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are in England not merely a Christian but a national cause," he says, and goes on to show that, beside the great object, there is also the aim of farthering British trade! We think such a thought is unworthy of Dr. Wangemann and the people and Christians of his own great country. It is possible that in tho colonies there may be some from whom grudged subscriptions may be won by worldly motives; there are, however, few at home, who care to assist missions, but such as are really actuated by the desiro of seeing Christ's commission, to "preach the Gospel to every creature," fulfilled; for the cry of money “lost" in missions is only too often raised even in Britain. Our large subscriptionlists are owing to the, as yet, deeper Christian spirit of the nation in general; we could relate many pathetic stories of "systematic benevolence" kept to, even amid poverty sometimes greater than among German Christians; and there could be mach told of the " widows' mites " and many self-denying "children's offerings” which chiefly make up the incomes of our mission-societies.
Certainly, Dr. Wangemann indicates that “ The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel,” whose agents injure truth often elsewhere too, are most to blame for the low and, we reed not hesitate to say, sinful mixing of carnal things with spiritual; but all his countrymen do not make this distinction, and injustice done to our missionaries only strengthens the hands of those among us who, we regret to say, have wronged* the Berlin missionaries in the similar error that they were striving for German interests, for which Germany is generally considered to have a by no means unselfish regard in Africa, any more than otherwhere. We do not jadge it in this, and would be far from blaming the good German missionaries with it, or imagining that it detracts from their singleness of aim; but we only desire the same justice for ourselves. Dr. Wangemann's own admissions, politically and religiously, in our favour are very valuable, as evidently dictated by a Christian sense of justice; but he set before himself to write
not in the service of men, but in that of the trath and the kingdom of God," and this is likewise the motive power of all true missionaries and true Christians of
nation. God has given Britain empire for Christianising and civilising parposes ; bat, to the grief of her Christian children, we must acknowledge to not having hitherto risen to the height of Dr. Wangemann's supposition in making missions a "national cause."
* Siace Dr. Wangemann's book was published, in September, 1881, Pniel has, at length been rightfully secured to the Berlin Missionary Society by Britain. Ås to Saron, the German missionaries have a most just claim for compensation, but we erred in it through our mistaken wish of pleasing the Boers who were the real aggressors, as Dr. Wangemann's own report shows; they should make good what they injured, but, for our honour, we should see to this.
In South Africa, however, oar rulers have ever encouraged mig. sions; yet Dr. Wangemann seems to think this almost a fault, because, with honesty traly British, they stated the reason to be that they are means of civilisation, and of making the natives contented under our rule. With this, or the nation's trade, our own missionaries* have no more concern than the German brethren, and we mourn as much as any over the fact that all “the white colonists have built a wall, high as heaven, against the conversion of the heathen” by their ill condact, and especially by the drink trade. The sin and boundless evil consequences of this traffic we know and feel, and our missionaries are continually praying and declaiming against it. All Dr. Wangemann says as to intoxicating drinks being a fruitful seed of native unrest is perfectly right, and ve earnestly wish his words might be attended to by our Government; but we would ask him, Should Germany ever rule Africa in our stead—as many of his countrymen wish-does he think wonld it limit public houses there? It is not doing so at home, and this evil is growing even in Germany every day. Dr. Wangemann's information and observations on the want of wisdom shown in the disarming of the Basutos and other friendly tribes, who had served as faithfully and well, is worthy deep consideration, and our, as he truly calls it, "inexplicable" settlement with the Zulas might be well pondered in the light of his pages. His reflections on the use of missions are both beautifal and true. One is particularly striking, and with it we will conclude: “And the baptized heathen can also pray, childlike, simply, heart-touching, heaven-storming; and they pray for those who have sent them the Word of God. Who knows in what state old Christendom would be to-day, if deprived of these intercessions !
BY BEATRICE BRISTOWE,
CHAPTER XIV.-A BROTHERLY COVENANT. "I REALLY mast object to your reading so much,” Mrs. Rivers said one morning, as she came into the dining-room where Irene was
We would scarcely have noticed this point, but that of late years we have frequently read and heard this, to use the mildest term, undeserved reproach repeated on our missionaries in Germany itself ; but we wonder at Dr. Wangemann taking up what is simply another form of that intense jealousy of Britain so general all over the Continent.
seated on a stool, her eyes and mind so intently engaged with the book resting on her knee that she did not perceive the entrance of her hostess. “I am sure Miss Ingram would not approve. Much reading is injarious to the eyes, it leads to stooping and wastes time; it is a bad habit altogether. And poetry,” she added, catching a glimpse of the book, "is most unfit for children; dangerous, very unfit, indeed!”
“ It is Wordsworth, ma'am, I am reading," said Irene, thinking that sufficient vindication.
"It is all the same--poetry and I object," persisted Mrs. Rivers, whose own mind had been so little injured by any reading of the kind that to her “The Excursion” and “Childe Harold," being equally unknown, were, indeed, all the same. Irene did not answer, and bit her lip to prevent its carling into a sarcastic smile.''
"Do employ yourself with something useful," continued Mr Rivers ; “just come with me," and she led Irene upstairs, and into the drawing-room, which felt very chilly after the snag parlour, where there was a fire, and into which the sun, although it was midwinter, was shining pleasantly, “Look! here is work!”
And work certainly there was. The couch was entirely shrouded with a veil of fine knitting ; netted-curtains hung behind the damask at both the windows; over the backs and arms of the easychairs were crotchet coverings; little stools, splendid with glittering beads, stood on each side the fireplace ; and tables and chiffonier were loaded with ornaments, each standing on its own mat of crotchet, bead, or worsted work, or of cut paper.
