that he had accompanied the unsuspicious Belknap, and had wormed from him the valuable information he had gained; it was for this that he caused him to be waylaid and decoyed until he got him into the Morro Cas=tle. For Belknap, after gaining from Don Pedro all the information he needed, had been very much fascinated with the conversation of an English gentleman, Mr. St. John, who talked to him of the extent, majesty, and worth of Havana's great fortification, the Morro Castle. It was, as we have said, forbidden to Americans to visit that extensive work-one of the many of which the story is told that Charles V. asked if they were being built of silver-and Belknap felt a great desire to see it. Mr. St. John went on expatiating, and finally proposed that Captain Belknap should change his name, and, re=maining one night perdu at his lodgings in Havana, should go with him, under his pass as an Englishman, to visit the Morro. Belknap, with his singular want of discretion, consented, and, on a certain Tuesday, Mr. St. John and Mr. Brown visited the Morro Castle. Mr. St. John came out, but Mr. Brown did not. All this conversation had passed as they drove from the plantation to Matanzas, in the presence of Manuel, who was to be left there to find his unhappy son-who had been condemned to the chain-gang. By what mysterious telegraph or letter these poor people communicate with each other no one knows, but that they do so is well known. Manuel, who could neither read nor write, had heard in Santa Cruz of his son's trouble, and he had some mysterious intention of helping him— no one knew how or wherefore. With intuitive cunning and a slave's instinct that instinct immortalized in the classic statue of the "Rémoleur," who listens, as he grinds his knife, to the story of conspiracy-Manual listened to Mr. St. John and his young master, and heard every word of their talk. He did not like to be left at Matanzas, for he felt evil in the air; but, on Captain Belknap's telling him that it was his last opportunity to see his son, he consented. With that regard, too, for a written paper which all ignorant persons possess, Manuel had twisted the governor's protecting pass into a small wisp, and had braided it in his thick, woolly white hair. Some one has wittily said that no one has so much regard for printed book as one who cannot read. Manuel a written paper was cabalistic. To It was well for him that he had taken the precaution, for that night, after a day spent watching his unhappy son, as, with a cannonall chained to an already sore and festering imb, he walked his heavy round as one of he chain-gang (slaves are condemned to this unishment for an attempt to revolt), he, Manuel, was sleeping on a mat before the wretched prison-door which held the culprits t night, when he was set upon by four armed nen. He was a powerful negro, and armed with a sailor's cutlass. In the effort to deend himself he wounded one of the men everely. He was overpowered, his navylothes and cap torn from him, and he was rried off to a wretched prison. From that the next morning he was borne, heavily In the horrors of a sugar-boiling house, come. position, taken a negro from Santa Cruz to Cuba-a most imprudent thing to do—and my theory is, that Manuel got into some trouble, and that poor Belknap in defending him was murdered and put out of the way." Of course Horace, as the nearest friend of Belknap, was very important and interesting to these two poor ladies, who hung upon his every word. Meantime, Father Ambrosius was not idle. By his profound and well-laid plot, his amiable and accomplished tool Mr. St. John, and by Belknap's unlucky complaisance, he had gained every thing he wanted, even Belknap's papers. Belknap's disappearance, and the noise made about it, did not trouble him at all. He knew that the American Government would not find him, and that after a little squabbling in Congress the matter would be dropped, and poor Belknap forgot. ten. He was in the country where his Church is most favored, and he had that great power on his side. Meantime Captain Belknap and Mr. St. John had gone to Havana, passed the night at Mr. St. John's lodgings, where the unsuspecting American left his name, his belongings, even his papers, lest some search should be made at the Morro, and proceeded to inspect the castle. Polite officials received them, passed them from casemate to casemate, showed them the acres of stone-wall which defend Cuba, and, finally, arriving at a wicket, they were temporarily stopped and asked their names. They recorded them: "Henry St. John, Charles Brown, London, England." They then penetrated farther into the secrets of the Morro. At this point Mr. St. John went off to speak to a Spanish officer, and Belknap stopped to look at his own ship, the Calypso, which he saw proudly riding at anchor in the beautiful harbor below him. Then, wandering a little farther, he entered a large stone room, looked around for St. John, heard an iron door shut behind him, and realized in a moment of time, but in an eternity of anguish, that he was entrapped-tain Belknap she had talked of the poor a prisoner ! Yes, a moment before he had seen through For he had shut off