wearied interest he took in the sick and unfortunate. Late at night he would be seen, lantern in hand, on his way to or from the home of some poor, sick or sorrowing cottager. There was in him not only great culture of the mind, great illumination of the intellect,-but also great culture of the moral nature: not only "light," but also "sweetness," without which all intellectual light is, after all, only darkness indeed! One feels this to a remarkable degree in all his writings Whatever may be said of his theological opinions, there can be no doubt as to the great piety of the man. His "Christian Year," a volume of sacred song which will be found in nearly every cultured home, has had probably a wider circulation than any other book of this century. Between 1827 and 1872 one hundred and fifty editions were printed. In all the sacred songs in this volume one feels the chief excellence to be this same exquisite gentleness of touch, this same deep, tender, saintly sweetness which so attracted to him all with whom he came in contact while he was yet alive. "The real power of The Christian Year' lies in this that it brings home to the reader, as few poetic works have ever done, a heart of rare and saintly beauty. We may well believe that ages must elapse ere another such character shall again concur with a poetic gift and power of expression which, if not of the highest, are yet of a very high order. Come near and bless us when we wake, We lose ourselves in Heaven above." all closing hymns,-the good old longWe come now, finally, to the chief of meter doxology, "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow." For now nearly two hundred years this single stanza has probably been sung oftener and by more people than any other composition with which we are acquainted. It is the chief of all the doxologies, and it is not likely that it will be soon outworn or superseded by any other, It never grows old. It never wearies, It is perennially fresh and sweet. It is sacred scenes and hallowed memories very intimately associated with the most of the past. And it bids fair to be the favorite closing hymn of all of God's people to the end of time. Did you ever stop to consider who wrote this dear old doxology, or to inquire how long it has been in use? It was written by Thomas Ken, a bishop of the English Church, about the year 1697, that is, nearly two hundred years ago. Now, if you ask who Thomas Ken was, let me ask you, do you not remember having read in Macaulay's History of England about seven All this the reader feels as he reads English Bishops who were once imprithis beautiful hymn. He feels that he soned in the Tower of London, and is here very close to the heart of a man afterward brought to trial for treason, whose walk was close with God. Un- because they had refused to read_in bounded trustfulness in Christ-" the their several churches the famous Deperfect love which casteth out fear"-claration of Indulgence to Roman Cathare felt to thrill the soul as the congre- olics which King James II had pubgation sings, ere it goes down from the lished? These seven men were, the house of God at the eventide, while the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lloyd, Turdarkness of night is gathering around-ner, Lake, Ken, White and Trelawney. "Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes! They refused to read the king's declaration, not only because they were opposed to Roman Catholicism, but especially because they felt that the king, by his arbitrary action, was compromising the spiritual freedom of the church. After a long consultation, they drew up a paper in which, with every assurance of loyalty, they ventured politely to state their reasons for declining to read the Declaration. This paper they pre sented to the king on their knees. On reading it James flew into a terrible rage, called them rebels, and eventually ordered them to the Tower, there to await their trial for treason. The whole city of London was aroused in behalf of the bishops, who were regarded as martyrs for the common cause. Followed by an immense crowd of people who cheered loudly, and repeatedly cried, "God bless you!" they with difficulty were conducted to the Tower, where, before the gates closed upon them, the very guards bared their heads before them and craved their benediction and blessing. You may remember also how, subsequently, they were brought to trial and acquitted, and how wild all the country was over the good news. fused his lodging to poor Nell?" and resolved that he and no other should be Bishop of Bath and Wells. I have his picture before me as I write. A smooth shaven face-high forehead, strong chin, long, well developed nose, and a very pleasant expression in general. Ken was plainly a man to be loved. One only wonders why he never married. But he was a bachelor,-travelled considerably, and always carried his shroud in his valise with him wherever he went, and whenever he took seriously sick, he at once put it on. This may well illustrate that part of his celebrated evening hymn, where it says: "Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed." He is also celebrated as one of the "nonjuring bishops" who refused to take a new oath when William of Orange came in-an act which cost him his bishopric, and led to his retirement, in which the rest of his days were spent. Now, one of these was Thomas Ken, at that time Bishop of Bath and Wells; and I have mentioned the above circumstance partly in order to locate the author of our good old doxology his torically, and partly also to show what kind of a man he was. That he was a man having in him the stuff of which martyrs are made, is evident not only from the above narrated facts, but also from what is elsewhere related as belonging to his early history. In 1679 he had been appointed chaplain to the Princess Mary, wife of William of Orange, and for a short time lived in Holland. In 1680 he retu ned to England, and was made chapin to the king, Charles II. Having his residence at Winchester, in 1683 the king and his court of fine people of questionable morals once paid a visit to Ken, and it had been arranged that his house should be the abode of the famous Nell Gwynne, the king's favorite. But Ken at once objected to this arrangement, refused admittance to her, and compelled her to look for lodgings elsewhere. One would naturally think that such an act would have been visited by the king's certain and severe