He springs into the abyss.

* * * * *

The courtyard of the castle. Pancratius, Leonard; Bianchetti stands at the head of a regiment of soldiers. The remaining princes and counts, accompanied by their wives and children, file in before Pancratius.

PANCRATIUS. Your name?

A COUNT. Christopher von Volsagen.

PANCRATIUS. You have pronounced it for the last time! And yours?

A PRINCE. Wladislaus, Lord of Schwarzwald.

PANCRATIUS. It shall be heard on earth no more! And yours?

A BARON. Alexander von Godalberg.

PANCRATIUS. It is already erased from the list of the living. Go!

BIANCHETTI (to Leonard). They have repulsed us for two long months; their arms are wretched, and their accoutrements utterly worthless.

LEONARD. Are there many of them left?

PANCRATIUS. They are all given over to you for execution, that their blood may flow as an example to the world. But if there is one among them who can tell me where Count Henry hides, he shall have his life for his information!

MANY VOICES. He vanished from our sight at last.

THE GODFATHER. Great Pancratius, I appear as mediator between you and your prisoners; spare these citizens of noble birth, because they have given up to you the keys and strongholds of the castle of the Holy Trinity!

PANCRATIUS. I have conquered by my own strength, and need no mediator. You will yourself take charge of their immediate execution!

THE GODFATHER. My whole life has been that of a good citizen. I have frequently given proof of true patriotism. When I joined your cause, Pancratius, it was not with the intention of leading my own noble brethren to—....

PANCRATIUS (interrupting him). Seize the old pedant! away with him! let him join his noble brethren!

The soldiers surround the Godfather and the prisoners.

Where is Count Henry? Has no one seen him, dead or living? A purse of gold for Henry, if only for his corpse!

A division of soldiers descend the wall from above.

THE LEADER OF THE DIVISION. Citizen general! by the command of General Bianchetti, I stationed myself with my detachment, on the west side of the bulwark; upon our entrance into the fort on the third bastion to the left, I observed a man standing, unarmed, but bleeding and wounded, by a dead body. I cried immediately to my men: 'Hasten your steps, we must reach him!' but before we could approach him, he ascended a steep cliff overhanging the valley, stood for a moment on a sharp and jutting point of rock, and fixed his haggard eyes upon the depths below. I saw him, then, extend his arms like a swimmer about to make a sudden plunge; he threw himself forward with all his force; I saw him a moment in the air, and we all heard the noise made by the fall of the body as it pitched and fell from rock to rock into the abyss below.

This is the sword which we found but a few steps from the spot on which we first observed him.

He hands a sword to Pancratius.

PANCRATIUS (examining the sword). Drops of blood stain the handle, but here are the arms of his house! It is the sword of Count Henry!

He alone among you all has kept his plighted faith; to him be endless glory—to you, traitors, the guillotine!

General Bianchetti, you will see that the fortress of the Holy Trinity is razed to the ground, and will also superintend the execution of the prisoners!

Leonard!

He withdraws with Leonard.

A bastion on the north tower. Pancratius, Leonard.

LEONARD. You require repose after so many sleepless nights; you look wearied and exhausted with ceaseless labor.

PANCRATIUS. The hour of rest has not yet struck for me, and the last sigh of the last of my enemies marks the completion of but half my task. Look upon these heavy mists, these swamps, these desert plains; they stand between me and the realization of my plans. Every waste on earth must be peopled, rocks removed, lakes and rivers everywhere connected; a portion of the soil must be awarded to every human being; the teeming hosts of the living must far outnumber the multitudes who have perished; life and universal prosperity must fill the place of death and ruin, before our work of general destruction can be at all atoned for. If we are not to inaugurate an era of social and widespread happiness, our work of havoc and devastation will have been worse than vain!

LEONARD. The God of Freedom will give us power for gigantic tasks.

PANCRATIUS. What! You speak of God! Do you not see that it is crimson and slippery here—that we are standing deep in human gore?

Whose blood is this beneath our feet?

There is nothing behind us save the court of the castle; no one is near us. I know that we are quite alone, and yet, Leonard, I feel there is another here!

LEONARD. I see nothing but this bloody corpse.

PANCRATIUS. It is the corpse of his faithful old servant—that is only a dead body; but a spirit haunts this spot, and stands beside me; this cap—see, his arms are embroidered upon it; Count Henry's shield; look, Leonard! there is the jutting rock o'erhanging the abyss—upon this very spot his great heart broke!

LEONARD. How pale you grow, Pancratius!

PANCRATIUS. Look up! IT is there! above you! Do you not see it?

LEONARD. I see nothing but a broken mass of clouds drifting down, and surging o'er the top of yonder craggy peak o'erhanging the abyss, which is turning crimson in the setting sun.

PANCRATIUS. A fearful symbol burns upon it!

LEONARD. Lean upon me! How ghastly pale you grow!

PANCRATIUS. Millions of men obeyed my will; where are they now?

LEONARD. Do you not hear their cries? They ask for you, their saviour.

Look not on yon steep cliff; your eyes are dying in their sockets as you gaze upon it!

PANCRATIUS. HE stands there, motionless; three nails are driven in HIM; three stars; His outstretched arms are lightning flashes!

LEONARD. Who? Where! Revive!

PANCRATIUS. GALILAEE VICISTI!

He falls dead in the arms of Leonard.



SELF-SACRIFICE.

That for which man offers up his blood or his property, must be more valuable than they. A good man does not fight with half the courage for his own life that he shows in the protection of another's. The mother, who will hazard nothing for herself, will hazard all in the defence of her child; in short, only for the nobility within us—only for virtue—will man open his veins and offer up his spirit; but this nobility—this virtue—presents different phases: with the Christian martyr, it is faith; with the savage, it is honor; with the republican, it is liberty.—ANALECT.



SHANGHAI: ITS STREETS, SHOPS, AND PEOPLE.

China has always been looked upon by Europeans and described in both ancient and modern works as 'the unchanging country,' and it is a common fallacy that the China of to-day is exactly what it was a thousand years ago; that foreign trade and intercourse have had and can have no effect upon the manners or ideas of the people, and that the descriptions we read of Chinese towns and their inhabitants, written twenty years ago, would answer for the same places to-day. In a measure this is true, but it is not true of the cities which have been opened to foreign trade, or in fact of any of the Chinese cities where foreigners have been settled since the war of 1857 and treaties of 1858.

Since that time the progress of Shanghai, Foo-Chow, Amoy, and Hong-Kong (which last, however, is purely a British colony) has been amazing, and men who visited China ten years ago would not recognize these places. Indeed, it is not unlikely, with the rapid extension of Chinese trade, and the removal of the prejudices of the people, that the history of Chinese cities, like those of the Western States and California, will have to be rewritten every ten years to be at all correct.

This is peculiarly the case in respect to Shanghai, which, from an insignificant place, almost unknown in the western world, has sprung up to an importance in trade surpassing that of any city on the China coast. It has, from its proximity to the tea district, and easy communication with the vast country watered by the Yang-tze river, taken almost without an effort the great trade that once centred in Canton, and every year shows a greater amount of tonnage in the Woosung river, and larger exports of tea, silk, and cotton.

Approaching the entrance to the Woosung river from the Pacific, the waters of the Yang-tze are plainly discernible at sixty to seventy miles from its mouth, and when near the point where the ship's head is turned from the broad current of the great river into that of the Woosung, a thick, yellow mud rolls out with the tide, and discolors the water as far as the eye can reach. It is like the waters of the Nile or the Mississippi, turbulent in the great tideways, and heavy with the coloring matter of the soil it has washed for thousands of miles. It is evident that we are approaching a great commercial city, although for miles we can see only a low coast, well cultivated, but without signs of a town. The number of ships and steamers passing in and out on a fine day would remind a New Yorker of the fleet that is always beating through the Narrows, or is to be seen from the heights of Neversink. In the three hours it took us to run from the light-ship to the anchorage at Woosung, no less than seven large steamers passed us, outward bound.

The tide in the Yang-tze and its branch, the Woosung, runs with tremendous force, having a rise and fall of eighteen feet at spring tides, and few ships are able to proceed beyond Woosung with a single tide, Shanghai lying twelve miles above. They anchor among a fleet of native junks from the trading places on the Yang-tze, bound to the same port, and awaiting a change of tide, which the Chinese sailors celebrate by a great hubbub on the poops of their unwieldy-looking vessels, with tom-toms and other instruments of the same nature. This fleet of junks and sampans is a curious sight to the stranger approaching the China coast for the first time, and, with a ramble through the filthy village of Woosung, occupies the time which the tides compel him to spend there.

The junks give proof that if there have been great changes in the trade of China and in the appearance of the cities where foreigners have established themselves, there certainly has been none in the mode of ship building, and in the thousand curious and uncouth ways of working, acting, and living which have been for generations handed down from father to son, and which are at the present time in no ways altered from what they were a thousand years ago. No people in the world are slower in admitting the ideas of foreign nations, or in taking advantage of the most obvious improvements daily before their eyes; and, although the improvements introduced by English and Americans in steamers and vessels adapted for the navigation of their rivers are so far acknowledged by them as to lead to the discontinuance of junk building to a marked extent, yet the vessels they now build are of the same uncouth, clumsy, and expensive shape as the first they ever put on the stocks.

Their anchors are still of wood, and occupy the greater part of the vessel before the foremast; and, instead of cables, they still have immense coils of rough rope like a hair lariat. The sails are still of bamboo mats, although occasionally a piece of good American or English duck is to be seen, stretched on bamboos in the style of the old-fashioned square sail, and once, on the river Min, we saw a native pilot-boat rigged with the regular fore-and-aft cut, her sails having evidently been fashioned by a foreign hand.

