boys who joined them after their sewing was done, her son and daughter providing the music of violin and piano for the occasion, but when a deacon urged her to be controlled in her opinions and practice by the actions of the church in the matter of dancing, she declared she "would rather be ground to powder first." She maintained, moreover, that, as a lifelong student of the Holy Book, she had "been unable to find anything there which forbids, either in direct terms or by fair implication, children or others to move their limbs responsive to music." When she and her husband, Judge Weston, announced their withdrawal from the South Parish Church to take up more congenial religious associations, "the impropriety of an attempt to withdraw from a Christian church without its consent" was solemnly urged, and the persecution of the offenders, including the piano-playing daughter, who had fallen seriously ill over the whole affair, was continued. This daughter, by the way, became the mother of Chief Justice Fuller, of the United States Supreme Court. The pettiness and cruelty of the entire episode seem to-day incredible.

In Andover, Massachusetts, where the maternal forbears of Phillips Brooks established the Academy and Seminary from which the soundest ortho

doxy has proceeded, there are many traditions of the old-time intensity of theological differences. (Apropos of the fact that the early Phillipses were not invariably harmonious amongst themselves, a jocular saying of Phillips Brooks himself is recalled by a friend, to the effect that he liked to think of these ancestors as of the foundations under his house - glad that they are there, and glad also that they are out of sight.) It is told of the Andover professors that, besides fighting the battles of orthodoxy in the larger world, they expressed their own conflicts of opinion in the Seminary pulpit. Thus it could happen that when a teacher of the more progressive sort expounded his views before the divinity students in the sermon of one Sunday, the preacher on the next Sunday was capable of holding him up to scorn. "The atheist says this"; "The infidel says that"; "The man who does not pray maintains” — and so forth, quoting from the preacher of the week before. To the credit of the human nature persisting in that eminent divine, occupying a front seat in the chapel while thus subjected to ridicule, the story has it that he would turn his back to the preacher, his face to the congregation of students, and stick out his tongue in reciprocal contempt. Some of the ways of piety were strange indeed.

A-MBOLJAD

In Old Andover Days, written by a daughter of the humorous theologian, the extreme strictness of Sabbath observance on "the Hill" is set forth with depressing, though illuminative, detail. Yet no item of it was more significant than the true story of a Boston journalist who, on his appointment more than fifty years ago as managing editor of the respectable daily paper with which he was connected, received a solemn warning from the deacons of the suburban orthodox church he had faithfully attended that if he gave any of the hours of Sunday afternoon and evening to the preparation of the Monday morning's paper his membership in the church must cease. Did they read the Monday paper? he asked his inquisitors. Oh yes, they replied, but not on Sunday; that was different. The editor accordingly took refuge in another denomination, with which a venerable great-uncle of my own was identified as a bishop. In his old age, which came before the reading of Sunday newspapers grew general, one of the faithful protested against his taking up this profane practice, for which he could offer no stronger defense than the quavering words, "But I must follow the Lord's dealings with the children of men!"

These are trivialities, and valuable only - but