On the other hand, if they are not mere helps for the ignorant, but appeal to him also, why are they wholly excluded from his churches?

Right here we shall find him shifting his ground. He harks back to the old charge of idolatry, as in Cromwell's day, proclaiming his own to be a more spiritual form of religion. In all this he is certainly sincere. He quotes at length the Bible denunciations of idolatry, as in support of his views. But why? Idolatry is the worship of a false God, not that of Jehovah. The heathen idol is the image of that false god or goddess. What has all this to do with Christian worship? Or with its use of any and every help, its proffer of aid in any sort that may lead the wandering thought and eye of the sinner to his Saviour and God? Has the Church a right even to neglect any means whereby a soul may be won, to its own salvation? Why not uplift the Cross actually before the eyes of men, besides proclaiming it in words? Why not appeal to the eye as well as the ear?

That the Jews were forbidden to make a graven image because of the idolatries about them, into which they were prone to fall, does not involve a prohibition law, of the same ilk, for Christians. Nay, even the Jews had carven figures of the great Cherubim, who dwell in light ineffable, with outspread wings overlaid with gold, placed over against the Ark of the Covenant, as if to guard it or do it honor. The "graven image" adorned their Holy of Holies by express divine command.

The New Dispensation differs in many ways from the Old, and while the principle as to idolatry holds eternally good, that being a thing essentially evil, the use of the graven image is not such, but "a thing indifferent," a mere part of ritual, to be settled by the Church.

It goes without saying that nowhere among Christians is the image itself worshipped; the more intelligent among pagans even bow to the unseen divinity which their idol represents; but all acts of reverence are offered as tribute to our Blessed Lord and the hierarchy of Heaven. There are many chapters before us even now in the history of the eikon, and "destructions are not yet come to a perpetual end."

The claim that the Puritan, who will have none of it, has a. loftier mode of worship, purer and more elevating, calls for a. moment's consideration. Is there much, or even any, spiritual virtue in that abstract habit of mind which makes the soul its own temple and needs no aid from outer things? God be thanked, prayer and soul-communion, on the part of the Saints here below, are not hindered by lack of image, church or shrine! "Yet doth He devise means that His banished be not expelled from Him." blaze with glory—glory eternal and profound beyond comprehension. "Yea," again the voice, "the Lamb of God! The Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world." Then seemed to come, as it were, a multitude of voices, crying with incessant stress of sweetness beyond music, through and through that lowly church—nay, far up above it—"Blessing, and honor, and glory, and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne and unto the Lamb for ever and ever." says things in such manner that they will be read. B. O'Mahoney has learned this, of Dooley or his grandmother, never mind:

But this intimate spiritual Communion is, in sooth, the special glory of Catholicism, and her Saints have practiced it for ages. It is no new discovery, this of the believer's personal nearness to his Lord. But it is personal and, therefore, private. One can hardly imagine a strife, or any boast, over these silent, sacred things. How should a saint ever "tell his experience?" How should one saint say to another, "I am holier than thou?" Should we not think him no saint at all? Is it not equally strange for any body of Christians to take such ground?

No, the secret life of the Christ-lover is not to be dragged forth into the blaze of publicity. On the other hand, public worship is for all. The masses, the genera! church-going throng, are no saints—no indeed!—rather "poor miserable sinners," who have erred and strayed like lost sheep. They come in multitudes, "grieved and weary with the burden of their sins," into the presence of their Lord, not exactly to be preached to, rather to be consoled and forgiven. Among these multitudes are the young, the indifferent, the thoughtless and "those who are out of the way," all needing every help to fix their attention, to elevate and still their fluttering souls. The Church cannot fit her public ministrations purely to those advanced in piety, given to high concentration of soul, and she ought not. "They that are whole need not a physician."

Humility is the true soul-preparation for worship. The meek shall "inherit the earth," find blessed help and be glad.

In a rural church, small and of slender pretensions, stands a very beautiful altar. Near its base is the carven figure of a lamb, done with tenderest touch, fleecy and true to life. To at least one soul in that congregation it often spoke with far more power than choir or priest. Perpetually eye and thought returned to it. "The Lamb," it cried, out of its exquisite silence, "the Lamb that was slain." The answering thought came at once. This, then, is what the altar means, and why it should

It was the going forth of the icon on its divine ministry.

Carolinb D. Swan.

GLOBE NOTES.

When I moved the business of the Globe Review from New York to Philadelphia, last year, my object was twofold; first, to reduce expenses, rents and costs of living in New York being altogether beyond any advantages that I derived from living there; second, that I might once more live in the neighborhood of Fairmount Park, which I hold to be by far the most beautiful park in the world, and which, off and on, has been my strolling ground for more than thirty years.

Both of these objects I have attained by the movement named. In returning to Philadelphia with The Globe, I at first looked about me for an office down town, in what used to be the old aristocratic office neighborhood for lawyers and publishers, and I fitted up a very comfortable office for myself and the Globe Review, thinking, and saying, that I never wanted to move again; but man proposes, and sometimes the good God, and sometimes the devil, disposes.

Old houses and old neighborhoods are apt to grow foul and full of human and other vermin. At all events, during the past winter I chose my residence in close neighborhood to Fairmount Park, and at the same time resolved to make it the sole address for myself and The Globe in the future, as given in this issue. This explains the new address.

All the details of the publication are now under my own constant supervision and direction, sick or well. My health appears to be very much improved, and I hope the quality of the Globs Review, as it ripens to old age, will grow more mellow and

"I see by the pa-apers that the high soc'ity women av this city are raisin' the divil, an' no mistake," remarked Hogan to Barney McFadden, as the two sipped their hot and ate cold lunch at Mike Flaherty's, on the corner.

"Raisin' the divil? Sure'n it's an' intherestin' occupation they've found at last. They've been lookin' six ways f'r somethin' startlin' for a long time. How're they doin' it, do ye mind?"

"Nice question to ask in this day av intilligence, an' f'r a man av your standin', too! Don't ye iver read the news av th' day? Haven't ye hear-rd that all the high soci'ty ladies av Chicago are studyin' the occult?"

"The occult? An' what the divil is it? Do they tache it in the public schools?"

"They don't; that is, not yet; but there's no tellin' what may happen next year. But if ye'd pay attintion to what Ropy Reed writes in the American an' numerous other l'adin' payriodicals, ye'd see what the high-sthrung, intillectual females with millions behind thim are doin' right here on the idge of our twintieth cinthury civilization."

"An' who's Ropy Reed, an' what's it his look-out f'r the love? Is it speshul advertisin' he's writin', cheap f'r cash?"

"Naw, ye ould haythen! He's a great novilist—a writer av books av stories about the moonshine state. He's been out among our Chicago women av late—our high soci'ty ladies, an' they've been lettin' him see a wild pagan clay god, what used to wallop around in the pocket of a chap called Buddha, turn live an' wink its eyes an' frighten the women. I don't suppose it frightened Ropy himself, f'r he's from Kintucky; but it worried the women so that they got down on their knees an' began prayin' to it to stop. An' after that they had more high jinks than Ropy could write of in a month."

"An' that's what ye call studyin' the occult, is it?"

"It's partly it, but there's more. Have another while we're talkin'; do now! Do ye raymimber Lizy Allen, what got marri'd to Gullman, the iron peddler, whin we first came to Chicago? After he peddled around a bit he struck on an invintion, an'