brought to genuine repentance, and through the mercy | and whom the Leifchilds, father and son, frequently of God to final salvation. From Kensington, Mr. Leifchild was called to Bristol, there to assume the pastorate of Bridge-street chapel. In this new sphere of labour, his zeal and efficient service were largely owned and blessed by God. Fresh life was diffused among the people of his charge, and many were added to the church. His usefulness was specially great amongst the young, by whom he was tenderly revered and loved. Of the many cases of conversion which occurred during the Bristol period of his ministry, several were very remarkable, and singularly illustrative of the gracious providence as well as the mercy of God. While Mr. Leifchild was at Bridge-street, the celebrated Robert Hall was the pastor of the Baptist congregation of Broadmead chapel. A warm friendship, based on mutual confidence and esteem, sprang up between these two likeminded men. The former relates that he lost only one hearer in consequence of Mr. Hall's arrival at Bristol, and that was his own servant, whom he had recommended to attend the great pulpit orator because she had been benefited by his ministry. Mr. Hall was pleased with this, and said, "Mr. Leifchild, it shall be tit for tat, you recommended your servant to attend my ministry, I have recommended my daughter to attend yours." Hall, it appears, was unwilling to discuss obscure points in theology, regarding which nothing satisfactory could be said. On one occasion, when pressed by Mr. Leifchild to a reply as to the meaning of a doubtful passage of Scripture, he suddenly became impatient, and exclaimed," Very true, sir, very true; but come, Mr. Leifchild, let us have no more of that; no more, sir." Another peculiarity of Mr. Hall's was his depreciation of his own pulpit powers. On the occasion of Dr. Chalmers' projected visit to Bristol, he said to Mr. Leifchild that he had once heard Chalmers at Leicester, and was so electrified that he then determined he would never preach before him. Accordingly, on the sabbath spent by Dr. Chalmers in Bristol, Hall vacated his pulpit in favour of an unsuspecting Baptist brother. Failing the orator of Broadmead, the Scottish preacher repaired to Bridge-street chapel. "On that Sunday morning," says the writer of the memoir, "my father rose very unwell, and was troubled with a severe headache. Unable to find a substitute, he rode down to his chapel, thinking rather of a doctor of medicine than of a doctor of divinity. On reaching his little vestry, he began to prepare some medicine with which he had provided himself, and was sitting with aching head, when in came the quaint old pewopener, and adjusting his spectacles and wig, abruptly exclaimed, 'Well, I do wonder what all the people find to stare at. I see nothing wonderful in him. He's much about such another man as yourself.' 'Who?' inquired my father. Why the great Dr. Chalmers to be sure,' rejoined the official; he is in Mr. Hare's pew, and all the people are staring at him.' Mr. Leifchild could not beat a retreat, he had to ascend to the pulpit and preach without manuscript or note, not feeling the formidable presence of the great Scottish divine who had so effectually scared the more sensitive and celebrated Robert Hall. We have interesting glimpses in Dr. Leifchild's memoir of the character, habits, and opinions of the essayist, John Foster, whose abode was near to Bristol, visited. Foster and Leifchild formed a striking contrast; the one a recluse, melancholic in temperament, and a profound thinker; the other active, cheerful, hopeful, and practical; yet both held the same great cardinal truths of revelation, and looked for salvation to the same Redeemer. What on A sense of duty constrained Mr. Leifchild, in obedience to an invitation from the congregation of Craven Chapel, London, to forego not only the benefits of the intellectual companionship of the great men at Bristol, but also to leave his attached flock. Many were the inducements held out to him to remain. Many of his friends were opposed to his removal, among whom were Hall and Foster, and Jay of Bath. "What do you want, sir?" said Hall, in his abrupt way. "Your people love you, your chapel is full, the city respects you, your brethren love you. earth do you want, sir? London ! London! You'll be popular there for a year or two, and then neglected. Here, they'll cleave to you to the last, and cherish your memory, and your son after you are gone. In London, sir, they'll soon forget you and yours." But no remonstrance could alter Leifchild's determination. To his own mind his way was abundantly clear; and when we think of his prolonged and successful London ministry, extending from 1831 to 1854, the stop taken seems more than justified. What was wanted to call forth the full powers of the preacher-a large, intelligent, and sympathetic auditory-was supplied at Craven Chapel. A singular freedom and force characterized his