of much usefulness as well as popularity in nearly all the favourite hymns that are accepted as such throughout Christendom. Every one joins in them, as it were, of his own accord-from his own personal thought and feeling-without exhortation or command from another.

In that wonderfully successful volume, "Hymns Ancient and Modern," if we pass over those numerous hymns for Saints' Days, Martyrs, and other occasions of a character that can never aspire to become popular, it is remarkable what a large majority are written in the first person. It is the same with all other good modern selections; and my object in these remarks is to draw some attention to this point, as one having an important bearing in the very difficult business of choosing hymns. It may perhaps be of use outside the circle of those whose care and study is especially devoted to compiling our new Hymn-Book; for in selecting hymns for public worship, if ever two hymns on the same subject present themselves for selection, otherwise equally suitable, but one written in the first and another in the second or third person, I would say choose the former.

A word or two may be added as to the number of hymns to be finally printed in our new book. "Hymns Ancient and Modern," last edition, covers every conceivable want for its own votaries, and yet it has but 473 hymus! Common experience shows that no Society in the New Church uses more than about 200 or 250 hymns. If, therefore, every hymn chosen by the Committee be a really good one, and chosen well with reference to subject and occasions, surely 600 will be sufficient. JOHN BRAGG.

A CHRISTMAS VISION.

I WOULD recall a few impressions, which, vague and sentimental as they may appear to some, will yet be of service if they awaken a response in the minds and hearts of the young. I would offer them in a form more suited to the season, and to the kindling fancies of those I chiefly address, than would be a mere didactic statement, and so ask you to bear with me while I relate a few circumstances which may have a close relation to us all.

I seemed in thought to be roaming over an almost immeasurable wilderness. It was a wilderness which had been peopled, but as I passed over it the land was dark, silent, and deserted. Only the

hoarse cry of the bittern was heard anon beside the desolate pool, or from the dismantled ruin came at intervals the sullen flap of the wings of some bird of night, startled or seeking its prey. Further on, after long spaces had been traversed, the shore of the Great Sea was reached, and the dull roar of the pulsing surge seemed to mark with monotonous regularity the falling steps of Time.

But far beyond the beating of the Great Sea, in the now bright east, which beamed with morning beauty on approaching it, there seemed to be life and motion. The ruins of the wilderness were there, but they were clothed with verdant garlands, and flowers smiled upon them, like Beauty on the brow of Care. The desert. was there, but even in its most parched areas the green lizard, with eyes like jewels, basked in the rays of the new-risen sun, and the cacti suspended their miracles of colour between their hard and spiny leaves. The water was there, but instead of a desolate pool it was a running fountain, purling beneath the welcome palm-grove, and fringed with the sweetest green.

The Eastern town was there. Its white walls and rising towers, its small windows with lattice and casement, its flat roofs and narrow streets. A strange group of figures was there, strangely habited, men, women, and children, gathering with the early dawn to make their journey to the royal city. Among them was One whom it were wisdom to recognise in His obscurity. A boy in years, clad in the garb of the peasant, with mien erect and steadfast gait. His presence was one which would strike the earnest beholder with wonder and adoration. A face which, while of the Jewish type, was yet an embodiment of all that in art and poetry had been given to the highest type of being; a noble head, well placed upon a stalwart neck, like a tower that crowned a rock; a brow that, well formed and smooth, was surrounded by a wealth of hair, which, warm in colour, seemed, like a glory, to encircle it; a nose not too aquiline, that bespake a patient and resolute will; lips that, while strongly curled with sincerest decision, yet trembled with the pathos of purest sensibility. But those eyes, that pierced to the soul of him upon whom they fell-now brilliant with beautiful thought, now tender with divine feelingtheir sublime depth and brightness fitly mirrored the dwelling of a God!

The procession passed, and with it passed the central figure in silent and moving simplicity. His path was traced in light; and as I turned to retrace my steps, it came upon my mind like an inward conviction that the new world of the future had begun. The distant darkness seemed to fly as if it were the darkness of ages.

The paths

of the Great Sea were covered with ships, and the wilderness, as I returned over it, was awaking into beauty. The pastures were alive with flocks, cities arose in the solitude, and where stood the dismantled ruin the fair proportions of new fabrics met my astonished gaze. In the desert where the lizard was wont to dwell the tramp of busy myriads was heard, and the world was troubled with the spirit of unrest. The forest of life resounded with the clang of arms and the tumult of war. The cries of defeat or victory rang through the alarmed air, out of the battle came at intervals a peace more or less broken, but the families of mankind were forming themselves into communities of a better hope, giving promise of brighter days to Thus fared the stirring vision.

come.

But I had returned and sat down, as wearied with a long journey, while thoughts pressed upon me like a crowd. I repelled them one by one, till at last I fell into a long train of musings upon the scenes that had passed before me. The sublime desolations, the beatific vision, the better life of the world, all formed a part of my meditation. Still, as I looked at the mighty past, and beheld the trifling present, my thoughts grew darker and my feelings stronger, until at last I could not forbear exclaiming aloud

"Where is the glory and the beauty of history in the dull routine of common life? What is there that shall live in these ignoble times ? Why do we believe that this is an age of light and progress when so many lives around us are at a standstill, and so many minds quite dark?"