all hope. As an He realized it all, and bitterly cursed the For the next three months he was as care- Horace Heywood, meantime, had per- He "And you are sure every thing was done to prosecute the search for poor James?" said she, in those same sweet contralto tones which he remembered at Santa Cruz. "Oh, yes; money is being spent freely by our government now to follow up every clew. I fear the poor fellow was murdered. You see he had, through the generosity of his dis But he had forgotten the fable of the lion and the mouse. The humblest element in this mixed story was to prove the deliverer. Manuel was the mouse who was to gnaw the net, and to upset Father Ambrosius and all his cunning. We must now return to Santa Cruz and to May Castleton, who sat at her window looking into her garden, one tropical morning-on just such a morning as that when with Cap slave who wanted to go to Cuba. Months and seasons make no difference in Santa Cruz, and June is like December. She was thinking of Belknap, wondering that she had not heard of him or of Manuel, for no word had reached her of the disappearance of the captain. Horace had not known of the consultations with Counselor Federstahl or of the suggestions which had made Miss Castleton an important link in Captain Belknap's discoveries. Therefore he had not written, and news comes slowly to Santa Cruz. May could hardly tell whether it was reality, or only a part of her dreaming, as she saw Manuel, wasted, old, and decrepit, coming toward her. He crept up one of the garden-avenues, and beckoned to her. She went to him; he fell on his face at her feet. Through unexampled hardships and perils he had run away from the sugar-plantation, had reached Havana, and then, using the governor's pass, had tried to find an American ship in the harbor. Unfortunately, there was none at the moment. He had in his search run against Father Ambrosius, whom he recognized, and, with true instinct regarding him as the cause of all his woes, he had hastily retreated, and left Havana on one of the steamers coming back to Santa Cruz, where, working his passage, he reached St. Thomas and home easily. His hardships, and troubles, and fears, had told severely on him; for he was an old man, but he managed to give a very correct account of the conversation between Captain Belknap and St. John, and of his fears of foul play. May wrote a note immediately to Counselor Federstahl, detailing Manuel's strange story. The counselor, after consulting with Captain Belknap at Christmas-time and seeing him off for Havana, had himself taken ship for Denmark. He was a Norseman, and loved the sea; so, instead of traveling by steam, he loved better to trust himself to Eolus and Neptune, and went home in a sailing-vessel. This, going and coming, had taken him two months on the water. When at Copenhagen, he had not seen newspapers which would reveal the story of the Calypso or the loss of her captain. Therefore he was ignorant of both events. His first thought, then, in reading May's note, was to look back through files of American and English papers, where he found the story of Captain Belknap's disappearance. He then remembered the visit Father Ambrosius had paid him, the questions he had asked, and the interest he had shown in the fortunes of Julia Sinclair. He next paid a visit to Sir Matthew Macdonald, and they together drove to see Mrs. Castleton. From this consultation May was excluded, much to her distress, and it did not make life more agreeable to her that it left Mrs. Castleton in a very agitated and preoccupied state of mind, from which she sank into a slow fever. Meantime Counselor Federstahl and Sir Matthew Macdonald declared their intention of going to Havana; for the latter, it was as remarkable a move as if one of his favorite constellations had changed its place in the heavens. He looked over his old papers, selected a few from the musty, yellow files that filled his alcoves, and departed. Poor May Castleton! the bronze face of Captain Belknap had remained clearly defined on her memory. She was profoundly interested in all that concerned him, but she was allowed to remain in ignorance of the unwonted activity and agitation which her note to Counselor Federstahl had invoked. Don Pedro de Santillo sat in his broad piazza, looking out upon his sugar-canes, when the two gentlemen from Santa Cruz were announced to him. He was a grand old Spaniard, courtly and hospitable. The fate of Captain Belknap, lost-murdered, perhaps—had afflicted hitn deeply, for a Spaniard's sense of hospitality is Oriental, and he was in a measure responsible, so he said to himself, for the unhappy gentleman's fate. Therefore, when Counselor Federstahl announced the object of their visit, and the light thrown by Manuel's story on the probable detention of the captain, he was immediately aroused to action and to a determination to find and free the unlucky man, "But," said he, after an hour's talk, "I have already paid half of Mrs. Sinclair's fortune to Father Ambrosius." "Then that is irretrievably gone," said the counselor; " enough if we can release the young man, and gain for her daughter the other half." Sir Matthew Macdonald had been in the