stand,

I give myself, my all, to Thee;

Thou hast redeemed me by Thy precious blood,

Thine only will I be.

No love but Thine, but Thine, will I receive,

No light but Thine, but Thine will I receive,

No light, no love, but Thine.

words,

Those who knew him best do not read mere words in such an outpouring. They seem to hear the voice of a father or a pastor on his knees, to hear a slow step pacing the study floor from end to end, and a cry, broken and indistinct, but rising at times to audible and some one petition, repeated at intervals over and over again, and this literally for hours. It was thus that Horatius Bonar gained power for the pulpit and the press. And it was thus that, pausing awestruck beside that locked door, some of us gained our first conception of what the deep, true communion of a soul with its God might be.

In his poetry, his whole nature seems to lay itself bare, with its emotions, its conflicts, its beliefs, its hopes and longings, its tranquil musings and its tears, with its all but despairing out look upon the world that now is, and its jubilant stretching out to the world that shall be; with its very faults, and limitations, and misunderstandings, all is here. It is himself. The poet is the

man.

Another characteristic is his intense love of the beautiful and of nature in her wilder forms. The sea was to him a friend. The purple moors communed with him, and ever through the beauty of creation flashed the vision of the new creation. All, to him, was as a lattice through which the eternal shone.

My father had an ear delicately sensitive to the music of words. I say advisedly of words. For, strange as it may appear, Horatius Bonar was not, in the usual sense, musical, or, if so, the faculty had never been cultivated. He could only distinguish very fa

ure. Instrumental music was a sealed book to him. But the rhythm, the roll, the swing of words enchained him.

He was nourished on antiquity and the classics, and loved patristic and mediæval poetry. Old phrases, aphorisms, "jewels five words long," were ever ringing in his ears. Some sentence of Augustine would set him musing, some verse of Chrysostom or Nazianzen appeal to him for translation or imitation, or suggest a felicitous heading. Verse was his recreation; and when alone and at leisure, his mind fell back from practical toil into its native attitude. Snatches of verse occurred to him spontaneously, like preludes to a harmony. These he jotted down in pencil wherever he happened to be, leaving their place in the finished hymn to be determined later, and filling up the outline as it occurred to him. Some of these rough drafts or sketches he kept by him a long time.

Doctor Bonar was what would be now called a thinker of the old school. And yet, in his own day, he was rather a representative of what was new. He was no blind accepter of antiquity. In student days, just when most men are tempted to overlay truth with the mass of other men's views, he, along with a little circle of brothers and friends, set himself earnestly to see truth with his own eyes. To find out, not what ancient and venerable men had thought (though he did not despise that), but what God had spoken, was his aim. Greek or Hebrew original in hand, word by word, he would endeavor thoughtfully, prayerfully to ascertain what the Spirit of God in Scripture really meant, and to carry that out in his life. The result was, that in some salient points, the creed which he formed for himself differed from that commonly accepted at that time.

Doctor Bonar always remained a Calvinist-but a Calvinist plus belief in the full, free, unlimited love of God to every soul, and the free offer of Christ to all. Christ's work the ground of our hope; God's full forgiveness reached down, to be accepted in a moment by

"whosoever will,"-this was the gospel which he preached from early youth to age, and which brought him into full sympathy with several revivals.

To Christians of to-day there seems nothing strange in this form of thought; we cannot realize how rare it was in the days when Doctor Bonar began his ministry, nor how nearly it grazed the borders of that dreaded thing "heresy." His views of prophecy were still more held in suspicion. The obloquy of being a Pre-millenarian, perhaps an "Irvingite," was real in those days, and involved coldness and alienation on the part of many whom he respected.

My father's method of interpretation antedated much that is good in the modern school. How often have I heard him say that "Zion just means Zion, and Jerusalem, Jerusalem;" and that "before you give a spiritual meaning to any prophecy, you must first find out what it meant to the people to whom it was first addressed." He would have nothing to do with the mystical or allegorical method all but universal in those days. He was a literalist. A new earth meant to him, a new earth; the deliverance of creation, just its deliverance-not the establishment of some spirit-order in its place. This literalism led him to find, and to expect to find more and more, a mine of pure gold in every word of scripture. He was never afraid to study prophetic and difficult passages; for why else, he would say, were they written, if not for our study?

