giving him a youthful, vigorous appearance, with a countenance of tenderness and cheerfulness.

Our study of this first period of art extending to the sixth century is perhaps most of all remarkable for what it fails to discover. Faith in the Hebrew Scriptures as a record of God's dealings with a chosen people and symbolical of his dealings with all men; faith in God's provident care for all his children; faith in Jesus, and loving reverence toward him, as a tender, strong, helpful friend, teacher and master; faith in immortality as man's destiny-these are emphasized by almost innumerable repetitions. But for faith in a crucified God, or a vicarious atonement; in a virgin mother of God, or St. Peter holding the keys; in a great and awful day of doom with Jesus as judge; in a trinity of Gods, and in salvation through the shed blood of one of the Trinity-for traces of these faiths we search in vain through the art of the first six Christian centuries.

ELIZA R. SUNDERLAND.

CHARLES BEARD, LL. D.

IN MEMORIAM.

Our English churches have lost their strongest man-not counting, of course, Dr. Martineau, who long ago retired from the active ministry. Alike as preacher, speaker and author, Charles Beard was known throughout England, having a reputation extending beyond the Unitarian churches. Two years ago he was earnestly invited to come over to America and preach the sermon at our National Conference at Saratoga, but he was even then feeling the strain under which he finally broke down, and was obliged to decline. This year again, it was hoped to secure his presence, and when the Conference was postponed for a year, it was thought surely he would be recovered and be able to come at last. But it was not to be. On April 9, he died at Bournemouth, whither he had gone in broken health a few months before.

To the writer it is the loss of an old friend and comrade. We were school fellows, in the school kept by his father, the late John Relly Beard,-"Dr. Beard"

par excellence- -one of those admirable private academies which were maintained by many of our ministers of the past generation. Thence he went on to Manchester New College, just ahead of me-his junior by nearly three years

but through those years, and afterwards throughout his ministry, we were always neighbors and warm friends.

His first ministry was at Gee Cross, near Manchester, one of the old Nonconformist chapels, dating back to the times of the "five mile act" when it was penal for Dissenters to hold their worship within five miles of any corporate town. For many generations "Gee Cross Chapel" was the only place of worship in the neighborhood, the one place to which rich and poor all alike resorted; and as manufactures brought an ever increasing population, it was here Mr. Beard learned that close knowledge of the people, and that power of strong, simple, direct speech, which made him our most popular as well as our most scholarly platform speaker. He was at first only assistant to the old minister, the Rev. James Brooks, but Mr. Brooks dying, he became sole pastor, and here he remained from 1850 to 1866, when he succeeded Rev. J. Hamilton Thom, in Renshaw St. Chapel, Liverpool.

He came to Liverpool in the very strength of his manhood. He was already known as an author by his volume, "Outlines of Christian Doctrine," and by the two-volume "Story of Port Royal," as well as by his letters to the London press, under the signature “A Lancashire Lad," and his editorship, which lasted fifteen years, of the Theological Review. But it was as a preacher and speaker that he was best known, and he at once became a power in Liverpool. "Renshaw Street Chapel" had been for generations the home of much of the noblest life of the city-Rathbone, Thorneley, Roscoe, Jevons, Holt, Bright, were among its staple namesstrong merchant princes, wealthy and willing to use their wealth for noble purposes. Such men had always composed the morning congregation; Charles Beard crowded it in the evenings with

eager listeners of the common people, and by and by, to meet a still larger and more popular audience, gave courses of Sunday evening lectures in the great Concert Hall, Lord Nelson Street.

All this, however, was but a portion of his work. From the beginning of his Liverpool ministry, he had a large part in all that was going on in the city. It was he, mainly, who organized the "Hospital Sunday" collections throughout the city churches of all denominations; he who was largely instrumental in the foundation of the Liverpool University College, since incorporated in the great "Victoria University." He was the clerical secretary of Manchester New College, then removed to London, where it still remains. Till 1879 he had the editorship of the Theological Review; in 1883 he was "Hibbert Lecturer," and his volume in that series, on "The Reformation of the Sixteenth Century in its Relation to Modern Thought and Knowledge," stands exceedingly high. And most of this time he was writing several "leaders" a week for London or Liverpool newspapers of the highest class!

