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The fact is, the card has reminded her too Brighter," said Joe, "a deal more blindin' bitterly of her disappointment, and the cause-but there, Mag," suddenly recollecting himof all her sorrow and bad temper this after- self, "where's the use o' talking o' them, wen yer can't 'ave 'em. I'll bring yer a pictur o' a coloured posie some day-there!"

noon.

Here is the story

Yesterday being Sunday, Mrs. Thomas went to spend the evening with some friends, taking the baby with her, and Joe, as a wonderful act of condescension, agreed to stay for a few hours alone with Maggie. This was no small act of self-denial, for the boys in the court below were having a splendid game at marbles, and he had such beauties in his pocket. However, the little pale dark-eyed sister won the day, and he determined to give her some of the benefit of his society.

Maggie had too few pleasures not to enjoy them systematically, and she was quite determined to get as much out of Joe during the precious hours he would remain with her as possible.

First of all she unfolded her card, and after making him gaze at the lily and admire it as much as it was in boy's nature to do, he had to read the words, "Consider the lilies of the field." He had to read these words very slowly two or three times, while Maggie followed him, pointing to each letter with her tiny white finger. This over, she ended up with her invariable remark, "Oh! I does want to see a real, live posie."

"Posies's well enough," said Joe in a would-be indifferent tone, for he did not wish to arouse Maggie's envy, "but bless yer, Mag, they disappoints, same as h'every think h'else, and yer 'ave the pictur, a fust-rate pictur too!"

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But don't the real, live posies smell?" asked Maggie.

Here Joe was thrown off his guard, as Maggie meant he should be.

"Smell!" he exclaimed, "I should rayther think they did smell. My heart alive! Mag, some o' them smell jist h'ever so."

"Sweet?" questioned Maggie.

"My stars! the flowers in some o' the shop winders are fit to knock yer down. Yer'd smell 'em a mile orf. Sweet! I should think they was sweet."

"Tell us 'bout the colours," asked Maggie, her eyes beginning to gleam.

"'Nough to blind yer! Green and yaller, and purple, and maginter, and horange, and wiolet, and-and slate colour, and hall o' them mashed h'up together, like the rainbow."

"And the stars," said Maggie, who had seen stars from her attic.

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"But I want a live one," said Maggie, a live one as'll smell. I never, never seed a live flower." "Poor little kid! Some day wen I 'ave a 'ap'ny I'll buy yer a flower; but now, Mag, you listen, for I've got a bumper of a story to tell yer."

"H'all right," said Maggie, but she said "all right" indifferently, and though Joe began a most thrilling adventure in which he was himself personally interested, he soon saw that Maggie's thoughts were far away. When he stopped speaking, she laid her hand on his arm, and asked entreatingly, " Does yer think as God H'almighty 'll h'ever let me see a flower?"

"Course, Maggie, 'eaps and 'eaps o' 'em." "But not till I gets to 'eaven," said Maggie.

She closed her eyes, and one or two tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. As Joe looked at her, an idea, a new and brilliant idea, came into his head. He clapped his hand to his mouth, and his breath came and went quickly, with the magnitude of this sudden thought.

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Mag," he said at last, "I 'ave it. Yer shall see posies-'eaps of 'em, Maggie-tomorrer, Maggie." These words, brought out slowly and impressively, caused Maggie's face to grow white, even to her lips. "Yes, Maggie," continued Joe, delighted with the effect already produced; "to-morrer yer 'll see 'eaps and 'eaps of flowers."

"Tell us," said Maggie breathlessly.

"No, that I won't-I'll tell yer nothink; o'ny to-morrer, wen St. Martin's clock's gone two, 'll be the most 'mazin' day o' yer life, Mag. I'll come h'in at two, Mag-and then

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"But yer at school at two."
"Never mind, leave it to me."

Here Joe rubbed his red hair into a mop, rolled his eyes about in a manner meant to be frightfully knowing, and being very much. delighted with himself, he further stuck his tongue into the side of his mouth, and finally took two or three somersaults on the floor.

"Leave it to me," he said, winking violently at Maggie.