He was thought stern by many; but though he held the severer forms of truth and never hesitated to speak out what he believed, he was gentle to all he met, however weak or erring they might be. For ourselves, I can only say, that when God was called "Our Father," we children found it easy to understand and trust in His love. We knew what "as a father pitieth his children" meant, for did we not see it every day? And not only his own children, but all children confided in him. As it was at Leith in youth, so it was in his declining years. A little hand

would be slipped into his, and a little voice claim the privilege of walking with the minister along the Grange Road. A whole family who had left his ministry for some ecclesiastical reason, were led back by their children after a year. During the whole time the little ones had never forgotten to pray for "our dear minister, Doctor Bonar," till the parents could resist the unconscious pleading no longer.

MARY BONAR DODDS.

From Chambers's Journal. MRS. WHIN'S CADDIE.

I.

Dow was a heartless wretch. To put it mildly, there was generally a twinkle in his eye, and his tongue was not tied to the ways of truth. Those he liked spoke of him with respect, but the awe of people he did not favor was mixed with fear, and they called him a young villian softly among themselves.

There was a legend that Dow had been born on the links; it was quite certain that he had been bred upon themescaping wonderfully from school, and becoming a great authority on golf long before he was taller than a club. He was a tyrant among the caddies, and his fame was as wide as the sea that licked round the sands below.

"I'll put you in charge of Dow. He'll -er-take you round the course," said the general's introducer, on that lonely hero's first coming upon the green. "That is, if we can get hold of himthere's always a run on Dow." "Who is he?"

"Oh, a caddie."

"I see," said the general, twisting his big moustache; “a small chap to carry the clubs-and pick out the right onehey?"

The general's introducer was one of the many who respected Dow. He wagged his forefinger coaxingly, and a little shape rose slowly out of the whins -Dow was inured to prickles-approaching the two with a solemn stalk. "Can you-will you take my friend

round this morning?" said the general's introducer humbly. Dow considered.

"I can gie him a round," he said; "but he manna be ower slow. I hae twa leddies and the juke forbye."

The general's friend lent him his second-best driver and an iron putter, and hurried away to play a match of his own. The general had never played golf before. He did some queer things, and Dow admonished him with all proper scorn.

"I guessed that ye couldna play when I saw him gie ye that auld thing," he said, glancing at the weapon that was being wrongly swung. "Where d' you

come frae?"

"India," said the general shortly.

"Ye're a sodger?" Dow inquired, with a lordly condescension, as he put the ball on the tee, and drew out of reach of the general's wild brandishing of his club.

"Ho! ye wadna kill mony niggers if ye couldna hit straighter nor that!" said Dow.

The general was not humble. He wound up that round by pitching his driver upon the green, and taking his small instructor suddenly by the scruff. Then he shook him like a kitten in the middle of the links.

"I'll no forget you," said Dow, staring in astonishment after this bold stran ger. "I'll no forget!"

Dow had his favorites. The duke was one of these; but he was not earnest enough, and had a frivolous way of bringing out an umbrella, which Dow, the contemptuous, was obliged to carry. The minister was another; he-while playing fairly-talked theology in a general way with Dow, who thirsted for information about the devil. The first favorite of all was a Mrs. Whin.

She was a little widow who lived in a big house she had taken lately, and who put all her mind for the present into the business of learning golf. She was related distantly to the duke, and so people made much of her; some liked, some hated her, but every one was polite.

Dow was her right hand and counsellor; she never played without his

little, pale, saucy face at her elbow, and when he had bidden her get a scarlet coat, she had done so meekly.

"It doesna look purposelike for you to be creepin' about the links in black if you were five times a weedow," he had pronounced, and she had laughed, and ordered the coat when she went in to Aberdeen.

Dow was greatly vexed when Mrs. Whin and the general got acquainted.

