"I thought as much. Opportunity is a dangerous thing." "My word! To hear you talk, one would think it was matterless how our girls married." "It is never matterless how any girl marries, squire; and our Charlotte" "Oh, I thought Charlotte was a child yet! How could I tell there was danger at Up-Hill? You ought to have looked better after your daughters. See that she doesn't go nearhand Latrigg's again." "I wouldn't be so foolish, William. It's a deal better not to notice. Make no words about it; and, if you don't like Stephen, send Charlotte away a bit. Half of young people's love-affairs is just because they are handy to each other." "Like Stephen!' It more than a matter of liking, as you know very well. If Harry Sandal goes on as he has been going, there will be little enough left for the girls; and they must marry where money will not be wanted. More than that, I've been thinking of brother Tom's boy for one of them. Eh? What?" You mean, you have been writing to Tom about a marriage? I would have been above a thing like that, William. I suppose you did it to please your mother. She always did hanker after Tom, and she always did dislike the Latriggs. I have heard that when people were in the grave they 'ceased from troubling,' but "— "Alice!" "I meant no harm, squire, I'm sure; and I would not say wrong of the dead for anything, specially of your mother; but I think about my own girls." "There, now, Alice, don't whimper and cry. I am not going to harm your girls, not I. Only mother was promised that Tom's son should have the first chance for their favour. I'm sure there's nothing amiss in that. Eh?" "A young man born in a foreign country among blacks, or very near blacks. And nobody knows who his mother was." "Oh, yes! his mother was a judge's daughter, and she had a deal of money. Her son has been well done to; sent to the very best German and French schools, and now he is at Oxford. I dare say he is a very good young man, and at any rate he is the only Sandal of this generation except our own boy." Your sisters have sons." "Yes, Mary has three: they are Lockerbys. Elizabeth has two: they are Piersons. My poor brother Launcie was drowned, and never had son or daughter; so that Tom's Julius is the nearest blood we have." "Julius! I never heard tell of such a name." "Yes, it is a silly kind of a foreign name. His mother is called Julia: I suppose that is how it comes. No Sandal was ever called such a name before, but the young man mustn't be blamed for his godfather's foolishness, Alice. Eh?" I'm not so unjust. Poor Launcie! I saw him once in Kendal. Are you sure he was drowned?" "I followed him to Whitehaven, and found out that he had gone away in a ship that never came home. Mother and Launcie were in bad bread when he left, and she never fretted for him as she did for Tom." "Why did you not tell me all this before?" "I said to myself, there's time enough yet to be planning husbands for girls that haven't a thought of the kind. We were very happy with them; I couldn't bear to break things up; and I never once feared about Steve Latrigg, not I." "What does your brother and his wife say?" Tom is with me. As for his wife, I know nothing of her, and she knows nothing of us. She has been in England a good many times, but she never said she would like to come and see us, and my mother never wanted to see her; so there wasn't a compliment wasted, you see. Eh? What?" No, I don't see, William. All about it is in a muddle, and I must say I never heard tell of such ways. It is like offering your own flesh and blood for sale. And to people who want nothing to do with us. I'm astonished at you, squire." "Don't go on so, Alice. Tom and I never had any falling out. He just got out of the way of writing. He likes India, and he had his own reasons for not liking England in any shape you could offer England to him. There's no back reckonings between Tom and me, and he'll be glad for Julius to come to his own people. We will ask Julius to Sandal; and you say, yourself, that the half of young folks' loving is in being handy to each other. Eh? What?" "I never thought you would bring my words up that way. But I'll tell you one thing, my girls are not made of melted wax, William." Sandal smiled a little, and walked away, with what his wife privately called "a peacocky air," saying something about "Greek meeting Greek as he did so. Mrs. Sandal did not in the least understand him: she wondered a little over the remark, and then dismissed it as "some of the squire's foolishness." How many times, since o'er Judea's plains Yet may not one more voice, though weak and small, Telling again the glad good news for all, How God into the world His Son hath given. Current Topies and Events. SHALL WE INSURE OUR OWN As reported at the last General Conference, the value of our church and parsonage property was about $11,000,000, an increase of $1,800,000 in the quadrennium. It is now probably not less than $12,000,000 or $13.000,000 worth. This property was insured in 1890 for $4,425,000, a little over one-third its value. That means, we suppose, that a good deal of it was fairly well insured, perhaps one-half or two-thirds its value, while a good deal was not insured at all. It is highly desirable that the whole of this property should have a reasonable amount of insurance, certainly not less than one-half its value, better fully two-thirds. This would make the very large amount of about $8,000,000 insurance. Scarcely any of this is insured, we think, for less than one-quarter of one per cent. per annum, which on $8,000,000 would amount to $20,000 a year. The question arises whether the Methodist Church might not with advantage insure its own church and parsonage property with the benefit of securing a larger amount and better distribution of insurance over the various properties and at a lower rate than the stock companies of the country offer. The question of church insurance occupied the attention of the late Methodist Episcopal General Conference at Omaha. The bishops were instructed to make arrangements for the organization of a company for the insurance of church property. The question is fully discussed in a late issue of the Western Christian Advocate, from which we make the following extracts: "The question arises, Is such an organization both desirable and feasible! Can reliable insurance be thus secured at lower rates than at present? Let us consider some of the points involved. "The moral risk in insurance is an important element. This is eliminated in church insurance, for churches do not insure with the purpose of burning their buildings and getting the insurance therefor. A Church Insurance Company would find its risks so isolated and widely scattered that no great fire or sweeping calamity could materially affect its solvency. "The cost of running such a company, as compared with the ordinary fire companies (from thirty five to fifty per cent., for local agencies, advertising, etc.), is very inconsiderable, not more than from five to ten per cent. Such a company would not need local agents or canvassers or advertising; it would do business directly with the local Board of Trustees. "Is the plan feasible? We have practical examples before us. The Wesleyan Methodist Trust Assurance Company of Manchester, England, has been in existence since 1873. The secretary, in his 1890 report, covering a period of eighteen years, says that the total income from premiums and interest amounts to £76.216, while the losses for the same period were only £16,627, or a little less than twenty-two per cent. It acquired a total reserve of £38,250, besides granting to the worn-out Ministers' Fund, £3, 100. This is truly a magnificent showing. Can we not come within gunshot of our British brethren in a business matter of this kind? "If our Wesleyan brethren can make such a showing in their 'pent-up Utica,' at low rates of interest, we certainly surrounded with sharp competition and ought to do at least as well. Their success ought to inspire our undertaking. "Our German Methodist brethren have a Mutual Insurance Company for insuring their church and parsonage property. The secretary recently reported the cost of insuring on the mutual plan for nine years at only $1.65 on $100 of insurance. "The objection raised about 'the Church going into secular business,' and if it insures its own church property its enemies will burn it,' etc., scarcely needs a passing notice. Is it secular to insure a church, and not secular to build one and run one? Does not the State protect our property as well as our lives? "As to the kind of company, we prefer the mutual to the stock company plan, for the reason that then the cost of insurance will be kept at the minimum. Should the stock plan be adopted, the absorbing desire of making money-no matter how carefully the earnings might be devoted to benevolent ends-would be apt to kindle the fires of commercial ambition, which are always a menace to the spirituality of the Church." The experiment of the Methodist Episcopal Church of the United States will be watched with much interest and if it be as successful as its promoters anticipate, it will doubtless be a strong argument for the inauguration of a similar kind of church insurance in this country. THE FUNCTION OF CRITICISM. A great change has taken place in the methods of criticism, especially of literary criticism of young authors and fledgling poets. Fifty years ago the Critics (spelled with a big "C," if you please), were frightful ogres who delighted to make a meal of a young poet, and seemed to delight in crunching his bones. To quote the words of Dr. Vandyke, "Their mighty Highnesses, the Reviewers, seated on their lofty thrones, weighed the pretentions of all new-comers into their realm with adamantine severity. In those days of Herod the King, it was either accolade or decapitation. Many an innocent had the terrible Gifford slaughtered, and many more like, Willson, Croker and Lochart, well understood the art of speedy dispatch." It was the cruel austerity of these savage critics that broke the heart of Keats, one of the sweetest singers who ever warbled the English tongue, and sent him to die at Rome. Few things are more pitiful than the words engraven on his tomb, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water. It was the carping and mousing fault-finding of such men that did much to force Byron and Shelley into their revolt against the conventions of morals and religion, adding bitterness to the misanthropy of the writer of the "British Bards and Scotch Reviewers." These bull-dog critics did their best to worry the life out of timid hares like Kirke White, and if Alfred Tennyson had been made of softer material they would have long years after the publication of silenced him. As it was, for ten his first book he remained mute. At length he burst upon England with the majestic blank verse of "Morte d'Arthur,' with the passion of Locksley Hall," with the sweet beauty of "Dora," "The Gardener's Daughter," the depth and intensity of The Two Voices," and "The Vision of Sin"-and the critics were at his feet. 66 An amusing book could be written upon the mistakes of the critics. We doubt not Homer was carped on in his day. Dante was driven into exile; the Bard of Avon was decried and defamed. Milton's immortal poem sold for £15. Of Wordsworth's noble verse, the sage Gifford remarked, "This will never do." Crusty Christopher North denounced Tennyson's first dainty lyrics as "dismal drivel," and winding up his remarks on the song entitled Owl," he said, "Alfred himself is the greatest owl. shot, stuffed and stuck in a glass case All he wants is to be to be immortal in a museum. 