inne alle quyk. And therefore somme Men seyn, that he dyed noughte, but that he restethe there till ten Day of Doom. And forsothe there is a gret Marveyle: For Men may see there the Erth of the Tombe apertly many tymes steren and meven, as there weren quykke thinges undre." The beautiful legends of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, and of the reverie of the Monk Felix, past whom two centuries slipped while he stood entranced by the singing of a nightingale, have always been dear to the popular heart. Somewhat similar are the tales of Don Fernando's mysterious voyage, and of Rip Van Winkle's sleep; but they have not the warm religious glow and sweet poetic freshness of the older legends. The Sleeping Beauty of the Wood, unconsciously awaiting the advent of her prince, before the might of whose affection the impenetrable forest opens into fair umbrageous avenues, and whose tender kiss breaks the enchantment, and sends thrills of life and love through all her being, is perhaps the most charming of these earthly immortals. In melancholy contrast to this fanciful idyll is the classic story of Tithonus, whose boon of immortality was changed into a curse by the infirmities of age. There is no great mystery about the origin of such tales as these. They are the products of the same antecedents and conditions as the perpetual Wanderers, although the modes of evolution may be different.

One of the most ancient of Jewish traditions is that of the beautiful but venomous Lilis, Adam's first spouse. Before the creation of Eve she lived in the garden of Eden—a sort of phantom woman, lovely in face and graceful in form, but malicious and cruel at heart. She revenged her husband's desertion of her by remorseless hostility to his descendants. Always in the bloom of youth, she travels to the remotest quarters of the earth, strangling children, kidnapping brides, maligning mothers, and luring men into crime. Our nursery word "Lullaby" is said to be a corruption of " Lilla, abi”— Begone, Lilis!" Widely different in all its characteristics is the medieval legend of the Wild Huntsman, forever driving on his aërial chase, and forever pursued by Satan. In the days of the incarnation, it is said that he forbade our Lord to quench his thirst at a river, telling him with a sneer that he might drink from a horse-pond. As a punishment he was condemned

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to an eternal gallop and a bootless hunt. The strange nightly noises heard in the Black Forest are said by the German peasantry to be produced by the neighing of his steed, the barking of his dogs, and the winding of his horn. Near of kin to the Wild Huntsman is the Flying Dutchman. In the time of early exploration, when it seemed within the easy range of possibility for any sea-captain to discover, almost any day, a Peru or an Eldorado, old Van der Decken swore madly that his ship should round the Cape, "in spite of God or devil, if it took till Judgment-day." He is sailing yet through southern seas, propelled by supernatural force, unchecked by wind or current; and he must forever sail unless some pure and compassionate maiden voluntarily shares his sorrows and his penance. For her sake he shall be forgiven. But even his doom is hardly so bitter as that of Herodias, who is perpetually whirled about far above spires and tree-tops, and can only rest from midnight till cock-crow. According to the legend she cherished an unrequited passion for John the Baptist. Her anger secured his decapitation, but when his noble head was brought in upon the charger her love impelled her to kiss it. A contemptuous puff from the defunct prophet's lips sent her whirling through the doorway, and for nearly nineteen hundred years she has incessantly gyrated.

But the most realistic of all, and perhaps the most awful creation of the human imagination, is the legend of the Wandering Jew. Flying in despair from the home of his youth, stung by his Saviour's curse; kneeling penitently to receive the waters of baptism at the hand of Ananias; a weary witness of the downfall of Jerusalem, of the decay of Rome, of the squalor, the glory, the universal turmoil, of the Dark Ages-we can imagine the old man still trudging on his lonely way, oblivious to the changes of more modern times, unaffected by "the march of progress;" still trudging, while one by one we are carried to our graves; still trudging, through all the future centuries, till at last, as depicted by the prophetic pencil of Doré, he puts off his shoes on the eve of the Judgment, and hails with glad smiles the dissolution of a senile world.

A portly volume might be filled with ingenious explanations of the moral teachings found in these legends by zealous antiquaries. This digging for recondite symbolism in fancies which

actually sprang spontaneously from the teeming soil of ignorance, has been greatly overdone. The plain fact seems to be, as Mr. Conway remarks, that it was quite as hard for mankind, before clear notions of a future life had arisen, or science had adopted the theory of the persistence of force, to conceive of an absolute end as it is now for us. To the instinctive belief in immortality—a prolonged earthly existence, as at first conceived-we owe the whole family of myths under consideration. And when we remember the "dark sayings" of our Lord which may have seemed at first hearing to imply earthly immortality for some of his hearers, much of the mystery that befogs the origin of our legend is dissipated. The tendency of the imagination which has produced enchanted Merlins and Sleeping Beauties, Wild Huntsmen and Flying Dutchmen, is surely sufficient to bring forth from the climactic hour of Hebrew history the weird, portentous figure of the Wandering Jew. In the course of development it in all probability "exchanged connotations,"-to use again one of our author's pet phrases,―with the other myths of Wanderers; but that it ever became in any true sense an allegory may well be doubted.