application of truth to the hearts and consciences of his hearers. As an illustration of this, we may cite the case of a young man who found himself one sabbath evening again in Craven Chapel, after several years of wandering, during which he had visited, as he affirmed, half the world. Listening to the same voice whose admonitions in former times he had neglected, he was arrested, as the speaker proceeded in the application of his discourse, by these words, uttered in unconsciousness of their special pertinence to the wanderer's state and circumstances: Is there not a young man here who has heard the truth in years that are past, but neglected it, and wandered from home as well as from God? Is he not here again this night unchanged, though he has seen many changes, unaffected by God's preserving providence, untouched by God's unfailing mercy? Young man, is this your case and condition? Is this your gratitude, your devotion, your penitence, your duty after all? I charge you not to forget that God who has not forgotten you. You are here this night a monument of preserving mercy and abounding kindness." "That is all quite true, and exactly my case," said the hearer to himself. "And, sir," exclaimed he, to the gentleman to whom he narrated the fact, "and, sir, I nearly rose from my seat, for I was scarcely able to contain myself. The preacher had addressed me as if he had known my whole history. I retired to weep and to pray, and at that time I was brought to God, and Dr. Leifchild was my father in Christ." Nothing can be more inspiriting in the arduous work of the ministry, or more comforting to the minister's own heart, than the tidings from time to time borne to his ears that his labours have been blessed by God in the conversion of sinners to Christ. Fow have been more favoured in this respect than Dr. Leifchild. A romantic interest indeed attaches to THE REV. DR. LEIFCHILD. many of the cases recorded in the memoir, which our space will not permit us to notice. Take, however, the following: "Some years since," says the Doctor (he was made doctor in 1841)" a respectable young woman accosted me at Craven Chapel, requesting me to dedicate her child to God in baptism. First of all,' said I, 'I must ask you some questions. Have you given yourself to God? If not, how can you give your child to him? She replied, 'I have given myself, sir.' Then I inquired, ‘Are you a member of my church?' 'No, sir, but of Mr. Stratton's church, at Paddington.' Why, then, come to me to baptize your child? I would rather not do so. Go to your usual place of worship.' 'I ask you, sir,' returned she, because I was the first child you baptized at Honiton-street chapel, Kensington.'Nay,' said I, 'that cannot be, for I remember that baptism vory well, and have the name of the child in my pocket book.' "What was it, sir?' she eagerly inquired. Clarence Storer,' I replied. That was my name, sir,' rejoined she. My mother told me about you, and what you said when you baptized me. As soon as I could read she gave me a Bible; and afterwards I went to hear you preach, and your preaching was blessed to my conversion. I am sure you will be so kind as to baptize. my childwill you not, sir?' 'Yes,' said I, and a dozen, if you had them.' At one time Mr. Leifchild, in early life, was travelling from York by a stage coach, with a young woman to whom, as was his practice, he addressed some words of a religious character. "Where are you going to?" asked he. "To London," was the reply, "And where after this life?" continued he. "I do not know," she answered. Upon this the conversation became serious, and the minister gave to the young woman a book which she promised to read. Having afterwards married and settled in London, she went to hear the new minister who had come to Craven Chapel. As he proceeded in his discourse, the tones of the voice heard in years long past touched her heart. "I have found him! I have found him!" she exclaimed exultingly, when she reached home. "Whom have you found?" inquired her husband. "The gentleman who gave me that book, so blessed to my soul," added the wife, "the gentleman I met on the York coach so many years ago, and whom I have so often mentioned to you. He is Mr. Leifchild, the minister of Craven Chapel." Dr. Leifchild has the honour of originating the Evangelical Alliance, which has done so much to promoto the spirit of Christian union, and to bring together the good men of all denominations.. The first meeting was held at his own chapel, on Monday, the 2nd of January, 1843. Dr. Bunting and the Rev. Jaunes (now Dr.) Hamilton were willing co-operators with Dr. Leifchild, and with him took part in the opening services, at Craven-street chapel. "Dr. Leifchild," says his son, "loved Congregationalism, and he loved an Independent; but, more than all, he loved Christ, and those who loved him. In them he saw not Wesleyanism, or Baptism, or Moravianism; in them he saw the image of Christ formed; in them he beheld the same