number of his acquaintances to send him a list of twenty hymns, the choice to be governed by this condition: the hymns chosen were to be such that young men would be willing to sing them, and would not be ashamed, twenty years hence, to have sung them. In this way he got several lists containing twenty hymns each, and out of these he was able to compile a hymn book of some hundred hymns, all of them hymns of strong, robust and suitable character. I asked Mr. Farmer what hymns found a place in the majority of lists. He told me, if I recollect rightly, that the hymn, "O God, our help in ages past,' was included in every list. I told this to the archbishop and the rest of our party; and I added that I thought this hymn the finest or premier hymn in the English language. The archbishop-somewhat, I think, to my surprise-did not agree, and expressed his preference for hymns of a more directly personal kind, and gave as an example, "The King of Love my shepherd is." I am not suggesting that he put this forward as his favourite hymn; but he certainly showed his leaning towards the class of hymns which give expression to personal faith.

We were thinking of different things. My thoughts were of hymns which suit multitudes, or which embody national or collective faith; and such hymns I would class among those which might be called fine-an adjective which I would not apply to those tender, sweet, spiritual hymns of individual trust, like "The King of Love," or "Jesu, lover of my soul," or "My God, the spring of all my joys." These, from the clinging intimacy of their language, belong to that realm of spiritual peace and satisfaction in which one no longer considers whether the sacred ode is

K

fine or not they are the utterance of emotions or experiences which lie beyond the range of the critical faculty, which judges whether a thing is "fine" or not. The inwardly recognized truth possesses the soul to the exclusion for the moment of the artistic judgment.

In short, at the moment my mind was set upon what my mind appreciated while the archbishop was speaking of what he found soul-satisfying. When we realized this, we were found to be nearer in accord than at first sight appeared. What is fine when sung by thousands in worship is not always spiritually the most helpful when one is alone in one's room, trying to find nourishment and comfort for the failing heart or the burdened soul.

I have been always glad to recall this conversation about hymns. It helped to clear my own judgment, and it seemed to show me how a man, great, strong, courageous and true, might be possessed at the same time of a genuine and touching humility of spirit.

Is it worth while recalling what, I think, must have been my last conversation with Archbishop Temple? It was at the close of a bishops' meeting. He said he felt tired, and could not do his work. Naturally I suggested rest, which would in time make work easy. "No," he said, "I am tired, and as to my work, I don't want to do it." I answered: "If your worst enemy said that I should not believe him." It, however, was plain enough that the pressure of work had worn out the energy so much that even the thought of work seemed a burden too heavy to bear. Remembering this, I can feel the heroism with which he worked on, and died gloriously in harness.

HOLBECK JUNCTION

I

I READ in an advertisement the other day that fifteensixteenths of convictions for crime were for fraud. suppose one may believe that crimes of violence decrease as society becomes civilized, but are we more honest?

Be not alarmed, my friend; I am not going to undertake a dissertation on criminal statistics. The question I asked, and the words which led to it, were only like a preface, which may be happily irrelevant to what follows. While journeying to and fro upon episcopal work, I have often had to spend time at a railway station, and in doing so I have found kind friends among the officials. One station at one period saw much of me. Just outside Leeds there is a station called Holbeck: I used to know it well. It was then the station where tickets were collected from passengers travelling to Leeds from Ripon; it was the junction also where passengers changed for the Great Northern system, and sometimes for the Midland system. How many hours I have spent in the upper level or lower level stations at Holbeck! How many good friends I found among the foremen and porters there! At home we always talked about the Holbeck men as if they were a class by themselves, distinguished for virtues not met elsewhere. To us they were distinguished by kindness, helpfulness, thoughtfulness; they eased our journeys, they lessened

our fatigues, they carried our burdens for us with a smile. Oh, we were great friends! Shall I ever forget the goodnatured giant, Davey by name, with his huge frame, his paternal eye, his strong and far-reaching voice? Why, as I write, I can hear it as it rises over the hustling sound of nervous feet, the hum of the luggage-laden trucks, and the roar of the incoming train, as the engine bursts through the arch of the upper line. "Train for Harrogate, Ripon, Darlington, and the North," and then, almost before the echoes died away, Davey was running along the slackening train, was searching the carriages with kindly look, was opening the door of the least crowded compartment and helping us in for the last stage of the journey to Ripon. after a long and tiring day. Dear Davey, you almost thought we had proved faithless when the new line was opened and we reached Leeds without passing through Holbeck, or travelled to and from London by a route which avoided Leeds and Holbeck. "You're quite a stranger," he would say, looking down upon me with a wistful expression of face. I declare that I felt almost ashamed that we were taking advantage of improved railway communication. The change robbed Holbeck of much of its traffic and a good deal of its importance; the staff was reduced, the two or three hundred trains a day no longer rushed and roared through the stations. What it may be now, I cannot say; but I like to think of it as it was in the days of its glory, when I paced up and down the long platform and talked to the men, and found so much of sweet and true humanity in them all; when they met me with smiling faces and kindly greetings, when we always made

up parcels of Christmas cards for the Holbeck men, when the stationmaster's room was always at my disposal to rest or to chat in.

It was during one of the inevitable intervals spent in the stationmaster's room that I heard stories of an

inspector's experience on the line. Here I come back to the question are we more honest? The inspector's business was not that of ticket collector but of ticket

inspector. His little realm of inspection comprised a portion of the London and Suburban section of the line it extended a few miles north of London to the city.

Are people more honest? He told me that he collected in one fortnight £200 for unpaid fares within his own district. Not all, perhaps, were fraudulent people ; some, no doubt, had failed to book through hurry; but they were not all forgetful or hurried people who contributed to the £200 which was gathered in that fortnight.

Many were the devices resorted to by the ingenuity of those who shirked honest methods. To nod in a familiar way when asked for ticket and to murmur "Season" was one method: this was generally resorted to by those who were usually season ticket holders, but who sought to travel economically when the season ticket had expired, and so to enjoy cheap travelling before embarking on another period of expensive honesty. Another method adopted was to split the season ticket, as you make split toast; then, by placing each half in a leather frame, with the rough surface below, you became possessed of the appearance of two season tickets, and you could take your wife to town for the theatre or