English army in his youth, and had served in Spain; he knew the language, and he had with him a man who knew all languages. What language cannot a Dane speak? So that with the mingled shrewdness of his native land, and his acquired learning and ac| complishment, the old secluded star-gazer made the most admirable of embassadors. He and Counselor Federstahl unlocked the doors of poor Belknap's prison, and brought him back to life and light, where all the zeal, money, and influence of the United States had failed. It was in the hospitable house of Don Pedro that Belknap heard for the first time the romantic story whose elucidation had brought him such perilous consequences. Sir Matthew was the narrator, and he shall tell it here: "When Captain Charles Walsingham came to Santa Cruz, he fell in love, as everybody had done before him, with May Penell, the sweetest girl on the island, and the greatest heiress, and, after a flirtation of three weeks, he induced her to run away with him, to the great sorrow and anger of her father, who died almost immediately after. "The captain was married to May Penell on the deck of the Miranda by the navy chaplain, and of that marriage, I am, with one exception, the only living witness. May Penell was only sixteen years of age at the time. After three years' absence Mrs. Walsingham returned to Santa Cruz without her husband, and it was reported that he was dead. She lived in great seclusion with her widowed mother, and time went on, burying her early flight and imprudent marriage in obscurity and forgetfulness. "At twenty-two years of age she mar ried Mr. Castleton, an English gentleman who had but just then arrived on the island, and emerged from her seclusion. "Born here in this island of Cuba, whither Walsingham had brought her, it was his first act of cruelty to her to take away thisdaughter and to put her in the care of his own mother, a Roman Catholic lady, living in Havana. For the difference of their faith was the first cause of separation between the husband and the wife. Walsingham was a bigoted Catholic, and he, after quarreling with his wife and deserting her, declared, by his will, that he never had been married to her, and that his daughter was illegitimate. This his mother believed, and, after a few years of care of the poor girl, sent her to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, where she spent her entire youth, to emerge at seventeen, and, like her mother, to marry at that early age. She married a young Englishman named Sinclair. "She had one friend, this otherwise friendless girl. It was our hospitable host, Don Pedro de Santillo, who had married her aunt, Mrs. Walsingham's only daughter. Don Pedro had never believed the story of the false marriage, and when, through his wife, he inherited the fortune of Mrs. Walsingham, he became the careful custodian of the rights of Mrs. Sinclair. She, too, had made an unhappy marriage, and, following the fortunes of a disreputable and careless husband, herself ignorant of her rights, and finally becoming a devotee, she died in New York, leaving, as you now know, one daughter, Julia Sinclair, who is the granddaughter of Mrs. Castleton, the youthful niece of a youthful aunt, May Castleton. "It was to some curious instinct of affection, some desire to see the woman whom he had so cruelly betrayed, deserted, and wronged, that Charles Walsingham owed his death. Had he lived, we cannot tell what misery he might have caused. Let us thank Heaven that Mrs. Castleton was spared it." "She must now, however painful to her feelings, admit the claims of her granddaughter to honorable descent," said Counselor Federstall. "Every thing went happily with them until a dreadful moment arrived, of which I was apprised one night by a hurried note from Mrs. Castleton, saying that Manuel had had a contest with an unknowu man, who was watching her window, late at night-had severely wounded him, and on her going to visit the unconscious sufferer, she had recognized the features of her first husband, Charles Walsingham. I went immediately to her, found her of course in a dreadful state of agitation, and on going to the pavil-old Castilian, who only had to regret that, ion where the wounded man lay, I too recognized the features of my early friend, her husband. "What were we to do? He died that night without recognizing me, in fact without regaining consciousness. Here was a trusting husband living, a woman guiltless of any intentional crime, and two or three innocent children. The secret was hers and mine alone. Charles Walsingham had ill-treated her, had deserted her, and had given her every reason to believe him dead. She had married in good faith another man. I took the guilt of secrecy on my own soul, and advised her to conceal the dreadful truth. She lost her health, grew melancholy. Mr. Castleton took her to Europe; she lived, returned, has passed the honored and respected life you have seen- she and I alone knowing the horrible tragedy which had hung over her. But in those first years of her marriage to Walsingham, a daughter was born to her. "Yes," said Sir Matthew, sighing, "her time has come." The gentlemen then bade adieu to Don Pedro de