The following letter in Dr. Parker's largest hand indicates that this volume had in him an appreciative reader; it refers also to the movement for a new constitution of the Congregational Union.

"20th November, 1901.

"I have read your 'Evolution' with delighted interest. 'Thou art not far from the kingdom of God.' I have been working at this thing now for a long time, and the longer I look the brighter it becomes. It is right; it is sound in reason, and it is in harmony with our history. Your conversion is not yet quite complete so far as the word 'Church' is concerned. Thoroughly safeguard our local and individual autonomy, and we need have no fear of the word. It is scriptural, convenient and quotable. If the word 'Churches' be preferred by an overwhelming vote, so be it; let both names be sent down for discussion. Though personally convinced that the word Church is right, I am willing that the alternative word 'Churches ' should be sent down for discussion. 'Church' points in the right direction. It will little by little vindicate itself even to the most Congregational mind. I have not the shadow of a doubt that it is the right word, and will make for itself a large number of friends. I write in great haste, and in much weakness, but I thought I must drop you a line in appreciation of your most valuable lectures.

Dr. Mackennal's life of my father Dr. J. A. Macfadyen, of Manchester-is remarkable as an appreciation of a man whose temperament, habits, and ideals of the ministry were so unlike his own. The life of a man who gave himself to others, with no thought for himself, and who devoted great powers to working denominational institutions, is not easily written. Much of his work is done. for the moment, at white heat, and is not suitable for publication. My father was an influence, a force, a spirit, and an energy in Manchester, in Lancashire, and in the Congregational churches of England. When he died it seemed very doubtful if anyone could catch and crystallise the influence sufficiently to describe it in a book. When Dr. Mackennal undertook the book, we knew that the work would be done well, but I have often wondered since

that it was done so well. The book is more than a record of a finished life, it is one of the best treatises on “pastoral theology," and is a remarkable vindication of the type of ministry which it records. It is one of the few books which sets the whole pastoral and organising work of the ministry in its true light, as a form of Christian self-oblation; and it has the merit of bringing out the muchneglected fact that it is this self-oblation in the leader which makes a pastorate creative of like-minded personalities. Fifty such men in any generation would change the history of the church, or indeed of the country, they serve.

There are many scattered memorials of Dr. Mackennal's literary activity, besides the publications in book form. Mention has already been made of a series of sonnets published during the Leicester period, and collected for publication by one of his friends. They, with others, published and in manuscript, point to a vein of poetic feeling and impulse which came to the surface at intervals all through his life. The spiritual yearning of his nature, his idealism, his true sense of beauty in living things, and his sense of literary form, all sought expression in this way; but he either lacked or lost poetic passion and imaginative vividness, so that while the heart mused and the poetic fire burned, it fell short of breaking into flame and emitting its own heat and light. His sonnets are musings and meditations in a verse form rather than poems in the strict sense of the term.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN FOR CHILDREN.

On our happy Christmas day

We, Thy children, meet to pray;
Leave we now our sports awhile,
Seek we now our Saviour's smile.

Gentle Jesus, Saviour mild!

Thou wast once a little child;

Thou didst pray and Thou didst sing;
Now Thou art our heavenly King.

Thou dost know what children want,
And what we require wilt grant;
Son of earthly mother, Thou
Hearkenest to children now.

What Thou wast when living here,
We would be, O Saviour dear;
True in word, and kind in deed,
Thoughtful for each other's need.

Brave of heart and wise of head,
We the heavenly way would tread;
We would serve our Father, too,
Just as those in heaven do.

Tender Saviour, Lord of all!
Let Thy peace upon us fall;
Make us Thine, we humbly pray,
On our happy Christmas day.

LOSS AND GAIN.

The path of glory is the way to death;

On every height that human feet can tread, There lie the thick-strewn ashes of the dead Who hither came, and here resigned their breath, Their work unwrought. Ambition perisheth

In view of human weakness, human pains : "What use in toil ?" the weary heart complains. O heart, yet hear thou what the Master saith"Who seeks his own shall lose his all;" who gives Himself to ends earth cannot compass, he Shall know no loss; in gratitude and love, A holier shrine than fame's, his memory lives; His work advancing other eyes shall see, The while he sojourns with the souls above.

REST.

Methought the Master said-"Come rest awhile
And I prepared to follow. Visions rose
Of sweeps of sand stretch'd in profound repose
Of palm trees beck'ning to some desert isle,
Of crumbling temples on the shore of Nile;

A bald-topp'd hill without a city gate,
The garden hallow'd by the Saviour's strait,
And the lov'd lake that's haunted by His smile.
He gave me rest: a length of desert days,
Wherein He said—“ Lie still, my child, and bear."
Glimpses I caught of Truth's majestic fane.
Fair forms of saints, alive and dead, were there.
He led my weary feet in quiet ways,

By streams that glad the Holy Land of Pain.

THE FORSAKEN CROSS.

"Tears clear the sight," I said in pride of grief: The wise have always learned in sorrow's school; And in my scorn I deemed the man a fool

Who talks of happiness;

66

a respite brief Is all the brave accept, no long relief."

I was the fool; I knew not that my eye
Was blinded with the tears I would not dry.

I sought the Cross to gaze upon the Chief
Of them who suffer; but the Cross was bare,
And to my wondering heart these words were borne,
"He is not here, but risen into His joy."
Dear Lord, forgive my pride, forgive my scorn;
The happy angels go on Thine employ,

And Christ-like grief, for Christ-like joys prepare.

A. M.

A. M.

CHAPTER XIX

LETTERS TO MRS. NAIRN

"I had but letters,

Only knew his actions by hearsay,

He himself was busied with my betters;

What of that? My turn must come some day."

BROWNING.

DR. MACKENNAL had a remarkable faculty for reviving old friendships, and taking them up after a period of separation, as though no time had intervened. An illustration of this was the revival of his friendship with Mrs. Nairn, of Edinburgh, sister of Dr. John Ker, of Glasgow, his minister and helper in student days. Some of his letters are as graceful as they are gracious.

"16th April, 1898.

"You are good enough to write very kindly to a poor correspondent. . . . But I am not really neglectful-that is, I do not fail in gratitude and affection. I daresay you understand how much better' is 'the old '-old books, old scenes, old friends. And I should be untrue to my better self if I failed in grateful remembrance of Armfield Place. The cordial welcome I always had from you, and the bright talk, and the intercourse with your brother, they were part of my education. I shall leave behind me for my children to read, a letter which your brother sent me, when he forwarded a letter recommending me to the committee of Hackney College. In it he urges me to be always giving up myself to the Master, and you,' he adds, 'will receive a new and better self, even Christ in you.' Is not that good and worth remembering?

"I did, for a little, hope to be in Edinburgh in a