irritability of a monkey; a masterly ad? minietrator, with that irrepressible tendency to meddle with everything which worrieß subordinates, and makes good administration impossible. He was a shrewd judge of men, and knew well how they were to ' be handled, but his impatience prevented him. from acting up to his knowledge. He had a sincere love of liberty, with all the instincts of a despot. He was most charming with women, understood their power, and yet took so little account of it in his serious calculations that he often offended, by his Napoleonic brusquenesg, ladies who were in a position to do Mm harm, and did it.— Temple Bar.

THE WONDERS OF CANTON.

When called upon once to name tbe most wonderful city which she had ever visited; Miss Bird, the gifted lady traveller, promptly responded :— " Canton is at once the most novel, fascinating and startling of all the places J eyer visited." ' ■ ' After a residence here of a little pyer f^q weeks | am prepared, to endorse' this statement, if, indeed, a statement coming from such a source needs any endorsement, It will be observed that this is not ascribing to Canton pre-eminence for anything like beauty, not by any "manner of means." "I think there is more here that ia disgusting than there ia that is attractive; but these sights, sounds, and especially smells that are offensive, are peculiar to every Chinese city, and a tourist must lay aside all prudish and fastidious notions in order to understand anything of the people and their institutions. Canton is certainly repleiu w,ith surprises and extravagances' o^ ey/pry. Bort, The' methods" of performing" $ne various industries are constantly interesting ; sometimes preposterous, sometimes worthy of imitation. One sickens of the reyelations'of cruelty, filth, poverty, and ignorance, but never' wearies of, these anomalous street sights. An imaginary "specimen tour" this balmy February afternoon may not fail to develop some interesting views of Cantoneße life. Qna must take a sedan chair. Few men who come here on a flying excursion attempt to thread their way through the mazy labyrinth of pau,tbn streets on foot, even though they are accompanied by a guide. Soon we are being hurried ajong the narro^ streets, which are densely packed with, Ppop)^ pljr sweating and '"patient 'pbohea K«iep T up. a^ incessant yelling to, warn the peaestria.nß. to. make a passage for us ; and bo dexterous are they, and so obliging are the people on foot, that the swinging dog-trot is seldom related. Whenever we meet another chair, however, one, party has to Btbp entirely to wait for tbe other to pass by, and even then the Bides of the care frequently rub fagethe>% The coolies gre. trained to such encounters in narrow pi^cpa, and there seems to'be a taqt recognition as td, the vehicle wtych ebail defer to the other, which is always according to eirpu^stafleea,' So, also, when purn a corflejr, }t is frequently difficult to 'wedae a p.hair through, owing tng extreme narrownessof the streetIt is, indeed, a motley crowd that we meet. There are all types, from the bUng, leprous! deformed, and meridio^nt up tp the mps a,r\s: tocratic, m"and^rin,B, The 06min6ti toeople are the most interest, ing. There are two things for which they c&\\ be heartily admired. No more induatrious an<| temperate people are to be found anywhere, They hays reduced the cost of living to its aotual minimum, and for the 2dol per month that it actually requires they will toil assidiu ously from morning till nigh v seven d*— * the week. Most of thow * . • .-.,» in | transporting Varlo« 8 kind's of bSden^'Thpf which a** carried over the shoulder. In tffi Wfttf tho most impossible loadg are carried! prosing »U the way from delicate china waS up (or down) to live hogs. We Americana! ii h ?r- S ° mUch Acuity in carrying a smal the heathen who bob along bo rapidly in a four-foot street, with two two-bush^l basketa dangling from the ends of a pole. ■■ UttOIMJW Here comas the -chair of hm™ mto&a official. • SehTtiS? b^^»4»?rwaVSfo% raeh an august personage, ancf o.ur cfaaita wj