Santillo, the honorable reading what purported to be the last will and testament of Mrs. Sinclair, he had paid over a large sum of money to Father Ambrosius. With what feelings Captain Belknap retraced his course through the Caribbean Sea can better be imagined than told. He had learned in the terrible solitude of his impris onment that he loved May Castleton so well that he could never redeem his pledges to Julia Sinclair. He wrote her a manly letter and told her the whole truth, sending her, st the same time, the proofs of her mother's le gitimacy and of her own handsome fortune. And then, what position was he to take toward May Castleton? Did he not, in proving Julia's rights, take away from May what would be dearer than life? Why had Fate placed him in such a peculiar and most embarrassing situation toward the woman he loved? Yet, as he thought of these things, and as the feeling came over him that perhaps May did not love him, but perhaps had pre Then a thought of deep regret would come over him as he remembered the sorrow he must bring to Mrs. Castleton, the eloquent old lady who had been so kind to him; but here he was spared all awkwardness and all ingratitude; for, when the ship reached St. Thomas, they heard that Mrs. Castleton was dead. She had been dead several days, and Miss Castleton would see no one but Sir Matthew Macdonald. She had told her daughter her story, and had left her written statement for her granddaughter. Of course, May Castleton had no legal rights if Julia Sinclair chose to deprive her of them, for she, and she alone, was the lawful heir to Mrs. Castleton's property. Mr. Castleton, May's brother, was, of course, deeply interested in this question. So poor Captain Belknap, who seemed to have become a sort of male Evangeline, always approaching his love and never reaching her, had but one course to pursue. It was to go back to New York, see Julia Sinclair, gain her release of the Castleton estate, and return again. He had the lover's privilege of writing a letter, and that he did. Horace Heywood met him at the dock as the steamer from Havana landed the captain again on his own shores, and relieved his mind with these words: "I have a secret to tell you, Belknap. I hope it will not be disagreeable to you. Julia has consented to be mine! Your letter releasing her arrived just in time to prevent my writing out to you to ask it. Now she is waiting to embrace you as the dearest of brothers!". Julia did indeed throw herself into the arms of the man who had done so much for her. She knew very well now that, even if she had been a little in love with him, it was nothing to be ashamed of, for he was very worthy of it; and, since she had her handsome Horace to absorb the best and most romantic feelings of her heart, she was very proud of this more than brother, who had so chivalrously fought her battle. It was difficult to restrain her from giving all she possessed to the Castletons, it was so sweet to the lovely girl to think that some one lived in whose veins ran kindred blood to her own. So, with Mr. and Mrs. Horace Heywood, Belknap started once more for the Danish West Indies. His letter had not remained unanswered, and as a happy lover he again encountered the soft greeting of the tradewinds. Strangely enough, he found himself at St. Thomas on the 25th of December, the anniversary of his first visit. As he walked up the hill to see Counselor Federstahl, the curious events of the past year floated through his mind. There was Venus hanging over his head, as she had done a year before; he looked up and blessed ber! He dined with the counselor, after spending an hour in transacting the necessary busi ness, by which the fortunes of the two ladies and Mr. Castleton were arranged, and then, shaking hands, uttered again the now wellremembered word, "Welbekomer." The little schooner was waiting for him to take him over to Santa Cruz; he trembled as he put his foot on deck, thinking of the strange, disastrous fortunes which had come between him and his love in the past year, but no more awaited him; soft breezes wafted him over, and he arrived at the well-remembered garden-spot just as the day was breaking, for he and May had arranged that they should meet in the early morning, in memory of that first ride together to Sir Matthew Macdonald's. They met on that shady veranda which looked into the garden, and it seemed to poor Belknap as if the gates of paradise had been opened to him. Even the deep mourning which she wore for her mother could not make her other than radiant to him. Those were the garments of the past, for him would be the blue of hope, the rose-color of love. Then they told all their hopes, doubts, fears, and they both owned, as lovers always do, that they had loved each other from the very first. At their quiet wedding, where only a few very intimate friends assisted, Horace again met his Danish beauties, and presented to them his wife. Miss Lingenbrod gave him one reproachful look out of her black eyes, then left him to the repentance and ignominy of matrimony; a married beauty and flirt has many such stabs. Captain Belknap had no such flattering farewells from the blue orbs of Miss Stridiron