villages, would flock out to offer fruit, beer, black bread, whatever they had, to the thirsty and dusty soldiers. It was terribly hot weather for marching that summer, but as yet the men were full of confidence and good-humour. The Emperor was on his way to the frontier; in a few days more some great blow would be struck. Captain Bignon had now got to the stage of nodding his head over it with a look of profound wisdom, as if he knew all about what was coming, but durst not say a word for fear of some spy catching it up and betraying the counsels of his country to the enemy. The very schoolchildren were in high excitement. The boys played at soldiers; the girls made lint, little enough understanding what use it was to be put to.

One splendid summer day, Victor took a long ride to see the camp which was now forming in the north of Alsace. That was a fine sight, the fields dappled everywhere with gay and varied uniforms moving about among the snow-white tents; it was like an enormous fair, crowded with visitors from all the country round. The bands were playing lively opera airs. Dandy officers, all pointed moustaches, gold lace, clanking scabbards, and highly-polished boots, were lounging about smoking their cigars with an air of consummate elegance, or escorting their lady friends, and explaining to them the murderous machines which were to make such short work with the poor Prussians. The men, with their coats off and their shirts open for the heat, were smoking, drinking, lying on the grass, cleaning their arms, quarrelling, gossiping, laughing, fetching water, cooking dinner, and so on; some were sleeping in the shade, or writing letters in their tents; some, more energetic, were playing blind man's buff and other noisy games, as merry as children.

Here was set up the stand of a vivandière, whose dashing costume would have become her better if she had not been so fat and ugly; there some half-dozen young conscripts strolled about arm in arm, working off their enthusiasm by shouting out the "Marseillaise"; in another place a motley group had gathered round a sergeant of Zouaves, who was exhibiting a comically-dressed doll under the name of Monsieur de Bismarck, and making this puppet go through a variety of ludicrous antics, to the vast amusement of the spectators. Small parties marched along in full uniform to relieve guard or bound on some other duty. The "red breeches," that familiar name of the French infantry, swarmed everywhere; then there would come a cavalry encampment, with hundreds of fine horses tethered to short stakes; then a park of guns, all ranged neatly in a row, with everything about them as neat and clean as a new pin; then a battalion of swarthy Turcos, many of them real negroes, ferocious-looking fellows, accompanied by a perfect menagerie of dogs, cats, birds, monkeys, and white rats, that climbed about their masters' shoulders and fed out of their hands. These were the redoubtable warriors at the very sight of whom the Prussians were to fly in terror. And there was the railway, on which long trains kept constantly snorting and groaning up, bringing fresh soldiers by the thousand and hour by hour new streets arose in this city of tents.

In all the inspiriting scene there appeared, to an unfamiliar eye, little hint of the dark side of war.

Young Victor's heart swelled with pride to find himself among the gallant defenders of his fatherland. Plenty of pride there was around him and confidence, but too little serious thought of that purpose for which this picturesque pomp had been brought together. The men seemed to look on the coming campaign as a mere holiday trip. It was a Sunday: at that hour the German soldiers were at church, humbling themselves before the God of battles, and praying for success in a war upon which they entered unwillingly but with stern resolution,

Every day now some battle might be expected, and all over France people were in a fever of impatience that this grand army of theirs did not advance. The peasantry of Alsace, who had at first welcomed the soldiers with such generous enthusiasm, soon began to complain bitterly of the devastation they were making; they took the poor people's palings for fires, pulled up whole fields of potatoes, broke down the branches of fruit trees, stripped the grapes not yet ripe from the vines.

What could they do, when armed men swarmed through the country, playing the thief thus on a large scale, and their officers, to all appeals for punishment or protection, only answered by a shrug, or a word of cold comfort, "This is war!" The soldiers declared they could not get enough to eat. Why, then, not carry these ravages on to German soil? To excited patriots it seemed so easy to march straight off, with drums beating and colours flying, into the land of the enemy; and, unhappily for France, those at headquarters, who knew better, durst not speak, but continued to feed their countrymen's thirst for glory with flattering falsehoods and empty boasts.