, wedged ( close , up against a wall to allow the 1 procession to pass.— Canton Corr. Philadelphia •' 'Pressi' t'< . . . „ , Aff HIBERNIAN JIENDICAST. •' « .At first view you might have taken him for ('•■ a Spaniard He was tall* and if he had been % ! 'gentleman ;you would have said that there was ■*a air c,i dignity in his figure. He seemed l *:tery. old, yet he appeared more worn by > «orrow than by time. Leaning upon a thick -: ■ <oaken stick, ai he took off hii hat to ask for fj 'Alms, hia white hair streamed in the wind. ) .^Health and long life to you 1" said he. •"Give an' old man something to help to .-• bury him. He is past his labour, and cannot • trouble this world long any way." - ' ' a -He held his hat towards us, with nothing . . importunate in his manner, but rather with a t : look of confidence in us, mixed with habitual 1 resignation.. His thanks were— '^ Heaven blesa • ' you 1 Long life to you 1 to you and yours ! and may you never want a friend, as I do." > • ■ The last < words were spoken low. He laid v . his hand upon his heart as he bowed to us, and Walked slowly away. . We called . him back ; and< upon our questioning him farther, he gave • the- following account of himself :—: — '•■•'. I. was bred and born— but no matter where

such a one as I -was bred and' born, no more

■ than.'Wherel"may die and be buried. I, that it- have> neither son nor daughter, nor kin, nor friend ; on the wide earth to mourn over j' myt crave, when I am laid in it, as I soon ■ .- must! Well, when it pleases God to take me . I, shall, never <. be missed out of this world,

'so : muchi aa by a dog— and why should I ? ' Havinsr never in my time done, good to any — -but cvil — which I have lived to rapent me of