or Miss Feddersen. He was one of the men whom few women love, but whom one woman worships. The negroes, headed by Manuel, came trooping down the garden - walks singing a wild hymn of rejoicing; mingled in with it was a wail for "poor dead mistress," which brought the tears down all their cheeks. Fearing for the effect on May, Counselor Federstahl got up to make a speech, and recounted the story of Captain Belknap's first dinner with him, and his giving him the usual Danish salutation, "Welbekomer!" and his fear that from the singular ill-fortune which had followed it it might have lost its power, but, since he had heard from Captain Belknap that it had subsequently been crossed by the sinister benediction of Father Ambrosius, he was convinced that the dear old word had not lost its power. He therefore now gave them all his own blessing, and with the feeling that but for the accidents which led to his bringing Captain Belknap to dine at Mrs. Castleton's on Christmas-day, none of "this strange, eventful history" would have transpired, he believed that he had indeed uttered a prophetic word. He proposed, as a proof of their gratitude to Manuel for the faithful service he had done them in unraveling the net which had surrounded the captain, that he should be brought in and his health drunk. This was done, and, as the white hand of the bride fell on the dusky brow of the old slave, the whole company uttered the talismanic word, "Welbekomer!" M. E. W. S. PROFESSIONAL BLUNDERS. HERE are certain phenomena in public life which surprise us by their evenness and the regularity of their movements. When these regular events are broken in upon, and are disturbed, we are quick to notice the impelling cause, but we fail to be impressed with the wide field there is for more interruptions. We are quick enough to pass judg ment upon railway officials whenever accidents occur, but the great wonder is, with our immense country and our traveling public, that bridges do not break, and locomotives run away, and steamboats explode, more frequently than they do. And this is just as true of public and of social life. It is a marvel that there are not more mistakes made in the presence of a miscellaneous audience, when once we realize how easy a matter it is to spoil a lecture or concert or service by the irrelevant introduction of some ludicrous element. It is a great wonder, too, when we remember their power, that little children when in company do not create more awkward scenes by lugging in of contraband subjects of conversation. A story is told of a celebrated American preacher who was reproved by a friend because he got off so many funny things from the pulpit. Really, now, my dear brother," said the friend, "I cannot come to hear you any more until you promise me not to joke so!" ، Well, my dear friend," replied the preacher, "if you only knew how many such things came up to the surface which I didn't get off, you would give me credit for the few which do slip out!" If, as it has been said, there is something sad in the sight of a large audience, there are times when it impresses the speaker rather with a sense of the ludicrous. People in listening to a speaker try to put on their cleverest look, as if they understood it all, and when the speaker himself has lost his subject, nominative and verb, and feels that he is talking nonsense for the moment, the unabashed attention and wise looks of his hearers are food for a side train of amusing reflections. "What did you think of my sermon ? asked a clergyman of an intimate friend. "Did you notice any thing singular about it when I was about half-way through, yesterday afternoon?" He had lost all idea of his third point in an extemporaneous address, and was floundering about like Milton's Satan in the chaotic bog, trying to get on solid ground again. Well," answered the friend, "I thought something was wrong, but, as I was sure you could not lose yourself, I concluded I must have fallen asleep for a moment, and thus have lost the thread of the discourse." The subject of "Professional Blunders" came up at a clerical dinner-company some time ago, and the question went round to each as follows: "Were you ever so placed in public in the performance of a service as to lose all sense of the solemnity of the occasion and be compelled to laugh in spite of your more serious self?" The following are some of the answers, as revealing the hidden but unforgotten experiences of ministerial accidents. Case number one was as follows: "I was holding a prayer - meeting in a Western town in the early days of my ministry, and, as there was no one to raise the tune, I tried myself to do it. The hymn began 'With hyssop purge thy servant, Lord, My first attempt was a failure; when I tried tune number two I found it was a long metre; tune number three was another long metre, and as I had come to the end of my stock, I stood still for a few moments looking at the page. Thereupon an old woman stood up by the door and spoke out in a shrill, piping voice: 'You don't seem to get on very well with hyssop; suppose now you try some other yarb!' What could I do but burst out with the all-conquering laugh, or die if I suppressed