Out of hundreds of junks moored in the Woosung river it was impossible to find one without the great staring eye under what is called, by courtesy, the bows, and not a few of them had the open mouth of a dragon, with ugly teeth, painted under it, near the water-line, the corners being drawn down, and the eye (from their desire that it should see 'all ways at once') having a horrid squint. This gave to the boat a lugubrious expression—if such a term may be allowed—ludicrous in the extreme; and with fifty or a hundred junks drawn up in squadrons, squinting and making faces at each other, nothing more thoroughly Chinese could well be imagined.

Conspicuous among this fleet were the timber vessels, which were so loaded as to be able to move only with the tide. The art with which their lading was tied to the vessels, so as to preserve their shape while stretching far over the water on either side, was admirable; and, out of fifty timber junks, all seemed to be loaded in precisely the same manner. This was accomplished by laying the ends of the poles, tied in fagots, toward the bows, while their smooth, round butts were exposed to the action of the tide. The sticks being of uniform length and thickness, tapering evenly, and about twenty feet long, it was easy to arrange their fagots so as to give them the swelling lines of a ship, and enable the junk to breast the storms of the coast without damage to her cargo.

Woosung, itself, is a place of no interest whatever—a filthy village, with a market place on the river; the remains of old forts in its neighborhood, and extensive rice and cotton fields about it, presenting the only points worthy of note.

There is an old Joss house on the outskirts of the village, occupied by the French as a barracks, or 'garrison of occupation for the protection of the coast,' as a cadaverous old soldier told us, manned by twenty-six soldiers, without earthworks or protection of any kind. They constitute the 'foreign population' of Woosung, and might as well be drafted to some more healthy locality for any good that they can do. Such as we saw looked like men just recovering from cholera or yellow fever.

While lying at Woosung waiting for the tide to change, we were frequently reminded that we could not be far from a great commercial entrepot of the world, by seeing five or six large ships, of one thousand tons each, rush past with the tide in as many hours, tea-laden and bound to Europe; but none of our company were prepared for what we saw as we first rounded the point where a good view of Shanghai is obtained, and saw, in the brilliant light of a harvest moon, the dense forest of masts that filled the river. I have seen the mass of shipping in the Pool at London, and in the Mersey at Liverpool, in the East river at New York, and the Delaware at Philadephia, in Boston and San Francisco harbors, and in all the other ports of China, and among them all Shanghai holds no mean rank. The summer of 1863, from peculiar circumstances, the dullness of freights elsewhere, and the depredations of the Alabama and other piratical cruisers, called to the China coast, and especially to Shanghai, as fine a fleet of clippers as was to be found in any port of the world; and on that bright mid-summer night we found them anchored in three parallel rows, crossing the channel of a river half a mile wide, and stretching for a mile and a half, if not two miles, up and down before Shanghai.

Interspersed among these ships of all nations whose flags are known on the seas, were steamers of all sizes, from the little tugboat to the large steamers, like the Poyang of fifteen hundred tons, plying on the Yang-tze and between the ports on the China sea, the Yellow sea, and in Japan. Of these, no less than seventy-one belong to or trade with Shanghai, and at that time there could not have been less than forty in port.

Beyond the vessels at anchor in the stream, the space to the very banks of the river was filled up and covered by a cloud of Chinese junks, sampans, and river boats of every class and name.

We were before one of the great cities of the world, or one that is yet to be known as among its most flourishing. The moonlight was reflected from a long row of stately buildings, palaces in extent and noble proportions, which lined the bank of the river for more than a mile. These were the residences and mercantile houses of the merchants, the public buildings, and the 'foreign concessions' in general, as they are called. Beyond them could be seen the dim, turreted outlines of the Chinese city, now closed and hushed for the night, but seemingly of vast extent. The first and overruling impression here, as in all European settlements on the China coast, except Canton and Swatow, was the grand scale on which everything was done. The residences or hongs of the merchants seemed planned by liberal minds, and executed by as liberal hands. Space and money are not spared, and to obtain coolness and comfort in so hot a climate, the ceilings of rooms are made very high, few of the houses having more than two stories. Generally the material is the small, over-baked and dark-colored brick of the Chinese, overlaid with stucco; but occasionally a house is seen built of stone, one or two of the largest and most valuable being entirely of granite. Generally these hongs stand in spacious enclosures, or compounds, filled with rare tropical trees and the bamboo so common in China.

The finest residences are on the river bank or Bund, as it is commonly called; but the city stretches for several squares back from the river, being densest in the English Concession. The American quarter, Hong-Que, although not as well filled with fine houses, is the next in importance, while the French Concession, nearest to the great city within the walls, is meanly built, and has more of the native element than either of the others. For, although it is contrary to Chinese law for any native to hold property in any of the foreign possessions, in practice large numbers of Chinamen rent tenements from their foreign owners, and even own them, the property standing, for convenience' sake, in the name of some foreign resident in trust. Thus there has gradually grown up around and upon the concessions a large Chinese city, believed by many to contain almost as large a population as the city within the walls. This is not incredible when we consider that the excesses of the Tae-Pings in Soo-Chow, a large city about thirty miles from Shanghai, have driven vast numbers of its inhabitants to the latter place, which, being already densely crowded, has overflowed its walls, and, as the presence of Europeans has made Shanghai, as it were, a city of refuge for the exiles, they have naturally crowded around the foreign settlement. In this manner the population of Shanghai and its environs has been prodigiously augmented within the last two years, and from a place of six hundred thousand inhabitants, it has become one of more than a million of people. It is extremely difficult to obtain even an approximate estimate of the population of a Chinese city. The estimates of the Chinese are totally unreliable, varying sometimes in the most ridiculous manner, and generally being preposterously exaggerated, while the estimates of strangers or foreigners, unacquainted with the marvellous abundance of human life in very small spaces, as it is seen in China, are very rarely correct. For instance, it is not uncommon to find that residents of this city differ as much as a million of people in their views of its population, their estimates ranging from nine hundred thousand to two million. It is not unlikely that a medium between these two extremes will prove to be correct, the figure twelve hundred thousand appearing to be the favorite at present among those conversant with the great changes of the last year.[1]

Unfortunately this vast increase in so short a period has led to great mortality among the Chinese, from the dense crowding it has occasioned, and in the summer months they are severe sufferers from Asiatic cholera, which rages among them with shocking mortality. The air, even of the foreign concessions, becomes tainted by the foul miasma rising from the Chinese city, and no part of Shanghai can be esteemed healthy in the months of July and August. A more perfect system of drainage in the foreign concessions will probably lessen the mortality among Europeans, and it is pleasing to note that this matter is now receiving the attention which should have been given to it years ago; but no system of laws or attempts at organizing better sanitary arrangements can seemingly be successful among the Chinese themselves. Large sums of money are now appropriated annually for these purposes, according to their own account, but the mandarins embezzle it, the work is left undone, and the filth and horrible stench of a Chinese city is indescribable; it is something monstrous. Europeans and Americans, accustomed to their own cleanly cities, cannot conceive of it. New York streets have an unenviable notoriety on the Western continent for their dirty condition, but New York is a garden of roses compared with a genuine Chinese city, such as Shanghai within the walls. Even the Chinese, who might be supposed to be accustomed to it, carry little bags of musk to their noses as they ride through in their sedans; and half the Chinese women one meets in Shanghai hold the nostril with the forefinger and thumb, with a grace and dexterity only acquired by long practice.

Mr. Fortune, the celebrated botanist[1] and indefatigable Chinese traveller, gives to Tient-sin the glory of being the filthiest and most noisome of Chinese cities, although he mentions Shanghai with high honor. Canton, from which Europeans have mainly derived their ideas of China, is comparatively a clean and neat place, far superior to the more northern cities.

To descend from generalities to particulars. The smells are a horrible compound, worse than in Coleridge's 'City of Cologne.' First and foremost are the sewers, which are all open, the deposits of the night-soil of the city, with convenient wells at every corner and in niches in the walls. At these are to be found, at all hours, men with buckets slung on bamboos, filling them for transportation in these primitive open vessels to the farmers, who use the compost on their fields. These wretches, with their vile burdens, are met at every turn, and pass through the streets and roads in long files, loading the air with abominations. No attention is paid to the wells and sewers until they overflow, and, as chance may direct, the coolies take their loads from the most convenient.

This is a terrible nuisance, but it is hardly worse than the odors which arise from the innumerable cook shops, and from the peripatetic bakeries at every corner. What they are cooking, no man knows, but if not dog chow-chow, it is sure to be fried in some vegetable oil that sends up a mighty vapor, hiding the cooks and rolling into the narrow street, where it scarcely finds vent between the overhanging eaves of the houses. The sickening smell of the castor bean seems everywhere. Occasionally the sight and powerful odor of hard-boiled and rotten goose eggs, split open to show that they are either rotten or half hatched, attract the Chinese epicure. The oily cakes and crullers that the wandering baker is frying for a group of children, powerfully offend European olfactories, although so tempting to the half-naked brats. Many different and offensive odors come from these greasy cook shops, but the offence in almost every instance can be traced home to the vegetable oils, greasy and rancid, which seem to pervade all Chinese cookery, as it is seen in the streets of the cities. Many of the dishes, but for this oil, would be quite tempting; and such, as have tasted them in the houses of the rich, assure us that they are not so bad as they smell. The much-talked-of edible bird's-nest soup is really a fine dish. The substance, after it is prepared, all the dirt and feathers being separated from it, is as clean and pure as isinglass, which it greatly resembles in appearance. Great care is taken to make it pure before it is sold for use, and in the shops at Canton it may be seen in every stage of manufacture. Their ducks and geese are fine birds, and, with excellent pork, and their never-failing rice, are the favorite dishes of such as can afford them; which, by the way, they really know how to cook—an art that is very little understood in England or America.