But if a moral must needs be appended to these wild tales of immortal Wanderers, perhaps we shall not err greatly if we regard them as personifications of the great mental and ethical traits that have characterized humanity through all ages. Earth's generations come and go

"As shadows cast by cloud and sun

Flit o'er the summer grass."

Countless are their numbers and endless their individual variety; but sooner or later all are drowned in the "flood of years.' But Conscious Guilt, and Malevolent Vengeance, and Passionate Love, stalk over the earth like undying personalities, at home in every age and clime, if not in every heart.

ART. VI.-THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF METHODIST EPISCOPACY.

The Life of Edmund S. Janes, D.D., LL.D., Late Senior Bishop of the Methodist Episcopal Church. By HENRY BASCOM RIDGAWAY, D.D. 12mo, pp. 428. New York: Phillips & Hunt. Cincinnati: Walden & Stowe. 1882. EDMUND STORER JANES lived four distinct lives-the natural, the spiritual, the official, and the practical. There was another possible life which, however, he did not live-a life for his biographer. He might have recorded what no one but himself knew, including his strongest thoughts, his boldest conceptions of God, man, and eternity. This largest, grandest book of this great and good man can never be written. He kept no adequate records of his profoundest life. He wrote innumerable letters, but not for his biographer. They were for his loved ones at home, or on official business, or for the relief of the stricken and sad. He employed no reporters to preserve his greatest discourses, and the glowing thoughts which thrilled us, and the majestic appeals which amazed us, disappeared. They were not lost, but, like a diffusible stimulus, passed into other lives. As finished productions, strong, classic English, and brilliant oratory, they are gone. This is to be regretted. To the Church and the world it is an irreparable loss. We, however, record it as a distinction of this remarkable man. He was so intensely occupied with his life mission that he did nothing for his biographer. His autobiography was lived, not written.

It is due to Dr. Ridgaway that these facts should be stated. The question was not what he would have done had he found full records of the life he attempted to characterize, but what he did without them. There was a demand for that keen perception which can identify the essence of facts and of true generalizations without the aid of material symbols. For such a difficult task we believe Dr. Ridgaway was well qualified. He has, therefore, produced a biography of great value.

The natural life of young Janes was that of a compact physical organization. It had all the equilibrium and vigor of a large body, without its wastes and burdens, a strong nervous system, with large brain and decided self-control. In his natural pose the will, which Bishop Simpson identified at his

funeral, was very evident. We know this from his firm rejection of the life of trifling, so natural to boys, in favor of hardworking industry. That "stone fence" was in young Janes. There were no stone fences in a hundred of his playmates who have never been heard from. Strong light is shed upon his natural life by those few words to his son, "I worked hard when I was a boy." He would have been an industrious, energetic man if he had never been a Christian, and I believe a splendid husband and a good father, and a grand orator, or physician, or lawyer, from the constitutional elements of his natural character.

We have here an opportunity of emphasizing an utterly neglected fact of true worth. It is first grounded in the natural life. You may give brilliancy to a life that is naturally unreliable; you may make a star preacher of an eccentric genius, a real orator of occasions, from a man of strong imagination. and fancy; but a great man must be born great. To be certainly reliable he must have natural honesty. If he is to be a sound judge or a great bishop he ought to be a man who would have held an even balance if he had never been converted. If there is natural narrowness and a fondness for the ideal and untruthful in his moral constitution, it is not safe to place him where there will be a severe strain on his peculiar idiosyncrasies. A want of due attention to this fact will explain the failure of multitudes to bear themselves honorably in sharing the burdens and grasping the plans of the Church. Thus, also, we can explain much of the disgrace the cause of God has suffered from reckless passion. Unworthy members and ministers have brought their vile proclivities down from their ancestors or from childhood. Such people must be reached by the Gospel, and, if possible, saved; but comparatively few of them are by natural constitution fit for high distinction or sacred trusts. For executive responsibilities, which must control vast interests and determine the rights of multitudes, men are required who naturally feel the power of high moral obligation.

Then the hardships of an itinerant episcopacy require great powers of physical endurance, the mastery of circumstances, a keen sense of the possible against improbabilities, leaving no room for mere convenience or irresolute imbecility.