displeasure, as no doubt Ken expected it would: but strange to say, it indirectly led to his promotion to the office of a bishop. For, only the next year after the above occurrence, when there fell a vacancy in the See of Bath and Wells, and different names were proposed for the place, King Charles said one day, "Where is the good little man that re-known: But-good Bishop Ken will best be remembered to the end of all time, not as one of the seven bishops once imprisoned in London tower, nor as a " non-juror," nor as a chaplain of King Charles II., but as the author of the noble song of praise to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." As one of the fathers of modern English hymnology, he has always held high rank. Scarcely even Keble himself, though possessed of much rarer poetic gifts, surpassed him in his own sphere. He wrote a volume of prayers for the use of the scholars of Winchester College about the year 1674. To this volume were added three hymns of his composition-one for the morning, one for the evening, and one for midnight. Of these, the first two are household words whereever the English tongue is spoken. The morning hymn is familiar to all: "Awake my soul, and with the sun The evening hymn is equally well "All praise to Thee, my God, this night, Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, Teach me to live, that I may dread * * * * O when shall I, in endless day, station, a handsome building brilliantly illuminated. Following the crowd we soon stand on a massive stone platform in front of the building; but now we can go no further. A few steps further would immerse us in the deep waters of a broad canal. We now appreciate the fact that we are now in the city of the sea, which has so often formed the theme of imaginative poets and enthusiastic travellers. In front of the station we saw a long row of black gondolas. Having been advised to stop at the "Hotel Monaco," we called out the name, and immediately the whole line of gondoliers shouted, "Monaco! Monaco!" Then the gonThis is, indeed, a very beautiful hymn, moved out of the line and took his dolier representing that particular hotel endeared to us all by long use; but, as position at the foot of a flight of steps it was originally written, when com- where we could conveniently enter his posed for the boys at Winchester School, boat. Just as we were about to start a it contained just one more verse, and this last verse was our long-meter dox-shore and demanded alms, and we had to picturesque beggar held the boat to the ology: "Praise God from whom all throw him a copper coin befor he would blessings flow." This last verse, in course of time, became separated from the rest of Ken's morning hymn, and was assigned to service as the leading doxology in all churches of all denomi nations the world over. If Thomas Ken had never been chaplain to the king, a bishop and a non-juror, and had done nothing more in all his life, save only the composition of this last verse of his evening hymn, his life, even so, would have been well spent, and a lasting source of blessing to all the world. Pray, do not forget good Bishop Thomas Ken when you sing: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Norristown, Pa., Jan. 23. A DAY AT VENICE. BY THE EDITOR. It is a long ride from Milan to Venice and we find it growing dark as the train reaches the end of the long bridge that connects the city with the mainland, and the guard calls out "Venezia!" A moment later we find ourselves in the let us go. The Venetians call these fellows "gransieri," or crab-catchers, and if tourists are crabs, they certainly understand their business in catching them. In almost any other city the trade would be stopped by the police, but here it is a regular institution, and everybody recognizes the claim of the crab-catcher. As we floated down the Grand Canal, passing long rows of large buildings, called in courtesy palaces, literally rising out of the water, it would have been the correct thing to remember what the poets have said concerning "beautiful Venice." We tried to think of Childe Harold but could only remember the lines which then seemed peculiarly appropriate : "In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, Our gondolier was provokingly silent, and the night threatened to be as dark as it ever was in the days when the secret vengeance of the republic plunged its victims into the canal. But surely we hear a strain that sounds familiar. The whole canal appears full of little musicians singing a song which they might have learned in America. It is a band of mosquitos who have come provided at very moderate prices. It forth to welcome us to their capital. seems very strange to Americans to sit The Italians insist that these little pests in a public square and drink coffee or were originally natives of America. If eat ice-cream, but it does not take long this is true, it may be regarded as a to become reconciled to the ways of kind of retribution. If we have given foreign countries. Certainly, foreigners them mosquitos, have not they sent us enjoy themselves in ways which in this organ-grinders ? country we have not yet learned. Many of them work hard during the day, but in the evening they seem to cast all care aside. There is no tendency to boisterousness or disorder of any kind, and all classes delight in music, which must, however, be excellent in order to be tolerated. Our hotel was on the Grand canal, within a few steps of the celebrated square of St. Mark's. It was kept by two Austrians who secretly yearned for the old times when the Germans were lords of Venice. They confidentially informed us that in those days the city was a great naval station, but that now it was only the shadow of its former self. We had no doubt that the patriotic Italians of the city would have told us a very different story. We had hardly finished our supper when the "portier" of the hotel called us aside and with a great show of mystery informed us that he had a few Austrian cigars for sale, which were, in his opinion, better than any thing in Italy. He had a friend, he said, on one of the Trieste steamers, by whose aid he had smuggled them into the country. We examined a specimen, and found it long and clumsy in appearance, with a straw extending through it lengthwise, for the purpose of securing a free draught. The man seemed greatly disappointed when we refused to purchase. It was not every day, he said, that we could