not die, that his life remains, from how many is the priceless jewel of life, purity, honour, honesty, stolen by those into whose arms the cheerless home has driven them!

In a land which we are so fond of describing as being filled with Homes, and as being especially the most homeloving in the world, is it not useless to cry, "Behold how good and how pleasant a thing it is to dwell together in unity!" The sister will be loved, honoured, and cherished; the father, having sacrificed himself for the children in giving them his time, his love, his money, will find them ready to lay down their lives for his. Was there ever a more tender story than that of the Scottish henchman who went into battle with seven tall sons, and who placed one after another before his chief to shield him, and shouted out, as each fell, "another for Hector," till the whole seven died at the behest of the loyal old man? Were they taught to shun home as a sham, or a prison, or as something unpleasant ? Did they not rather love it, though rough and rude as Lord Lovat's barbarous hold, as the abode of truth and love, kindliness, openness, and honesty, where smiles were plentiful, and tears were wiped away, and hearts were strengthened, and father, mother, brothers, and sisters, formed a sheaf of arrows, which, when bound together, could not be injured by a giant, but if single could be broken by a

during the week days, and none of the graces of life are allowed to flourish. On Sundays, of course, there is harder work, hearing sermons and reading tracts; and on Monday the dull, sad week begins again.

This picture is from life: what shall we say of it? Why, that our severe man of fifty goes the right way to bring up hypocrites. "On the sly," the young men smoke; on the sly, they run into music-halls; on the sly, they do worse things. 'Tis no new thing. The old proverb says that Clergymen's sons always turn out badly." Why? Because the children are brought up surfeited with severe religion— not with the gentle, true religion of Christ, who was himself reproved by the prototypes of such severe men. In one of Crabbe's tales, wherein he begins quaintly—

"Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire,

Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher,"

that great painter of Nature shows how the sternness of the father nearly spoils the child. 'Tis an old, old story; not bad nature, but bad taste made it severe. Not always do such foolish severities end with the tragedies of crime or death. Bitter the reflection then, if the father has reflection. Over the dead Absalom-a fair, beautiful body whence the soul has fled, a casket whence the precious jewel is stolenyou may cry for ever, "Oh Absalom, my son, my son !"-to this earth he never can come back. But say the son does

not die, that his life remains, from how many is the priceless jewel of life, purity, honour, honesty, stolen by those into whose arms the cheerless home has driven them!

In a land which we are so fond of describing as being filled with Homes, and as being especially the most homeloving in the world, is it not useless to cry, "Behold how good and how pleasant a thing it is to dwell together in unity!" The sister will be loved, honoured, and cherished; the father, having sacrificed himself for the children in giving them his time, his love, his money, will find them ready to lay down their lives for his. Was there ever a more tender story than that of the Scottish henchman who went into battle with seven tall sons, and who placed one after another before his chief to shield him, and shouted out, as each fell, "another for Hector," till the whole seven died at the behest of the loyal old man? Were they taught to shun home as a sham, or a prison, or as something unpleasant? Did they not rather love it, though rough and rude as Lord Lovat's barbarous hold, as the abode of truth and love, kindliness, openness, and honesty, where smiles were plentiful, and tears were wiped away, and hearts were strengthened, and father, mother, brothers, and sisters, formed a sheaf of arrows, which, when bound together, could not be injured by a giant, but if single could be broken by a

during the week days, and none of the graces of life are allowed to flourish. On Sundays, of course, there is harder work, hearing sermons and reading tracts; and on Monday the dull, sad week begins again.

This picture is from life: what shall we say of it? Why, that our severe man of fifty goes the right way to bring up hypocrites. "On the sly," the young men smoke; on the sly, they run into music-halls; on the sly, they do worse things. 'Tis no new thing. The old proverb says that "Clergymen's sons always turn out badly." Why? Because the children are brought up surfeited with severe religionnot with the gentle, true religion of Christ, who was himself reproved by the prototypes of such severe men. In one of Crabbe's tales, wherein he begins quaintly—

"Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire,

Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher,"

that great painter of Nature shows how the sternness of the father nearly spoils the child. 'Tis an old, old story; not bad nature, but bad taste made it severe. Not always do such foolish severities end with the tragedies of crime or death. Bitter the reflection then, if the father has reflection. Over the dead Absalom—a fair, beautiful body whence the soul has fled, a casket whence the precious jewel is stolenyou may cry for ever, "Oh Absalom, my son, my son !"—to this earth he never can come back. But say the son does

not die, that his life remains, from how many is the priceless jewel of life, purity, honour, honesty, stolen by those into whose arms the cheerless home has driven them!

In a land which we are so fond of describing as being filled with Homes, and as being especially the most homeloving in the world, is it not useless to cry, "Behold how good and how pleasant a thing it is to dwell together in unity!" The sister will be loved, honoured, and cherished; the father, having sacrificed himself for the children in giving them his time, his love, his money, will find them ready to lay down their lives for his. Was there ever a more tender story than that of the Scottish henchman who went into battle with seven tall sons, and who placed one after another before his chief to shield him, and shouted out, as each fell," another for Hector," till the whole seven died at the behest of the loyal old man? Were they taught to shun home as a sham, or a prison, or as something unpleasant? Did they not rather love it, though rough and rude as Lord Lovat's barbarous hold, as the abode of truth and love, kindliness, openness, and honesty, where smiles were plentiful, and tears were wiped away, and hearts were strengthened, and father, mother, brothers, and sisters, formed a sheaf of arrows, which, when bound together, could not be injured by a giant, but if single could be broken by a