the many illustrious acts by which he sought to immortalise his term of office there is one which stands out conspicuous beyond all others, and which must still be within the recollection of the country.

Mr. Goschen, as zealously parsimonious as his predecessor, and eagerly on the look-out for anything in the shape of a ship which was "cheap and nasty," all of a sndden alighted upon one of the most exquisitely rotten old tubs that can be imagined, called the "Megara." He seized upon his prize with avidity, bought her for a song, furbished her up with a fresh coating of tar, and sent her to sea with a regiment of British soldiers. The result was never doubtful, and is well known. The old "Megæra foundered in the mid-Pacific ere she had accomplished half her voyage; and had it not been that her captain had succeeded in getting her stranded on a small island, every mother's son must have inevitably gone to the bottom. So much for politicians who style themselves Liberals; who when out of power simply brim over with universal humanitarian tenderness, and when in office destroy their fellow-countrymen in official cold blood for the sake of sixpence Curious!--this very ex-First Lord and his political confederates were, during the Plimsoll excitement, among the very loudest of those who denounced the iniquity of "coffin-ships!"' Was the "Megara," then, not a superb coffin, calculated to accommodate some nine hundred British warriors? The Admiralty, we are happy to think, has breathed freely since it has been delivered from the incubus of these political Castor and Pollux; these portentuous "twin brethren" in a fantastic policy of pedantry and meanness; and we are as happy to think that it will "ne'er look on their like again." Yet the House of Cominons "cannot but remember such things were ;" and thus it is that the pair have to be regarded, to a limited extent, as "personalities" of that eminent body.

!

MOTLEY.

GEORGE GILFILLAN.

In the last Number of this Magazine, under the pseudonym of "Chrysostom," we referred to the man whose name heads the article, and to an incident which occurred when we together visited the English Lakes. The conclusion of Wordsworth's line, which he then repeated seem to have been almost prophetically reproduced, and they certainly form the fittest solace for those who truly valued him— "When the mighty pass away,

What is it more than this,

That man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return?
Such ebb and flow must ever be :

Then wherefore should we mourn ?"

GEORGE GILFILLAN was one of the most catholic, powerful, and wideranging intellects of his time. So far as regards his own country, take him for all in all, he was the foremost of Scotland's sons for Scotland's own. One of the eagle brood which clings to the mountains, inspired with a country-affection such as filled the souls of Burns and Scott. Carlyle has been for the world, or, more correct were it to say, for Germany first, for the world afterwards. Gilfillan was for the world, but for Scotland first.

Within his country the heart of his love rested with his congregation, to whose welfare he was dedicated from his early years, and for which he faithfully fought and wrought until that Sunday, the eleventh of August, when, in the majesty of his lusty manhood, he literally preached his own funeral sermon, and descended the pulpit stairs to the strains of his own requiem -the "Dead March in Saul" being played on the organ with doubly strange appropriateness as a conclusion to the service. Few, if any, churches have known such devotion in a minister. On his many mid-weekly visits to ourselves we would press him to stop over the following Sabbath. Never once did he consent. He uniformly departed at an early day to get rid of work accumulating in his absence, and, with a calm frame of mind, fully prepare himself for the divine services. Willingly would his charge have spared him for a Sabbath on such occasions, but he spared not himself.

A giant among men in stature, in mental powers and productiveness, so, also, was he in charity. Beauty of life or word he cherished wherever or whenever found, in high or low, in rich or poor. This general appreciation was signally shown in the case of young poet's-Dobell, Alexander Smith, and Stanyan Bigg, are well-known instances. But there were near half-a-hundred others in which he gave public encouragement to the linnet notes of humble fingers. We were always im

pressed with the form that this spirit of charity took in regard to those from whom he was separated. We may mention his difference with Carlyle. It had its origin in Gilfillan's ideas as to the opinions to be→ expressed by a public teacher. Years bring changes of views. The breach probably might have been healed had not Carlyle been of the school of good-haters. On the other hand, none hailed his many picturesque and profound remarks with more joy than George Gilfillan. Frequently hence we heard him repeat them as though to himself with prolonged, deep-sounding utterances. More oracular to him were the words than to their writer. To his last days we have written testimony as to the pleasure he had even in the casual letters of the early friend of his genius and his heart.

