truth. They hold that it is upon the mountain peak, upon the highest platform of knowledge and intelligence attained by the species, that man can most acceptably worship his God.

The body of the clergy, however, appear still to be wrapped in ignorance as to the nature and importance of the crisis, and to think that it can be tided over by steadfast persistence in the policy embodied in the maxim of the worldly statesman, quieta non movere. The fourscore bishops of universal Anglicanism, not unnaturally anxious to assert for themselves some ecclesiastical power and personality, exhibited a touching and childlike unconsciousness that the very pillars on which Christian ecclesiasticism has stood are regarded by multitudes in England as rocking to their fall. The assembled bishops issued the feeblest of all known pastorals, and uttered not a syllable on the great questions which are agitating earnest minds. They could not have spoken with legal authority, but they made no attempt to lead opinion; even the task of providing a new version of scripture, the necessity for which is no longer open to dispute, and the call for which has become loud, is too great an undertaking for the Protestant Churches. There would be no cause for fear if the Protestant clergy had faith enough to accept, in its length and breadth, God's Revelation of the Natural. The people of England are not tired of religion. Whatever may be imagined in Positivist coteries, the great heart of England thirsts for religion. Not with the delirious intoxication of the French, when their philosophers and journalists broke for them the spell of superstition-not with the glad revelry of men escaping from a yoke-but with disappointment, bewilderment, with deep silent pain, would the

great body of the English people contemplate the triumph of atheistic science over the Church.

It is not the irreligion but the faithless religion of England-the religion that will pray for weeks together rather than make one step forward

that may suggest misgiving. It has been in performing the duty of guarding what was believed to be God's truth that the greatest errors recorded in the history of spiritual civilisation have been fallen into. In maintaining what he believed to be the truth of God delivered to Moses, the Jew rejected Christ. Burning with zeal for what he believed to be the truth of God, Loyola organised the Jesuits, and declared war against the Reformation. The supreme and most difficult of moral acts appears to be to recognise a new truth or an old truth in a new form. Even Mary Magdalene did not know Christ when she saw him after he rose from the dead! Would you have men fight to the death for error?

persuade them that they are fighting for truth. It is because the Puseys, the Denisons, the Shaftesburys-glowing with pious enthusiasm for the ipsissima verba of scripture, firmly believing that if they abandoned the Tridentine and Puritan idea of inspiration, they would open the flood-gates of infidelity-are animated by a sense of duty, that they may prove the pioneers of materialistic atheism or of resuscitated superstition.

One thing is clear: that the laity will not accept from the clergy a policy of inaction and obstruction. Roman Catholic priesthoods have accustomed their flocks to submit the decisions of reason to the reversal of the head of the Church. But for three centuries the Protestant clergy have professed to hide nothing from the people, to court instead of proscribing intelligence, to respect freedom of judgment. They have educated nations to keep

their eyes open and to have no fear of light. Out of their own mouths they will be condemned if they attempt to settle questions in science or in scholarship by reference to exploded theories of inspiration. But the faith of the people in the fundamental verities of the Christian faith is unshaken; there is a vanguard of the clergy, considerable

in numbers, still more considerable in ability, character and accomplishment, ready to lead them wherever truth may point the way; and, on the whole, it is no extravagant hope that the Christian Church, over which her adversaries have begun to exult as for ever fallen, may be preparing for a new era of expansion and of conquest. B.

N

Rappahannock, shortly after our retrograde promenade to Centreville, the Third Army Corps, then commanded by General French, halted at Catlett Station. The enemy as yet remained with a few detachments this side the Rappahannock, and on 26th October 1862, made some demonstrations with his cavalry, in the direction of Bealton Station. To support our cavalry, a brigade of the third corps was ordered to the front. It was about four o'clock P.M., on that day, that our assistant adjutant-general ordered me to go to reconnoitre our advanced line at Bealton, where, as I was told, I was to meet with our brigade. Sending the orderly in attendance for two mounted men to accompany me, I sat down with my two mess-mates to our usual ham and hard tack dinner. Before I had swallowed the first bite, the orderly returned, and informed me that according to orders lately received, the captain of the escort could not give me two men, except by a written order from the assistant adjutant-general, and that one mounted man stood ready.

Unwilling to lose time, I at once abandoned my ham and coffee, in the hope to resume my dinner when I came back, mounted my favourite 'Dick,' an unassuming, fleet, goodnatured animal, and galloped off with one mounted man.

Station, my single orderly lagging a little behind. Here I passed a regiment of our cavalry drawn up in a sort of semi-circular line, one rank deep. Not having fallen in with our brigade all the way, I concluded that they must lie in the woods a small distance beyond the station, and now slackening my pace, I trotted on, casting my eyes to the right and left of the railroad, as a reconnoitring officer usually does on such occasions. I naturally expected to meet soon with our cavalry videttes, and gather some information from them; but in this I was destined to be disappointed. I had not advanced three hundred yards, before three cavalry men darted out from the woods on the right side of the railroad, and halting, called out, 'Halt, who are you?' On this customary call, I halted Dick,' to look who these inquisitors were, and repeated to them the same query; the distance between us being from forty to fifty yards. Perceiving blue coats and M'Clellan caps, I rode up to them, and found out my mistake when it was too late. The three men, despite their uniform, belonged to Second Virginia Cavalry, Confederate army. My orderly, who suspected something wrong rather too early, turned back his horse, and ran away at the first sight of the

the

rebels. So that I had no choice, but to give them my sword, the only weapon I had with me. In other words, I became prisoner, and that for the first time in my life, and a curious feeling it was! I was ordered to follow them to their camp, which was about two miles in the rear, and had to obey.