CHAPTER II.

THAT night Maggie was sleepless. This was not a very rare occurrence with her.

The pain in her leg, or the dull aching of her poor little head, often kept her awake, but on the present occasion her sleeplessness was caused by neither of these things.

No, to-night, happiness kept her awake, her heart beat, her head was full of fanciesfancies all the brighter because hitherto her life had been so ugly.

At break of day Joe got up, but before he left the room he darted to Maggie's side, and whispered in an energetic manner in her ear, "You leave it to me, Mag; I'm not a forgettin'. Wen the clock strikes two, Mag."

After this Maggie ventured to ask her mother, even though it was Monday, for a clean pinafore, and attired in it she had sat patient, hopeful, happy, all the morning.

Who can wonder at little Maggie being cross now? who can wonder at her tears falling? for the clock in St. Martin's Church has struck two-it has even chimed forth the first quarter, and no Joe has appeared. Poor Maggie; she is putting by sadly the first great hope of her little life. Joe has found it impossible to keep his promise, and she can see no flowers that day. Suddenly, however, in the midst of her saddest meditation, and her most despairing thoughts, a hasty, noisy step was heard on the stairs, and Joe, his face very red, and his hair very like a mop, dashed into the room.

"Now then, Mag; no, I wasn't a forgettin', but the master, 'ee were that sharp, I 'adn't a chance of runnin' away. So at last-fur I didn't want yer to be a frettin', Mag-I put a bold face on it, and axed 'im wot I wanted-and Lor bless yer, 'ee just larfed h'out and said, 'Orf wid yer, and God bless yer, old chap.' So here I be, Mag, and I'm glad as I didn't run away from school."

While Joe was speaking Maggie was drying her eyes, and now she was smiling radiantly; the baby, too, perceiving that the clouds had all cleared from the moral atmosphere, began to crow with considerable spirit. "Mrs. Jones 'll take care of 'im," said Joe, unfastening the string which secured the little fellow to Maggie's chair, and running downstairs with him.

"Joe, I'm too happy," said Maggie when he returned.

"Does yer mind a-goin' blindfold ?" said Joe, regarding her solemnly. "I'd like it to come on yer wid a start like, and yer can see the shop winders a-comin' back."

"Oh! Joe," bringing out the words with a gush, are we a-goin' h'out?"

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"Course-yer didn't s'pose as I could

bring the posies in yere. You just let me put this 'andkercher round yer h'eyes, Mag, and wen I h'open it again yer'll see the flowers."

Maggie was now quite past all speech, and when Joe had fastened a dirty red cotton handkerchief tightly over her little face, he lifted her into his strong arms, and they set off.

The air, so close and hot in the sultry attic, was much fresher outside, and the sensation of the pleasant breeze on Maggie's cheeks was enough happiness for her at first. With her arms tightly clasped round Joe's neck, the time seemed not very long before the supreme moment, when, placing her in a wide low seat, he said, "Now!" in a voice of triumplı, and removed the covering from her eyes. She had never seen a flower in her life; she had never been in the open air before, and now-now flowers in profusion, flowers of every hue lay at her feet. For Joe had carried Maggie to one of the beautiful gardens of the Thames Embankment.

"Oh! Joe, 'tis 'eaven-'tis 'eaven!" said the excited and dazzled child, and she burst into tears.

"Didn't I say so ?" replied Joe, beginning to caper about. "Was I wrong when I said they was most blindin'?"

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'They're like 'eaven," said Maggie again. Her joy was too great for any words but those. The birds were singing over head, the soft, fresh air was blowing on her thin cheeks, the bright flowers were like a glory everywhere; and when Joe sat down by Maggie's side, and she leant her head against his shoulder, no child in London could be happier than she.

We have day-dreams, many of us, and the dreams are brighter than the reality; we have visions of future glory, and the future comes without the glory; we have hopes which fade; we have anticipations which turn to ashes in our grasp. Those castles we build for ourselves without hands far exceed in their gorgeous colouring any human dwellings; but Maggie's castle had not disappointed her; strange as it may seem, her dreams had fallen short of the reality; bright as her visions of the real flowers were, the flowers themselves were brighter.

