The Master-Christian

beautiful grey towers which crown the ancient city of Rouen, the sacred chime pealed for

hey had thought of, yet left unuttered,-the bargeman and his barge slipped quietly away together down the windings of the river out of sight;-the silence following the clangour of the chimes was deep and impressive-and the great Sun had all the heaven to himself as he went down. Through the beautiful rose-window of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, he flashed his parting rays, weaving bright patterns of ruby, gold and amethyst on the worn pavement of the ancient pile which enshrines the tomb of Richard the Lion-Hearted, as also that of Henry the Second, husband to Catherine de Medicis and lover of the brilliant Diane de Poitiers,-and one broad beam fell purpling aslant into the curved and fretted choir-chapel especially dedicated to the Virgin, there lighting up with a warm glow the famous alabaster tomb known as "Le Mourant" or "The Dying One." A strange and awesome piece of sculpture truly, is this same "Mourant"!-showing, as it does with deft and almost appalling exactitude, the last convulsion of a strong man's body gripped in the death-agony. No delicate delineator of shams and conventions was the artist of olden days whose ruthless chisel shaped these stretched sinews, starting veins, and swollen eyelids half-closed over the tired eyes!-he must have been a sculptor of truth,-truth downright and relentless,-truth divested of all graceful coverings, and nude as the "Dying One" thus realistically portrayed. Ugly truth too,-unpleasant to the sight of the worldly and pleasure-loving tribe who do not care to be reminded of the common fact that they all, and we all, must die. Yet the late sunshine flowed very softly on and over the ghastly white, semi-transparent form, outlining it with as much tender glory as the gracious figure of Mary Virgin herself, bending with outstretched hands from a grey niche, fine as a cobweb of old lace on which a few dim jewels are sewn. Very beautiful, calm and restful at this hour was "Our Lady's Chapel," with its high, dark intertwisting arches, mutilated statues, and ancient tattered battle-banners hanging from the black roof and swaying gently with every little breath of wind. The air, perfumed with incense-odours, seemed weighted with the memory of prayers and devotional silences,-and in the midst of it all, surro

a tender smile brightening the fine firm curve of his lips,-"it

ume his thin, black-garmented form after the fashion in which flames consumed the martyrs of old,-the worn figures of mediaeval saints in their half-broken niches stared down upon him stonily, as though they woul

he Evangelists surrounding him,-they were the followers of Christ,-and being such, they were bound to rejoice in the tortures which m

us chiefly, alas! as 'Le Mourant', was a faithful servant of our Blessed Lord, why the

vacant, vast, and suggestive of a sublime desolation, the grand length and width of the Latin Cross which shapes the holy precincts, stretched into vague distance, one or two lamps were burning dimly at little shrines set in misty dark recesses,-a few votive candles, some lit, some smouldered out, leaned against each other crookedly in their ricketty brass stand, fronting a battered statue of the Virgin. The Angelus had ceased ringing some ten minutes since,-and now one solemn bell, swinging high up in the Cathedral to

suddenly to oppress the mind of the venerable prelate with a curious sense of mingled awe and fear. Trembling a little, he knew not why, he softly drew a chair from one of the shadowy corners, where all such seats were piled away out of sight so that they might not disfigure the broad and open beauty of the nave, and, sitting down, he covered his eyes with one hand and strove to rouse himself from the odd, half-fainting sensation which possessed him. How glorious now was the music that poured like a torrent from the hidden organ-loft! How full of searching and potential proclamation!-the proclamation of an eter

ometh, think ye He sha

lled. Had anyone spoken these words?-or had they risen of themselves as it were in lett