have an opportunity of purchasing smuggled cigars in Italy. The square of St. Mark's was but a few steps distant from our hotel, and there we spent the greater part of the evening. It is a brilliant sight. Before you is the grand church of St. Mark, with the palace of the doges, looking like an enchanted pavilion from the Arabian Nights Around you are shops as abundantly filled with all that is rich and rare as they were in the days when Venice held the commerce of the world. The square is occupied by a well-dressed multitude, representing almost all the nations of the east and west. O Summer evenings a band plays in the square, and the people gather in large numbers to listen to the music. Chairs are furnished to the audience for about one cent each, and coffee and other light refreshments are We confess that Venice looks splendid in the evening. In fact it looks best by artificial light. Like theatrical scenery it is well calculated to dazzle the eye but appears faded and colorless when exposed to the brilliant light of day. We do not propose to describe the sights which we saw in Venice. This was well done, less than two years ago, by a contributor to the Guardian, who was the companion of our visit. Of course, we stood upon that sympathetic swindle, the "Bridge of Sighs," which is in fact nothing but a covered passage from a criminal court to a criminal prison, built long after the romantic period of Venetian history had passed away. Then we visited the palace of the doges, crept along secret passages, and descended into the horrible dungeons in which the Council of Ten immured its victims, We were entertained, like other travelers, with old and doubtful stories concerning Marino Faliero and other historical personages, and were shown the window of the cell, under the leaden roof, in which Silvio Pellico was made to suffer at a comparatively recent period. We visited St. Mark's and about a dozen other churches, leaving the remaining one hundred to be viewed on some convenient occasion in the distant future. The extreme heat rendered the coolness of the churches pleasant, but we have no doubt that on a chilly winter day the soulless splendor of their huge marble monuments would be almost insufferable. In almost every church there is a picture of St. Laurence suffering martyrdom on a gridiron, and we can almost appreciate the feelings of the traveller who said he could "never look on these pictures without envying the saint who seemed to be toasting so comfortably amid all that frigidity.' Our guide was a German-a native of Tyrol. His name we have forgotten. The Italians found it unpronounceable and called him "Omelet," which was something like the original, and to this name he took most kindly. He had been many years in Italy and had married an Italian wife, but was still warmly attached to the old Austrian regime. like a dream. It is difficult to recall to memory the peculiarities of a city which is so utterly different from every other. In the evening we left Venice, and soon entered the region of the Appenines. It is a wild and desolate country, and the mountains on our way were pierced by no less than forty tunnels. Late at night we reached Florence. It was a city which we had long desired to visit, but it was not until next morning -"All is won! I sit beneath Italia's sun; We have no doubt the "Omelet "that we could say, with Bayard Taylor: was a rogue. He tried hard to induce us to purchase curiosities, and was especially anxious that we should bear away some specimens of Venetian glass, unmindful of the fact that it would probably have been broken long before Where olive orchards gleam and quiver we reached our native land. When, FAIRY TALES AND WHO FIRST TOLD THEM. BY R. LEIGHTON GERHART. Part First. in one or two instances, he succeeded in his purpose, we could tell by the twinkle in his eye and his intelligent glances that he expected to visit the shopkeeper before long to secure his little divvy." "Omelet" told us a story which may There are doubtless many of the have been true, and which at any rate readers of the GUARDIAN who enjoy a illustrates the vicissitudes of great fam- good fairy tale more than any other ilies in Italy and elsewhere. During kind of a story, and many others, who, the Middle Ages the Dandolos were the though they have grown old enough to foremost family of Venice. In A. D. prefer something of a more substantial 1204 the blind doge, Henry Dandolo, character, can yet recall the time when when he was ninety-four years old, com- listening to the tale of Little Red Riding manded the army which took Constanti- Hood, or Jack the Giant Killer, or nople. Very recently the only represent- Hop-o-my-Thumb was one of the chief ative of the Dandolo family was so delights of the nursery. To all it will poor that he became a supernumerary be interesting to learn that, within the at one of the theatres. He married a past few years, a great many wonderful ballet-girl of the humblest class who, discoveries have been made concerning "Omelet" said, was a relative of his these old fairy tales, which every one wife. They had one son, Henry Dan-has been greatly surprised to learn; and, dolo, who by the early death of his strange to say, too, the very, very oldest, parents was left in extreme poverty. and some of those that appear to be the Then a poet, having been informed of silliest, are turning out to be the most his pitiable condition, appeared before remarkable. Hundreds of these stories the city council and urged upon them, for the sake of the honor of the city, not to suffer the last of the Dandolos to become a pauper. His plea was successful, and the boy is now being educated at the expense of the city. have been found in Scandinavia and Scotland, India and Persia, Russia and China, amongst the wild races of America, and the savage tribes of Asia and Africa, and, indeed, all over the world. Amongst all these different During the day which we spent in people they have been in existence for Venice we visited palaces, monasteries, thousands of years, and that, too, withand picture-galleries until we grew out having ever been written on paper, weary of all this faded splendor. The or printed in a book, simply by being scene was still brilliant, but much of handed down by word of mouth from the tinsel that once shone like gold had parent to child. At this very hour, in been rubbed away. Now it all appears | Scotland, it is said, if you go into the |