"Joe," she said at last, accompanying her words with a great long-drawn sigh of happiness, "I'm real glad as I seed the live flowers, fur I knows 'bout it now."

"'Bout wot?" said Joe.

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never could see why you warn't like other gals, wot could larf and skip and play wid a feller. There be chaps wot I knows as 'ave sisters wot plays marbles like h'any think. I never could see why yer warn't like 'em, Maggie."

"But I know," said Maggie. "I knows now; 'twas God, wot wanted to give me a s'prise. Why, Joe, ef I 'ad bin strong and 'arty like you, I'd 'ave bin h'always in the streets; and I'd 'ave seen the flower-gals goin' about, and mebbe bin a flower-gal too; and I'd 'ave h'always knowed wot flowers was like; and 'twould never 'ave come on me fur a s'prise."

"Well," said Joe, "I never thought as a s'prise wor worth h'all that much."

"Oh, I know," replied Joe impatiently; "but I means soon, Mag-h'every week." "How?" asked Maggie. "Yer know I can't walk, and yer mustn't run away from school."

"No," said Joe, "that's the 'mazin' part. I can take yer to see the flowers, and to feel the fresh h'air, but I needn't run away. Listen, Mag, and I'll tell yer 'bout it. Wen I went back to school, the master, he h'up and axed me 'ow my sister liked th' 'mbankment, wid a lot of talk 'bout wot a fine thing it was for us poor folks to 'ave a place like that to set h'out in, and I said yer were nearly daft wid the s'prise, and 'ow yer had never seen a flower; and when I said that, 'ee war fit to be shot, and 'ee axed a o' questions; and in the h'end 'ee said, 'Well, h'old chap, I'm more glad than h'any think, wid wot yer 'ave told me, and see yere !' and 'ee brought down his 'and wid a big bang on the desk, and 'ee says, says he, 'there wor never a rule made for such a case, but you shall 'ave leave to take the little 'un once a week to th' 'mbankment, and I'll be 'sponsible.'

"Oh, but 'tis," said Maggie in an awe-'eap struck voice. "Doesn't yer know, Joe, 'tis same as 'eaven? Wen little Jim died next door, Mrs. Chandler said as 'ee war gone to 'eaven, and 'twould be a s'prise to 'im." “Well?"

"I'd not be sorry now to die and go to 'eaven. I won't mind wen my leg gets a bit bad, nor wen mother cries and says as I won't be long with her. Oh! 'ow I used to fret, but now I'll be real glad."

"I know," said Joe; "yer wants another big s'prise."

"Yes, I do, I likes 'em; and I want God H'almighty to s'prise me soon again."

"Well, let's talk of the flowers now," said Joe, who felt that Maggie's conversation was carrying him rather out of his depth. "Does yer see that 'ere lily, Mag-that large white lily, same as yer pictur?"

"Same as Consider the lilies o' the field," exclaimed Maggie. "Oh, where, where?"

The sight of the real flower chased away, for the time, Maggie's pretty fancies; and Joe carried her about and showed her one gay bed of brilliant blossoms after another, and at last she knew what blue and orange and purple and red meant. Her eyes had been quite feasted with beautiful colours and beautiful sights, when at last Joe took her home.

That night, as the little child lay tired but happy on her straw mattress, Joe came in softly and bent down and kissed her.

"Mag," he said in an eager whisper, "I've got somethink to tell yer."

"Wot?" asked Maggie.

"Another big s'prise, Maggie. Wot does yer say to seein' them 'ere flowers again ?" "Yes, I'll see 'em again," replied Maggie in her sweet voice. "I'll see em in God H'almighty's world, Joey dear."

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Having finished his narrative, Joe was silent, staring very hard at Maggie-equally hard did Maggie gaze at him.

"Joe," she said at last, speaking very solemnly, "does God H'almighty love you and me as well as he loves the flowers?"

"Why, yes, Maggie, I never thought of it; but I s'pose He do," replied Joe.

