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-- - SELECTIONS FROM THE CHRISTMAS…

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SELECTIONS FROM THE CHRISTMAS ANNUALS. AT ELIM ABE TWELVE WELLS. We are told that sorcery and divination are once tnore living spiritual methods amongst us-that witches' Sabbaths are held in Paris, and that the philosopher's stone is being sought in London. It is likely enough, and indeed it has never been un- likely, for in so mysterious a world one never knows by what method we may hit the truth, and it is wisest to try all-from divining-rod to scalpel. However, it is a subject in which 1 am not generally inte- rested, as one of the great body of the superstitious, and my personal experiments are confined to a very innocent form of divination-the ancient divination by books. Virgil and the Bible used to be the books mainly favoured by old consultants of the sortes," and the Bible, by its long sacred associa- tions, remains, of course, the most impressive book to consult, if you would take the oracle more or less seriously. I am given to the practice trivially with all my books, but, I suppose, it is the Puritan fathers in my blood that send me most often, and when I meap it most to the Bible. This morning, rising, for no reason that I know of, in the worst of spirits, and looking gloomily out across an expanse of sunlit gorse and heather that should have gladdened nny graceful soul, indifferent to the lark and spiteful towards the cuckoo, I took a Bible down from my sbelf of bed-books, and, open- ing it at random, read At Elim are twelve wells and seventy palm-trees! From that instant, no doubt illogically enough, my spirits began to lift, and all through the day, whenever they momentarily fell again, as some dark or wistful thought gloomed or wailed through my mind, "Never mind! the sweet old words kept whispering, at Eliiu are twelve wells and seventy palm-tree!" When the children of Israel had exhausted the first excitement of crossing the Red Sea, when the intoxication of their triumph was failing them, and the song of Moses and the timbrel of Miriam were no longer in their ears, they began to murmur for water, but found only the waters of Marab. Then, as Moses sweetened the waters with the green boughs, and reproved their discontent, he told them of Elim, a pleasant place but a day's march or so away; and as they fared on wearily through that desert of Shur, how often must they have said to each other: At Elim are twelve wells and seventy palm-trees- the very words full of cool water and cool shade. For all I know, the wells of Elim are long since dried, its palm-trees withered, its very name for- gotten and to us of another age and civilisation the very symbolism is unfamiliar, we who go not to wells for our water, and have never seen a palm-tree. Yet such is the emotional impressionability of words, such their power of transmitting sincerity of feeling across time, that those simple words of cool water and cool shade vibrate still with their old exquisite refreshment of promise; still speak, like spring water in the eager mouth, of quenched thirst and the whisper of leaves st ill make a mirage to the mind of the mysterious mossy walls of old wells, the delicious plash and echo, the sleepy sunlight stealing on tip-toe through the tendrilled patterned shade, to kiss with sudden glory some little darkling fern- quenched thirst, and all the great green rest. Yes; great is the comfort of words-really there is no comfort save in words. It is not in what the words say, not in what they tell, or promise, or counsel us. For the most corn fcrting words are often the most irrelevant—particularly as the mood for which we seek their aid is usually one of vague melancholy and undefined distress, mere spiritual ennui, and weariness of the soul. No! it is some- thing in the fall of the syllables, in the flower-like face of the words; perhaps it is the tranquillising presence of perfection, a sense of that eternity which lives in all beauty. Here is something complete to calm the ache of our incompleteness, here is some- thing at peace with itself, here is something that has found the perfect rest of the perfect. In fact, curiously, the words which thus comfort us most are often tbe saddest—broken criesof ancient heart-break, wistful calls of long-stilled passion, petals from the rose of old beauty, and poignant phrasea of the passing of the world. I loved thee, Atthis, long ago," cried Sappho, and time has but deepened the yearning of that old regret. Yet the sigh that tore her heart, by some curious aicberny,brings a strange comfort to oars, that alchemy of time that turns old tears to Els, and old mirth to melancholy—and so we go >y-sad a summer-day for the ghostly echo of that mguished cry. Sic transit gloria mundi Familiar and even vul- garised as are the words, what a noble chord they still strike in the heart, the mighty Latin clothing the passing of the world in such pomp of imperial phrase as almost to suggest, even while it writes this epitaph of an universe, that somehow the glory can never pass away, throwing over its mortality the purple pall of a hinted immortality. The pathos of the Greek Anthology, the haunting cadences of Omar Khayyam, sad old refrains from Theocritas, it is such expressions of old passion, pessimism, and despair that strangely enough most comfort the heart. Strange that the twelfth chapter of Ecclesiastes should bring so keen a delight, and the sorrows of Job become a joy for ever! Thus it was that the 12 wells and 70 palm-trees of a long-lost Elim came to comfort me this morning. So have we all been comforted by the sudden song of a bird heard in a fortunate moment, or by sudden sunlight on a rose, by 1000 inspiring surprises of sight and sound which promised nothing beyond the joy of their accident. It is not that I believe in Elim that Elim com- fuits me; but because the old writer, by the simple sincerity of his art, has made in those nine simple words a picture of rest that is an Elim in itself. In the very words themselves are there not 12 wells and 70 Silm-trees ?