At last, on the 2nd of August, the sound of cannon was heard along the Lorraine frontier. This was the theatrical demonstration at Saarbruck, which fitly began the war by killing a few men to no purpose, except to give the young Prince Imperial that fatal " 'baptism of fire," and thus consecrate him to the vocation by which his family have wrought so much woe to France and to the world. Poor boy! we pity him for his early death, but he might have lived to become the hate of millions and the fresh curse of his native land. Some day regenerated France will wake-has she not yet awoke ?-from her illusions, to recognise truly what she owes to the name of Napoleon.

The news of this trivial engagement spread fast, growing as it went. By the time it reached Nordheim it had swelled into a story of some hotly-contested battle, where the Emperor, sword in hand, had led his legions through a terrible fire of Prussian artillery, and a whole wing of the enemy's forces had been almost annihilated. The work was beginning in earnest now. General Douay's division had been pushed on pushed on to Weissenburg, where they were to enter the German territory next day. MacMahon was concentrating to the south under the Vosges. The Prussians were already in full retreat upon the Rhine. The wildest rumours flew about.

"Ha! we are on the road to Berlin at last!" So old Captain Bignon told everybody, as he hobbled about the village, unable to sit still for excitement; and Victor's youthful enthusiasm was not less than that of the veteran.

"Will there be any fighting near us?" he asked for the hundredth time. "What would I not give to see a battle!"

"I hope we shall have nothing of the sort in our neighbourhood," said his brother-in-law. "There is quite enough sickness about already; I can hardly see all my patients, now that the doctor at Backhausen has gone off to join the army."

"No fear of a battle at Weissenburg!" declared the captain. "An affair of outposts, perhaps, but the Prussians will not make any stand now till they are brought to bay. Now if I kept a horse, like you, Doctor, nothing would hinder me from riding to-morrow to see the last of our brave fellows when they march over the Lauter."

"My horse has enough to do in the way of business," said the doctor.

But Alexandre, though a cool-headed medical man, was not insensible to the military glory of his country, and he allowed himself to be persuaded into taking a holiday, and making a little picnic out of such an occasion. To Victor's unbounded delight, it was agreed that the doctor, the captain, and two or three other neighbours, if next day looked fine, should hire M. Heck's large wagonnette and drive along the frontier, hoping from some point or other to catch a sight of the expected invasion of Germany.

So now Victor was to have the chance of seeing a battle, or a bit of one. What a treat! The boy felt himself already a young Napoleon. All that evening he kept tapping the barometer, in a state of unusual anxiety about the weather. The night certainly did not look promising, as he was obliged to confess to himself on taking a last peep out of doors before retiring to bed. And, to his disgust, he had scarcely settled himself snugly between the sheets when he heard the rain beginning to patter heavily on the thick wood at the back of the house.

A dozen times he got up to see if there was no hope of it clearing, but the sky showed one unbroken veil of black cloud. This was dreadful. Alexandre would certainly not go if to-morrow turned out wet; and Captain Bignon's daughters never allowed him to stir out in bad weather. Victor did not care for rain, but he feared he might not be allowed to go by himself on his pony. Why did it rain on that night above all nights in the year? It was most provoking of the weather to spoil the pleasure which our young friend had promised himself from his military promenade.

But he must have fallen asleep at last, for he was dreaming of being engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict with Count Bismarck himself, in the style of Roderick Dhu and Fitzjames; he had just, indeed, in imagination brought that proud chieftain to his knee, when some other Prussian warrior seemed to start up and clasp him in a desperate grip. Someone was really shaking him by the shoulder, and he woke to see his brother-in-law standing by his bedside, exclaiming

"Get up, Victor, at once!"

Is it time to start?" asked the boy rubbing his eyes, and sleepily staring about him, as well he might, for behind Alexandre came several other persons, crowding into his little room.

"It's the Prussians! Get up, my boy; you are wanted."

"The Prussians!" cried Victor, and everybody began to speak at once, explaining to him what was the matter.

The Prussians had crossed the frontier, and were actually at hand. A squadron of Uhlans had ridden through the village an hour or two ago: Alexandre having been up early with a patient, had narrowly escaped falling into their hands. A gamekeeper had seen a whole regiment of them slinking through the woods. They must be trying to steal a march upon our men. Here was news to make Victor wide awake.

"We want you to take a message on your pony to the general at Weissenburg. You will not be afraid?

"Afraid! Not he-a French boy!" exclaimed the captain, standing sponsor for his courage; and Victor hastened to confirm this, though at first view the proposal rather startled him.