"That's wy He lets us be together, 'cause He loves us all-flowers and all," said Maggie. "Joe," she added, "yer just the goodest and nicest boy in London, and I'm the werry 'appiest little 'un."

I have never heard anything since of Maggie. I cannot say whether she still goes with Joe to the beautiful gardens on the Thames Embankment, or whether her worldly circumstances have improved, and she has gained admission into some pleasant children's hospital, like that established not very long ago at Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, for poor little incurable children. Perhaps this is so, or perhaps, far better than that, God has sent for little Maggie, has shown her that He loves her even more than He loves the flowers, and has given her a grand surprise in a country where the bright blossoms never wither, and the children are never sick.

But I do know one thing, and that I will stoutly maintain, that once, through a simple act of thoughtfulness, Joe made himself the kindest boy, and Maggie the happiest little girl in London.

IN

SINCE 1800.*

FIRST PAPER.-IN BENARES.
BY THE REV. M. A. SHERRING, M.A., LL.B.

N these days of Christian enterprise, when thirty-five Protestant Missionary Societies are striving to evangelize the vast population of India, numbering two hundred and forty millions of people, it is difficult to realise the fact, that, at the beginning of the present century, it was impossible for any work of this nature to be undertaken in the British portion of the Indian Empire without meeting with violent opposition from the Government of the country. Dr. Carey had laid the foundations of his great mission in Serampore, under the protection of the Danish Government, having been unsuccessful in his efforts to establish a mission in British territory. The London Missionary Society sent its first missionary to India in the year 1798; but after remaining in Calcutta for a time, he evaded the obstacles which beset him by quitting that city, and settling at Chinsurah, twenty miles distant, then under Dutch rule. Occasionally the British Government. relented, and allowed missionaries, under certain severe conditions, to commence their Christian labours. For example, the Rev. Messrs. Chamberlain and Peacock, of the Baptist Society, men of zeal and earnestness, were permitted to reside at Agra, in the North Western Provinces; yet so harsh and fickle was the Government that in less than eighteen months Mr. Chamberlain, having fallen under the censure of the commandant of the fort of that city, was sent under a guard of sepoys out of British India, to the Danish settlement at Serampore, a distance of eight hundred miles. As late as 1812 the Government issued a general order that all missionaries who might arrive from abroad should be at once expelled from the country. Five American missionaries were thus expelled, one of whom was the Rev. Dr. Judson, who afterwards proceeded to Burmah, and founded a mission there, which has gradually become one of the most important and prosperous missions of modern times, yet which, but for the banishment of its eminent founder, would not have been established till many years

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"J. H. SYMMS,

"Superintendent of Police."

The conduct of the Government in determining to exert its authority to the utmost in preventing the entrance of the Gospel into India provoked the indignation and violent opposition of the religious public of England. When the old Charter of the East India Company, granted in 1793, which had enabled the local Government to withstand the missionaries, and to wage constant hostilities with them, with more or less virulence, for twenty years, was about to expire, the opportunity was seized by Christian people in this country to move the two Houses of Parliament to an entire reversal of the policy which had been pursued. And they were successful. But the struggle was hot and fierce. After a prolonged discussion in the House of Commons, sustained chiefly by Wilberforce, on the one side, and retired old Indian officials and merchants, on the other, the famous clause in the new Charter, introduced by Lord Castlereagh, under pressure from without, and overpowered by the immense multitude of petitions with which every night both Houses were inundated, was carried.

The new Charter came into effect on the 10th April, 1814, from which time, properly The series of papers of which this is the first is intended speaking, dates the commencement of those to give a bird's-eye view of the triumphs of missions all over the world during the present century. The Editor takes this multiform Christian labours which are being opportunity of gratefully acknowledging the very hearty and valuable aid afforded to him by the officials of the various carried on over the whole of India, and which English and Scotch missionary societies of every denomina-have for their object the deliverance of tion, and also by many of their most able and devoted missionaries. It is hoped the papers will evoke the gratitude Hindoos, Mahomedans, and other races from and inflame the zeal of the Church. The Rev. Dr. Moffat, the false religions, gross superstitions, and

the Apostle of Africa, will contribute the next paper.

immoral usages under which they have been | vitality and vigour which, so far as is known, in slavish bondage for ages. All restrictions it has ever exhibited. While many cities and

to Christianity being removed, immediately the various denominations of Christians throughout Great Britain began to stimulate one another in their zealous efforts to plant the Gospel in India.