—Evhard Le Gallienne, in "Underthe istletoef Christmas Number of Marcus WarcTt Maga- zine, THE ROAD TO DAVIESP. He paused upon the highway, At the turnpike in the road— A dear old man with silvery lockl-- And face that earth-cares showed; His clothes were old and rusty, His stiff gait slowed by yeSrs Yet behind it all there seemed to be That faith which calms all fears. Say, lad, which way to Davies ?" He asked a youngster small; I've got to get there somehow 'Fore snow begins to fall. These limbs of mine feel weary, And the air most cold has growed I've travelled away from Sintown, And forgot the one right road. You see, I'm Davies' brother, And he hain't seen me in years. Since youth I've been a pilgrim- In this world of smiles and tears. The other day I found out That he lived in this 'ere clime; So I guessed I'd cease to wander, And join him Christmas-time. For I always thought it happy day (Before my manhood's dawn), To be with all the loved ones On the day when Christ was born. And though I've been a prodigal. No more again I'll roam My peace is made pray tell me, lad, The road to Davies' home ?" "There are two roads here—be careful, air, For oft I've heard it said, That on the left-the wider one, iJfh By many folks is tread. And also, too, that every one That takes that rock-strewn way, Ne'er reaches Davies' mountain home, Where shines a perfect day. II But to the right, my good old man, That narrow path you see, Will take you straight up to the place Where happy people be. No therna will tear your weary flesh, You'll meet no unkind fate, And a right good, merry welcome Will greet you at the gate." Well said, my honest country lad, 1 rm on my way again; j A Merry Christmas to you! t Let your light so shine to men I 1 The road to Davies' mountain home Is the right road; like the wise, TN take it." Dear friend, why not It leads to Paradise. [you ? ( —The HoUy Bought J A CHRISTMAS TREAT AND ITS TERRIBLE SEQUEL. Wun night last winter they guv a treat at the Assembly Hall to the School Buard kids; a sort of New Year's Day treat. A spruce affair it was, too, I can tell you-one of them things you can't easy forget. Our gal raises the money, some little out of the children's fathers and mothers, some come out of friends-a good deal fm afraid out of me-but most out of the doctor, who was in the habit of wisiting the school—of course only becos he was a School Board, there wosn't nothink between 'em then-not wisible, at all ewents. Bless yer, sir, that-tol of ours was delighted at the idea of giving them kids of hers a beanfast, who, half the year round, never have a bit o' proper grub—cos Lambeth ain't quite a Tom Tiddler's ground, I can tell you-and I believe as if she had asked me for the £ 10 it cost, and I'd only got £9 10s., I should have put my Sunday togs up the spout for the other 10 bob rather than a dis- appointed her. The hall was done up beautiful with holly and laurels out o' my shop, all over the pillars and gas pipes, and a big Christmas tree crowded with toys and candles given by Brown, the oilshop—an' he's a stingy old codger, Brown is, I tell yer; but bless yer, that gal o' ours twists him round her finger and does as she likes with him. The ceiling and walls were dressed up with paper chains of all the colours o' the rainbow, the chandre- liers was dressed up like Christmas trees out for an excursion, and as for grub—well, it was a wonder to me how the tables stood on their legs with the weight -it was a fair take down, 1 can tell yer; none of yer tuppeny a'peny bread and butter struggles, with a lot of old door mats cut up for cake, but a regular tuck in and no mistake about it. And my word, how them kids did eat! The quantity of grub some of them nippers got outside of was a perfect licker to me. But for all that, they was as frisky as a lot of sparrows on a spring morning, after it, and danced about with the activity of young kittens on a warm copper. Florrie was the life of it all, with her games of "Hot boiled beans," "Blind man's buff," "Chevy Chase," and all sorts of fun, till her hair was flying in all directions, her face was the colour of a tomater, and she was like a racehorse, covered with puspera- tion. Then, with her bright eyes shining like stars on a summer's night, she darted off to the down- stairs room to cut up some oranges and apples and other things, and I went down to help her. We hadn't been there five minutes when a scream and scuffle upstairs made my blood run cold. Fire Fire came the cry from scores of frightened voices, followed by scream after scream, and rushing down- stairs, amid a shower of sparks and smoke,, little children and cowards of men and women teachers come fighting their way down. Following them almost immediately came a sheet of flame licking 'em with its tongue of burning temper. All hell seemed let loose in that