So was it amidst the troubles that shake the churches, and in which he was ever at the front with sword and buckler, and an Achilles-voice. The weak never lacked his support in the hours when the battle waxed hottest. Many are envious. We have heard some say in their craven silences, "We all think the same as Gilfillan, only we don't want to get into trouble by speaking about it." Therein lay his strength, and his strength to them too, although that, also, they did not venture to say. See and say it they may, perhaps, now when they miss the man who of all others in their broad cause could bravest bell the cat. But even for these weak-hearted he had kindly consideration. And for his opponents, too. He was grieved by the wrong he fought against. His controversy, whilst it fired his pen, wrung his heart. His saddest moments arose from the reflection that the rancour of his assailants, their unthinking uncharitableness in matters of creed, might tempt men to scoff at this result of the organisations of nineteen centuries, as showing the comparative failure of Christianity. For not a shadow was there between its Divine Founder and the light of his soul. He was anxious for the great good, and trembled for it, whilst he led the fight against the inventions of men. And even then, in those who were hostile, he found something to admire-some good saying, or good act, that came apart from the great matter at issue. He had more kindliness for his enemies than most men have for their friends.

As an author his works speak for themselves. Here has he likewise met with opposition. But this will cease. Envy finds no root in the dust of the grave. One word alone shall we say here on this point. equal in our time. His with which no other The second compared

scenery he has had no and varied descriptions

As a describer of natural works are full of rich writings can compare. He is first in that art. to him is nowhere This is easily explained. He drew his inspiration from nature every hour of every day. From his own door to the mountain top, and amidst the many friendships he made with the streams and groves, he was constantly observant of her forms and motions. All light and shade, rocks, woods, and vales, he gazed upon with a lover's eye, so that those near him ever heard some memorable words from his lips-affectionate or interpretative. Thus has it been that the planet Jupite, which now nightly adorns the northern heavens, is to us asso

ciated with this man, who never beheld it but he hailed it with Wordsworth's line on "The Star of Jove." Alas, the language of the poet now seems neither extravagant nor fanciful to us, when they declare that the departed singer has become one with all melodies and all loveliness, since our friend now comes into our mind by day and night, in the cloud or the star-beam-the pomp of groves and fields which he loved.

Altogether, the views and life of George Gilfillan- his intelligence, his love, and his charity-were worthy of no less a sphere than the New Jerusalem of Emanuel Swedenborg, who in the Södermalm, on which we gaze from our windows over Stockholm's blue waters, had some of his brightest visions. The heavenly city of that latest prophet of Christianity was none other than that of the Apocalypse: it, too, was the city of the Dundee divine. Of all its excellent glories, chiefest is that of its possession of twelve gates, by which it is entered by all nations, and peoples, and faiths; and into this main gate, Beautiful, has gone GEORGE GILFILLAN.

Stockholm, August 20th, 1878.

LAUNCELOT CROSS.

THE WATERFALL.

AT first in louder concert rose,
The distant voices from the dell;
Anon they mutter mimic woes,
At last they gently murm'ring fell.

POLITICAL TALE OF A GRANDFATHER;

OR, FORTY YEARS AFTER.

BY MATTHEW SETON.

"And if there be an Elysium on earth-it is this it is this!"

LALLA ROOKн.

I HAVE now resided in the Island of Cyprus for more than thirty years. My real home is in the interior of the island, where I possess a commodious mansion, situated in the midst of a beautiful grove of olives; but I have built also a pretty villa at Larnaka, whither I and my two grandchildren periodically resort for the benefit of the sea-breezes and the sea-bathing. It is now precisely forty years since the sea-girt home of the mythical Aphrodite came under the rule of the British empire; and since that period it has undergone a transformation which is truly wonderful. At the present time it is known to every European nation as the enchanted isle of the Levant." The oldest inhabitant,' a venerable Turk nearly a century old, tells me that he was living n the island when the celebrated "Convention of Constantinople " was contracted, and that when he thinks of what was its condition then, and contrasts it with its aspect now, he is so lost in amaze. ment that he can barely realise that it is not all a dream.

"By the beard of the Prophet!" he cries, " but I swear your Government waved a wand over Cyprus more potent than any that have been attributed to the heroes of the Arabian Nights. Your Great Vizier, your sublime Beaconsfield, was the good enchanter who caused the wilderness to blossom as the rose, and made the heart of the isles to rejoice." (I must mention, parenthetically, that it is some twenty years since that beneficent magician was gathered to his fathers, and entered his everlasting rest.)

The verdict of the aged Mahommedan is not exaggerated. Throughout its length and breadth, Cyprus at this moment presents but one appearance-that of a lovely garden-a veritable paradise, clothed with eternal bloom. I do not hesitate to say that were it possible to place our first parents in the midst of this modern Eden, they would never sigh for a fairer. I will assert with equal confidence that, although no actual temple now rises at Paphos in honour of the radiant Queen of Love, were it possible that the foam-born goddess could a second time be born, she