The wonder is that he did not break down long before, but he had a marvelous faculty of arranging and expressing his thoughts. Whether it was a sermon, a review, a leading article, or a chapter in one of his works, he hardly ever needed to write a sentence twice. He would think out his line of thought, and then sit down and write it off, in his swift small writing. I have often seen his manuscripts, and only here and there in a page would there be a correction even of a word. But it was not weak, as such extempore writing is apt to be, but writing strong, simple, rich in illustration, wonderfully brilliant and varied in style. It was very much the same with his speaking. I once asked him how he prepared his speeches. He told me that he thought over and settled just three things. 1. How he would begin; 2, what one clear point he would make, or elucidate; and, 3, how he would end. More would be sure to come to him as he went along, but with those three things safe and settled he

was never afraid to be called upon. And he never needed to be. The strong thought and the fitting word never failed. His thought might be a mistake, but there was never any doubt as to what it was, and even when you could not agree with him, you could not help respecting and admiring not merely his eloquence, but his sincerity and earnest

ness.

It may be asked why, with such gifts and power, he did not make yet more mark in England. Partly it was because of the difficulty of the position which a Unitarian minister holds in England, but I cannot help thinking that it was, still more, because he never heartily accepted that position, and used it for the best it was capable of. He had a deep dislike, even dread of denominationalism. As Silas Farrington aptly puts it in the Register, "he was numbered among the Unitarians, but he bore the name as his cross rather than as his crown.” "He desired a catholic and comprehensive church, and was willing to stand simply and naturally as a man where he could stand, until the day of that church should come." The result of which simply was, that he would work more heartily with sectarians of any other kind or name, than with those of his own body, albeit the worst sectarianism of his own body was freer and broader than the very liberty of the other Churches round! He could not see that the only sectarianism that there is in Unitarianism arises not from our shutting out the fellowship or cooperation of others, but from the fact that, being shut out by all others, we have simply to work together, if we would work at all.

Well, every man must work in his own way and by his own light. Charles Beard's was a noble thought, and he held to it faithfully, and worked on bravely, albeit sometimes with a certain sense of discouragement and disappointment, as he found that the catholic comprehensive church was nowhere in sight. But all his labors told upon him. Three years ago his health began to fail, but a six months' rest in Switzerland and Germany seemed to restore him. No sooner,

however, did he return to work, than his strength again failed. Last year his congregation procured an assistant for him, the Rev. Henry Gow, whom some of our readers will have known during the post-graduate year he recently passed at Harvard Divinity School-but in October last the old weakness returned, and his church granted him a year's leave of absence. But it was in vain. There was no disease, simply a general weakening and breakdown of the physical system, but it seemed as if nothing could be done, and gradually he sank and passed away.

As I write these few lines, I feel how poor they are to tell of this strong and noble man to those who never saw him. A man in whom laughter was ever close akin to tears; with a wonderful depth of pathos, and the raciest sense of humor; a rare full scholar, and yet eminently a man of the people; heartily religious, yet with nothing puritanical about him our English churches mourn their noblest preacher; and I, thinking of my old friend, whose voice I may hear and whose hand I may grasp no more, reach thus across the shadowy distance and place my little wreath upon

intervals it broke through and dispelled the gloom. He was cultured, but unsatisfied with what his culture brought him. He was constantly reaching out his arms for something else, but was in doubt whether there was anything greater to which he might cling. He had spiritual hopes and impulses, but they were beaten back by his intellect, which was critical and skeptical. He hovered between the wish and inability to believe. His heart was Hebrew and his head was Greek. He saw that there is suffering in the world, and hoped to cure it by stoicism. He saw that there is sin in the world, and he hoped to cure it by education, by culture, by introducing "sweet reasonableness" into the life of the sinner. The text of his gospel was not, "Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God," but "Fortunate are the educated for they can rally the good in the depths of themselves." culture was too far away from actual life. It was out of reach of the commen heart of mankind. He went into a gallery, in which a few ideal pictures were hung, and mistook that for the great world.