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"There is nothing to be afraid of," said Alexandre, taking Victor's two hands in his. "They will do no harm to a boy like you. You must pretend to be going to school, if you meet any of them; but take the back roads, and get to Weissenburg as soon as you can."

"I shall be ready in two minutes!" cried Victor, jumping out of bed. Then his early visitors withdrew, and left him to dress, all in a fluster. (To be continued.)

YOUR OWN BIBLE, AND HOW TO READ IT.

By W. H. GROSER, B.Sc., EDITOR OF "EXCELSIOR."

I.

a

to

"THE Word of the Lord is a light to guide you, a counsellor to counsel you, a comforter comfort you, staff to support you, a sword to defend you, and a physician to cure you. The Word is a mine to enrich you, a robe to clothe you, and a crown to crown you; it is bread to strengthen you, and wine to cheer you, and a honeycomb to feast you, music to delight you, and a paradise to entertain you." So wrote good, quaint old Thomas Brooks, more than two centuries ago, when copies of the Word we delight to praise were scarcer by far than at the present day. Yet, perhaps, the divine volume was more diligently searched and more lovingly pondered then than now.

For the Bible is the best and the worst read of all books. And why? Because it is more familiar than any other than the "Pilgrim's Progress," or the "Vicar of Wakefield," or "Uncle Tom's Cabin." It is quoted more than Shakespeare, or Milton, or Macaulay, or Carlyle. There is a copy in almost every house-several in most dwellings; for Bibles have been cheapened to the lowest point. Yet no book is more carelessly read. It is treated like a newspaper or magazine; a bit is read here and a bit there, according to taste or fancy, and then it is thrown aside. Hence results a very large amount of what Socrates would have called "imaginary Scripture knowledge."

True, the Bible, even thus maltreated, exerts a powerful influence in the aggregate. So do the newspaper and the periodical. But then these are designed for mere passing use, whereas the Bible is "not for an age but for all time," in a sense immeasurably deeper and broader even than could be affirmed of England's great dramatist. And while we cannot look into the Word of God and read the smallest portion (provided the mind and heart be in a right condition) without receiving some amount of benefit, yet if we go no further than this we are but smatterers in sacred learning, catching drops where we ought to drink deep draughts at the sacred fount. We can never thus come to a true acquaintance with the treasures of the Bible mine.

It is so with God's other great book. A rustic may gaze a thousand times at the starry heavens, the flower-spangled meadows, or the many-voiced sea, and be sensible of the grandeur and beauty by which they are characterised. But he never can, and never will experience that intensity of emotion which would be

awakened in the heart of a Kepler, a Linnæus, or a Newton. These objects would not stir the depths of his nature; they would only ripple its surface.

In like manner the thousands of people (including not a few Sunday scholars) who satisfy their consciences, or really try to fulfil a recognised duty, by "random readings" of scraps of Bible truth, can never by so doing come to perceive more in the Word of God than the ploughboy sees in a cluster of stars or a bank of primroses. And more than this, dear reader; you will never get really interested in your Bible, or in any other book that is worth the studying, by such a haphazard, patchwork style of usage. You may be pleased with some special portions-the story of Joseph, the finding of Moses, the combat of David and Goliath, the little captive maid, or the parable of the Prodigal Son, which narrate incidents of stirring human experience. Or you may turn with more subdued interest to the story of the Cross and the Tomb. But you will scarcely learn to love your Bible as a whole, unless by an altogether different sort of treatment. You may be convinced that you ought to love it, and that you ought to be very much interested in almost all parts of Holy Scripture; and you may condemn yourself for lack of such proper feelings. But the fact will still remain. You will at heart care little for, because you know little of, the inspired Word of God.

"I feel just as you say," is perhaps the reply of some young reader, "though I am almost ashamed to acknowledge it. But surely we cannot become interested in a book, even the Bible, by merely willing it?" Quite true, if by this you mean a single effort of the will. But we are apt greatly to undervalue the control which we may exercise over our own minds. A modern physician has written a work, "On Man's Power over himself to prevent Insanity"-a seemingly startling notion! Yet it is undoubtedly true that we can control very much what passes within our mental sphere. And in reference to the question we are now considering, it will be found that the first requisite for feeling an interest in any subject is resolutely to direct our attention to it. Scarcely any work of merit deserving a place in "literature "-that is, not a mere class production, but addressed to man as man-but will exhibit some features of interest when steadily perused. How much more when the Author is divine! By perseverance, some notes of music may be extracted from any sonorous body. The Bible is a "harp of thousand strings."