OMETH, THINK YE HE SHA

r once occurred to him that the "Cardinal's roses," as they were called, were looked upon by the poor people who received them as miraculous flowers long after they had withered,-that special virtues were assigned to them-and that dying lips kissed their fragrant petals with almost as much devotion as the holy crucifix, because it was instinctively believed that they contained a mystic blessing. He knew nothing of all this;-he was too painfully conscious of his own shortcomings,-and of late years, feeling himself growing old, and realising that every day brought him nearer to that verge which all must cross in passing from Time into Eternity, he had been sorely troubled in mind. He was wise with the wisdom which comes of deep reading, lonely meditation, and fervent study,-he had instructed himself in the modern schools of thought as well as the ancient,-and though his own soul was steadfastly set upon the faith he followed, he was compassionately aware of a strange and growing confusion in the world,-a combination of the elements of evil, which threatened, or seemed to threaten, some terrible and imminent disaster. This sorrowful foreboding had for a long time preyed upon him, physically as well as mentally; always thin, he had grown thinner and more careworn, till at the beginning of the year his health had threatened to break down altogether. Whereupon those who loved him, growing alarmed, summoned a physician, who, (with that sage experience of doctors to whom thought-trouble is an inexplicable and incurable complica

any of his compeers-"We have failed to follow the Master's teaching in its true perfection. We have planted in ourselves a seed of corruptio

words of St. John the

rd

THOU HAST A NAME THAT

TO DIE,-FOR I HAVE NOT FOUND THY WORKS PERFECT BEFORE GOD. REMEMBER

LL COME ON THEE AS A THIEF, AND THOU SHALL

HAVE NOT DEFILED THEIR GARMENTS, AND THEY SHA

T; AND I WILL NOT BLOT HIS NAME OUT OF THE BOOK OF LIFE, BUT I

world. He drew no comparisons,-he never considered that, as absolutely as day is day and night is night, his own beautiful and placid life, lived in the faith of God and Christ, was tortured by no such storm-tossed tribulation as that which affected the lives of many others,-and that the old trite saying, almost despised because so commonplace, namely that "goodness makes happiness," is as eternally true as that the sun shines in heaven, and that it is only evil which creates misery. To think of himself in the matter never occurred to him; had he for a moment entertained the merest glimmering of an idea that he was better, and therefore happier than most men, he would, in hi

he time,-there was nothing that seemed to satisfy-even the newest and most miraculous results of scientific research

oo tired to lift itself to the light; too weary and worn out to pray. Perhaps the end of all pre

great High Altar, which at that distance could only just be discerned among its darkening surroundings by the little flickering flame of the suspended

OMETH, THINK YE HE SHA

hoed in his ears,-the deep silence around him seemed waiting expectantly for some r

of many books He shall find Himself scorned and rejected,-in the cheap and spurious philosophy of modern egotists He will see His doctrines mocked at and denounced as futile. Few men there are in these days who would deny themselves for His sake, or sacrifice a personal passion for the purer honouring of His name. Inasmuch as the pride of great learning breeds arrogance, so the more the wonder of God's work is displayed to us, the more are we dazzled and confo

rave Turkish warriors who are, with all their faults, at any rate true to the faith they profess-and lastly-more than all-of the thousands upon thousands of Christians in Christian lands, who no more believe in Him whose holy name they take in vain, than in any Mumbo-Jumbo fetish of untaught barbarians. Were these to perish utterly? Had THEY no immortal souls to save? Had the churches been at work for eighteen hundred years and more, to bring about no better results than this,-namely that there were only "A FEW NAMES IN SARDIS"? If so, were not the churches criminally to blame? Yea, even hol

rnal immensities," argued the Cardinal almost

science the venerable Felix knew. Nothing can be wasted,-not a breath, not a scene, not a sound. All is treasured up in Nature's store-house and can be eternally reproduced at Nature's will. Then what was to becom

OMETH, THINK YE HE SHA

the Cathedral, he dipped his fingers into the holy water that glistened dimly in its marble basin near the black oak portal, and made the sign of the cross on brow and breast;-"He

ong shadows, gathering heavily in the aisles and richly sculptured hollows of the side-chapels, brought night before its time. The last votive candle at the Virgin's shrine flickered down and disappeared like a firefly in dense blackness,-the last echo of the bell died in a tremulous vibration up among the high-springing roof-arches, a