hymn to such a heart-invading purpose that the tears ran down my face.

Then one evening I must go with my good friend to the feast of the Carpenters' Guild in their splendid hall-my last memory of our sojourn in London that spring. I had seen the hall before in his company, but here were the members of the guild on one of their holidays, cheerful and ready for the good cheer. I was introduced to the oldest earl in England by strict descent, who gave me two fingers to shake, and was told that they came over with the Conqueror, but have still to find out what they had done besides. It was one of those dinners I suppose you can only partake of in the old London guilds —“ a feast of fat things, . . . and wines on the lees well refined"; but all things were done decently and in order. There was a bishop on the dais to ask the blessing, and a toastmaster who was not a guest, but came in at intervals to propose the toast and then sing a song, as the custom had been observed for hundreds of years,- a person worthy the pen of Dickens. And, when the feast was over and done but, as I guessed, not done with by some who sat near us there were speeches to the honor and glory of the fine old craft.

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The first speech was made by the bishop, a fine old dignitary of the first water; for there are degrees in bishops, as I learned in Canterbury when I was the guest of Canon Freemantle. I sat next a bishop, and said to him—for we were in a merry mood- I felt a little proud, for I had never dined with one of his rank before. "Do not be proud," he said, laughing in his sleeve. They have made a lot suffragan bishops, and I am one. But I think we are not held in any great esteem; for I went not long ago to a place in my charge to preach and confirm, where I was not known, and overheard one old farmer say to another, 'T' bishop's coming to preach, did ye know?' 'Ay, I know,' the other answered, but he's only o' of them sufferin' bishops.' Do not be proud." So the bishop, I said, made the first speech, and he was followed by a fine old orthodox divine, the minister of an eminent church in Manchester. He was to be the last speaker that evening; but, when he sat down, the president said, "We have a gentleman with us, a minister from America; and we shall be pleased if he will say a word to us before we go home.' Sir James whispered, 66 You are the man." And I was of course quite unprepared to say even the word. But the

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word came to me in a flash, it was given me what I should say. So, after due praise of the good addresses to which we had listened - we always do that, you know, in any case, but here I could speak with a good will I said: "There is one word more can be said of honorable craft, your which to my own mind casts the fairest radiance on you and yours. Jesus Christ was a carpenter, and wrought at the bench, as nearly as we can make out, until he was about thirty years of age, before he went forth on his holy mission." I cannot remember what I said besides in the few moments, but had reason to believe it was a welcome word; for the good orthodox divine clasped my hand as we left the hall, saying, "Why should I have forgotten to say that word myself?" I thought I knew the reason, but did not tell him.

XXVII

Our sojourn in England that summer and a journey on the continent from Antwerp through the Rhineland to Switzerland and thence by Geneva to Paris are memories I may touch before I have done if the play seems to be worth the candle, but will only say now that we came home in September to find a warm welcome all along the line.

We were purely well, the father, the mother, and the little maid, and no member of the church had been taken from our midst. They were all there to welcome us in the church, the Sundayschool, and at the week-night reception.

We came home on the Batavia, and they had a model of her made, studded all over with tuberoses and set on the communion table. Their fragrance still lingers in my memory as I write these words, and in my heart. This would be the third week in September when we held the first services in our church, and sang, as I still remember, the hymn which was written for the dedication of our church :

"Unto thy temple, Lord, we come,

With thankful hearts to worship thee;
And pray that this may be our home,
Until we touch eternity."

This was our psalm and prayer, our hope and joy; and we wist not that the day of mourning and desolation was drawing near when the words of the ancient Hebrew prophet would again be fulfilled.

"Saith God, I will shew wonders in the heavens above,

And signs on the earth beneath,

Blood and fire, vapor and smoke.

The sun shall be turned into darkness,
And the moon into blood."

When on the third Sunday of our services and in the evening, as I was telling the story to a great congregation of the wreck and ruin we had seen in Paris, and of what we had been told by friends who had survived the siege and the great woe of the Commune, never leaving the city for a day, the fire was kindled by a mere accident, as the story stands, that lifted our fair city in the lurid flame for a spectacle to the world. And on the Monday night, when I saw the last home burn, far up in the north, the fire