it?" Here was case number two: "I was conducting the funeral of a parishioner, and, supposing that the choir was present, gave out a hymn. No response came. As there was no one to raise the tune, I boldly essayed to do it. But, to my horror, I found it was too short for the words; no one could follow me in my lengthening-out process, so I had it all my own way, and sang it as a solo. When I came to verse number two, I thought for a long time, and then, feeling sure that I was right this time, pitched the tune, but it was so high I could not pretend to follow it, and left it for two or three volunteer ladies to carry on as best they could. But, to my dismay, I found that even this would not do: it was a longmetre tune to a common-metre hymn, and it came to an ignominious close at the end of the second line. The words were solemn, the occasion was solemn, I felt for the mourners, I felt for myself, but, wanting to be brave and prevail over the difficulty, I stood a moment and then struck up again. This time I was down in the very depths in my effort not. to pitch it too high, and again I was on a long metre, which I could not make short enough for the hymn. Do what I would, I could not tuck it in, and the hymn 'Hear what the voice from Heaven declares !' is forever ruined for me. No wonder that family never wanted to have Dr. at the funeral of any of their friends." one of the heavy box-stools in the chancel, and, placing his foot on this improvised kennel, gave out the hymn beginning— "A charge to keep I have." The fourth case mentioned was that of a Western missionary who was holding service for the first time in a frontier town. A large congregation had gathered in the primitive court-room, and the young itinerant was just about to announce his text, when a tall man, who had been playing the melodeon for the extemporized choir, pitched back his chair on its hind-legs on the clerk's stand, immediately in front of the judge's bench, and, putting his hands in his pockets, fell backward, and went completely over. As he was directly in front of the preacher, his long legs, in going over, knocked down the cushion which had been placed on the preacher's stand, and scattered the loose notes in every The congregation broke out in one roar of laughter, mingled with whistles and cat-calls, and cries of "Go it, William!" “Heigh-ho, tumble-bug!" "Tumbler-pigeon!" "Set them up again !" "Double score!" and other such terms never before heard in a house of worship. The house got into one of those convulsive spasms of laughter which ure remittent in their naturé, and come on again at successive intervals. Every few moments the thought of the performance would come back again, and there would be a new outburst. direction, All this time the disconcerted young minister stood with his back to the audience, looking out of a window, and, like the dying dolphin, turning all shades of color, and going through an assortment of experiences ashamed, provoked, amused, and disgusted, each in turn. Finally he said, "Now we have all had our laugh out, let us sing a hymn, and then go on with the sermon," and the crowd, like a tired child, sleepy and ready for a lullaby, was at last quiet once more. A venerable professor who was present at this "experience meeting related his ordeal of humor as follows: "Rev. Dr. was invited to preach before the young in the central meeting-house of the town. Two of the young ladies' boarding-schools, and the boys of the academy, were present. It was an audience ready for any thing to amuse them. "Just as the preacher announced his text a fluttering was heard in the window, and in walked a large black hen. With that peculiar hen-like walk, in which the stretched-out head and neck keep time to the movement of the feet, she advanced to the side of the minister, and, unmindful of the audience, peered over the open pulpit-platform down on to the pews below. Unabashed by that sea of faces, she seemed to be looking about for some place in which to lay an egg. The preacher looked at her; the boys and girls, dying to seize the opportunity, and make a scene in church, cast their eyes upon her longingly. The entire church was still when the Rev. Dr. said to me, as I was sitting in the front pew, 'Professor Premove that bird?' Case No. 8 was that of a very solemn clergyman and his assistant, who were disturbed in their chancel by a miserable-looking street-cat, which had come in in some unknown way, and was rubbing itself up against their legs, me-ow-ing piteously. The rector beckoned to the assistant to put the cat out, which he did, but in a few moments she was back again. Upon this the very "If he had asked me to storm a battery, solemn rector placed the poor creature under I would have been as willing as I was then will you to risk the failure of catching that hen. But, with a solemn face and stately step, as if I was about to give out the alms-boxes, I walked up to the 'bird,' and in an instant of silence, the like of which I never experienced before, I caught the hen and disappeared into the vestry-room. But to this day I ask myself the question of the other side of the issue, 'Suppose you had failed to catch that hen, what