. ■ many'a the long day and night, and ever shall .'.whilst I have sense and reason left. In my ■ar youthful days God was too good to me ; I had -. < friends, and a little home of my. own to go to— < aa pretty spot a of land for a farm as you could ! --'see, with a snug cabin, and everything complete, and all to be mine ; for I was the only one my ' 'father- and mother had, and accordingly, was ' x nmade muoh of, too much ; for I grew headstrong 1 , upon it, and highland thought nothing of any ' ' mail, and little of any woman— but one. That lone, I. surely did think of; and well worth j ' /> thinking of she was. .Beauty, they say, is all ' 'fancy; but' she was a girl every man might ■: i fancy; ■ Never was one more sought after. She ■ ' waa then just in her prime, and full of life and .t spirit; but' nothing light" in her behavour .tjrrquite' modest— yet obliging, She was too .: Kgoo'd for ma to be thinking of, no doubt; ' .But 'faint- heart never won fair lady'; ko. :I made bold to speak to Rose, for . . that ..was, her name, and after a world of • .: pains, 'I, began to gain upon her good liking, :'. oat couldn't get her to cay more than that she t. . had never seem the man' she could fancy so' • -well. • This was a great deal from her, for ,sho >':Was,,eoy and proud like, as she had a 'good .' right; to be; and, besides being young, loved ..her little innocent pleasure, and could not easy .. bo brought to. give up her sway. No fault of i , hers ;..bu trail very natural. Well!' I always : ... .considered she never wonld h*ve held out so \ Jong, nor have been so stiff with me, had not it ' < 1: been for an old Aunt Honor of hers— God rest .'her soul I ,' One should not be talking ill of the /•i ■a£ad-* i bvjt she was..moro' out^f my way, than •.:: pnqugh: yet the cratur had no malice in her '.'..'against me, only meaning her child's good, as ' ■ gfie .tolled it, but mistook it, and thought to . make.Rose happy by some greater match than .me. counting ' her. fondness for me, which she -• -pould not 'but, see something of, childishness, J.'itftat she would soon be broke of. ..•■*, \-Now. there .was a party of English soldiers • Quartered in' our town, and there was a sergeant amongst them* that had .money, and a pretty place, as they said, .in .his own country. He gouited Rose, and the aunt favoured him.' He &nd I J cou}d l> nevQ.r.reUf»h /me another at all.' p^a was- a 'handsome,' portly man, but very ' Jtroud,' and looked upon me as dirt under bis eet, bee'aus'e I was an Irishman ; and at every r.i< word would 'say ".That's an Irish bull I " or, " Do you hear Paddy's brogue ? "—at whiqh hie •- fellow soldiers, being all Euglish, would look greatly delighted. Now all this I . could ' Have taken in good part from any but him, for I was pot an ill^ humoured fellow ; but there was a ' spite in him I plainly saw against me, and I ■-• pould not por would nofc take a .word from him against me or. my country, especially .when ■"-1 xlose'Was'bjy, .who did not like me the worse for having a' proper spirit. She little thought " wjiat-wquld come of. it. Whilst all this was g?ing on, her Aunt Honor found to object .against me i that I was wild and given to ' drink, -'both -which charges <* were false and malicious, and I knew could* come from none ' flther than 1 the sergeant, which enraged me the • ' 'more against him Tor speaking so mean behind • ■ nxy back. - Now I knew,' that though the .Sergeant did not drink" spirits, he drank plenty of beer. Rose took it, however, to heart, and '^alked very serious' upon it, -observing she 1 pould never- think to marry a man given to drink, aVid that the sergeant was remarkably ' spber and staid, therefore, mobt like, 'as her Aunt Honor said, to make a good husband; -•'-"'The words went straight to my "heart, along ' with pose's look. - I said not a word, but went •"• out; resolving before I slept to take an' aath ■ spirits of all sorts for hose's sweet flake.' ..That evening I fell in with some. boys 'pf- the neighbours', who would have had me aloDg with them, but I denied myself and them ; and all I would taste was one parting glass, and* then made my vow in the presence . of the priest forswearing spirits for 1 two years. .. Then I went straight to her house to tell her what I had done, and being sensible that I was that same time >& little -elevated with the • parting glass I had taken. The first thing I noticed on going into the room' was th,e man ' -4 least , wished to "see' there, and least looked • v- foraUhis minute :-he w«is >in high talk with 1 ; |",8 & u *rt» and Rose sitting on the other Bsde of turn, no way strange towards hinnas Lfancied : '.'byt that was only, fancy, and I effect pf the • liquor I. bad drunk,* which mademeaee things wrotag. A went up and put my head 'between them, askingJEtose, did she know what I had been about ? , „, < . v .^Yei,.too well I" said she, drawing back from my breath; And the aunt looked at her and' she- at, the aunt, and the; sergeant ■ stopped hva nose, saying he had not been long . enough in -Ireland to love the smell of whisky. I observed that was. an uncivil remark in the v .present company, rand added>that I had not taken a- drop that .night, but one glass. At - m 3° J e !Blerod»! B l erod » an 3 said that was a bull and . , ..{Uonder j but no^wjnder, as I was an Irish- " T^l 1 * ">gl ied " m defence ft myself and my We went,,on .from one smart word ,te another j.and pome of hffl soldierinen being -fo,the company,, he had the laugh against m! 2SH* J. w< fc Texed Jo see Rose bear so w rfl ■ fchat I. could not bear myself.. And the talk . , ghindertf.and'Buch trifles, >\ve 'got, I cannot "ftyaelf tell you, how, on to great party mat- ' nTt r PohtoB; and religion.' ' And I was a •'Sfaiv li? nd h -?, a ' Pr°<*>Btaut; and there he „ tiad-the thing still agamat nie. The company, feeing matters not agreeable, dropped off till ' '*°2V ere but Ber^ a nt» anS the aunt, ' £?fr R T' 1 ??! 6 "' 'T> aunt gave me a „ „-£mt!to 'patt, but *I wouia not 'take it; for I 6ould not;bear'to;fcp away worsted, and borne ■■'• ' fifT?!."? - ™. rL*£? Wish faaio.n' and

