courtesy are more likely to reach his mind than any special propaganda.

Of the lack of theological interest in him the Jew can scarcely complain. If there has been error here, it has certainly been on the side of exaggeration. The formal relation of Christianity in its origin to Judaism perhaps we know; its essential relation, hardly. What was a peasant of Galilee? Under what influence, theological or social, did he live? Who can exactly tell? We have a series of Lives of Christ, from which eager readers fancy that they derive some new information about the Master, but which, in fact, are nothing but the gospel narrative shredded and mingled with highly-seasoned descriptions of Jewish customs and of the scenery of the lake of Gennesaret, while the personal idiosyncrasy of the biographer strongly flavors the whole. If there are any things of which we are sure, they are that Galilee was a place out of which orthodox Judaism thought that no good could come; that the teaching of the Galileans was essentially opposed to that of the Jewish doctor, and that Judaism strove to crush Christianity by all the means in its power. Thus if Israel was the parent of Christendom, it was as much in the way of antagonism as in that of generation. There is an incomparably greater affinity between Christianity and Platonism or Stoicism, than between Christianity and the Talmud. The exaggerated notion of Christians about the importance of the Jews has been curiously reproduced of late in an unexpect ed quarter, and under a most fantastic form. Even when theological belief has departed, religious sentiment is not easily expelled, nor does the love of the mysterious die out at once, especially in a woman's breast. Miss Martineau, after renouncing Theism, indemnified herself with mesmeric fancies. The authoress of "Daniel Deronda" in like manner indemnified herself with the Jewish mystery. No Jewish mystery, except a financial one, exists. Daniel Deronda is a showman who, if, after taking our money, he were desired to raise the curtain, would be obliged to confess that he had nothing to show. A relic of Tribalism, however vast and interesting, is no more hallowed than any other boulder of a primæval world. Every tribe

was the chosen people of its own God; and if it were necessary to institute a comparison between the different races in respect of their "sacredness," which it happily is not, the least sacred of all would be that which had most persistently refused to come into the allegiance of humanity.

One more remark is suggested by the discussion of the Jewish question, and perhaps it is the most important of all. It is surely time for the rulers of Christian Churches in general, and for those of the Established Church in particular, to consider whether the sacred books of the Hebrews ought any longer to be presented as they are now to Christian people as pictures of the Divine character and of the Divine dealings with mankind. Historical philosophy reads them with a discriminating eye. It severs the tribal and the primæval from the universal, that which is perennially moral, such as most of the commandments in the Decalogue, from that which by the progress of humanity has ceased to be So. It marks, in the midst of that which is utterly unspiritual and belongs merely to primitive society or to the Semite of Palestine, the faint dawn of the spiritual, and traces its growing brightness through the writings of prophets and psalmists till it becomes day. But the people are not historical philosophers. Either they will be misled by the uncritical reading of the Old Testament or they will be repelled. Hitherto they have been misled, and some of the darkest pages of Christian history, including those which record the maltreatment of Jews, in so far as it was religious, have been the result of their aberrations. Now they are being repelled, and the repulsion is growing stronger and more visible every day. It is not necessary, and it might be irritating, to rehearse the long series of equivocal passages which shocked the moral sense of Bishop Colenso, and of which Mr. Ingersoll, the great apostle of Agnosticism in America, makes use in his popular lectures with terrible effect. The question is one of the most practical kind, and it will not well brook delay. It is incomparably more urgent than that of Biblical revision.

I cannot conclude without repeating that if this was a case of opposition to

religious liberty, I should thoroughly share the emotions and heartily echo the words of Mr. Lucien Wolf. But I have convinced myself and I think Mr.

Wolf's own paper when carefully examined affords proof-that it is a case of a different kind.-The Nineteenth Century.

I AM One of those persons, envied for three months in the year and pitied for nine, who "live a little way" out of London. In the summer our residence is a charming one; the garden especially is delightful and attracts troops of London friends. They are not only always willing to dine with us, but drop in of their own motion and stay for the last train to town. The vague observation "any fine day," or the more evasive. phrase some fine day," used in complimentary invitations, are then very dangerous for us to employ, for we are taken at our word, just as though we meant it. This would be very gratifying, however expensive, if it only happened all the year round. But from October to June nobody comes near us. In reply to our modest invitations we then receive such expressions of tender regret as would convince the most sceptical: "a previous engagement," "indisposition of our youngest born,"" the horses ill," some catastrophe or other, always prevents our friends from enjoying another evening with us "like that charming one they spent last July." They hope, however, to be given the same happy chance again, when the weather is a little less inclement," by which they mean next summer. As for coming to dine with us in winter, they will see us further first-by which they mean nearer first. Sometimes at their own boards we hear this stated, though of course without any intentional application. Some guests will observe to us, à propos of dinners, "It is most extraordinary how people who live half a dozen miles out of town will attempt to ignore the seasons and expect you to go and dine with them just as if it was August, through four feet of snow. It does really seem -as Jones, our excellent host, was saying the other day—the very height of personal conceit.