spotless imago as he contemplated in his own breast; in them he discerned not so many different sects, but so many bright mirrors, which, when no inferior objects intervened, gave back only the pure light of heaven." After twenty-three years' labours, Dr. Leifchild re 71 tired from the pastorate of Craven Chapel. He retired with the esteem and cordial affection of his brethren in the ministry of every denomination, and with the love of his people. Through all these years he had sought to be faithful to his high trust as a minister of the gospel of Christ; and could declare that during that long period he had never preached an unstudied sermon, and also that the more he drow towards the close of his mortal journey, the more tho gospel brightened upon him in its freshness and beauty. An emphatic testimony to the intimate alliance between faithfulness and faith. After a short ministry at Brighton, during which ha succeeded in establishing a flourishing congregation, the venerable and respected minister returned to London. At Brighton a severe blow fell upon him in the death of Mrs. Leifchild. In London, although he had no settled charge, he was almost constantly preaching. His mental activity was unabated. It was towards the close of his life that he employed himself in writing some notes on the subject of his past usefulness. We wish we had space for a few of these; they are all striking. Here are one or two specimens. "After preaching at Barbican Chapel, in the City. an elderly and respectable female came into the vestry, with a slip of paper in her hand. I hope, sir,' said she, addressing me, 'I shall not offend you by speaking to you, but I long to tell you that forty-five years ago I heard you preach from this text' (holding out the slip of paper on which it was written). It was at Orange-street chapel, sir, and by your sermon I was brought to God.' "When at Dudley I met a Baptist minister, who stopped me in the street, and with tears in his eyes informed me that his own son had died in the faith, having been converted under my ministry in London." But to give particular instances of the good which attended Dr. Leifchild's preaching or conversation is scarcely necessary, when it has been ascertained on a moderate calculation that during his life he received into church-fellowship no fewer than two thousand converts. But who can estimate the blessed results of a devoted and consecrated life. His labours at length ended, and their fruit left on earth to fructify through coming generations, Dr. Leifchild, on the 29th of June, 1862, and in the eighty-third year of his age, entered upon his reward. A deputation from the Evangelical Alliance attended his funeral. He was buried in the Abney-park cemetery, and the tears of good men fell on his grave. BURIAL OF A COPTIC PATRIARCH. IT happened while I was staying in Cairo, two or three years ago, that the Coptic patriarch died, and, as is the custom in Eastern countries, was carried to the tomb the next day, or indeed the same day, for he died in the night. The short notice thus given for preparation rendered the exposition of any very grand ceremony at the funeral impossible, but the news spread immediately among the Christians, and great numbers assembled to pay respect to the memory of their bishop. Being early informed of his death, I went in company with one or two friends, at two in the afternoon, to the place of moeting. At present, I believe the Copts are in possession of a fine stonebuilt church; it was in course of construction at that time, and they made temporary use of a kind of upper 72 BURIAL OF A COPTIC PATRIARCH. The Armenian patriarch, a venerable old man with a long white beard, had to be supported on each side by a priest, as he tottered down the stairway, step by step, falteringly, bearing in either hand a cross and crosier. He was sumptuously clothed from head to foot in gold embroidery, and wore a mitre on his head. The dead man came last. They carried him down, his glittering dress wrapped tightly around, still, like one in sleep. Two priests bore up the head, two the feet, and then the swaying crowd below closed in; and he was borne away, I was told, in this last journey, to a subterranean hall, where side by side, century after century, his predecessors sit mouldering in their robes of office. room for public worship, beneath which were schools, | of bishops who have ruled over the once thriving but and we found ourselves in a court-yard adjoining now desolate church of Alexandria. these, where a wide wooden stairway led up through a passage, and across a suspended bridge into the chamber of worship. The yard was thronged with men and women-the latter veiled of course-in every style of Christian dress that could be worn by Armenians, Copts, Greeks, and other Christians, but no Moslems were present, I was told. We had to push through this motley crowd to the foot of the stairway, likewise overflowing with people. I suspect it is an