The general was close and shy. He put up at the "Gordon Arms," and seemed to have no plausible reason for appearing in this particular spot. His one friend-a man Mrs. Whin knew slightly-had got him into the club, and introduced him to one or two old fogies

had also presented him casually to Mrs. Whin. But this friend had gone south, and could not be applied to for information—and the general remained, pottering about the town and links like a fish out of water.

There were two or three old soldiers thereabouts, but they had all gout and long troops of daughters. The general was an exception, tall, spare and fiery, with sad eyes that interested Mrs. Whin.

"The man is a mystery!" said one lady to another. Their husbands could not help them in this thing for once.

A company of women were sitting in the varnished veranda of the ladies'. club, and one or two more were leaning over the palings talking. It was teatime, but the good people whose turn it was to boil the kettle had made a terrible smoke inside, and the rest had all crowded out.

Within a stone's-throw was the men's stern granite club-house; behind, the green golf-links rose and dipped to the sea; and in front, a far speck, was Mrs. Whin's red jacket, near which hovered the long shape of the general. Dow, a sulky, slow-moving object, was hugging a stack of clubs.

Mrs. Whin was making coquettish motions, raising her driver, and dropping it in the swing, and asking about her stroke. The general-that bad player was counselling earnestly.

After a little they parted, and Mrs. Whin came tripping up to tea.

"What is he here for?" said one of those sitting outside the club, as she turned her head to glance in at the others struggling with smoke inside. They were not all conscious that Mrs. Whin, who had entered, was by an open window.

"We must finish," said Mrs. Whin. "But you are cold," the general said anxiously, coming forward to help in turning up the high coat collar that nearly reached to her ears. His hands touched the small chill fingers that Mrs. Whin put up; and the collar was very stiff.

The general did not button up his long

his driver; something seemed to be on

"Well, scouting-spy

"No, no!"

"At any rate, marching round people's back premises. Call it what you like! The Blackies of Hendarroch distinctly saw him wandering sadly outside the servants' gate. You know they have made a fine new avenue for themselves. When they approached he fled."

"Where you speaking about Hendarroch? Oh, the Blackies have spoiled the place!" said a stout old lady with seven daughters, who sat on a creaking seat.

"No, Mrs. Milne; we were talking of the general."

"It is odd," said the stout lady slowly. "I have been puzzling where and when I have met him, for his face is quite familiar."

There was a chorus of exclamations. Mrs. Milne's memory was notoriously bad, however, so there was no hope. The general, a distinguished, if bashful figure, took on more mystery; heads were drawn closer, and theories expounded, until the heads started apart in confusion. Mrs. Whin was leaning out of the window, calling in an impatient voice:

"Will you come in to tea?"

This mystery may have made the general more interesting to Mrs. Whin as to the world at large. However that might be, she took him under her wing, which meant the duke's also, when that lazy person was anywhere about, and upon that the whole world was civil.

One dull afternoon, when there were few players and the wind was cold, Mrs. Whin's partner took alarm.

"I am going south," he said at last. "With the swallows?" said Mrs. Whin.

"I think they are gone already," the general answered, gazing abstractedly out to sea.

The wind had blown into the widow's cheek a scarlet to match her coat. She put her head on one side thoughtfully, making believe to look at the hole, and then seemed frightened to find that she had not spoken.

"I have sometimes wondered what brought you all the way up here," she said hastily. "It is not as if you had come up to see old friends, or-anything."

"N-no," said the general awkwardly. "No, I-drifted. I will tell you about it some day, when I have courage."

"You forget," said she, "that you are going south."

There was a queer shake in her voice. It might be cold, but it was not laughter. The general took a stride nearer to her and spoke.

"I am running away," he said. "I thought I was hardened to being lonely. with not a soul to care for me but the chums who would say, "Poor chap!" when they read of my death in the English papers. I did not know that I was a fool. Will you say good-bye to me kindly, and let me go?"

"Don't go," said Mrs. Whin. He had taken her hand, and involuntarily her. fingers closed over his. There was a little silence while they looked at each other, and Mrs. Whin's color

rose.

"i am weather-worn," said the general.

"So am I," said Mrs. Whin.