It was already dark when we arrived. No sooner had I dismounted, than 'Dick' was separated from me, while one of my captors kneeled down at my feet, conveying the interesting intimation that he 'wanted my spurs badly!' So saying, he began to unclasp them. Filled with surprise and humiliation, I remonstrated with the man, threatening to bring his conduct before the knowledge of his captain; but all in vain. The spurs he wanted so badly he took sans gène, and rather a good pair those were,of silver, massive, straight, and longer than those in common use a present from a friend before joining General Sickles' staff. Led before the captain, I bitterly complained of the spoliation, but his only reply was "That he could do nothing, and that I must put up with the laws of war.' It was of no use telling him that I understood the laws of war differently. The captain, several privates, and myself, then squatted down around an extemporised fire (the night being rather cold) and began to chat. On being asked what state I belonged to, I replied, 'Hungary.' This word filled my captain with a sort of astonishment; he found it incomprehensible, how a Hungarian could fight with the d-d Yankees against the Southern people, who were fighting for what the Hungarians had fought for in 1848. It will easily be imagined that neither the situation nor my mood inclined me much to discuss that question at large. However, I told him roundly, that I came to America to fight for the Union, the destruction of which

would cause joy to none but tyrants and despots. My entertainers had not much to offer me for supper-a small piece of bread, and a much smaller piece of dried meat warmed up in the glimmering ashes before us, was all they could give me. We continued to chat as long as our eyes kept open, and then tried to lull ourselves to sleep; an effort which did not well succeed, as the struggle between the burning fire and the cold night decidedly inclined in favour of the latter. As for me in particular, I had naturally sufficient reasons for remaining restless. less. Irrespective of what might befall me hereafter, I could not feel reconciled to the loss of my sword, a present from a brave Hungarian general in the Italian army, and with which I made the campaign with Garibaldi in 1860. Nor could I help casting a doleful look on Dick,' who stood at a little distance between his, new companions, and apparently not more at ease than myself.

The morning no sooner arrived. than I was ordered to follow on foot a mounted man, who was to take me to General Anderson, at Brandy Station, or to General A. P. Hill. My petition to be allowed a horse was disregarded: I had to walk the whole way. After a brief rest at Brandy Station, I was marched on to General Hill's headquarters, and by the time I arrived there, I was both tired and hungry. I was presented to the members of the general's staff, and enjoyed with them some pleasant conversation, which almost made me forget that I was prisoner. But, at the mo ment I began to feel most at ease, was called to follow the provostmarshal, who assigned me a place amid logs of wood in the company of a few dozen of privates, who were under arrest for various misdeeds: a treatment which strongly contrasted with the manner in which their officers were treated by our

I

provost-marshal. The cold drizzling weather added to my dismal situation. I communicated with the provostmarshal in writing, directing his attention to my circumstances, and requested him to have me, at his earliest convenience, marched back to Brandy Station; but, after three hours' waiting, no answer came. I then addressed myself to the assistant adjutant-general, Captain Starke, and was soon invited to the tent of Captain Potter, of the 5th Alabama battalion, who kindly shared with me all he had. I bade him a hearty farewell early in the morning, and again followed my guard to Brandy Station, where I arrived just as the cars were about starting for Richmond. At Culpepper Court House, the cars stopped for a few hours, and I was led to the provost-marshal. From the street where his office was I could survey the whole ground on which our army lay encamped but a few weeks ago; and after standing a few minutes at the office door, I again almost forgot I was prisoner. It was the same street I used frequently to pass in going for orders to the army headquarters; and it really puzzled me to understand how I should now stand here a prisoner. You are again here,' said a rebel to me, with a half sneering smile. Yes, I am,' I replied. And where's your army?' 'They are following me rapidly,' I replied.

6

From Culpepper the cars, after passing the Rapidan, ran to Orange Court House and Gordonsville. As the sergeant who took charge of me at Gordonsville, behaved to me in a most becoming manner, I began to feel rather at ease, while thus carried along to the capital of the Confederacy, and involuntarily plunged into strategic meditations; but the shrill whistle of the engine announcing our arrival at Richmond, put an end to my ambitious combinations. It was about eight o'clock P.M.; the polite serjeant

handed me over to another guard, and the latter led me straight to my place of destination, the famous prison of Libby. The streets through which I passed were but dimly lighted, and showed little. sign of life or movement in the city.

Taken into the office of the prison, I was presented to Lieutenant La Touche, with whom I spent, conversing partly in French, some twenty minutes in answering sundry questions. He advised me, among other things, to write North on the earliest opportunity for blankets and other necessaries, and told me besides, if I had any money with me, to leave it at the office, and I should receive in due time the equivalent in Confederate currency. 'Here is all I have,' said I, and taking out of my pocket a five dollar 'greenback,' which I had happened to borrow from a friend on the day of my capture. I left it on the table, and followed a serjeant to the first floor of the prison.

My appearance at the upper room, the central apartment of the building, was greeted with a low murmur of Fresh fish,' which was gradually echoed through the whole prison, and I must confess this quiet exhibition of humour rather delighted me. In a minute, the motley inmates, mostly already in their shirts, crowded around me by the score. 'Where were you taken?' When?' 'What corps do you belong to?'-such and similar questions, uttered simultaneously, came upon me incessantly for nearly half an hour. Feeling much fatigued, I asked the bystanders whether there was room for me to sleep in this room. Some answered, I could find that out very easily; others hinted to me that the room above was less crowded. Taking that hint I mounted a scale higher, and found myself in the third story of the prison.

Here new questions, and new