Dog chow-chow, kittens, rats, and mice, with crickets and locusts, are only eaten by the vilest of the vile—poor wretches, who must support themselves and families on a pittance of about fifteen or twenty dollars a year.

Of course there are many things in their way of cookery, and in their tastes for such articles as sharks' fins, fish maws, beche-de-mer, etc., which are revolting to an educated stomach; but in their way the Chinese are quite as dainty as the most fastidious of other lands, and in fine vegetables, fish, and fruits they enjoy as much variety and evince as discriminating a taste as any people in the world. Their fish are sold in the markets alive, and taken from the tanks as selected by the purchaser. Their way of drinking tea will be found, after familiarity, superior to ours, for when milk is not used the finer aroma of the leaf is obtained. Indeed, they are very particular in regard to the quality and decoction of their tea, totally refusing the poisonous green teas that are consumed in such quantities in England, and especially in America.

They know, too, how to draw it, and just at the right moment the boiling water is poured upon the leaf, and, without allowing it to simmer by the fire, as we do, long enough to get the flavor of the stalks and stems, they drink it off as soon as the boiling water has fairly acted upon the delicate leaves. English tea-drinkers, who like to mix a green and a black tea, and allow it to steam for a quarter of an hour to make it strong, complain that Chinese tea is mere dishwater, just as the man accustomed to get boozy on brandy, made 'fiery' with sulphuric acid, has no taste for the light French wines. A Chinaman colors his green tea with Prussian blue for his foreign customers, who like a bright, pretty color; but he is too wise to drink it. This process of coloring we have seen, publicly, in the tea factories of Shanghai; and the disgust with which the manufacturer denied that he ever drank his own wares, was too strong to be assumed. 'No good,' was his only reply.

Despite the filth and many disagreeable things to be encountered in a walk or ride through a city like Shanghai, it is one of the most interesting places imaginable in which to spend an hour or two on a summer morning.

In the heat of the day, at mid-summer, it is dangerous in China, and especially to a new comer, to be exposed even to the reflected rays of the sun, and many a poor fellow has lost his life by neglect or contempt of the cautions of his more experienced friends not to be in the sunshine between the hours of 10 A. M. and 4 P. M. More than ordinary precaution is necessary in times of cholera, owing to the peculiar electrical condition of the atmosphere, in which any exertion or exposure is often fatal to one recently arrived on the coast. All excursions to the city are therefore, of necessity, made in the morning or late in the afternoon. The gates are opened at daybreak, and the early visitor is almost certain to be unpleasantly reminded of the prevalence of cholera by the number of dead bodies lying in the streets. They are those of coolies, or poor persons, who have died during the night, and having no friends, the public authorities must take them wherever they chance to die, and provide for their burial. In August, 1863, at a time when the cholera was not particularly virulent, the deaths were supposed to be five hundred a day, principally among the poor, who, from insufficient food, miserable lodging in the streets and porticoes of temples, and constant exposure in the day to the direct rays of the sun, to say nothing of the filth and foul air of the city, were peculiarly exposed to the ravages of disease. Another sign of the presence of cholera, and an odd one, was the number of persons passing with necks disfigured by perpendicular parallel bars, as if branded by hot irons. This curious remedy is applied for any pain in the stomach, however slight, even for sea sickness, and the marks are made with strong pincers. By the Chinese it is thought very efficacious, although on what theory it is difficult to understand.

Entering the city from the north gate, after crossing the ditch that separates the walls from, the French Concession, we find ourselves in close and extremely narrow streets, with shops opening upon them, neither glass nor any partition separating them from passers by. The same arrangement is quite common in our own streets for fruit-sellers' shops, toy stores, and newspaper and periodical stands. But instead of one or two attendants at a stand, in China we find a dozen, in summer time naked from the waist upward, emaciated by opium smoking, and having a sickly look painful to see. Most of the shops have a carved railing and a counter facing the street, the ends of which are ornamented by grotesque shapes of dogs and gilded idols. A figure of a pug-nosed dog with bandy legs is very common. At the first glance it would be supposed that this was one of those nondescripts the Chinese are so fond of devising, but a closer examination shows that the figure is an admirably life-like copy of an odd dog, common to Pekin, pug-nosed and bandy-legged, and no doubt his form will be recognized in many of the grotesque, awkward-looking figures of which ivory carvings abound in all countries where Chinese curiosities are to be found.

Standing on the counter is generally a roll of joss-sticks wound spirally around a wire frame, and always burning to the tutelary idol of the shop, for the sake of good luck. It is the duty of one of the boys to see that this coil of joss-stick is always lighted—a very convenient arrangement for tobacco smokers strolling through the streets. Another custom which they have, and which is also supposed to bring success to the shopkeeper, is to encourage the swallows to build under the eaves and among the bamboo rafters. Three or four of these nests of swallows, with broods of twittering young ones, may often be observed in a single shop, neat stretchers of cotton cloth or bamboo being built under the nests, to prevent any possible damage to the goods. The birds seem quite at home amid all the hubbub; and the kind care which protects them amid a semi-barbarous people is one of those traits of a common humanity—of kindness to the helpless—which marks the common origin of the most civilized and most barbarous of the human race. The streets of Shanghai are not divided among the trades, as in Canton, but shops of all kinds occur in every crooked lane and alley-way. Principal among them are the cookshops, some of which are evidently restaurants on a large scale, for they are filled, from morning till night, with half-naked coolies, eating indescribable dishes, of which rice is the great staple, and sipping tea. They all sit at little tables, built for two, or at round tables, seating half a dozen. In the country and in the suburbs these last are drawn out into the open air at sunset, and are occupied by parties taking their tea in a social manner. The roads around Shanghai are fall of such parties on a warm summer's eve.

After the cookshops, the confectioners' attract the traveller's eye. An immense amount of sweetmeats is consumed by the people, and the confectioners' shops are proportionally numerous. They are distinguished by copper caldrons sunk in their counters, which are kept always hot and full of molasses. With a ladle like a milkman's pint measure, they bring up the sweet mass for their customers, and their stalls are always crowded. Not only are these established shops well patronized, but an immense quantity of candy and preserved fruits is sold by the wandering peddlers, who manufacture and dispose of their good things wherever they find customers. Preserved lychee, a fruit that looks like a small prune, and like it is stewed in sirup, is a great favorite; and the coolies in the foreign quarters, while resting under their burdens, are not backward in disposing of a saucer of sweetmeats obtained from the nearest peddler. These sweetmeats, of all kinds, are esteemed very good by Europeans, and no doubt are quite the same as we receive from China put up in big-bellied blue jars; but as sold in the streets, the lack of cleanliness in the entire outfit of the shop, and the necessity of using the dishes and China spoons from which one can see the neighboring coolies gobbling their purchases, holding the dishes up to their very noses, would deter any man of ordinary fastidiousness from attempting an immediate experiment to establish their identity.

After eating, we must rank shaving as the second among Chinese employments. They all wear the cue, even to the infant in arms, whose mother shaves its head at three months old, and ties up the tiny cue with a red ribbon, and from that day to the day of his death the child and man must be periodically shaved; for, of course, no man can shave his own head. Great is the barber in China, and vast his field of operations among four hundred millions of people! They shave their subjects everywhere, even sitting on a stone in an open field, and at all hours of the day their shops are full. It is in the neatness of his 'shave' and the glossiness of his rich black cue that the Chinese dandy is distinguishable. Men who cannot afford to shave every day, allow the hair to grow until the head (always excepting the part which has never known the razor or the shears) resembles that of a fire zouave just after enlistment, or a penitentiary prisoner; while the exquisite has his head shaved with the sharpest razor, giving a bluish cast or frame for his yellow face. Occasionally the size or thickness of the tail appears to be unsatisfactory, and a larger surface is spared from the knife. The refractory hairs growing out in this supplementary patch surround the genuine cue with a halo an inch or two in height. Lots of these apostolical-looking Chinese are to be met with in every street, and, as they rarely wear hats, they have a very comical appearance. This question of hats is another of curious import among this curious people. A Chinese gentleman rarely wears one in the streets, his mode of travel being in a sedan, and his fan or umbrella answering all purposes of protection from the sun. A mandarin, on the contrary, wears in the ball of his cap his badge of office, and the time even when he changes his winter for his summer hat is regulated by the Board of Rites. The poor coolie is troubled by no such formality, and wears a great umbrella-like head covering, that he perches on a little bamboo tower, six inches above his crown, tying down the whole concern by a string that passes behind his ears. When at leisure, he wears his long cue trailing to his feet; when busy, it is snugly coiled around his head and out of sight under his hat. The gentleman and mandarin, on the contrary, never ties up the cue, its flowing grace, like his long finger nails, being a badge of his superior condition in being above manual labor. No wonder, then, that they attach so much importance to the pigtail, and that the man who dresses it daily is so useful a character in the community. His tools are unlike anything a civilized barber uses, and his razor, if its uses were not explained, would hardly be recognized by the name. It is a thick, broad instrument, shaped more like a cook's cleaver than any instrument known to other nations; but it does its work well in the hands of a good operator. After the head is shaved, it is washed with warm water in an old-fashioned brass barber's basin, such, as was in use in England two hundred years ago, and, after having had the few straggling hairs on lip and chin removed, the patient (for truly he deserves the name) goes through the torture of having all stray hairs extracted from the inner coating of the nose and ears, an absurd and barbarous custom that often leads to permanent injury of the latter organs. If he chances to have ophthalmia, the barber considers that his eyes need cleaning, and proceeds to wipe out the inner side of the eyelid with his instrument, of course to their serious injury. In the ophthalmic hospitals of Chinese cities European physicians have found this practice a fruitful cause of many diseases of the eyes, but no remonstrances can induce the people and their barbers to give it up.