Rose by to judge, The aunt was called out by one who wanted her to go to a funeral next day ; tho Englishmen then let fall something about our Irish Howl, and savages, which Rose herself said was uncivil, she being an Irishwoman, which he, thinking only to make game of me, had forgot. I knocked him down, tolling him it was he that waa the savage to affront a lady. As he (jot up He said that he'd have the, law of me if any law was to ba had in in Ireland. \ " The law I" said I, " and you a soldier ) ' "Do you mean to call me a coward 1 ' aaid he. "This is what an English soldier must not bear." With that he snatches up his arms that were beside him, asking rab again, did I mean to call an Englishman a coward ? " Tell me first," said I ; " did you mean to call us Irish savages ?" " That's no answer to my question," says he, " or only an Irish answer." " It is not the vrorse for that, may be," says I, very coolly, despising the man now, and just took up a' knife that was on the table to cut off a button that was hanging at my knee. As I was opening the knife ho asks me, was I going to stab at him with my Irish knife, .and directly fixed his bayonet at me ; on ' which I seißad a musket and bayonet one of his men had left, telling him I knew the use of it as well as ho or any Englishman, and better, for that I should never have gone, as he did, to charge it against an unarmed man. - "You had your knife," said he, drawing back.

" If I had it was not thinking of you," said I, throwing the knife away. " See, I'm armed like yourself now ; fight me like a man and a soldier, if you dare," says I. " Fight me if you dare," says he. Rose. called to me to stop, but we were both out of ourselves at the minute. We thrust at each other — he missed me, I hit him. Rose ran in between us to get the musket from my hand. ' It was 1 loaded, and went off in the struggle, and the ball lodged in her body. She fell! And what happened next I' cannot tell, for the sight left my eyes and all' the sense forsook me. When! came to myself the house was full of people, ' going to and fro, come whispering, some crying, and till the words reached my ears, " Is she quite dead ?" I could not understand where 4 1 was; or what had happened. I wished to forget again, but could not., .The whole truth came upon me, and -yet I could not shed tears ; < but just pushed my way through the -crowd into the inner room and up to the side of tha bed. There she lay stretched, almost a corpse, ' quite still; her sweet eyes closed, and no colour in her' cheeks that had the night before been so rosy. I took hold of one of her hands that hung down, and she then opened her eyes, and knew me directly, and smiled upon me,' and said, "It was no fault of youra. Take notice, all of you, it was no fault of his if I die ; but that I won't do', for his sake, if I can' help it." 'l.hose were the words she- spoke. I, thinking, from her speaking so strong, that she was not badly hurt, knelt down to whisper to her, that if my breath did smellbf spirits the last night it was the parting glass I had tasted before making the vow I hud bone against drink for her bake, and that there was nothing I would not do for her if it would please God to spare her to me. She just' pressed my hand, 1 to show me she was sensible. Tho priest came in, and' they forced our handa asunder, and earned me aiway out of the room. Presently there was/a great, bry, and I knew,»all was o,ver." ' " ' : Here the old iqan's voice failed, and he turned his face from Ms.' -When he had somewhat recovered himself, to change the course of his thoughts, we asked whether he was prosecuted for his assault on the English ser-' geant, and what became of him. "Oh ! to do him justice, as one should do to everyone," said the old man, f> he behaved very, handsome to me when I was brought to trial, and told the whole truth— only blamed himself more than I would have done — and said' it was all his, fault for laughing at me and my nation more than a man could bear, situated as I was. They acquitted me through his means. We shook hands, and he hoped all would go right with him, he said j but nothing ever went right with me after. I took little note ever after of wordly matters: all belonging to me went to rack and ruin. The hand of God was upon me — I could not help myself, nor settle mind or body to anything. I heard them say something: I was a little touched in "my head. However that might be, J caunot say. But at the last I found it was as good for me to give all that was left to my friends, who wore better able to manage it and more eager for it than I. And fancying a roving life would agree with me best, I quit the place, taking nothing with me, but resolved to walk the world, and just trust to the charity of good Christians, or die, as it should, please God. How I have lived so long He only knows, and His will be done ; but I should not be sorry to ba released, if that might b,e."— lrish Sketches.

FREDERICK I)ENNISON MAURICE.