impossibility for Easterns assembled in large numbers, to quiet their tongue under any contingency; but in this place the usual hubbub was in some measure subdued, and an air of solemnity and sorrow appeared to prevail, for the old bishop was said to have been respected by all. One of our company was known, and way was made for us here to pass, and so upward through the press on to the aforementioned bridge, whence as from vantage-ground we could look down on the swaying multitudes below. We were immediately let in to the great chamber, but could see nothing at first but the crowd of turbaned heads, with several particoloured banners, having devices rising up out of their midst, in the vicinity of the place whence issued the voices of the priests; not at the further end of the room, where the altar might be supposed to be, but in the middle. The chamber appeared capable of holding some four hundred people, and it was full, and the monotonous sound of the chanting was almost drowned by the babble of the crowd, which latter the janissaries, each armed with a corbaj, or whip, the rather provoked than stilled. Presently part of the service finished, and a procession of white-robed boys and priests, bearing small banners and candles, passed out chanting, the crowd closing in behind. Now room was made for us to the inner circle, where we might see. Even the surrounding priests and bishops made a gap to let us look in. There were two arm-chairs covered with crimson velvet, face to face, some four paces apart: in one lay an ancient Coptic manuscript Bible and liturgies shut up in a jewelled silver case; in the other, as in calm sleep, rested the venerable form of the old patriarch. They had dressed him in his robes of office, and a gorgeous mitre was on his head, and now they were bowing down before him and kissing his slippered feet. Thus the faithful passed one by one through the inner circle between the chairs; monks and bishops standing on either hand, who kept filling the air with sickly incense and their monotonous chant. Had it not been for the solemnity of death actually present, the whole affair might have been taken for a mountebank show, so little was there of sober dignity. But one would say that the Eastern race have no idea of the practically solemn. So here, in the presence of the dead patriarch, and, as Christians may well believe, in a presence more august still, the crowd was pushing on the priests, and the priests were fighting the crowd, and the janissaries were swearing and fighting with all, even as it had been a merry raree show. During this time the great procession had been forming on the stairway, and in it the Greeks and Armenians were represented by their respective patriarchs and bishops; and from a window, afterward, we watched it all pass down in its glitter of many-coloured banners and devices, flaming candles and sumptuous dresses, bearing away with it to the tomb the dead descendant of Athanasius and Cyril, the latest link in the long line So ended this "ecclesiastical pageant," and the dead priest was gathered to his people, welcomed silently in the assembly of his fathers. Altogether, the day's proceeding was a sorry sight to behold, to those, at least, who looked at the thing in its broader aspect; not, indeed, in respect to the patriarch himself, for he had borne the character of a good, earnest Christian, and, as such, doubtless was already in his Master's presence in heaven. But there had been an unreality about the whole transaction, an insincerity apparent in everything (save, perhaps, in the human regret shown on the faces of many) which was sad to see. The service itself, the symbolic ceremonial, was evidently the mere shell of formalism-a thing that utterly failed to convey any meaning, even to the majority of those who were as servants of the sanctuary. There were prayers enough said, and as for pomp and outward show of religion, that lacked not; but it reminded you of the glittering robe on the dead patriarch, and you could hardly resist the conclusion, in respect to this poor fallen church, that it was as the dead who was burying its dead. To one witnessing the barren ceremonial I have attempted to describe, or to one beholding those ranks of mitred dead in the charnel-house, Ezekiel's question might come with equal significance and power: "Son of man, can these dry bones live?" and surely the answer would be, "He who has power to revive the bodily dead can restore the spiritually fallen.” "And the Lord shall be known to Egypt, and the Egyptians shall know the Lord in that day. . . . And the Lord shall smite Egypt: he shall smite and heal it: and they shall return to the Lord,.. and he shall heal them. . . whom the Lord of Hosts shall bless, saying, Blessed be Egypt my people." (Isa. xix. 21-25.) H. ARCHBISHOP ELPHEGE AND THE DANES. WHEN Elphege was Archbishop of Canterbury, Sweyn, king of Denmark, made one of his dreadful raids on the southern coasts of England. On this