"Be not so sure of that," said a voice behind me. "We see but in part, and prophesy in part, while those who can see the issues and the purposes of daily human life may find it greater than you deem."

I turned without alarm, but with kindling interest, to the smiling speaker. It was a blest surprise to me to behold his face-a face I had known, revered, loved in early youth, before it was taken from me, yet not worn with toil or pale with care, as in the days long past. The time of evening had merged into the eternal morning with that tried and striving soul. I started up, I cried out a name, and rejoiced in the peaceful rapture of a recognition that may not be described.

"And now," I commenced, after the sacred hours of greeting were passed, "pray, tell me why you are convinced that the present stage of earthly time is one of mental light, and of growing human character?"

"Stay!" he replied.

"Do not assume too much. The purest light of earth is weak and dim as compared with a more lasting beam, and human character also, while still forming, is always wanting in

coherence and symmetry. All life is effort, and the many efforts honestly made to obtain more light and moral freedom are the best promise for the future."

"Yea; but the future might be darker than the present, if we might judge from what we see around us. There is effort, truly, but effort for private ends. How many young men of the present day strive for light apart from the personal advantages it will bring? Science, art, literature-all must be stimulated by prizes and honours. Even the preacher of truth himself will now seek the benefice by trimming his sails to the wind of popular favour. The more I move among men in the world, the more am I convinced that a noble, unselfish life is little known or even credited in this high-pressure age of doing good for the gain it will bring."

"True! this may be so to a larger extent than at first appears; but, at the same time, there is at the present day a real love of light among many on earth greater than is visible to any mortal eye. The garish flowers of your garden may be the most prominent, but they are not the sweetest. The violet which blooms unseen beneath the hedgerow sheds a lasting fragrance on the air; so the true seekers after truth for the truth's sake are in often humble places in the world pursuing their divine mission. They are unheeded for awhile, but the sweet spheres they shed around them are more potent and enduring than the gaudy intellectual show of the vain self-seeker.

"Yet that gaudy intellectual show, how universal it is among modern thinkers! How many splendid displays do we see, how much fine language used, and how many capable actions, yet when we closely examine the matters, we find, like the melancholy poet, that

'The trail of the serpent is over them all!""

"So must it needs be," replied my angel visitor, "for many a human year to come. The divine unselfishness of Truth, its meek certainty of progress and modesty of aim, will not be attained until after a contest of years, perhaps of ages, with the evil of human nature. The wrongs of centuries are not cured in an hour, for the suffering and darkness of long cycles of time are the only passages by which mankind can be freely brought to a more glorious destiny."

"Yet are we not led to believe that we are living in a new and brighter day? Do we not boast ourselves that, for us at least, light is come into the world?"

"Yea, verily! But why do you not finish the text you begin to quote? Is it not also stated that men loved darkness rather than light, and is not a sad reason given for this? Nay, more; it must not be thought that those who have knowledge of light in their memories

are therefore much better than their brethren who sit in darkness. They are worse, unless they walk in the light."

"And how many do so walk?" I asked hastily.

"There you wish to know what it would not be well for you to learn. Yet be sure there are many men and women walking among you seeking the divine ideal figured to you in vision, and which they shall yet find, albeit, through the gate of tears. Turned to the light which doth shine inward, they cast aside, day by day, the grossness and care which before obstructed their view. Often and often is it true in reference to those who have all the advantages of knowledge, culture, and ability, that the first shall be last and the last first in the attainment of the kingdom of light."

"Then you are of opinion that we ought to have faith in human progress, even where we do not see it?"

to

"The law of charity itself, which is an honest desire to do justice to others, demands this. Know you not the tale of Diogenes, still famed in your lower sphere, how he is said to have gone forth into the city with a lantern, seeking for an honest man? Did it never occur you that if this same professor of philosophy had been satisfied of his own perfect honesty, he might have still remained in his tub, convinced that no further search was needed? So is it with most men of a cynical habit; their charges against others frequently mirror the features of their own evils. But, beyond all, remember this—a man can only be sure of making honest and enlightening one person, and that person who may be so enlightened and made honest by Divine help is himself.”

I cast my eyes downwards as the force and depth of meaning of the words just uttered weighed upon me. A kind "farewell" was borne upon the air around me, like the music of evening bells. I did not look up, partly because of the fit of musing which had seized upon me, partly because the sounds lulled my soul into a softly-breathing calm. For a few moments more the murmuring of the half-heard greeting wandered near, and then died away like the slumberous echoes of a distant waterfall. When they ceased, I slowly turned and looked for

my late companion.

Oh, what a change had come! Instead of the glory and the vision, the voice and the heavenly ministrant, were the dying lamp of my small room, the midnight oil having been nearly spent, the books of my study, and the embers of the declining fire. I started up as from a dream, and with a feeling in which despair for a vanished radiance almost mingled with alarm. Even as I started sounds of earthly music burst upon the stillness of the midnight air, and the tones of