The mustache, as well as the pigtail of immoderate length, is a badge of a certain dignity, for no man is allowed to cultivate it until he reaches a certain age, and it is an error to suppose that Asiatics are totally devoid of beard, for the old fellows among them sport grisly beards and mustaches of respectable length, and altogether have quite a venerable look. On the stage the emperor and mandarins are represented as bearded like Turks. Indeed the excessive length of their horse-hair mustaches, reaching to their girdles, shows what esteem the people attach to a long, flowing beard.

On first landing in China, the impression given by so many long-tailed and petticoated men is like the memory of a dream wherein one has seen animals walking like men; and, although custom makes the sight familiar, a Chinaman always appears an odd creature, especially when he passes the end of his pigtail under his left shoulder and gently caresses it or twists the final braid. A comical sight, to be seen almost every day in Hong-Kong, is a sepoy policeman leading some Chinese culprit to the lockup: the sepoy, tall and erect, with fierce mustaches, lean as a tiger, and with a warlike air, leading along the meek Chinaman by the end of his pigtail, John Chinaman following at about two paces behind, just at the end of his natural tether.

We have already alluded to the grotesque appearance of an infant a few months old, with close-shaved head, and pigtail two inches long, tied up with a gay ribbon. When the youngster is four years old, and his pigtail has reached the dignity of seven inches, it is duly braided, and constitutes his only dress. Then, being armed with a basket, he is sent out in this primitive and absurd costume to pick chips.

After the barbers, in order of importance among the Chinese shopkeepers, come the coffin makers, and they are very important men indeed, in a country where the worship of ancestors is carried to a degree unknown elsewhere in the world. Their coffins are of all sizes and degrees of finish, but of one invariable shape. Some of those seen in Shanghai cost as much as one thousand taels, equal to $1,500 in American gold. They are extremely massive, more like miniature junks than the shape we are accustomed to associate with the idea of a coffin, the head being higher than the foot, and the lines of the sides swelling gently with very little taper. The boards of the sides and headpiece are at least three inches thick, elaborately carved, and gilded in Chinese characters. The colors are various, black and red predominating. As the body is kept in this massive shell for several months after decease, and in the house of the nearest relative, the good sense of making the walls of extra thickness and strength is very apparent. Even after it is laid in the tomb, in many parts of the country, the style of sepulture allows the coffin to be seen, and it is even exposed to the weather in some cases. Customs differ greatly, however, in different parts of the country. In the flat region about Shanghai, the tombs are found mostly around the little streams flowing into the Yang-tze, or the ocean. The coffins are placed in the open fields, a few shovelfuls of earth are thrown around them, and they are left undisturbed, for the high weeds and the accumulations of centuries to form mounds around them. A few regularly constructed tombs are to be found, but they are rare. In the hill country bordering the China sea, in the province of Foh-Kien, and elsewhere on the coast, when the nature of the land will allow, extensive tombs are hollowed out in the sides of the hills, and the coffins are deposited out of sight. Here a whole family reposes, it may be, in one of these majestic tombs (for, seen from a distance, they have a picturesque and imposing appearance). The popular shape is that of a horseshoe or half moon, the circle being toward the summit of the hill. This portion of the tomb is raised like a crown, and facing it is an altar, with Chinese characters engraven on its pillars, where the offerings of the relatives or worshippers are placed. Before this is a place like a court, railed off and flanked, it may be, by smaller altars on either side, facing other entrances, where the less venerated members of the family are interred. In front of the whole are two high posts, the meaning or use of which, if they have any at all, we are not acquainted with.

On these altars are burnt the paper offerings sent to their departed friends, the manufacture and sale of which occupy a numerous and important class of shops in the great cities. These offerings are generally of gilt and silver paper, in the form of clothes, horses, houses, and other conveniences of which their friends showed their appreciation on earth, and which, by a subtile process of reasoning, they imagine that they can transmit to them in this cheap and ingenious manner—simply by burning these paper effigies at the altars by the tombs! One of the most ingenious and economical of these contrivances, whereby, with a subtlety of argument worthy of the great trafficker in indulgences, Tetzel, who so raised Martin Luther's ire, they manage cheaply to transmit funds to heaven, is the paper dollar, strings of which are sold in the shops, looking exceedingly like goodly bunches of the silvery onion. It is worthy of a people who are so niggardly in all their transactions, who have a copper currency that would sink any man with a fortune invested in it, and who cheat all that come in contact with them, that they should cheat their departed friends with these remittances, a bundle of which are to be obtained for a few cash, and on reaching the other world are understood to pass for a little fortune. In the ordinary affairs of life it is their habit to put three prices on everything they have to sell, and in their dealings with heaven they put their own valuations, amounting to an advance of several thousand per cent., on all their offerings. Could anything be more thoroughly in character?

There is, however, a certain degree of respect paid to the memory of departed friends, and an attachment to the soil where lie the bones of their ancestors, that, in as far as it is harmless, is entitled to our respectful consideration. It gives a domestic, settled character to the people, that is worthy of all praise, and should raise them in our estimation, from whatever cause it may spring. It is well known that they show the highest respect to the aged, and that those who emigrate to foreign lands show the greatest anxiety that after death their remains should be sent back to their own country. Ships from San Francisco are often largely freighted with the coffins of deceased Chinamen; and it is worthy of note that few or none of these belong to men born in Shanghai, the Chinese seen in other lands coming almost exclusively from Canton, Ningpo, and Amoy. The northern and middle population of China is not by nature so restless a class as that of the south, and has borne this character since Europeans have been at all acquainted with the Chinese.

The three kinds of shops to which allusion has been made, those of the cooks, the barbers, and the undertakers, comprise more than one half of all in Shanghai; but besides these are almost as many varieties of trades as we are accustomed to in other more civilized countries. Bankers sit behind their counters, keeping watch over tons of copper cash, neatly threaded in strings of one thousand each, and pay checks and make loans with the same regularity as in cities boasting their superior civilization. Nor are the resources of these native bankers to be despised. On proper security native and foreign merchants have been known to obtain loans of several hundred thousand dollars from one banker. Many of their daily operations are for very considerable amounts, and are adjusted in credits or in silver. Although they are cursed with as abominable a currency as any nation in the world, they do not appear to experience any great difficulty in settlements, every merchant having his balance, and weighing off the proper amount of silver, larger payments being made in sycee. This want of a currency arises from their utter lack of confidence in the coinage of their own country. No currency that the Imperial Government might issue, not like the copper cash, or tsien, incapable of adulteration, would be above suspicion; and while the shameless system of mandarin plunder and fraud continues, it is hopeless to expect a proper currency in China, unless the foreigners interfere or obtain the control in this part of the national affairs which they already have over the customs and the army. A uniform currency, superior to the wretched, worthless cash, is the crying need of China. The Mexican, or chop dollar, becomes sadly depreciated after long circulation, by the clippings and innumerable marks put upon it, so that it will not pass outside of China, nor does it long remain out of the pot of the sycee melter. The American half dollar and quarter and the English shilling are daily becoming more popular for the smaller transactions of the shops, and the notes of the local banks possess considerable circulation in their respective cities; but what is needed more than anything else is an abundance of small silver coinage for the daily ordinary transactions. The Mexican mint is quite inadequate to supply so vast and insatiable a country as China, which should have a currency of its own. No doubt much larger quantities of silver will continue to reach China directly from California, within the next few years, in the shape of bars. The great impetus which the late wild speculations in silver shares is likely to give to the development of the Washoe mines, is almost certain within a very few years to so largely increase the yield of California silver as to rival in amount the immense produce of her gold mines. Careful surveys and the actual yield of mines, such as the Gould & Curry, and Hale & Norcross on the Comstock lead, prove that the ore is there in large quantities, and the stimulus has now been applied which will rapidly bring it to light. With the increasing facilities between San Francisco and Hong-Kong the bulk of this must go to China direct, instead of the roundabout course by which it has reached the East through London. But these are questions that hardly attract attention at present in Shanghai, or among the Shanghai bankers, whose shops we were talking of as met with here and there in the open street.

Next to one of these respectable, long-tailed gentlemen we found a first-class apothecary, whose shop and mode of business were widely different from those of one of the guild at home. The ceilings were swarming with swallows, whose chattering rivalled that of the folks below, conspicuous among whom was a fat, greasy old chap, in the dignity of a gray mustache and a monstrous pair of colored spectacles, the glasses of which were an inch and a half in diameter, rimmed with horn, and tied by a string to his ears. He was gravely busy in compounding a prescription on a piece of paper large enough to cover the side of a chest of tea, and closely written over with Chinese characters. We lounged by his side as he put up packet after packet of dried roots and simples, tasting many of them with his consent. Calamus and liquorice were among them, and camphor, too. Each packet was of the size of a pound paper of Stuart's candy (any child can tell you what size that has), and when the entire prescription was filled, the unfortunate sick man became possessed of no less than twenty-three of these packages, enough to keep famine from his door for a week at least, to judge from their bulk. They filled a goodly basket. It was not one man alone who carried away such a heap of medicines; but before each applicant, as the prescriptions spread on the counter were ticked off, rose a pile of similar packages, which bid fair to become as high as that which had excited our curiosity. All these drugs were put up neatly in the light-yellow paper we are accustomed to see round our packs of fire-crackers, and as neatly sealed with a little gum arabic. Indeed, it is shrewdly suspected by Father Hue, from this prodigious liberality of drugs, that the physicians feel bound to give a man all he pays for, in the hope that out of a multitude of remedies some may chance to suit his case. The foreign residents of Shanghai aver that the doctors take contracts to cure their patients in a certain time, and if unsuccessful at the stipulated day, their patients relieve their minds by a little elegant abuse of their physician, and take the contract to the next in their neighborhood.