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As we have occupied our present residence for some years, we have long had the conceit taken out of us; but we have still our feelings. Our social toes are not absolutely frost-bitten, and when thus trodden upon we are aware of the circumstance. It grieves us to know what Jones has thought (and said) of us, and my wife drops a quiet tear or two during our drive home in the brougham. I am bound to confess it is rather a long ride. I find myself dropping asleep before we have left brick and mortar behind us, and as we cross the great common near our home I feel a considerable change in the temperature. It is a beautiful breezy spot, with a lovely view in summer-time; the playground of the butterfly and the place of business of the bee; but in winter it is cold and lonely enough.

In the day-time there is nobody there at all. In the evening at uncertain intervals there is the patrol. In old times it used to be a favorite haunt of the Knights of the Road: during whose epoch, by the bye, I should fancy that those who lived in the locality found it even more difficult to collect their friends around them than now. It has still a bad name for tramps and vagabonds, which makes my wife a little nervous when the days begin to "draw in" and our visitors to draw off. She insists upon my going over the house before retiring to rest every night and making a report of report of "All's well." Being myself not much over five feet high in my boots, and considerably less in my slippers (in which I am wont to make these peregrinations), it has often suggested itself to my mind that it would be more judicious to leave the burglars to do their worst, as regards the plate and things, and not risk what is (to me) much more valuable. Of course I could hold the lives of half a dozen men in

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my hand "—a quotation from my favorite author-by merely arming myself with a loaded revolver; but the simple fact is, I am so unskilled in the use of any weapon (unless the umbrella can be called such), that I should be just as likely to begin with shooting number one (that is myself), as number two, the 66 first ruffian.' "Never willingly, my dear," say I to Julia, will I shed the life-blood of any human being, and least of all my own. On the other hand, as I believe in the force of imagination, I always carry on these expeditions, in the pocket of my dressing-gown, a child's pistol-belonging to our infant, Edward John-which looks like a real one, and would, I am persuaded, have all the effect of a real one in my hands without the element of personal peril. "Miserable ruffians,' I had made up my mind to say, when coming upon the gang, your lives are in my power" (here I exhibit the pistol's butt), "but out of perhaps a mistaken clemency I will only shoot one of you, the one that is the last to leave my house. I shall count six" (or sixteen, according to the number of the gang), "and then fire." Upon which they would, I calculated, all skedaddle helterpelter to the door they got in at, which I should lock and double-lock after them. You may ask, Why doublelock? but you will get no satisfactory reply. I know no more what to double-lock means than you do, but my favorite novelist-a sensational one always uses it, and I conclude he ought to know.

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It was the beginning of a misty October, when the leaves had fallen off early, and our friends had followed their example, and I had been sitting up alone into the small hours resolute to read my favorite author to the bitter end-his third volume, wherein all the chief characters (except the comic ones) are slain, save one who is left sound in wind and limb, but with an hereditary disposition to commit suicide. Somewhat depressed by its perusal and exceedingly sleepy, I went about my usual task of seeing all was right in a somewhat careless and perfunctory manner.

All was

right apparently in the dining-room, all right in the drawing-room, all right certainly in the study (where I had myself

been sitting), and all right-no, not quite all right in our little black hall or vestibule, where, upon the round table, the very largest and thickest pair of navvy's boots I ever saw were standing between my wife's neat little umbrella and a pair of her gardening gloves. Even in that awful moment I remember the sense of contrast and incongruity struck me almost as forcibly as the presence of the boots themselves, and they astonished and alarmed me as much as the sight of the famous footprints did Robinson Crusoe, and for precisely the same reason. The boot and the print were nothing in themselves, but my intelligence, now fully awakened, at once flew to the conclusion that somebody must have been there to have left them, and was probably in the neighborhood, and indeed under my roof, at that very moment. If you give Professor Owen a foot of any creature (just as of less scientific persons we say: Give them an inch, they will take an ell), he will build up the whole animal out of his own head; and something of the Professor's marvellous instinct was on this occasion mine. I pictured to myself (and as it turned out, correctly) a monster more than six feet high, broad in the shoulders, heavy in the jowl, with legs like stone balustrades, and hands, but too often clenched, of the size of pumpkins. The vestibule led into the pantry, where no doubt this giant, with his one idea, or half a one, would conclude the chief part of our plate to be, whereas it was lying-unless he had already taken it : a terrible thought that flashed through my mind, followed by a cluster of others, like a comet with its tail-under our bed.