would you have done?'" The last experience mentioned was that of a clergyman at his first baptism of infants. He was then very young in years, and had never before held a baby that he could remember of, much less hold a baby and a book in the presence of a church full of people. The first infant given into his arms was a big, squirming boy of thirteen months, who immediately began to corkscrew his way through clothes and wrappings. The minis. ter held on bravely, but in a few moments the child's face disappeared in the wraps, and his dangling legs beneath were worming their to the floor. Seized with the hor way rible impression that the child was tunneling his way through his clothes, and would soon be on the floor in a state of nature, he clutched the clothes violently by the sashband, and, straddling the child upon the chancel rail, said to the mother, "If you don't hold that baby he will certainly be through his clothes, and I shall have nothing left but the dress to baptize." There are many causes for these profes sional blunders, though sometimes they come Absent. out of an apparently clear sky. mindedness is one of these causes. A lady in a certain church not long ago destroyed the devotion of a portion of the congregation by sitting in a front pew in summer-time with a child's doll stuffed in her skirts in the place of the conventional bustle. There were the head and arms appealing to the congregation for deliverance, and the lady, all the while, was singing like an unconscious angel. An instance of clerical absent-mindedness which we know to be true is as follows: An Irish minister was invited to baptize a friend's child, which he did, omitting altogether, however, to place any water upon its head. The parent took the bowl and presented it to the minister, but he declined it. Thereupon the father took the water a second time, and insisted upon his taking it. The bewildered clergyman held the bowl for a moment, and then said: "I had a glass of water before I came into church, but, so long as you insist on my drinking this, I will do it, though I assure you I am not at all thirsty." And he actually drank the water from the baptismal bowl! Ignorance of the true situation is another cause of professional mistakes. It is a safe rule in traveling to expect everybody, to do as other people do, and to take nothing for granted until first we find out definitely the simple facts of the case for ourselves. And there are good rules in other matters. Some time ago, in a large Roman Catholic church, a funeral was appointed to be held at one o'clock. It was a grave-digger and assistant sexton, who had fallen into drinking-habits, who was to be buried. The priest who was to conduct this particular funeral was half an hour late, and, on arriving at the church and seeing the funeral-procession waiting for him, went on at once with the service. As there were supposed to be many of the old gravedigger's friends present, the priest thought it a good opportunity to speak kindly of the deceased, and point a moral from his sad ending. So he began as follows: "This man, my friends, whom we are about to bury, though addicted to a great and common vice, was in every other respect a true man." "Father Melaylee," whispered an Irishman, "let me spake a word to ye's." "No," replied the priest, "I will not be interrupted. I know this poor man's faults before me, but he was a true man in spite of his failing." "O Father Melaylee," groaned out two of the pall-bearers, "just listen to us; please, Father Melaylee, only a word, your riverince ! " "No," said the indignant priest, "I will not yield for one moment. As I was saying, this poor man before me was a—' "Father Melaylee," cried out the irrepressible mourner, "the t'other priest has buried the grave-digger half an hour ago; this one's a woman we're burying, sure, and it's Tim Lanagan's wife we've got here!" Professional blunders are also quite a wonder. When we come to think about them it is passing strange there are so few of them in a community which is generally lying in ebullient mischief. Every college has its Talmud full of past traditions and wonderful reminiscences of the naughty patriarchs of the old college-world upon whom the floods of administrative discipline came and swept them all away. Every college-man has his measuring-line filled with the feet and inches of a past experience, which, under the impulse of memory and the company of old classmates, can be unrolled to any length. Therefore, upon this common field we will not enter. But the side-schools which lead into the various professions are not so well known, and perhaps a string of theological mistakes are as striking a bundle of queer fish as we can find in any other line. It is a great mistake to imagine that, because theology is a solemn study and the ministry a grave work, there are no opportunities afforded for the sheet-lightning of humor. On the contrary, the very seriousness of the work itself offers a striking background for the ludicrous element to be conspicuous in. In a certain divinity-school in this country a professor was trying to get a student to define the Sabellian conception of the Trinity. The man was new