It is not uncommon to see their dentists wandering through the streets with rows of old fangs suspended from their necks like necklaces, trophies of their skill; and every dead wall in the city has its vermilion posters, advertising some great quack medicine, so that it is quite evident that the science of medicine has reached that pitch of refinement where a host of quacks can ply their arts with as much success as among the western barbarians.

Heaven save us, though, from a Chinese doctor! Mechanical surgery is his forte; for a stomach ache he will pinch your neck; for a broken rib he will nearly crack the bones of your arm, and if you faint under this he will hang you up by your heels to restore the circulation.

According to the diagrams published in the books on medicine, the knowledge of anatomy possessed by the faculty in China is very slight, and entirely erroneous; and in all their cures it is very probable that nature, unassisted except by rest and fasting for a season, does the work. They certainly are able to give her very little help.

It is noticeable, however, as a proof of the high esteem in which the people hold the science, that the shops of the chemists and apothecaries are kept by a superior class of people, more intelligent in appearance than their neighbors, and holding a higher rank.

Of the lower trades there are innumerable shops, the variety of which is almost bewildering. Every art and manufacture has its minute subdivisions, and one meets, at every step, signs of the superior civilization of the people in their admirable division of labor. Silk looms are working in the open streets, shoemakers and tailors are each plying their art in their narrow shops. In one they manufacture little paper offerings for the gods, in another the gods themselves, in the next their worshippers are supplied with joss-sticks or gayly colored candles of tallow, mounted on slim sticks, that they may be stuck in the sand before the divinity. Here you will find a printer hard at work taking impressions on their delicate paper; next a bookbinder, who sews the leaves with withes of paper, while in the next shop you can procure the almanac for the year, months before it is required. In August, 1863, they were selling copies of the almanac for 1864. Probably this work has the largest circulation of any in the world, hanging, as it does, in every house. The only exception may be the Bible, which, it is to be hoped, will yet be as widely circulated in China as it is among the other nations of the world.

Numbers of the people are engaged in the delicate carving we so much admire in the ivory toys scattered throughout Europe and America, and a vast number of people in preparing the hanging screens with curious devices, quaint pictures, and sentences from Confucius, which are found in almost every house of the better class. They have a great fondness for the proverbs and wise sayings which, are thus kept always before their children, like the very good rules and aphorisms we see on the walls of our Sunday schools.

A good example of the minute subdivision of the Chinese trades is seen in the shops devoted exclusively to the sale of camel's-hair pencils, and others for that of the little squares of red paper, covered with hieroglyphics, which we receive on a pack of fire-crackers, and which constitute its 'chop.'

Jewellers' shops contain very little interesting to a foreigner—most of the rings and brooches are trashy articles of jade-stone, a greenish stone which resembles agate or cornelian in opaqueness. The armlets are of silver, and of the same substance are the large thin circles worn by the women of Foh-Kien in the ear and resting on the shoulder. Pins for the fantastic pyramid they erect with their rich black hair are rather pretty, but are generally ornamented with false pearls. For pearls the Chinese have a passion, but it requires a judge of the article to purchase any from them, nine tenths of those in the shops being fictitious. Seed pearls are also used by them as medicines. In the back streets it is not uncommon to find places where they make them, and others where artists are engaged in cutting and polishing on the lathe the few precious stones they possess. Rock crystal is one of their favorites, and from it they cut beautiful vases and goblets that are sometimes as clear as glass. In this, however, they are surpassed by the Japanese, whoso crystal globes cannot be distinguished from the most perfect glass. They also cut vases and carve odd figures in an arsenical stone, of reddish color, with a grain like granite, which is little known in other countries.

In Shanghai the shops for the sale of china and porcelain-ware do not present as fine an assortment as those of Canton, where vases costing fabulous sums are to be seen, but they are rich with the peculiar pottery of Soo-Chow. Just at present the display of this ware is not as fine as usual, owing to the occupation of that city by the Tae-Pings, but enough remains on hand to show its beauty and general usefulness. Chinese porcelain ware is as well known in every civilized country of the world as in China itself, and has ceased to be a curiosity unless when intelligently viewed in its historical character, for all these quaint scenes scattered over the magnificent vases we receive illustrate some event in Chinese history, or some custom which obtains among the people.

When evening approaches and the shops are lit up with lanterns, the numerous and brilliant lantern warehouses attract the attention: some of the goods they display (and at nightfall they light every lantern in the shop) are extremely beautiful and costly; all kinds are to be obtained, from the fine hall-lamp of painted glass to the sixpenny lantern to be carried in the hand. At night these gay lights give much animation to the busy streets. Having gone across Shanghai from the south gate to the French Concession one dark night, after the city gates were closed, a good opportunity of seeing the interior of a Chinese city after nightfall (which few foreigners care to avail themselves of) presented itself. The people were slowly closing their shops for the night. Here and there a shopkeeper was counting his cash, and calculating at his counter with the help of the abacus; many of them were sitting at the doors of their houses, smoking in the evening air; the barbers were still at work preparing their customers for the night. Like Washington Irving, these may have considered a good clean shave the best soporific. Here and there a citizen of the better class was to be seen picking his way by the light of a lantern, held by a boy, and twice we met sedan chairs containing women, preceded by a lantern bearer. The passage of two sedans in these narrow streets is a difficult and unpleasant process, the bearers generally managing to grind your shins against a wall. At night it is still more difficult to avoid contact, and the coolies are incessantly shouting, in a sing-song voice, to prepare the way. As it was, in the narrower streets we passed between files of dusky figures and black, inquisitive eyes, ranged on either side to barely allow passage. The cook-shops were deserted, and the attendants busy in putting out the fires; only the places where lanterns or candles were sold seemed to be doing an active trade, although it had scarcely struck nine. At ten o'clock no doubt all were asleep, for hosts of beggars and poor wretches were snoring by the roadsides. The most picturesque groups passed in this evening stroll were those on the bridges, where, by the light of tallow candles, men and boys were gambling and fighting crickets. Although probably there was not another European or American within the walls of the city, the passage was as safe as if made at noonday, guarded by a file of soldiers.

A visit to Shanghai would be incomplete if the traveller failed to inspect the numerous and very curious temples, and to contrast them with the church edifices erected in the heart of the city by the Protestant missionaries. There is one without the walls, in the French Concession, where all the instruments of torture, the devilish devices of heathen cruelty, are to be seen, a horrid spectacle. The largest of the temples, however, is within the walls, approached through a wide court, with a fountain (not in use) in the centre. This court is crowded with fortune tellers, conjurors, and gamblers of every kind. Some of these gentry play a game very much like thimble-rigging, in which copper cash, appears under different inverted teacups. Every man who approaches the idol draws from among the fortune tellers a stick or a piece of paper, from the figure on which he is supposed to tell whether his prayer will succeed, or the work he contemplates prove lucky. Entering the shrine, it is difficult to see for a few moments, so gloomy is the place and so grimy every object with the smoke of joss offerings from time immemorial. A kind of altar faces the worshippers, with a box of sand, in which are stuck the burning joss-sticks. Before this is a cushion, on which they prostrate themselves, telling their beads, as they recite their prayers inaudibly, and bowing to the earth at intervals of a few minutes. Behind the altar are the idols. These hideous figures are twice the size of life, and of frightful shape and features, the principal god being in a tent-like shrine, which permits only a glimpse of his grim features in the background. On his right hand is the figure of a man with the beak of an eagle, and on his left a very grotesque divinity, with a third eye, like that of the Cyclops, in the centre of his forehead. These two figures, again, are supported by gigantic guardians, one on either side, who have nothing absolutely monstrous about them, being distinguished by their saturnine expression. That to the right hand bears a striking likeness to Daniel Webster's stern and well-known features. The deep-set eye and compressed lip were those of the great expounder.

A heavy cloud from the burning candles and paper offerings filled the air, and the smell of candle snuff mingled with that of incense. A high railing separated the worshippers from the idols, but the priests were quite indifferent and not at all exclusive; so, passing around and without removing our hats, we made a close inspection of the respected carvings. A nearer view did not increase their attractions, so, passing up a flight of stairs, we entered a room where the bonzes were busy praying for rain and apparently going through a species of litany with open books in their hands. Our entrance stopped proceedings for a minute or two, but they soon resumed, quite indifferently, singing and drawling as though it were tedious, tiresome work.

They were all good-looking men, in the prime of life, dressed in scarlet and embroidered robes of much richness. Unlike the rest of the people, they neither shaved nor wore the cue. We found them drawn in a line before the altar, from which they were separated by a screen: an open porch at their back let in light and air. Each priest had before him a little table with a fancy gilt screen upon it, and as they slowly proceeded with their drawl, at convenient intervals, each made a slight bow behind his screen, his head touching it. As they did this with the regularity of drilled soldiers, and to the pounding of a tom-tom, they evidently were chanting in chorus, although the ear would have failed to distinguish it. The tom-toms and wooden drums were beaten at the pleasure of the parties in charge: nothing like time was apparent to any but a Chinese ear.