minute, while screams from upstairs told of dozens of little 'uns still up there in the burning fiery furnace, groping in the blinding smoke for a way out. I looked at Florrie- the anger and contempt of her whole'nature seemed to fill her burning eyes as she looked at the paltry cowards who had no thought for the dear little 'uns left to burn like heaps o' rubbish in the room above, and then, like a tiger just escaped from her cage, she darted upstairs through the smoke and flame and into the room above, now a hissing, roaring, stokehole on fire. Florrie! Florrie!" I shouted, let me go!" But no voice cam'J back out of the hell above I I leapt to the top of the stairs and tried to fight my way after her, but the blinding, scorching flames beat me back and almost took my senses away, and before I could come to agin psrt of the ceiling close to the landing on which I was Etanding gave way with a crash, and a reglar burning mountain belched out and rushed out towards the staircase, which was now like a great chimney shaft for the flames. At the same moment, Doctor Jack, looking like a madman, pale as a ghost, his hair flying and his eyes all bloodshot, rushed up the staircase, which bad now begun to burn, and stood daft-like on the very edge of the roaring mass of fire. I tried to look through the solid sea of flame that was burning and scorching my face, though I didn't f, el nothing of it. I think I must have gone iiiad in that moment at the thought that my gal-my beautiful Florrie-lay buried in that dreadful fiery grave, along with the helpless little 'uns she had laid down her life herself to save. I hadn't been much of a prayer before that night, sir, but I think if you could have heard the prayers I said, and the promises I made to God in that moment, you wouldn't have wondered if a crowd of bright angels bad come to lift my darling clean out of the burning ruin but I have learned from that night that God does not always deliver us in the way we think He ought to. He has ways of His own. But I didn't know then, and as I looked at the fierce pit of burning fiery serpents that seemed to me to be leaping and dancing like devils over my darling's horrible grave, I thought, what's the use of praying ? what power can save ? But I know now that the Great Father God's Almighty power is not tied up by anything. All the time these thoughts were running through my head I was struggling to keep back Doctor Jack, who wanted (like a madman as he was) to jump into the terrible hole of fire below us. Let me go he ses, let me die with her I love her better than all the world I was struggling with him, and he had almost wrenched himself out of my grasp, when, all of a sudden, like as if it had been hanging on cotton threads, the staircase on which we were stand- ing fell in, and we went down with it into the room below. For a second I lost my senses, and recovered only to find Doctor Jack, with his clothes burning and his whiskers and hair all singed, dragging me out of the barning cinders. As I came to myself a strange sound struck my ears-the cheering of hundreds of voices, shouting as if they were mad with joy, until the streets rang again. I jumped on my feet, and was out of the building after Jack like a frog after a bluebottle, into the cold frosty street, shining in the moon and fire glare like an old-time Cremorne, Wauxhall, and North Wool- wich Gardens knocked into one. I lost Jack imme- diate, but went on as fast as my old legs would go, a winding my way amongst the puffing engines and busy firemen, getting pushed this way and that, seeing nothing and caring for nobody, to find out what all the clapping and shouting was about. As I looked up at the burning building, sparkling and glowing like a palace of fire, I see a sight as made me clap my hand to my head, afeard as I'd lost my senses for there, at the upper window, stood my darling Florrie with a score of little mite? a crowding round her, and she was a handing 'em o it to the firemen on the escape like aMetrypolita ticket-clerk a handing out tickets on a Easter Monday. The fact is, that gal of ours, finding the little ones in the burning room, had huddled 'em all into one corner close to the winder like a flock o' sheep, and then clapped the fireproof partition together and shut the wust part of the fire to the staircase side of the building, and then waited for the fire-escape to pass them out, cool as a cucum- ber. I can't tell yer about that night. I can't give yer no description. I know I see Doctor Jack dart up another ladder and climb up to the winder, and get in to help her. Fine feller that Jack!—all heart, like a summer cabbage — solid as a dimont, upright as a stick o' celery 1 can't tell yer how I felt. I hadn't got no bat of my own, so I collared hold of another feller's and chucked it up in the air. I was all upside down like, shouting one minute and the next a crying like a great big baby along with scores of great, burly fathers, while the mothers of the saved kiddies was thanking their Almighty Father that when there was no human hand that could save their dear little children he had sent His angel into the burning, fiery furnace, to bring them out. I re- member how, too, when somebody struck up singing, Praise God from whom all blessings flow," I tried to join in, but the water in my eyes seemed to drown the words in my mouth."—FfOM That Gal of Ours." in Old England's Annual.

CILCENNIN.

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