It is doubtful if the Church of, England during the last half-century has been served by a preacher altogether th& equal at all points of Frederick Dennison Maurice. There have been a number of pulpit orators who were mqre distinguished in that particular. But oratory is a /secondary consideration in that church. Per distinguished divines, for the most part, make no great figure as'orators. There is no man jn that church the equal of Spurgoon or Beeeher as a public speaker. The ritual, if well read, satisfies the congregation, and the sermon is brief - » mere religious homily which is used to round out the service. ,Oi course there are exceptions. An able and eloquent preacher and profound thinker is never left in obscurity. The reader wi|l get no vivid* impression of 'Maurice as' a, pu)pis pratpr by reading th,e two volumes in which his qon appears as biographer. For the most part 'the life is 'set forth- in the letters of the father, and these are so woven into the text that they make a connected account. Maurice was something more than a preacher 1 . He was a profound thinker, a scholar, a humanitarian, bold within certain limits^ independent, broad and catholic in his views, having a profound sympathy for his'fellpw men.' - He came- very' near to them, 1 In this respect he resembled ; somewhat -Frederick' Robertson, another ' distinguished Church of England divine, who was cut off in his prime. ; His activity -wen^t beyond, the narrow bounds of his parish.- : There was a sense in which he was q citizen of the. World, although he wag the mos,t unselfish of ' men. # ' A great thinker does not much respec^'parish and. conventional limitjatioris. ■ In 'one way or another the world, is pretty sure to hear from him. Maurice was, constantly thinking beyond local limitations. He was always' unconsciously preaching by example, because his life was so pure and unselfwh, and he had 'so much* of the altruistic, spirit — the Christ-like love of his fellow men — thai he was a" power 'in the world. Beyond hia example as a- reformer and tea6her,' he was a' thinker, rather than a leader. He was not' great iv the latter capacity, because he did not Hke' turbulence and tumult ; yet in two particulars he waß a leader, .while disclaiming any* 1 such relation, ,' B[e was" the most conspicuous advocate ,of a, .system' of. Christian soojal^mT-

a system which is yet to be enforced if the world is to be saved. Ho did something in the way of evolving a system of Christian philosophy, which is yet to be evolved and placed on an enduring basis. Probably no man in the English Church, unless it was Bishop Oolenso, was a3 often assailed and bitterly criticised as Frederick Maurice. Tho latter did not agree with Colenso, but rather was grieved at hi 3 wide departure aa he thought from the true province of biblical interpretation. It was because Maurice was the friend of Colonso that he wa3 saddened by his deviations from what he considered to be the true faith.

Maurice descended from a Unitarian family. His father was a Unitarian minister'of distinguished ability, whose ancestors had been Presbyterians, the English branch of which went over to what their opponents called the Socinian heresy. The son was born with " natural piety." If one may judge from the account, he never waR guilty 'of any outragooilsly wicked act. His life was alwayß pure and unselfish. He went into the Church of England, not because he liked eveiything that he found there, but because he thought he could ba more useful there than anywhere else. It is probable that his early Unitarian associations had made him a broader and more catholic man. He carried this Unitarian breadth into the church, and although he was orthodox according to the Thirty-nine Articles, he waa never quite free from the suspicion of heterodoxy. This suspicion was increased by his labours to organise a Bystem of Christian socialism, for the lack of which many a church haa withered away ; in dafault of vitality it has been like a tree overtaken by the "dry rot." Ho laboured* to bring the National Church into close contact and sympathy with the working men. His book entitled "The Kingdom of Christ" was a broad interpretation of church life and sympathy. He worked with such men as Charles Kingsley, J. M. Ludlow, Thomas Hughoa, and othera, that he might promote social reform. For this he was branded as an infidel, and was bitterly assailed both, by the High Churchmen and' by the Evangelicals. He refused to be classed with any party. He was a Professor of Moral Philosophy for many years at Cambridge, and a theological Professor at King's College, and taught effectually as a scholar and teacher in connection Queen College. He was the leader in » Working Men's College, where he delivered sermons and organised Bible classes. It was in his relation to working men that he was most prominent in working out his religious principles. It was said by one of his critics that he made the English Church more roomy than it ever was before. He waa a broad man, with an immense intellectual and religious vitality. He wanted to make the ohureh of his adoption as broad as his love and sympathy The Pharisees in that connection did not like the spirit of this brnad catholic, sympathetic, and lovable man. In him Christianity was a living, vital, and eternal element. It was not a mere theory ; it had gone down into his soul and had germinated there. He was a " door of the Word," Added to all his other graces ho had great intellectual attainments. He was a master of English literature, and of a style of composition clear, condensed, graceful, and strong. He was an extensive publicist in periodicals, and books. What he wrote was extensively read. Very few men in England had the ear of the public to a greater extent than Maurice. He outlived his detractors, although that came to be a matter of little importance. He had a sensitive soul, and could be stung by the unfair and sometimes brutal assaults of his assailants. But ho early adopted the practice of roading none of these attacks, and bo preserved his peace of mind when his foes thought to wound him in some vital part. * Archdeacon Farrar in a recent article in the Fortnightly Review has given thiß estimate of the character of Maurice : —