While the restrictions lasted it would have been a hazardous undertaking, as the Government was in favour of upholding the Hindoo religious rites and customs, to attempt to establish a mission in Benares, the holy city of the Hindoos. But as soon as possible after their removal it was right that missionaries should establish themselves in this citadel of idolatry, with the hope of effecting its destruction, and of building up a Christian Church upon its ruins. Three societies in succession entered on the work there. The first in the field was the Baptist Missionary Society, which founded a mission in Benares in 1816. Next came the Church Missionary Society, whose mission dates from the following year. The third mission was in con|nection with the London Missionary Society, and was commenced in 1820. To snatch Benares from Hindooism, and to transform it into a Christian city, was a task equal in difficulty and in importance to the evangelization of ancient Rome by the apostles and their successors. This will be manifest by a brief consideration of its history and reputed sanctity.

Twenty-five centuries ago, at the least, Benares was famous. It is a point on which all Buddhist historians are agreed, that Buddhism, which was once the paramount religion of India, and which has become the national religion of China, Japan, Burmah, Ceylon, and Nepaul, was founded at Benares by Sakya Muni, or Buddha. This event occurred in the sixth century before the Christian era, when Benares was already the sacred city of the land. Long before this period, however, it was regarded as a very holy spot; and allusions to its splendour and sanctity are exceedingly abundant in early Sanskrit literature. When Babylon was struggling with Nineveh for supremacy, when Tyre was planting her colonies, when Athens was growing in strength, before Rome had become known, or Greece had contended with Persia, or Cyrus had added lustre to the Persian monarchy, or Nebuchadnezzar had captured Jerusalem, and the inhabitants of Judæa had been carried into captivity, Benares had risen to greatness, if not to glory. Not only is the city remarkable for its venerable age, but also for the

nations have fallen into decay and perished, its sun has never gone down. Its illustrious name has descended from generation to generation, and has always been a household word, venerated and beloved by the vast Hindoo family. And now, after the lapse of so many ages, this magnificent city still maintains most of the freshness, and all the beauty, of its early youth. For picturesqueness and grandeur, no sight in all the world can well surpass that of Benares as seen from the river Ganges. Macaulay's graphic description of its appearance towards the close of the last century, in his essay on Warren Hastings, is, for the most part, applicable to its present state. He speaks of it as "a city, which in wealth, population, dignity, and sanctity was among the foremost in Asia. It was commonly believed that half a million human beings were crowded into that labyrinth of lofty alleys, rich with shrines, and minarets, and balconies, and carved oriels, to which the sacred apes clung by hundreds. The traveller could scarcely make his way through the press of holy mendicants, and not less holy bulls. The broad and stately flights of steps which descended from these swarming haunts to the bathing-places along the Ganges were worn every day by the footsteps of an innumerable multitude of worshippers. The schools and temples drew crowds of pious Hindoos from every province where the Brahminical faith was known. Hundreds of devotees came hither every month to die; for it was believed that a peculiarly happy fate awaited the man who should pass from the sacred city into the sacred river. was superstition the only motive which allured strangers to that great metropolis. Commerce had as many pilgrims as religion. All along the shores of the venerable stream lay great fleets of vessels laden with rich merchandise. From the looms of Benares went forth the most delicate silks that adorned the balls of St. James's and of Versailles; and in the bazaars the muslins of Bengal and the sabres of Oude were mingled with the jewels of Golconda and the shawls of Cashmere."

Nor

Benares, like Athens in the days of St. Paul, is a city wholly given to idolatry. For the sanctity of its inhabitants, of its temples and tanks, of its wells and streams, of the very soil that is trodden, of the very air that is breathed, and of everything in it and around it, the city has been celebrated for

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