to the ways of the professor, and was a little flustered by the presence of some clerical magnates who had come to witness the examination. Jones, the cashier; and when you had reference to his church-relationship, you would say Elder Jones. Now, does this illustration help us to understand the doctrine of the Trinity, or is it wrong in any particular?" "It is exactly right, professor," replied the delighted student. "Nothing could make plainer the abstruse doctrine of the nature of the Trinity than such an illustration. It makes this otherwise mysterious subject as clear as the daylight, and answers every difficulty contained in it!" Well, sir," answered the professor, "this settles the matter as far as you are concerned. These gentlemen present, of course, cannot consent to sign your papers while you are a professed Sabellian in your theology. I warn you, sir, against your erroneous views, which are leading you into the direst error! The next candidate may explain this subject." Another student, upon a similar occasion, defined "semi-Pelagianism " as "that delightful mean between the immature Pelagius and the over-developed Augustine." The scenes at theological examinations are sometimes rendered ludicrous by the assumed air of technical exactness on the part of examiners. Frequently, very pious but unlearned clerical examiners have been noticed with their Hebrew Bible upside down, and their finger wisely placed on the last chapter of Malachi, which, in their mistake, they have imagined to be the first book of Genesis! One of these gentlemen, at last, after having his place found for him, was invited to ask the student under examination some questions in Hebrew. Forgetting every thing he had ever learned, with the exception of a few of the names of the vowel-points, the following conversation ensued: "You observe the sixth line?" "Do you notice the fourth word in that line ?" "Yes, sir." "You do observe it, you say?" "Very well indeed, sir. Now, can you tell me the name of that small dot in the middle of that third letter in the fourth word of the sixth line?" "Yes, sir; it is called Dagesh forte." "That is very satisfactory," said the clergyman. "After so thorough an examination, I have nothing more to add." And that student was dying to turn the guns on his questioner, and ask him something in return that would have shown he had been firing a blank-cartridge. The sheerest case of incompetence in the matter of linguistic examination that well could happen before a board was the following: A converted German Jew was seeking admission to the ministry of a Protestant church, and was examined in Hebrew by a trio of clergymen who had forgotten their seminary days, and with them their little stock of the Oriental languages. They had come to the same conclusion the poet had in mind when he said that .... Hebrew roots are found One of the examiners asked the candidate. to read the sixth psalm. Being something of a wag, the whilom Jew recited very rapidly in the Hebrew the supposed portion. "That is very correct," said one of the examiners; "that will do for the Hebrew." "Nonsense!" answered the Jew; "I have been repeating the one hundred and thirtysixth psalm, and none of you knew it." But we remember a case which is even equal to this one in its outside grandeur and its inward plainness. It is a striking instance of the simple way in which professional thunder is made when once you are familiar with the doings behind the scenes: A young gentleman who was studying for the ministry had never completed his college course, and, before his final examination, it was necessary that two clergymen should examine him on mental and moral philosophy and on physics. This examination was designed to take the place of a college diploma. The examining ministers were appointed, and, as they were well-known friends of the candidate, and the day was very hot, form was dispensed with, coats were taken off, pipes were lighted, and the following scene occurred: Examiner No. 1. "Well, Harry, now for this examination. First comes mental philosophy. What do you understand by mental philosophy ?`" Harry. "The philosophy of the mind and its workings." Examiner No. 1. "Very good.-Brother B." (this to the other examiner), "have you any questions to ask?" Brother B. "No, I think not." Examiner No. 1. "Well, this will do for mental philosophy. Now, Brother B., you must conduct the examination on moral philosophy." Brother B. "Very well.-Harry, what do you consider as the root of all Christian morals ?" Harry. "I suppose it is the revealed will of God." Brother B. "Yes. That is very good.Brother C." (this to Examiner No. 1), "have you any other questions to ask?" Examiner No. 1. "No." Brother B. "Well, then, we come to physics. I will let you conduct this." Examiner No. 1. "By physics we mean the philosophy of the physical world. We have only time to go into one department. We will take up the subject of hydraulics.— Well, Harry, what is a pump ?" Harry. An instrument for drawing wa Examiner No. 1. "Quite right; but how does it work?" Harry. "You push the handle down, you know." Examiner No. 1. "Yes; you push the handle down, and then you lift it, and then |