Have you ever read the chapter on "Beauty" in Mr. Gosse's delightful work, "The Romance of Zoology"? If not, try and borrow it from some library or private friend. You will be astonished to find how beauty has followed the steps of the Creator everywhere in His works; and surely it is not and cannot be less observable in His Word; and if you have an honest desire to be instructed in that Holy Book, then, as Carlyle (quoting Dr. Johnson) has observed," that very desire indicates that you, then and there, are the person likely to get good out of it." "Our wishes," he adds, "are presentiments of our capabilities." How forcibly this applies to the Book of God's counsels!

A second requisite for reading the Scriptures with deep interest is to be interested in its Author Perhaps

you may have had the privilege, once in your life, of spending an evening in the society of some good and able man of letters. You were charmed with his conversation, so full of pith and point, sparkling with anecdote and reminiscence. You and the rest of the company felt the evening less short. With what new interest you subsequently turned to the book or books which your new acquaintance had written ! And even when no such personal contact has been possible, how much more attractive an author's works have seemed when we were familiar with the story of his life and its early struggles, its vicissitudes and its successes! How pleasant to turn to the writings, after one has traced the annals of the mind, of such an one as Bunyan or Johnson, Goldsmith or Wordsworth, Williams or Livingstone, the brothers Chambers, James Hamilton, or William Arnot!

And so, comparing the human with the Divine, how changed do the pages of Holy Writ become when we have learned to know its Author, not as a distant and shadowy Presence, but as our dearest and best friend, our Father in Christ Jesus! This thought may be applied to the inspired penmen of Scripture, the various books of which are enhanced in interest and value when we have mastered the chief parts of the writers' lives, as far as known. But they were not the authors of these books as Shakespeare was the author of "Hamlet," and Pope the author of "The Dunciad." They were the many channels of heavenly wisdomthe Fountain was but one. Would my readers thus know the Author of the Bible?"No man hath seen Him at any time," but He has revealed Himself in the Son of His love. In one of the Italian cathedrals the exquisite paintings which adorn the lofty ceiling are brought within easier view of the visitor by means of a large mirror placed on the stone floor. Looking into this he is able to study the rich products of the artist's pencil, reflected from above. Just so He who is "afar off" to our unaided conception, is "brought nigh" to us as we behold Him mirrored in the face of Jesus Christ." Be not satisfied, young friend, until you have gazed into that image and learned to believe, and love, and know the God who gave His Son for you.

I pause for the present. Here, at least, is food for earnest thought and humble prayer. Take your Bible to a throne of grace, and ask, as your first petition, that you may know Him of whom Moses and the prophets did write, and in whom all their predictions found fulfilment, and all their desires were satisfied.

MA

WHAT A BOY DID.

ANY years ago when Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, the famous writers, visited Ireland, a bright boy offered to be their guide. Returning home, Mr. Hall took a flask from his pocket and offered some whisky to the lad. As he refused, Mr. Hall to test him offered him a shilling, then two, then a sovereign, but the boy, though his jacket was ragged, remained firm, and pulling a temperance medal from his pocket

said: "For all the money your Honour is worth I would not break my pledge." The medal had been given him by a father on his dying bed, who used to be a drunkard, but had become a sober man through the total abstinence movement. Mr. Hall threw the flask into the lake beside which they stood, and both were ever after devoted teetotallers, working with voice and pen. The firmness of a boy brought two noble workers into the ranks.

A NIGHT OF PERIL.

HE sun was setting in a bank of purple clouds, Tedged with flaming gold, at the head of a lovely valley in Hayti, when a party of horsemen drew rein before the house of the village priest. But no Padre was there to welcome them; and the mulatto girl, who acted as housekeeper, and who had been expecting her master to arrive with his guests, showed her surprise and anxiety in unmistakeable terms.

"Ay de mi, Señor! what can have become of his reverence? It must be some great misfortune that keeps him away from his dinner; perhaps he is drowned in the river!

There was, indeed, reason for alarm; for, as they well knew, there were no houses in the direction in which the priest had gone, where he could be detained either on pleasure or business, even if he had forgotten his own appetite and that of his expected guests. Two of the company resolved immediately to return in search of him.