“Nearly all these were made by my daughter Rose; you see how usefully she occapies her time! And on the bed, in the best bedroom, is a quilt of fine knitting, that was done by my sister; and in a chest upstairs there is a hearth-rug and six chair-bottom covers--the whole history of Isaac and Rebecca-worked in worsted and silk by my great aunt. She became blind before she was thirty-two.
“Poor lady! I am so sorry,” said Irene, to whom blindness seemed so anspeakably dreadful a calamity that her sympathies went out instantly to the veriest stranger so afflicted.
“My daughter, Hilda, I am aware, devotes herself less to these things than to literary pursuits; but then she has a most ancommon intellect. And she writes more than she reads, which is strengthening to the mind. Much reading, Hilda says, destroys originality ; indeed, that is universally admitted. There, my dear," she said, changing her tone, “I daresay you have brought some work ?" “Yes, I have some crochet in my box; I will get it if you
'Yes, get it, and then come down and have some lunch ;” and Mrs. Rivers, with a sense of having judiciously discharged her duty as deputy-governess, hastened to put out cake and biscuits, in her capacity of hostess. It was a long time before Irene returned to the parlour, without her work, and with heightened colour, and her eyes sparkling. “Oh, Mrs. Rivers, I have been on the roof! and it was beautiful-grand !
“On the roof !” exclaimed Mrs. Rivers.
“Yes, ma'am ; Jane was sweeping those dark stairs, and she had the door a little open for light, and she said I might go up, and I went, and on to the corner; and oh! ma'am, there was the city all lying below in the sunshine, and the towers and spires, and the mighty mass of houses, where people are living their lives; and beyond was the country, far away, and the hills! And just opposite was Straight Street, and I could see the people and the carriages and the horses all going up and down, so small, yet so distinct in the full light; and the ham of the great city came up into the silence where I stood and all at once the chimes played from St. Mary's Tower, clear, yet far away, soft and sweet-oh, so sweet, and I was so glad ! Oh, ma'am, there come moments into our lives so full of joy, they are worth days and weeks; so full, that I can't pat it into words! I shonld not like to leave this world; I should not like to die!”
“On a roof, Irene,” repeated Mrs. Rivers, severely.
“ Indeed, ma'am, it's safe. I did not get on the parapet, and Jane pat a shawl over my head.”
“A roof is a place only fit for cats, and for plumbers when there comes a leak—not for a young lady.”
“Nero stood on a tower looking down on a city,” remarked Hilda.“ He was not a character deserving imitation. Do you stadz Roman history, Miss Laureston ? "
“I have stood myself where 'great Cæsar fell,”” said Irene, proudly.
“If he fell from the tower, there is a warning,” remarked Mrs. Rivers. “I desire you never go on the roof again—never, ander any circumstances, remember, Irene! Where is your work?”
"I forgot; I will fetch it,” she said, glad to escape from the room, afraid that she might laugh, and almost equally that she might cry; for she had planned asking John to let her up again on to the roof in the evening, that sho might look on the myriad lights gleaming in the sea of darkness below; or, if the weather should change and snow come, how strange to behold the city clad in white !
"In future you will work an hour and a half each morning,"
Mrs. Rivers said, on her return. “Bat now, my child, do have some lunch.”
So Irene had to read less and crochet more ; bat generally Lettie sat with her, and then she could talk, which was to Irene a pleasure next to reading.
“Please tell me a story," said Lettie one morning, as they sat together.
“What story shall I tell—an old one, or a new one ?"
“A new one, please! I tell them over again to Minnie, and she would like a new one."
“ To Minnie ?" asked Irene. "Yes; my doll. Didn't
you know her name ? » “And what shall the story be about ? ” “ About a dog, please.”
"A dog ? Let me think-yes, I know! I am going to tell you about a dog that lived a long, long, very long time ago; hundreds and hundreds, and hundreds of years ago!
“Oh!” exclaimed Lettie, with a deep-drawn sigh, and opening her eyes wide; but the impression of awe soon subsided. “ Please, was his name Spot ?”
“No, not Spot. He was not an English dog; he lived quite too long ago for that; so he had not an English name.
He was a Grecian dog, and lived in the days when the world was young; his name was Argus. He was born on an island called Ithaca, far away in the Ionian Sea, where many islands lie in the blue, blue waters, and the sky is blue above, and the glad sun shines brightly. And a pleasant place Ithaca was, with shady forests, and green pastares where oxen fed, and with craggy rocks where goats climbed, and streams of water, and hills covered with trees. It was Ulysses, King of the island, who was Argas's master; and Ulysses was fit to be a king, for he was a kingly man, glorious to look upon, and wise and good and brave and patient. His Queen was named Penelope, and she was very beautiful.
“And Argus was beautiful too, and swift to run, and fearless. He would chase the goats over the rocks, and the harts across the hills, and the hares over the fields; and he would follow the wild beasts into the deep woods, amid the thickets, under the great trees; and he never ran away, however great and fierce the wild beasts were. And Argus was as gentle as he was brave. He would obey his master 'ever, and lick the hand of Queen Penelope, and let the little prince Telemachus stroke his long silken ears. And his master loved him; and when he sat feasting in his marble hall, where the lofty roof was held up by pillars of carved cypresswood, Argus would stand at his feet, and look at him with his deep brown eyes; and when Ulysses fed him, Argus would take