occasion, to the usual love of plunder was added the stimulus of revenge, the Danes being eager to avenge the death of their countrymen who had perished in the massacre of St. Brice's Day (A.D. 1002), a tragedy unsurpassed in horror except by the Sicilian Vespers, and the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Dean Hook, in his "Lives of the Archbishops of Canterbury" (vol. i. chap. vii.), gives the following account of this Danish invasion, and of the fate of Elphege:— The Archbishop, and all whose Christianity was more than nominal, could not but feel that the disgrace and misery impending was a retribution for the national crime which had been committed, and a visitation from the God of justice. The Danes were ministers of vengeance, employed by Him who saith, "I will repay;"-the scourge wielded by the almighty hand of Him to whom vengeance belongeth. Humbling themselves in weeping, fasting, and praying, the consolation of Christians was, that they were in the power of Him who would control events and set limits even to a punishment however justly deserved. But the reality was terrible. The bandit and the outlaw were permitted freely to rush forth from their hiding-places, and to the indulgence of the vilest passions the Danish leaders now offered no restraint. They revelled in deeds of darkness, and found their pastime in cruelty. Their demand was for gold. If it were withheld, all who were suspected of wealth were put to the sword; and even those who paid, perished in their flaming houses, together with their violated wives and mutilated children. Over the ashes of depopulated villages the Danes continued their march of terror, until they sat down before Canterbury. They had at first some feelings perhaps of respect for the city of an archbishop, whose charities had, in times past, extended even to the Danes, and on the receipt of a sum of money they retired. But their retirement was only like that of a wave, which having in its retreat drawn with it the pebbles of the beach, returns with redoubled force to dislocate the rock itself. In 1011 they were again before Canterbury preparing for an assault. The nobles had fled; and some there were who, before flying, had dared to counsel the minister of God to abandon his post,-the shepherd to act as a hireling. They were mildly rebuked, and the good old Christian buckled on his spiritual armour. But while preparing for the worst, the archbishop now showed a vigour of mind far greater than could have been expected from one who had hitherto exhibited only the virtues of a recluse. He exhorted the citizens; and the citizens, encouraged by his example, for twenty days successfully repelled the assaults of the enemy. Before relieving guard or repairing to the ramparts, each soldier was seen kneeling in the cathedral, where the archbishop, at his proper post, was always present to administer to him the holy sacrament. What would have been the result of this combination of piety, discretion, and valour, if it had not been for an act of treachery, it is useless to surmise. On the twentieth day, the Dancs were admitted by a traitor into the city. 74 ARCHBISHOP ELPHEGE AND THE DANES. The traitor, whoever he was, set fire to one portion | of the city, and when the alarmed garrison rushed to extinguish the flames, that part of the ramparts which they thus forsook was assailed and mounted by the enemy. The Archbishop hoped that even the pagans would reverence his person, and determined to address them. They were too busily engaged in plundering the houses of the citizens to notice his approach, and he arrived at a spot where the carnage was fearful and the cruelty beyond description. Women were exposed to worse than death because they could not reveal to their persecutors the hiding-place of treasures which did not exist. They were excruciated with mental anguish before death came to their relief, by seeing their children, amidst the shouts and laughter of fiends in human form, tossed from spear point to spearpoint, or by hearing their bones crushed under the waggon wheels which bore away the plunder. The Archbishop, eloquent from the anguish of his heart, called upon them, for their very manhood's sake, not to make war upon infants; and offered himself for death if they would but respect the women and spare the children. Instead of yielding to his entreaties, the Danes seized him, and dragged him, bound as a captive, by a refinement of cruelty, to behold the conflagration of his cathedral. The Archbishop knew that the church was filled with clergy, with monks, with the defenceless of both sexes. The timbers were falling; the flames reached the roof, down which flowed streams of melted lead. The people who first came forth were butchered amidst shouts of merriment. Then, that the sport might be varied, they were decimated, the tenth man being spared to become a slave. Elphege himself was reserved, for the ransom of an archbishop would be more profitable