The idol was a little gilt figure, about six inches high, with the body of a beast and the head of a man. His peculiarity was the possession of a supplementary eye, which, as his natural pair squinted horribly, no doubt was very useful. His position was on a little table surrounded by tall candles; whether they were borrowed from the Roman Catholics or the Catholics borrowed the custom from them is a question for the student of church history. Before the idol was placed another table with ten elegant bowls, scarcely larger than our teacups, filled with the choicest fruits and grains that the market afforded. Each article was perfect of its kind. Rice, tea, the nelumbium, and agaric, a species of fungus, were among them. Just then the country being in great want of rain, the priests were trying the coaxing process, and tempting the god with the best chow-chow to be had; but the next day they got out of patience, and were to be met parading him through the dusty streets, exposed to a fierce sun, for the purpose of giving him to understand that the heat was quite as disagreeable as they had represented it.

Their arguments for this proceeding are extremely logical: they say that Joss, in his cool temple, laughs at them, and is disposed to think that they are humbugging him; therefore, if they give him two or three hours of good skin-roasting in the sun, he will be much more likely to come to terms, to avoid a repetition of the process. As they do this every day until rain comes, it is of course seen in a short time, if they are patient, that it never fails in the end.

Indeed, it is quite common to meet in all the large cities processions of priests, followed by the rabble, who are giving 'Joss an airing.' The eminently practical object of these mummeries argues very little genuine respect for the deity, an inference that has often been drawn by missionaries from other points in their treatment of their idols.

Their worship of them, such as it is, is almost universal. Every house has its shrine and altar, and even in the porches of foreign residents in the quarters occupied by the Chinese servants, one sometimes (although not often) sees a little figure in a niche, with a tiny joss-stick before it. Every junk and sampan has its tutelary idol. A little shrine of bamboo of the size of a common birdcage is built for it, sometimes fixed and sometimes movable. The interior of this was gilded once, but the gilt is worn and tarnished by smoke and water. It has doors that open when the joss-sticks are to be burnt before the toy figure that presides on a miniature throne. A sampan whose owners are too poor to supply themselves with decent clothing, will be sure to have its tawdry baby-house and doll idol, and it frequently has in addition a roll of paper, four feet by one, like a window curtain, with, a gay picture of Joss, in a scarlet dress, in the act of dancing, and generally in a very absurd posture for such a respectable character.

Every evening at sunset there is a prodigious hubbub from the junks on the Woosung, made with tom-toms, drums, and other unmelodious instruments, which are vigorously beaten for ten or fifteen minutes, to bring good luck, and propitiate the devils, or frighten them away for the night. From the shore, the rapid motions of a dozen arms on the high poop of each junk, tossed aloft in the dusk, and the discordant, harsh sounds that come from so many vessels at once, arrest the attention of the stranger, and once seen and heard, are never forgotten.

The pagodas, so often mentioned in accounts of the Chinese empire, appear to be more numerous in the mountainous districts, where they add greatly to the picturesque charm of the scenery, and are believed to be connected with the religious ceremonies of the people. In the flat country around Shanghai they are not to be met with; at least it was not our fortune to see any during our brief stay. The only structure like a tower, if we except the turrets on the city walls and watch towers erected within the past few years, when the Tae-Pings have threatened the city, is a tall, white monument, rising to the height of twenty feet, and without inscription or distinguishing mark of any kind. It looks like a fine, white tomb, higher and more ambitious than usual, and truly it is a 'whited sepulchre'! Baby Tower, it is called by the foreign residents, for it is filled with the bones of infants—not such as have died a natural death, as Bayard Taylor asserts, but which have been thrust into this horrid monument of heathen cruelty when but a few hours old. Humanity shudders at the thought! These dazzling white baby towers, with their mockery of purity, their object known to all men, and openly inviting, as it were, the most unnatural and heartless of murders, are among the most hideous spectacles to be met with in a heathen land. True, a river or a pond will be pointed out to you in other parts of China, or in India, where babies are daily drowned like puppies or kittens; but they do not affect the mind with such a horror as these palpable structures, erected with the best skill of their architects for this express purpose. The water closes over the murdered infant, and no trace of the crime remains; but here is a tower—a high tower—with deep foundations, filled with the bones of murdered babes that have been accumulating for generations.

No wonder that Christian mothers, resident in the East, cannot speak of them or see them without a shudder, and never willingly pass them in their drives. Who knows but they might hear, if they approached the tower, the wail of some poor infant just thrown in, or meet its father returning from his cruel errand!

At Shanghai the Baby Tower stands on the southwest side of the city, without the walls, but at Foo-Chow, where the crime of infanticide is still more prevalent, they use no baby towers, but have provided ponds for this express purpose. It is the saddest part of this great national crime of the Chinese, that it is sanctioned by the mandarins, and viewed as a disagreeable necessity, not as a crime.

It has been the fashion of late years to deny the existence of this abomination; the doubters, wise in their own conceit, insisting that the crime is too great for human nature.

Human nature, unfortunately, has proved but a frail barrier to crime of this character in all parts of the world, and the facts of Chinese infanticide are indisputable. The witnesses are too numerous, the crime is too public, and the evidences of it too notorious to deny its existence. The children destroyed are girls; the most common methods of destroying them are: 1st, by drowning in a tub of water; 2d, by throwing into some running stream; 3d, by burying alive. The last-named mode is adopted under the hope and with the superstitious belief that the next birth will be a boy. The excuse is that it is too expensive to educate a girl, but if some friend will take the child to bring up as a wife for a little boy, the parents will sell or give away the infant rather than destroy it. The regular price is two thousand copper cash, or $2, for every year of their lives; for sometimes a girl will be saved for a year or two, and then sold for a wife or slave. Many instances have come to the notice of missionaries where large families of girls have been destroyed. There is one woman now employed as a nurse in a missionary's family at Fuh-Chow, who says that her mother had eight girls and three boys, and that she was the only girl permitted by her father to live. We never heard of an instance of a boy's being destroyed at birth. There is a village about fifteen miles from Fuh-Chow, which is swarming with boys, but where girls are very scarce. The people account for it themselves by alleging the common practice of killing the girls at birth, a practice which is indulged in by the rich as well as by the poor.[2]

But to enter into all the particularities of Chinese life which attract the attention at Shanghai as in other cities, would be to compile an account of China and her customs.

The points of real importance to be considered in connection with Shanghai, which is fast becoming the commercial centre of Chinese exports, are the extent to which foreigners have an influence on the people in modifying their habits, increasing their knowledge, and dispelling their prejudices. The growth of European influence and the complete opening of the Chinese empire, in which immense advances have been made in the last three years, will, in time, it is to be hoped, lead to the diffusion of the Christian religion, a work attended with such gigantic difficulties, at the present day, that one cannot sufficiently admire the courage, patience, and faith which actuate missionaries to this empire. No representations of these difficulties which reach the Christian world have done justice to them, for it is necessary to observe the heartlessness, self-conceit, and prodigious prejudices of the Chinese to appreciate the noble zeal of the missionaries. The course of trade and much more correct notions of the power and objects of the Western nations, and the firmness with which they use the former to secure the latter, are unquestionably breaking up with rudeness the ridiculous ideas of the Chinese concerning their own importance and superior wisdom. If once they can be made learners in good earnest, the battle is half won, for none doubt their intelligence. European influence, alone, has effected great changes in five years, and European and Chinese combined may, in the five years to come, work out still greater reforms.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Sir Frederick Bruce, in a recent report to the Foreign Office, says:

'The growth of Shanghai is wonderful; its population is estimated at 1,500,000, and it bids fair to become soon the most important city of the East. The Chinese flock to it on account of the security it enjoys; and the silk manufacture, which was destroyed by the Taiping occupation of Soochow and Hangchow, is taking root at Shanghai.'—Pekin, 30th April, 1863.

[2] Civilized nations profess to look with abhorrence on the Chinese crime of infanticide, and to believe that the statements of travellers and missionaries are incredible; but a careful examination of the mortuary tables of London, Paris, New York, Dublin, Moscow, and other cities, will show that infanticide is far more common than supposed. It is a crime easily hidden and hard to trace. Take the foundling hospitals as a guide to some approximate estimate of the amount of infanticide in France. We find that she has upwards of 360 hospitals; that in Paris alone, in five years, from 1819 to 1823, 25,277 children were received, of whom eleven thirteenths died, and that the annual number of enfans trouves ranges from 3,800 to 4,500. These children, but for the hospital, would have been murdered. Who can tell how many are thrown into the sewers of Paris? A recent writer states the number at 10,000, but we deem this an exaggeration. It is significant that the percentage of births and deaths in all France is less far the births and greater for the deaths than in England. These tables we annex.

It is still more significant that the returns of foundling hospitals, from widely different countries, show that these institutions, however charitable and humane their object, are to be viewed as conveniences for murdering an infant without the actual violence at which humanity revolts. The proportion of abandoned children who live is so exceedingly small, that abandonment of a child to a foundling hospital is scarcely less than murder. If the child live, it may be viewed, almost, as a direct act of Providence.

Of 62,000 children brought into the Paris foundling hospitals, 52,500 died.

In Dublin, 19,420 children were received in ten years, of whom 17,440 died.

In Moscow, 37,000 children were received in twenty years, of whom 35,000 died.