Night had fallen upon the savanna, but as the moon was near the full, a soft and brilliant light was shed upon all objects-a light, however, which cast the forest margin into deeper obscurity, and marked the situation of every tree by its black shadow. The sweet and full melody of the Ruiseñor was ascending to heaven from nearly every thicket, like an evening hymn sung in choral response to the songs of the fiery watchers above-the music of the spheres, inaudible, alas! to our dull sense. But the two riders had little eye and ear for nature now; anxiety for their friend occupying their minds. Repeated shouts were sent forth, especially by the Creole, who gave forth a volume of piercing voice, acquired by long practice in the great solitudes of this thinly-peopled region.

Suddenly he drew tight his horse's rein, and with a quick gesture to his companion, raised his hollow hand behind his ear and remained motionless. For more than a minute he continued intently listening; then a long shrill cry was heard in the remote distance. The Señor answered it with another lengthened shout, and putting spurs to their beasts both the cavaliers hastened towards the sound.

Again it came louder and nearer, accompanied by the bark of a dog, which ended in a melancholy howl, and soon the voice of the Padre could be recognised directing his friends to his retreat. He was perched among the branches of a guazuma tree, not far from the margin of the river, half dead with the combined influence of fright, and hunger, and cold; and so stiff, from the cramping of his limbs, as to be unable to descend without help. Yet his habitual facetiousness returned with the presence of his deliverers.

"Eteme aqui! Here I am! What do you think of my new roost, Señores? Don't I look as wise as an owl in an ivy bush'? When I aspired to be like my scarlet-headed bird, I little thought so soon to copy his habits of tree-perching."

"But what are you doing there, Padre? And why did you not get down?"

ing about these river-side bushes; it caught my trigger-pop! and off go the birds, leaving me gaping after them as they floated away-away, over the morass, like snowflakes in old Biscay."

saman.

"Here is something to warm you, father!" said Señor Gomez, putting a small flask of aguardiente to his mouth. "Taste; and you shall tell us all! about it as we ride

home."

"Muchisimos gracios!" said the shivering Padre, taking a hearty pull at the flask. "Ha! that warms the cockles of my heart.

And now, gentle Señores, you shall

hear how I came to be perched among the birds. May you never be as near to a horrible death as I have been this day!

"When I parted from you this morning, I made straight down for those white garzas that I saw among the reeds. I

got down among the thickets, and put a

6

"Pleasant, that, certainly!" said Don Carlos; but if I may presume to quote a proverb to your reverence, who is so stored with the wisdom of the ancients, There is as good fish in the sea as ever were caught.' Doubtless, in these prolific plains you soon met with other game.' "Your excellency is right.

When I had again mounted my mule, who is as good a creature to stand with the rein on her neck as I ever saw, I strolled a little way down the river, till I came opposite the Singing Rock."

"A singing rock! What is that?"

"Perhaps Señor Gomez can tell you better than I; all I know is that it is a rock that sings."

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"It is the face of a lofty precipitous rock of limestone that overhangs the plain," said the planter, which at certain times, and with the wind in a certain quarter, gives out musical sounds. There is a mountainpath leading up to it, which I can show you. I have often listened to the music. My father used to say that the sounds were produced by the wind struggling through the narrow fissures and crannies with which the rock is split and perforated through and through; but the superstitious repeat old Indian legends about their being the voices of their dead ancestors. Proceed with your story, Padre."

Ah! Señores, they were a trifle-just a yard or two-beyond range. If I showed myself I knew they would be off in a twinkling, but there was a nearer bush which I could not reach except by crossing a creek of the river. It was not wide, and perhaps I might have leaped it, but I am not so young as formerly and this gun of mine is heavy. Besides, you know the saying, Better go round than drown; so round I crept, gun in hand on full cock." "And your gun went off, and frightened your birds ?"

"You have hit it, Señor. There was one of those abominable cockspur briers that are always sprawl

"Just there, I knew there was a promising piece of morass, with a good deal of cover; and as I peeped round a bush, O cielos! there were at least forty flamingoes within range. I fired; and what a show of scarlet wings was in the air! But one was left splashing and floundering in the morass, and my faithful Feo there plunged in to fetch her. In a moment I heard a dreadful howl, and my poor dog was scampering from the rushes as fast as legs could carry him, with an enormous caiman, or what Don