Of course I could have gone into the pantry at once, but I felt averse to be precipitate; perhaps (upon finding nothing to steal) this poor wretch would feel remorse for what he had done and go away. It would be a wicked thing to deprive him of the opportunity of repentance. Moreover, it struck me that he might not be a thief after all, but only a cousin (considerably "removed") of one of the maid-servants. It would have been very wrong of her to have let him into the house at such an hour, but it was just possible that she had done so, and that he was at that moment sup

ping in the kitchen upon certain cold grouse which I knew were in the larder. Such a state of things, I repeat, would have been reprehensible, but I most sincerely hoped that it had occurred. A clandestine attachment, however misplaced, is better than burglary with possible violence. Coughing rather loudly, to give the gentleman notice that I was about, and to suggest that he had better take himself off in my temporary absence, I went up to the attics to make inquiries.

And here I am tempted to a digression concerning the excessive somnolency of female domestics. As regards our own, at least, they reminded me, except in number, of the Seven Sleepers. I knocked at their door about a quarter of an hour before attracting their attention, and it took me another quarter to convince them (through the keyhole) that it was not fire. If it had been, they must all have been burnt in their beds. Relieved upon this point, they were scarcely less excited and "put out" by the communication I was compelled to make to them, though conveyed with the utmost delicacy and refinement of which language is capable. I asked them whether by any accident one of them chanced to have a male relative who wore exceptionally thick highlows; and if he was likely to have called recently -that very evening, for example.

They all replied in indignant chorus that they had never heard of such a thing-by which they meant the suggestion; and that no cousins of theirs ever did wear highlows, being all females without exception.

Satisfied as to this (and greatly disappointed), I felt that it was now incumbent upon me to pursue my researches. Candle in hand and pistol in pocket, I therefore explored the pantry. To my great relief, it was empty. Was it possible that the thief had departed? If so, he had gone without his highlows, for there they stood on the vestibule table as large as life, and, from the necessity of the case, a size or two larger. Their build and bulk, indeed, impressed me more than ever. Was it possible that only one burglar had come in those boots?

I entered the kitchen: not a mouse was stirring; on the other hand, there

was a legion of black beetles, who scuttled away in all directions except one. They avoided the dresser - beneath which lay the gentleman I was looking for, curled up in a space much too small for him, but affecting to be asleep. Indeed, though previously I had not even heard him breathe, no sooner did the light from my candle fall upon him than he began to snore stertorously. I felt at once that this was to give me the idea of the slumber that follows honest toil. I knew before he spoke that he was going to tell me how, tired and exhausted, he had taken shelter under my roof, with no other object (however suspicious might be the circumstances of his position) than a night's rest, of which he stood in urgent need.

large jar of Devonshire cream which we had just received as a present, I should have thought it mere impudence. I did think it rather impudent when he said as he stood at the front door, which I had opened for his exit :

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Won't you give me half-a-crown, sir, to put me in an honest way of business?" But nevertheless, thinking it better to part good friends, I gave him what he asked for. He spit upon the coin for luck," as he was good enough to explain, and also perhaps as a substitute for thanks, since he omitted to give me any, and slouched down the gravel sweep and out of the gate.

It was three o'clock; the mist had begun to clear, and the moon and stars were shining. A sort of holy calm began to pervade me. I felt that I had done a good action and also got rid of a very dangerous individual, and that it was high time that I should go to bed in peace with all men. My wife, however, who had been roused by the servants, was on the tip-toe of expectation to hear all that had taken place, and of course I had to tell her. I described each thrilling incident with such dramatic force that she averred that nothing would ever induce her in my absence to sleep in the house again. This was perhaps but the just punishment for a trifle of exaggeration in the narrative with which I had here and there indulged myself, but it was very unfortunate. Now and then I find myself detained in town, after dining at the club, by circumstances over which I have no control (such as a rubber at whist, which will sometimes stretch like india rubber), and hitherto I had only had to telegraph in the afternoon to express my regret that there was a possibility of my nonreturn. Here was an end to all this, unless I could reassure her. I therefore began to dwell upon the unlikelihood of a second burglar ever visiting the house, which I compared with that famous hole made by a cannon-ball, said to be a place of security from cannon-balls for

"You do, do you?" said the patrol, in that sort of compassionate tone of voice in which the visitor of a lunatic asylum addresses an inmate warranted harmless. Well, as I am here, I'll just go over the house and make sure there is no more of them. It is not impossible, you see, he may have left a pal behind him.'

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There was only one pair of boots," said I confidently; of that I am certain."

Nevertheless, as I felt it would be a satisfaction to my wife, I acceded to his request. He tied his horse to the scraper, and came in with his lantern, and looked about him. There was nobody in the front hall, of course, for I had just come through it; in the drawing-room nobody, in the vestibule nobody-but on the table where they had stood before stood a pair of gigantic navvy's boots.

"What d'ye think of that?" whispered the patrol, pointing to one of them. They're the same,' I answered in hushed amazement, they're the very same. I could swear to them among a thousand. What can it mean?"

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And so he had. We found him lying in the very same place under the dresser, awaiting, I suppose, events.

O lor, is that you, Mr. Policeman ?" he said complainingly. "Then, it's all up."

If he had had to deal with me alone, he expected perhaps to have got another