The date is graven on the tablets of my memory by reason of certain happenings, among others, of painless surgery under the superadded terrors of anaesthetics. It had reached me that Christian Scientists taught that pain was illusion, a thing that to the Believer was not. The notion at all times struck me as humorous. It occurred to me as I passed the Queen's Hall that at that hour Judge Ewing, the foremost exponent of that diverting creed, was about to deliver his lecture inviting the consideration of Unbelievers of the views he held. In my then mood the thought came to me with the saving grace of comic relief. I suffered myself to be swept away by the current that set towards the main doors. Those gifted beings who can read between the lines may be tempted to deduce that I joined the stream with intent to scoff. Frankly, I did.

A great meeting, undoubtedly, if only by sheer force of numbers. There was hardly a vacant seat on the floor of the vast hall. Its walls were outlined by a dim row of faces, tier behind tier, all turner towards the empty platform. Faces, faces, on every hand. It made you feel rather dazed, more especially if you were simultaneously enjoying the after-effects of an anaesthetic. A great meeting surely, yet not, on better acquaintance of the constituents, a meeting one has learnt to associate with a gathering of cranks and faddists. The glow of beauty, the glitter of wealth, the stir of youth, the energy of ripe manhood, the furrowed brow of old age and deep thought made up this vast assemblage. A critical and educated congregation if ever there was one, awaiting the wisdom of a great preacher. The air of intentness that reigned impressed me. There was none of that uneasiness, that air of unrest that usually betrays a great concourse. There was none of that ripple of hacking coughs and uneasy giggling that commonly stirs its restless surface, more especially when that for which it waits keeps it waiting. The hush, the expectancy, the stillness of that upturned sea of faces was impressive. It was as if the vast audience was held under the spell of a great peace.

Whether it was so or not, I do not know. I only aspire to hold the impression of the moment.

Then two men, every-day men, in the garb of the marketplace, stepped quickly across the platform and took their prepared seats. An anti-climax of the most grotesque. What went ye out for to see, ye thousand straining, upturned faces? Surely, men of such guise throng the streets? One of the two rises to speak. His words to introduce the speaker are commonplace, conventional, banal. The speaker rises. He begins his lecture, haltingly, feebly, without power. What went ye out for to see, ye foolish thousands? A reed shaken by the wind? A slight man, of nervous jerk and gesture, with none of the expected graces of oratory. It is only by reason of this magnetic hush that he obtains a hearing. The speel must, perforce it must, soon be broken.

What is this? A new sound breaks the stillness. A ripple of laughter here, a splash of human gaiety there. It is utterly unexpected, almost incongruous. The ever monotonous voice flows on. Words, words, words! But words that touch you nearly. Words you have only breathed in the silence of your chamber this man utters from the naked platform, unafraid. Is there harmony in jarring creeds? Is peace the last outcome of strife? How does this man know these secret things? And the voice gathering volume and weight with every pregnant word rings in your ears as of one who has a message to deliver, and that right urgently. "Power fell upon him and bright tongues of flame." An orator by the grace of God at last.

A ray of sudden sunlight pierces the upper windows of the dim hall. Its shaft, by some strange chance, strikes full the speaker's face. You see a face, illumined in soft radiance, the face of a man who has suffered much and after great tribulation has found peace. A face of infinite tenderness and of infinite knowledge. Gone are the wooden gestures, gone is the halting speech. This man is a speaker, silver-tongued, because he has a message to deliver, and himself believes that his message is true. Pain and darkness is of evil; hope and gladness is of good. Glad tidings of great joy, though the one thing needed be Faith. In a peroration of ringing, resonant beauty the voice dies away. As with upturned face and outspread arms he stands in the halo of flooding sunlight you realize the real beauty of the unwonted spectacle. It is the beauty of holiness that passes all understanding.

I believe now that the speaker believed he had a message to deliver and that his message was true. It may be true; it may be false. But he believed in it with his whole heart and soul—or he is the most marvelous and magnetic actor that has ever faced the public gaze.

This is an admittedly impressionist sketch, and therefore utterly without value. It is only the daub of one who aspires "to paint the Thing as he sees it to the God of Things as they are," of one who went to jeer, but who found that the jeer died upon his lips.—The Onlooker, London, Eng.

Let us then be ever kind,
Knowing not what grief or care
May be wearing other hearts,
That we might some sorrow spare,
Let no thought or deed of ours
E'er an extra burden add;
Let us try our very best
To be making others glad.

Martha Shepard Lippincott.