P

ERHAPS some of my little friends have wandered over the cliffs of old Kent, and looked upon the blue waters of the Dover Straits, as they rolled and murmured between you and the white coasts of beautiful France. Have you ever wondered how they looked to the eyes of the little British children who knew and loved them years before the Lord Jesus lay in His manger-bed at Bethlehem? Let us fancy that we stand upon the chalky heights where now Dover Castle stands, and try to imagine what these shores were like fifty-five years before the birth of Christ.

This fair Kent was not then clothed as now with waving corn-fields: the wolf and the wild cat wandered in her forests, the beaver built in her rivers, and the bustard ran over her plains; instead of towns and castles, there were huts made of rods tied together at the top, and looking like sugar-loaves; instead of cathedrals and churches, the Druid priests sat under the oak trees, and the poor heathen offered human sacrifices to their false gods. As I think over all this, there rises before me a picture of long ago: I see the cliffs crowded with men, whose hair is long and golden, and who wear garments of red tartan, fastened with brooches; they look over the sea, with glances of anger and dismay, for across those waters they see approaching the ships of a nation to whom defeat is unknown. That fleet of ships dare not land under the eyes of those determined Britons, and they sail from the glistening heights to the flat shore where Deal now stands. The army of yellow-haired men will not be behind; they hurry across the land till they are again in sight of the foe. Dare the Romans land on the ground that is so defended? or will Julius Cæsar turn back again, and forget the white cliffs that have fired his ambition as he caught glimpses of them from the sister hills of Gaul?

But I see a young soldier seize in his hand an eagle (the ensign of Rome) and spring into the tide, while he calls on his comrades to follow him to victory. And now the brave islanders and the warlike strangers have met; and though the Britons struggle fearlessly for their forests and little rod homes, they cannot stand against the Roman warriors; and I know that Rome has begun to do her part toward making the England that I love to-day.

There lies in the isle of Thanet, not far from Ramsgate, a track of cliff dotted over with houses now, but bare enough, I should think, at the time I am going to tell

you about. Imagine yourselves back in the year 449, a.d. As we stand on this Kentish shore we see once more an approaching fleet, and once more invaders are springing to shore; not stern Romans this time, but a race of yellow-haired, blue-eyed men, in whom we are still more deeply interested. Fierce heathen they are, coming from the forests of Germany, to spread, for a time at least, confusion and terror throughout a country that has begun to learn Christianity from its Roman masters. And yet, English child, look with reverence upon this bare cliff and these hardy warriors, for this spot is Ebbs-Fleet, and here, headed by Hengist and Horsa, the Saxons are landing in the country they are to rule.

Come, children, I will lead you from the scene of battle and bloodshed to a spot where, in thought, we may look upon another invasion, not one this time of war and violence, but of peace and freedom. Imagine, then, that you are standing upon the chalky down above Minster in the year 597 A.D., and you will see a dazzling picture before you. On the bare slopes two thrones are raised; on one sits Ethelbert, King of Kent, and on the other Bertha, his Christian queen. Thirty years ago Bertha left the Christian court of her father, the Frankish

king, to become the wife of pagan Ethelbert, and now at last he has been persuaded to send to Rome, asking that missionaries may be sent to far-off England. So Bertha's heart is full of joy to-day as her ear catches the sound of a solemn hymn that floats sweetly over the Kentish hills, and very soon the bystanders have a glimpse of a procession of men who chant praises to God as they walk forward. They pause at the foot of the throne, and their chief speaks to the Saxon king of the blessings that are to be his if he accepts the Gospel brought to him, with so much toil and pains, all the way from Rome. Ethelbert answers calmly he will not be in a hurry to leave his father's gods, but the missionaries may stay, and he will protect them. The hearts of the little band would be light, however, if they guessed how soon king and queen, and thousands of their subjects, would be baptized in the name of Christ.

Now the procession passes on to Canterbury, and as they go I hear the sound of the 'hallelujah' that they sing; and as I look after them, and think of the harvest that has sprung from the seed they sowed, though the picture fades from my mind, the hills of Kent echo the 'hallelujahs' still.

Now come with me again to old Dover. Nearly seventeen centuries have passed since the legions of Julius Cæsar feared to land under those guardian cliffs. It is no longer a time of war, but of peace and rejoicing; people with happy and expectant faces throng the street, flags fly gaily, and the whole town is in holiday attire. Look how those knots of people are straining their eyes as they look across the sea, how the children, in their garments that seem to us quaint and odd, are whispering together, and only half understanding what all this gaiety means. But I see some wise old men, who shake their heads and think what they do not dare to say, that this may not turn out quite such a joyful day for England after all.