His

The over development of taste is liable to produce too great sensibility, and turn the mind away from a contempla

THE GOSPEL OF CHRIST.

The chief priest of the Gospel of culture for this day is Matthew Arnold, who has so recently died. He was a man of splendid endowments, of clear sight, of pure character, and one who has done lasting service in the field of literary criticism. And yet neither in his prose nor in his poetry does he meet and satisfy all the claims of life. The heart that he understood is not the human heart with its hopes and fears, but the heart of the Oxford scholar with its philosophy and its acquaintance with libraries. He had never drawn near enough to mankind to enable him to see what are the wants of the natural heart, or to see that goodness can exist without exquisite taste and elegant manners. A deep, settled sadness runs through all his work. His sun was obscured for most of the time by clouds; only at rare

Its tendency is toward exclusiveness, toward isolation, toward a refined selfishness. It makes egotists and supercilious critics, of what otherwise would have been lovers and helpers of their kind.

It must be written down as one of the greatest merits of Christ and his philosophy, that the common heart of the world was never lost sight of. It was said of him that the common people heard him with gladness. One fault that was found with him was that he would sit at the same table with publicans and sinners. He took the children in his arms. His was an example of the sensitive soul, unspoiled by artificial manners. That he appreciated the beautiful in all its forms there can be no doubt. His parables show with what open eye he looked upon all the processes of nature. The waving tree, the lightning, the harvest field rustling in

the wind, the bird, the flower, the grass, the sunrise, the sun setting in a bank of fire-tipped clouds, are all used as illustration of the thought he sought to convey. But in all his love for the beautiful he never lost sight of the multitude of sad and sinful hearts all around him. His good taste did not rob him of sympathy. His sensitiveness led him to ward the world and not away from it. His culture took the form of love for the uncultured, not that of personal vanity and criticism.

There is nothing could be more helpful to these days and make them more glorious than to find all culture the power of intellect and the power of taste-turning toward the world in its sadness and sin to help it instead of turning away from it to despise it. The culture which widens the abyss between the different classes is harmful; the culture which bridges the chasm is divine. To be able to "think clear" is a noble attainment; but it is no more noble than to be able to feel deeply for all who are the victims of misfortune and woe. We may be glad of every addition to the ranks of those who are "acquainted with the best that has been thought and said," so long as they do not ignore the worst that is happening all around them.

From the cultured classes should go out a great company of mediators and saviors, who have heard the cry of the more needy, and are hurrying to give assistance, as, in the parable, the father ran out to meet his needy and penitent son. Human progress is accomplished when the strong help carry the weak forward. It is a system of mediation. The high must stoop to help the low. The few who are learned must impart to the unlearned; the few who are free must help remove the shackles from those who are bound; the pure must help the sinful.

True culture is the unfolding of all the best powers of life. It not only adds breadth to the intellect, but adds depth and warmth to the heart. Once religion needed culture to free it from its narrowness and its nonsense. Now culture needs religion to free it from its vanity and selfishness. REED STUART.

A LAND OF FLOWERS. The winter rains send the thrill of life through the dormant roots of numberless wild flowers, all over Southern California. The number of different species is very great, the number of flowers of some species is incalculable. In some localities the flowers of a single species will cover thousands of acres. A few weeks since I stood on a hill in Pasadena and looked across the valley to the sloping land against the foot of the mountains beyond, and all the slope seemed on fire. A light flame was creeping along the surface of the ground, as if the sunshine had condensed into a fiery cloud. This sheet of fire was made up of incalculable numbers of the wild poppy (eschscholtzia), which was then very abundant everywhere, but was especially abundant at Pasadena. It is reported that when the valley was in its native wildness, and the area covered with poppy was much greater than now, the sailors, on vessels miles out at sea were misled by the flame-like flowers into thinking that an actual fire was sweeping through the valley.