" Like Jean Garson, he loved at all times to gather the little children around him. He was never so happy as when, in country he was preaching the Gospel to the poor.' He never read prayers ; he prayed. Those who in Lincoln's Inn Chapel heard him read the Litany and the Athanasian Creed came away with a new conception of their fores and meaning. Had he been a philanthropist and nothing besides, I doubt whether any man since the days of St. Vincent de Paul has been the originator of more" and more fruitful works than he. The Early Closing Movement, the 'Days in the Country' for ragged children, the Co operative Movement", the Highor Education of Women, the Working Men's College, the Organisation of Charity, the Establishment of Girls' Homos, the Sanitary Le3gue, and many other endeavours to promote the happiness of society, count him a 9 one of their first founders, or earliest and most self-denying supporters. Matthew Arnold says that he spent his life in ' beating about the bush with deep emotion, but never started the hare.' Moat men would have a right to die happy if they had started but one such bare aa these.

" Above all, if Maurice had left nothing else to the world, he has left the legacy of one of the noblest, purest, and grandest characters which this generation has seen, We are sometimes told, with a good deal of superfluous scorn, that his works won't; live, It is a question supremely indifferent to those wholo ved him best. It is a result over which no man has auy personal control. It is important for the world, it is of consummate importance for himself, that every man use his powers honestly and faithfully in the cause of all things which are true and just and pure ; but it is a question of little or no concern to him whether his works are destined to attain the rare and brief continuance which is called 'immortality.' Hundreds of books which no human being will ever read again yet X\ve \n the mpst effectual way by the influence which they have exercised over thousands in the day when they were written, and over hundreds of thousands who have propagated the thoughts and impulses which were originally derived from their pages. Even if Maurice's writings should cease to be sold or published, they have profoundly affected the thoughts of men both in this and the last generation.

" For this man, to rail at whom well-nigh every religious critic ef every religious newspaper dipped his pen in gall and falsehood^ was one of the holiest, humblest, tenderest, most loving of men. A relative says of him tbaj even in childhood he never knew him to' commit even an ordinary fault, or apparently to entertain an immoral idea. He fulfilled Dante'B ideal of one who was in boyhood gentle,- obedient, and modest 1 } in youth, temperate, resolute, and loyal ; in manhood pru, dent, just, and generous ; in age thankful and in perfect peace with Qod. All his life Iqujg he showed an awful sense of responsibility and a delicate fastidiousness of conscience. JJ,e ■yvas always a friend to the wealp and wholly fearless of the Btrong. He had risen completely superior to the infirmity of ambition. . . . All who enjoyed the happiness of his friendship, or even of hia acquaintance, will unite in saying of him", as waa said of Newton, that he was' 'the whi^Bt soul they had ever known.' Ift was this man— this- humble, selfdenying, ohivakous- hearted saint of Qod— of vifhom Archdeacon $are saic\ in words which ma^ywh'9, k,pow hftn'wijl endorse, tfeat ha waa

' incomparably the grandest example of human nature that it has ever bsen my uappiness to know ' ; it was this man, perhaps the truest, bravest, most orthodox, most Christ-loving and Ohrist-like Christian whom this generation has seen-: this man, in whose teachings there was a prophetic accent nofc heard in any living voice— who, thanks to the fuglemen of the sooalled ' religious world,' lived amid perpetual storms of abuso and falsehood, and spent hi? life under the oppression of a perpetual hissing." — San Francisco Bulletin.