than his death. Towards evening they carried him to the north gate of the city, where a kind of market was established for the sale or the ransom of the captives. Eight hundred unhappy creatures were here assembled, the remnant of the seven thousand who are said to have fallen in the sack of the city. A subdued exclamation burst from them, expressive of their sorrow, their sympathy, and alarm, as the Archbishop was thrust in among them. Elphege prepared to address to them words of comfort, but a stroke from a battle-axe compelled the silence which the Danish leader enjoined. Soon after, a deputation from the officers of the enemy made their appearance, to inform the Archbishop that his ransom was fixed at three thousand pieces of silver. The people entreated him to accept the terms, as his friends would sell the church plate, throughout the province, if that were needed to raise the sum required. The Archbishop refused to enrich the pagans from the treasures which had been bequeathed to the church for the honour of religion and the relief of the poor. This refinement of feeling was, of course, unintelligible to the Danes; and when they found that he could raise the money but would not, they were the more exasperated and violent. They bound him in chains, and carrying him with them wherever the army went, they kept him in durance for seven months. But Elphege was not without his consolation. A disease among the troops, occasioned by their excesses, excited alarm, and many approached the holy man, evincing signs of remorse for their past conduct. The leaders of the army did not object to his receiving visitors, for they hoped he might be persuaded, through their entreaties, to order a sale of the church plate for his redemption. Elphege had thus an opportunity of preaching the gospel, of which he availed himself with But the end was drawing nigh. The army was at Greenwich. It was the vigil of Easter. It was known by the Danes, that the Christians would congregate in various parts of the country, at that great festival, and they gave the Archbishop notice, that unless the ransom was paid within eight days, his life would be forfeited. Paid it was not, and the enemy were furious in their wrath. The Dancs, meantime, had not been hoarding their money. They had just procured a large supply of wine from the south, very superior to any that could be obtained from the vineyards of England. This was preparatory to a great feast, at which they gorged themselves, as was their wont. The floor was strewed with ox bones; and they now became inebriated with their south country wine. The Archbishop was sent for to make them sport. "Money, bishop, mouey!" was the cry which resounded on all sides, as he was hurried into the hall. Breathless from fatiguo, he sat down for a short time in silence. "Money, money,' was still the cry; "your ransom, bishop, your ransom!" Having now recovered his breath, the Archbishop rose with dignity, and all were attentive to hear whether a promise of money for his ransom would be made. "Silver and gold," he said, "have I none; what is mine to give, I freely offer, the knowledge of the one true God. Him it is my duty to preach; and if you heed not my call to repentance, from his justice you will not escape." Some one, more heartless than the rest, here throw an ox bone with all his force at the defenceless old man, and, amidst shouts of laughter, the cowardly example was followed. The missiles, which the floor plentifully supplied, were hurled at him, till he fell in an agony of pain, but not dead. There was standing by a Dane, whom Elphege had baptized and confirmed on the preceding day. He knew not how to assist his spiritual father, but he was moved by feelings of pity and compassion. It is clear that he revolved in his mind what step he would take if his favourite war horse were mortally wounded; and knowing that in such a case, he would, as speedily as possible, put him out of his pain, he lifted up his battle-axe, and, as an act of Christian charity, clave in twain the skull of Elphego Archbishop of Canterbury. When the wine of the south had done its work, and the Danish leaders had time for sober reflection, they felt remorse for their conduct, and delivered the Archbishop's body, without a ransom, to his friends for burial. The corpse was removed from Greenwich to London, where it was received as the body of a martyr, and interred with great pomp, the Bishops of London and Dorchester oficiating. Ten years elapsed, and London saw another sight. The barge of a Danish king was nobly painted and adorned with golden ornaments, to receive on board the corpse of Elphiege. It was preceded and surrounded by a Danish guard of honour, and followed by the chief members of the Danish court. It was welcomed to their cathedral by the inhabitants of Canterbury. and deposited by the side of tho illustrious Dunstan. 66 A SUNDAY EVENING AT BEDDINGTON. MANY a one who reads "The Look and its Missions," 1 1 |