Here as I sometimes go for a walk on Pomona Heights, or on the San José Hills, the abundance of the flowers lends a charm to the scene which cannot be told. The serene sky, the silence of the mighty hills, the measureless area of bloom,-all enter into one and hold him with a subtle power of which he hesitates to attempt to speak. Of these flowers the larger part are strangers to our northern flora. Often one is found that shows at once its genus, but it is of a different species from the familiar friends of the hills or the prairies of the old home, and one is tempted to send for the botanies, and to resume the enchanting study that for years has been thrust aside by absorbing duties.

Of cacti, there are several species that are found here in great abundance, often growing in impenetrable thickets that have a most formidable look. A belt of cactus 15 feet in height and two or three rods in width makes a fortification, which even a brave soldier will wisely shun. The Mexicans used to plant such a belt around their mud

walled forts, and found it an effectual protection against all foes. The cacti are just coming into bloom. Yesterday a friend took me for a long and delight ful drive, during which we passed through many acres of these strange plants, that from their uncouth stems thrust out large flowers of such wonderful beauty. My patient friend indulged my propensity for constantly getting out to load the carriage with floral spoils. My ready jack-knife could quickly cut the succulent cactus stems with the flowers adhering, then carefully spearing the blade into the severed portion, one could at leisure and in safety examine the splendor of the blooms, this a brilliant corn-color, that a delicate pink, another of such gorgeous crimson as in the East one sometimes sees on the maple after the ripening airs of autumn have given it their most glowing touch.

The flowers of Southern California are not confined to the hills and valleys, all the gardens are ablaze with them. Rarely having a touch of frost, possess ing a soil of great fertility, having arrangements for supplying every plant with water as often and as much as it needs, the gardeners here are able to grow many of the rarest flowers in perfection, and in boundless profusion. Callas grow by the rod, a single bed will give you at any moment a hundred flowers. Oleanders are in thickets. The heliotrope is trained up the lattice at the piazza. The jasmine showers down its fragrance from trees 15 feet high. The scarlet garaniums grow in hedges along the whole length of the garden.

And then the roses! How can I tell their number and their beauty! The rarest grow beside the door of the lowliest homes. In some gardens over one hundred and fifty choice varieties are in bloom at the same time. There are not only rose bushes, but veritable rose trees, nearly twenty feet high, and several inches in diameter. Sometimes an arbor has been built to support the climbing roses planted by its side. They have completely covered it, and drop in long graceful branches to the ground. When April brings the

great season of roses, these arbors, as one stands at a distance and looks against them, seem to be flowing cataracts of brilliant bloom, and they fill the air with such delicate odors as no perfumer has been able to distil.

As one walks along the streets large branches, laden heavily with roses perfect in form and color, thrust themselves over the fence across his way, as if to dare him to purloin their marvelous beauty. When you call on your friends they will stroll with you through the rose-garden and point out to you, by scores and fifties, the famous varieties that hitherto you have known only through the enchanting pages of the nurserymen's catalogues. And they will cut for you from the burdened bushes a great handful of the pure white "Niphetos," the indescribably lovely "Bon Silene," and others hardly less beautiful.

The Californians arrange their Flower Festivals to take place in the season of roses, in April or the first part of May. Usually all the ladies of the city work together to prepare the Festival, and devote the proceeds to some public charity. In some large hall, or may be in an immense Pavilion built for such uses, floral structures of the most varied designs are erected. Thinking the Los Angeles Festival would be among the best, I went there to visit it. As one entered the Pavilion he seemed going into a land of magic. Sides, roof, pillars, balustrades, were decked with branches of palm, cypress, and peppertree; long sprays of acacia, jasmine and roses; garlands of every variety of flowers from field and garden. In the center of the Pavilion was a temple forty feet high built of roses,-walls, pillars, arches, roof, one glowing mass of roses of every choice variety. all around the sides of the immense room, and in the gallery above, were other designs, temples, fountains, ruins, booths, all of flowers. A design that seemed to me very beautiful was a small temple used as a lemonade stand. It was made entirely of lemon and orange flowers,-walls, pillars, roof, were made of sprays of bloom freshly plucked from the great orchards found

Then