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And now across the sea a king is coming to sit on the throne his father lost, and O, what shouts! what firing of guns as he steps on shore, at home at last, after all his wanderings! But we will not trouble ourselves to follow Charles II. as he journeys on, for we remember the words that have been written as an epitaph for him:

'Here lies our mutton-eating king,
Whose word no man relied on,
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one.'

Now come with me to North Kent. My last picture is of a battle. There are no waving banners, but there is a victory. Come with me to Blackheath, and I will show you a sight such as was common in the last century. I see a large crowd of persons gathered together: strong, toil-worn men; weary, hardworked women; wondering children,—all are pressing toward one spot, all are striving to gaze on one man, who stands in the midst of them. He is telling the Gospel story to ears that have never heard, or that have slighted the glad news. It is of his Saviour's love that he is speaking in that clear, musical voice. Tears start to the eyes of weatherbeaten men who have not wept for years; smiles of joy light up faces from which happiness seemed to have fled away; though, alas! there are many ready to fling stones and dirt at that devoted preacher, and mock his message of peace. Yet as we look round upon the signs of earnest attention and grateful joy, who shall say that George Whitefield is not gaining a victory over the most terrible of all foes?

Now that we have looked at all these pictures, and have seen that this county was the first to receive the touch of our forefathers' feet, and claims the honour of being, ir Saxon times, the first to throw aside the pagan yoke, I hope you will all join me in saying, 'Hurrah for Kent!'

A

FTER wandering around London and visiting some of the most interesting places, we meet again in the London streets. And now we purpose picking out a few of the characters that abound here, for the purpose of chatting about them.

Most prominent of all is the POLICEMAN. Go when we will into the London streets, let the weather be what it may-wet or fine, hail, snow, or rain-he may generally be found leisurely walking the streets, and to all appearances with nothing to do. And he looks so comfortable in his uniform, so well-dressed, so warmly-clad, and so thoroughly prepared for cold or wet, as he walks along with a slow and measured tread, stopping occasionally at some corner to gaze around, we might think that his was a very idle as well as a very comfortable life.

Nothing to do!' 'Comfortable!'

'Idle!' 'Dear me !' whatever would he say if we told him so? For he is a very busy person, with plenty to do, and much to worry and annoy him, having many duties to perform which the greater part of the people are not aware of. Do we find ourselves nearly lost in great London, and unable to find the way to a certain place. Well, who shall direct us? The postman? O, no! he looks so busy delivering his bundle of letters. Who then? This slowmoving policeman. Yes, let us try him.

' Officer, can you direct us to that address, please?' and we hand the card to him. And at once we get correct instructions. Or if a fire breaks out, he is ready at once to call the firemen, and knows where a ladder may be found so as to use it for rescue before the fire-escape comes. He knows the quickest way to the turncock's house, and calls him to give a quick supply of water to put out the fire. Or if a doctor is wanted, he knows where the nearest one lives. And not only does he know all about his district or 'beat,' but he seems to be an intelligent

man ready at all times with advice and assistance. He knows when a horse should be in its stable instead of in the shafts, and soon finds out if the animal is being illtreated or not. He is courteous, patient and civil; will gladly assist timid persons across the crowded roads; and sees that nothing goes wrong with people or property; and though people and things often give him very much annoyance, he must forget

all that annoys, and speak civilly.

Policemen have to preserve the peace; do their utmost to prevent robberies and other crimes, and to catch any that offend against the laws; watch over the safety of four millions of people, who are spread over more than six hundred square miles, and to look after about six hundred thousand houses, and property that is alone worth more than twenty millions of pounds. He is exposed to all kinds of weather, and has a hard time of it during the cold, wintry nights, while you are soundly sleeping, snugly tucked in your warm beds. Not only has he to face the sharp winds of winter, but ofttimes the armed burglar, who resists the officer's interruption of his midnight thefts. And then it is we find that not only is the policeman a busy and an intelligent man, but a brave man.

Hark! the cry is raised, 'Stop thief!' Stop thief!' and a boy is seen racing down the road. Biddy, the old gaunt Irish woman who keeps the hot chestnut stall at the corner, had just served a customer, giving change for a piece of silver. This piece of silver she had just dropped into her long purse, when the jingle of the money attracted that rascal's attention, and quick as thought he dashed forward, upsetting her fire and tray of baked nuts, snatened the purse from her hands, and was off like a shot. It did not take Biddy long to recover, and soon she was loudly calling, 'Stop thief!' Instantly as the cry fell

on our