COMPARATIVE VIEW OF MOVEMENT OF POPULATION OF -+ ENGLAND. FRANCE. -+ + + + - 1860. 1861. 1860. 1861. -+ + + + - Population 19,902,918 20,119,496 35,597,461 36,752,565 Marriages 170,156 163,706 290,657 283,642 Births 684,018 693,406 953,315 987,830 Deaths 422,721 435,114 782,764 848,174 -+ + + + - Percentage. Percentage. -+ + + + - Marriages .855 .814 .794 .772 Births 3.437 3.461 2.605 2.688 Deaths 2.124 2.163 2.139 2.308 -+ + + + -



ON HEARING A 'TRIO.

'All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame,' Thrilled through the wildering harmonies That from the music came.

All soothing sounds of nature blent, In wonderful accord, With pleadings, wild and passionate, From human hearts outpoured.

The wailings of the world's sad heart, Oppressed with social wrongs, In mournful monotones were mixed With sounds of angel songs.

The falling of a nation's tears O'er Freedom's prostrate form, Dew droppings sweet from starry spheres, Swift-rushing wings of storm.

The voices of Time's children three— Past, Present, Future, blent In that wild 'trio's' harmony, Thrilled each fine instrument.

And, at the sound, my soul awoke, And saw the dawning clear Of Freedom's coming day illume Earth's clouded atmosphere!



THE IDEAL MAN FOR UNIVERSAL IMITATION; OR, THE SINLESS PERFECTION OF JESUS.

(A POSITIVE REPLY TO STRAUSS AND RENAN.)

The first impression which we receive from the life of Jesus, is that of perfect innocency and sinlessness in the midst of a sinful world. He, and He alone, carried the spotless purity of childhood untarnished through his youth and manhood. Hence the lamb and the dove are his appropriate symbols.

He was, indeed, tempted as we are, but he never yielded to temptation. His sinlessness was at first only the relative sinlessness of Adam before the fall, which implies the necessity of trial and temptation, and the peccability, or the possibility of the fall. Had he been endowed with absolute impeccability from the start, he could not be a true man, nor our model for imitation; his holiness, instead of being his own self-acquired act and inherent merit, would be an accidental or outward gift, and his temptation an unreal show. As a true man, Christ must have been a free and responsible moral agent; freedom implies the power of choice between good and evil, and the power of disobedience as well as obedience, to the law of God. But here is the great fundamental difference between the first and the second Adam: the first Adam lost his innocence by the abuse of his freedom, and fell by his own act of disobedience into the dire necessity of sin; while the second Adam was innocent in the midst of sinners, and maintained his innocence against all and every temptation. Christ's relative sinlessness became more and more absolute sinlessness by his own moral act, or the right use of his freedom in the perfect active and passive obedience to God. In other words, Christ's original possibility of not sinning, which includes the opposite possibility of sinning, but excludes the actuality of sin, was unfolded into the impossibility of sinning, which can not sin because it will not. This is the highest stage of freedom, where it becomes identical with moral necessity, or absolute and unchangeable self-determination for goodness and holiness. This is the freedom of God and of the saints in heaven, with this difference: that the saints attain that position by deliverance and salvation from sin and death, while Christ acquired it by his own merit.

In vain we look through the entire biography of Jesus for a single stain or the slightest shadow on his moral character. There never lived a more harmless being on earth. He injured nobody, he took advantage of nobody, he never spoke an improper word, he never committed a wrong action. He exhibited a uniform elevation above the objects, opinions, pleasures, and passions of this world, and disregard to riches, displays, fame, and favor of men. 'No vice that has a name can be thought of in connection with Jesus Christ. Ingenious malignity looks in vain for the faintest trace of self-seeking in His motives; sensuality shrinks abashed from His celestial purity; falsehood can leave no stain on Him who is incarnate truth; injustice is forgotten beside His errorless equity; the very possibility of avarice is swallowed up in His benignity and love; the very idea of ambition is lost in His divine wisdom and divine self-abnegation.'

The apparent outbreak of passion in the expulsion of the profane traffickers from the temple is the only instance on the record of his history which might be quoted against his freedom from the faults of humanity. But the very effect which it produced, shows that, far from being the outburst of passion, the expulsion was a judicial act of a religious reformer, vindicating in just and holy zeal the honor of the Lord of the temple. It was an exhibition, not of weakness, but of dignity and majesty, which at once silenced the offenders, though superior in number and physical strength, and made them submit to their well-deserved punishment without a murmur, and in awe of the presence of a superhuman power. The cursing of the unfruitful fig tree can still less be urged, as it evidently was a significant symbolical act, foreshadowing the fearful doom of the impenitent Jews in the destruction of Jerusalem.

The perfect innocence of Jesus, however, is based not only, negatively, on the absence of any recorded word or act to the contrary and his absolute exemption from every trace of selfishness and worldliness, but, positively, also on the unanimous testimony of John the Baptist and the apostles, who bowed before the majesty of his character in unbounded veneration, and declare him 'just,' 'holy,' and 'without sin.' It is admitted, moreover, by his enemies: the heathen judge Pilate, and his wife, representing, as it were, the Roman law and justice, when they shuddered with apprehension and washed their hands to be clear of innocent blood; by the rude Roman centurion, confessing under the cross, in the name of the disinterested spectators, 'Truly, this was the Son of God;' and by Judas himself, the immediate witness of his whole public and private life, exclaiming in despair: 'I sinned in betraying innocent blood.' Even dumb nature responded in mysterious sympathy, and the beclouded heavens above and the shaking earth beneath united in paying their unconscious tribute to the divine purity of their dying Lord.

The objection that the evangelists were either not fully informed concerning the facts, or mistaken in their estimate of the character of Christ, is of no avail. For, in addition to their testimony, we have his own personal conviction of entire freedom from sin and unworthiness, which leaves us only the choice between absolute moral purity, and absolute hypocrisy; such hypocrisy would, indeed, be both the greatest miracle and the greatest moral monstrosity on record.

The very fact that Christ came for the express purpose of saving sinners, implies his own consciousness of personal freedom from guilt and from all need of salvation. And this is the unmistakable impression made upon us by his whole public life and conduct. He nowhere shows the least concern for his own salvation, but knows himself in undisturbed harmony with his Heavenly Father. While calling most earnestly upon all others to repent, he stood in no need of conversion and regeneration, but simply of the regular harmonious unfolding of his moral powers. While directing all his followers, in the fourth petition of his model prayer, to ask daily for the forgiveness of their sins as well as their daily bread, he himself never asked God for pardon and forgiveness, except in behalf of others. While freely conversing with sinners, he always does so with the love and interest of a Saviour of sinners. This is an undeniable historical fact, no matter how you may explain it. And to remove every doubt, we have his open and fearless challenge to his bitter enemies: 'Which of you convinceth me of sin?' In this question he clearly exempts himself from the common fault and guilt of the race. In the mouth of any other man, this question would at once betray either the height of hypocrisy, or a degree of self-deception bordering on madness itself, and would overthrow the very foundation of all human goodness; while from the mouth of Jesus we instinctively receive it as the triumphant self-vindication of one who stood far above the possibility of successful impeachment or founded suspicion.

The assumption that Christ was a sinner, and knew himself such, although he professed the contrary and made upon friends and enemies the impression of spotless innocency, is the most monstrous deception that can well be imagined. 'If Jesus was a sinner, he was conscious of sin, as all sinners are, and therefore was a hypocrite in the whole fabric of his character; realizing so much of divine beauty in it, maintaining the show of such unfaltering harmony and celestial grace, and doing all this with a mind confused and fouled by the affectations acted for true virtues! Such an example of successful hypocrisy would be itself the greatest miracle ever heard of in the world.'

It is an indisputable fact, then, both from his mission and uniform conduct and his express declaration, that Christ knew himself free from sin and guilt. The only rational explanation of this fact is, that Christ was no sinner. And this is readily conceded by the greatest divines—even those who are by no means regarded as orthodox. The admission of this fact implies the further admission that Christ differed from all other men, not in degree only, but in kind. For although we must utterly repudiate the pantheistic notion of the necessity of sin, and must maintain that human nature, in itself considered, is capable of sinlessness, that it was sinless, in fact, before the fall, and that it will ultimately become sinless again by the redemption of Christ; yet it is equally certain that human nature, in its present condition, is not sinless, and never has been since the fall, except in the single case of Christ, and that for this very reason Christ's sinlessness can only be explained on the ground of such an extraordinary indwelling of God in him as never took place in any other human being, before or after. The entire Christian world, Greek, Latin, and Protestant, agree in the scriptural doctrine of the universal depravity of human nature since the apostasy of the first Adam. Even the modern and unscriptural dogma of the Roman Catholic Church, of the freedom of the Virgin Mary from hereditary as well as actual sin, can hardly be quoted as an exception; for her sinlessness is explained in the papal decision of 1854 by the assumption of a miraculous interposition of divine favor, and the reflex influence of the merits of her Son. There is not a single mortal who must not charge himself with some defect or folly, and man's consciousness of sin and unworthiness deepens just in proportion to his self-knowledge and progress in virtue and goodness. There is not a single saint who has not experienced a new birth from above, and an actual conversion from sin to holiness, and who does not feel daily the need of repentance and divine forgiveness. The very greatest and best of them, as St. Paul and St. Augustine, have passed through a violent struggle and a radical revolution, and their whole theological system and religious experience rested on the felt antithesis of sin and grace.