66 The He To quote again from Mr. Vandyke, like a man coming upon what appears "The critics of a great poet are often to be a dead lion in the forest. sleeping. may prove to be not dead, but only has thus been unexpectedly surprised, Many an unwary critic notably Drs. Johnson and Bentley, who, roaring over Milton's mistakes, have proved themselves to be distinctly assinine." It is sometimes thought that all that is necessary for the rôle of critic is to be able to find fault; indeed, the very word "critic" has, in popular phrase, come to mean "fault-finding." On the contrary, the word-from krites, a judge or discerner -means a person skilled in discovering the beauties as well as the faults of writing. Any fool can find fault, but it really requires skill to discover hidden merits. In young writers the faults lie on the very surface, that any daw may peck at, while the merits are often partially concealed. Few men did more to supersede the old and cynical criticism with the new and more genial type than the Rev. George Gilfillan, a Scotch country parson, yet a man of broad insight and keen, poetic appreciation. He had the good luck, or good judgment, to discover and introduce to the world of letters a number of young writers who have since become famous in their way-Alexander Smith, Sydney Dobell, Philip James Bailey, Arthur Clough, and others of the minor poets. In this democratic age the people are the true critics, and they pass their verdicts with serene indifference as to the judgment of the great gods of Olympus. A young writer, if he have merit, will find his way into the magazines and literary organs in the country. If he have merit, he wins name and fame and fortune, too, and can snap his fingers at the critic, before whom the poor poets of Grub Street used to tremble. SYMPATHY ESSENTIAL TO INTELLIGENT CRITICISM. Referring to these captious critics, the Methodist Recorder says: "Their view is so partial, their spirit so carping, their language so cavilling, that things of considerable and indisputable excellence fail to secure their commendation. They seem quite incapable of sympathy and praise; they find spots in the sun, and reprobate most other things as spots only. Literature is dealt with in this morbid mood. Mr. Kipling tells us that the monkey has a passion for picking things to pieces. A flower or a fragile toy will amuse a monkey for a long time. The bird that falls into its hands will not be released till the monkey has plucked off every feather. Many critics of literature, with their endless exceptions and strictures, remind us of the longtailed analyzer dissecting sweet flower, or lovely bird! They 'cut up' what, in fact, they are ludicrously incapable of appreciating and enjoying. "Multitudes of art critics must be placed in the same category. A picture is often admirable in spite of great defects, it is great and valuable by virtue of positive qualities clear to the discerning eye, but the supercilious discover its faults and de ficiencies, dwelling solely upon these with evident gusto. One may carry this temper of displacency into the walks of nature, and so find only reasons for objection and contempt amid all the magnificence of the world. Instead of realizing nature as a paradise of picturesque views, laughing brooks, flowery paths, the superfine find only rain, gnats, dirt, and toil. And many take this ungracious spirit into society, sneering at most things, and often picking holes in gold and purple robes as if they were shoddy. They ostracize and vilify right and left; they resemble the dragon-flies, which chase and pull down every fly, moth, or butterfly they come across, sometimes rending the delicate creatures and eating them, but frequently killing for killing's sake. "How truly desirable it is that we should chasten our disposition toward fault-finding, and cultivate more warm and catholic sympathies. We feel persuaded that the progress of civilization will discourage hypercriticism, and more and more show that sympathy is in all directions the secret of life. Sympathy gives to our nature largeness and nobleness; springing from what is best in us, in turn it confirms and develops the best. If we desire to secure for our soul the most liberal education, we must beware of coldness, narrowness, bitterness. We must know how to admire; we must know how to wonder; we must know how to praise; and we must be free to discover and appreciate truth, beauty, greatness, goodness, wherever they may be found. How greatly will this enhance the joy of life! Catholic tastes, cordial sympathies, hearty benisons, are signs of a superior soul, and sources of boundless pleasure. Adolescence, ignorance, littleness, coarseness, pride, are grudging in sympathy, wonder, and homage, and so miss the deepest, fullest and most delicate satisfactions of life." PAGAN POETRY. It is grandly true that the greatest poets of the English language, Milton, Wordsworth, Browning, Tennyson, Bryant, Longfellow and |