But in Christ we have the one solitary and absolute exception to this universal rule, an individual thinking like a man, feeling like a man, speaking, acting, suffering, and dying like a man, surrounded by sinners in every direction, with the keenest sense of sin and the deepest sympathy with sinners, commencing his public ministry with the call: 'Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand;' yet never touched in the least by the contamination of the world, never putting himself in the attitude of a sinner before God, never shedding a tear of repentance, never regretting a single thought, word, or deed, never needing or asking divine pardon, never concerned about the salvation of his own soul, and boldly facing all his present and future enemies in the absolute certainty of his spotless purity before God and man!

HIS ABSOLUTE HOLINESS.

A sinless Saviour surrounded by a sinful world, is an astounding fact indeed, a sublime moral miracle in history. But this freedom from the common sin and guilt of the race is, after all, only the negative side of his character, which rises in magnitude as we contemplate the positive side, namely, absolute moral and religious perfection. It is universally admitted, even by deists and rationalists, that Christ taught the purest and sublimest system of ethics, which throws all the moral precepts and maxims of the wisest men of antiquity far into the shade. The Sermon on the Mount alone is worth infinitely more than all that Confucius, Socrates, and Seneca ever said or wrote on duty and virtue. But the difference is still greater if we come to the more difficult task of practice. While the wisest and best of men never live up even to their own imperfect standard of excellency, Christ fully carried out his perfect doctrine in his life and conduct. He both was and did that which he taught; he preached his own life, and lived his own doctrine. He is the living incarnation of the ideal standard of virtue and holiness, and is universally acknowledged to be the highest model for all that is pure and good and noble in the sight of God and man.

We find Christ moving in all ordinary and essential relations of life, as a son, a brother, a friend, a citizen, a teacher, at home and in public. We find him among all classes of society, with sinners and saints, with the poor and the wealthy, with the sick and the healthy, with little children, grown men and women, with plain fishermen and learned scribes, with despised publicans and honored members of the sanhedrim, with friends and foes, with admiring disciples and bitter persecutors; now with an individual, as Nicodemus or the woman of Samaria, now in the familiar circle of the twelve, now in the crowds of the people. We find him in all situations, in the synagogue and the temple, at home and on journeys, in villages and the city of Jerusalem, in the desert and on the mountain, along the banks of Jordan and the shores of the Galilean Sea, at the wedding feast and the grave, in Gethsemane, in the judgment hall, and on Calvary. In all these various relations, conditions, and situations, as they are crowded within the few years of his public ministry, he sustains the same consistent character throughout, without ever exposing himself to censure. He fulfils every duty to God, to man, and to himself, without a single violation of duty, and exhibits an entire conformity to the law, in the spirit as well as the letter. His life is one unbroken service of God, in active and passive obedience to His holy will—one grand act of absolute love to God and love to man, of personal self-consecration to the glory of his Heavenly Father and the salvation of a fallen race. In the language of the people who were 'beyond measure astonished at his works,' we must say, the more we study his life: 'He did all things well.' In a solemn appeal to his Heavenly Father in the parting hour, he could proclaim to the world that he had glorified him in the earth, and finished the work he gave him to do.

UNITY OF VIRTUE AND PIETY.

The first feature in this singular perfection of Christ's character which strikes our attention, is the perfect harmony of virtue and piety, of morality and religion, or of love to God and love to man. He is more than moral, and more than pious; he is holy in the strict and full sense of the word. There is a divine beauty and perfection in his character, the mere contemplation of which brings purity, brightness, peace, and bliss to the soul.

Piety was the soul of his morality, and lifted it far above the sphere of legality or conformity to law. Every moral action in him proceeded from supreme love to God, and looked to the temporal and eternal welfare of man. The groundwork of his character was the most intimate and uninterrupted union and communion with his Heavenly Father, from whom he derived, to whom he referred, everything. Already in his twelfth year he found his life element and delight in the things of his Father. It was his daily food to do the will of Him that sent him, and to finish his work. To Him he looked in prayer before every important act, and taught his disciples that model prayer which, for simplicity, brevity, comprehensiveness, and suitableness, can never be surpassed. He often retired to a mountain or solitary place for prayer, and spent days and nights in this blessed privilege. But so constant and uniform was his habit of communion with the great Jehovah, that he kept it up amid the multitude, and converted the crowded city into a religious retreat. His self-consciousness was at every moment conditioned, animated, and impregnated by the consciousness of God. Even when he exclaimed, in indescribable anguish of body and soul, and in vicarious sympathy with the misery of the whole race: 'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!' the bond of union was not broken, or even loosened, but simply obscured for a moment, as the sun by a passing cloud, and the enjoyment, not the possession of it, was withdrawn from his feelings; for immediately afterward he commended his soul into the hands of his Father, and triumphantly exclaimed: 'It is finished!' So strong and complete was this moral union of Christ with God at every moment of his life, that he fully realized for the first time the idea of religion, whose object is to bring about such a union, and that he is the personal representative and living embodiment of Christianity as the true and absolute religion.

With all this, the piety of Christ was no inactive contemplation, or retiring mysticism and selfish enjoyment; but thoroughly practical, ever active in works of charity, and tending to regenerate and transform the world into the kingdom of God. 'He went about doing good.' His life is an unbroken series of good works and virtues in active exercise, all proceeding from the same union with God, animated by the same love, and tending to the same end, the glory of God and the happiness of man.

COMPLETENESS AND UNIVERSALITY OF HIS CHARACTER.

The next feature we would notice, is the completeness or pleromatic fulness of the moral and religious character of Christ. While all other men represent at best but broken fragments of the idea of goodness and holiness, he exhausts the list of virtues and graces which may be named. His soul is a moral paradise full of charming flowers, shining in every variety of color, under the blue dome of the skies, drinking in the refreshing dews of heaven and the warming beams of the sun, sending its sweet fragrance around, and filling the beholder with rapturous delight.

History exhibits to us many men of commanding and comprehensive genius, who stand at the head of their age and nation, and furnish material for the intellectual activity of whole generations and periods, until they are succeeded by other heroes at a new epoch of development. As rivers generally spring from high mountains, so knowledge and moral power rises and is ever nourished from the heights of humanity. Abraham, the father of the faithful; Moses, the lawgiver of the Jewish theocracy; Elijah, among the prophets; Peter, Paul, and John among the apostles; Athanasius and Chrysostom among the Greek, Augustine and Jerome among the Latin fathers; Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus among the schoolmen; Leo I. and Gregory VII. among the popes; Luther and Calvin in the line of Protestant reformers and divines; Socrates, the patriarch of the ancient schools of philosophy; Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton, Goethe and Schiller in the history of poetry, among the various nations to which they belong; Raphael among painters; Charlemagne, the first and greatest in the long succession of German emperors; Napoleon, towering high above all the generals of his training; Washington, the wisest and best as well as the first of American presidents, and the purest and noblest type of the American character, may be mentioned as examples of those representative heroes in history who anticipate and concentrate the powers of whole generations. But they never represent universal, but only sectional humanity; they are identified with a particular people or age, and partake of its errors, superstitions, and failings, almost in the same proportion in which they exhibit its virtues. Moses, though revered by the followers of three religions, was a Jew in views, feelings, habits, and position, as well as by parentage; Socrates never rose above the Greek type of character; Luther was a German in all his virtues and faults, and can only be properly understood as a German; Calvin, though an exile from his native land, remained a Frenchman; and Washington can be to no nation on earth what he is to the American. Their influence may and does extend far beyond their respective national horizons, yet they can never furnish a universal model for imitation. We regard them as extraordinary but fallible and imperfect men, whom it would be very unsafe to follow in every view and line of conduct. Very frequently the failings and vices of great men are in proportion to their virtues and powers, as the tallest bodies cast the longest shadows. Even the three leading apostles are models of piety and virtue only as far as they reflect the image of their Heavenly Master, and it is only with this limitation that Paul exhorts his spiritual children: 'Be ye followers of me even as I am also of Christ.'

What these representative men are to particular ages or nations, or sects or particular schools of science and art, Christ was to the human family at large in its relation to God. He and he alone is the universal type for universal imitation. Hence he could, without the least impropriety, or suspicion of vanity, call upon all men to forsake all things and to follow him. He stands above the limitations of age, school, sect, nation, and race. Although a Jew according to the flesh, there is nothing Jewish about him which is not at the same time of general significance. The particular and national in him is always duly subordinated to the general and human. Still less was he ever identified with a party or sect. He was equally removed from the stiff formalism of the Pharisees, the loose liberalism of the Sadducees, and the inactive mysticism of the Essenes. He rose above all the prejudices, bigotries, and superstitions of his age and people, which exert their power even upon the strongest and otherwise most liberal minds.

Witness his freedom in the observance of the Sabbath, by which he offended the scrupulous literalists, while he fulfilled, as the Lord of the Sabbath, the true spirit of the law in its universal and abiding significance; his reply to the disciples, when they traced the misfortune of the blind man to a particular sin of the subject or his parents; his liberal conduct toward the Samaritans, as contrasted with the inveterate hatred and prejudices of the Jews, including his own disciples at the time; and his charitable judgment of the slaughtered Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices, and the eighteen upon whom the tower in Siloam fell and slew them. 'Think ye,' he addressed the children of superstition, 'that these men were sinners above all the Galileans, and above all men that dwelt in Jerusalem, because they suffered such things? I tell you, nay: but except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.'

All the words and all the actions of Christ, while they were fully adapted to the occasions which called them forth, retain their force and applicability undiminished to all ages and nations. He is the same unsurpassed and unsurpassable model of every virtue to the Christians of every generation, every clime, every sect, every nation, and every race.