observed in other instances where a literal translation of the original would have involved a palpable self-contradiction.* In Oriental poetry, one negative word at the beginning of a stanza may extend its influence over all the subsequent and parallel lines. Whether this liberty is to be used or not depends upon the sense of each particular case; and the blessing of Reuben seems fairly to require the repetition of "not" in its second clause. Another rendering takes advantage of the extremely flexible usage of the Hebrew conjunction "and," which introduces the second clause, and gives it the force of "though" ("Let Reuben live and not die, though his men be few"); but a severe grammarian would not admit the lawfulness of this expedient. Neither would a conscientious critic permit the ingenious alteration of two vowel points in the word translated his men," by which that word would come to mean "his dead." The prayer, "Let his dead be few," would be appropriate enough in this connection, but manuscript authority for the reading is absolutely wanting. Upon the whole, the words as they stand in our English Bible may be taken as fairly suggesting the thought that must have been in the mind of Moses, when he sought to frame a blessing for the eldest tribe in Israel. That tribe had sunk in numbers during the forty years of wandering in the wilderness. The mournful temptation and sin of Baalpeor, which had reduced the tribe of Simeon to one-third of its former strength, had cut off nearly three thousand men from Reuben. And now this diminished fraction of the Hebrew nation was about to separate itself from the great body of the host, and to prove its unassisted strength in the defence of a wide and open frontier to which every nomad people of Arabia could lay some ancient claim. Even if Moses had not been a prophet to whose inward vision the future of Reuben's fortune was dimly revealed, he must have desponded concerning the issue of so rash and self-willed an experiment. He would fain have "blessed;" but, weighed down by too just forebodings, he dared only to pray that Reuben might escape that utter wasting of his tribal and religious life which yet seemed the certain consequence of his character and present choice. "Let Reuben live and not die, And let not his men become few." A practical lesson of warning for ourselves is surely not far to seek in these historical facts concerning the first of Israel's tribes. The impulsive yet irresolute disposition of Reuben is painfully common amongst ourselves. Too many a young man, the excellency of his father's dignity, and the centre of highest hopes, both for this world * For example, 1 Sam. ii. 3, where our Bible has a "not" in italics, in the second clause, although there is no corresponding negative in the original. The sense of the passage would not be properly conveyed to an English ear, but for this addition, and the next, is at this moment the subject of sorely anxious prayers, such as this which Moses uttered. And too many a Christian convert, who has been baptized like Reuben unto God's high calling, in the cloud and in the sea, is seeming at this moment to his pastor to be coming short of the promised reward, because of his unstable will, and his fickle yielding to influences that lie outside the boundaries of Jehovah's covenant. Not even the loving intercessions of a Moses can deliver such souls from death, if they make not an end of their wavering and indecision, and engage not themselves to seek the life of God with all their hearts. God Himself can only mourn over them, saying, "What shall I do unto thee? for thy goodness is like the morning cloud, and like the dew which early goeth away." A The Alexandrian manuscript of the Greek Old Testament contains a remarkable interpolation in the clause of Reuben's blessing which has been already so fully discussed. It introduces the name of Simeon, and refers to that tribe the prayer of Moses that "his men may not be few." The suggestion cannot possibly be entertained; although, if it be rejected, the very singular fact stares us in the face that the tribe of Simeon is passed over in absolute silence by the man of God who blessed the children of Israel before his death. This marked omission has been very perversely used to support the theory of a later and nonMosaic origin of the Book of Deuteronomy. It has been said that the Simeonites had disappeared from the soil of Canaan in the reign of Josiah, and that therefore the supposed writer of Moses' blessing in those days thought it needless to make allusion to them. But the same reason would have caused him to pass over all the tribes comprised in the northern kingdom of Israel; for they had been recently rooted out of their possessions in the land of promise, and carried away captive into Assyria. Moreover, as a matter of historical fact, there were flourishing settlements of the Simeonites within the territory of Judah so near to Josiah's time as the reign of Hezekiah (see 1 Chron. ir. 34-43.), and the heroine of the apocryphal book of Judith was a daughter of Simeon: a fact which, even with all allowance for the license of historic fiction, obliges us to recognise the continuance of of Simeon as a tribe in the very latest period of Jewish national existence. The true reason why Simeon's name is passed over in this blessing was the deep and righteous indignation which the inspired prophet felt in regard to the recent sin of Israel at Shittim. Simeon had headed the foul apostasy which cast the glory of Jehovah's chosen people at the feet of Moab's vilest idol; and the bulk of the twenty-four thousand victims of God's avenging plague were men of this guilty tribe. With such recollections fresh in his mind, it was impossible for Moses to utter words of blessing upon Simeon, or to mitigate in any sense the curse which Jacob had already pronounced upon his posterity. "O my soul, come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly, mine honour, be not thou united! . . . I will divide them in Jacob, and scatter them in Israel." (Gen. xlix. 6, 7). For "the memory of the righteous shall be blessed, but the name of the wicked shall rot." "O Lord, the hope of Israel, all that forsake Thee shall be ashamed; they that depart from Thee shall be written in the earth." MARGARET. "It is a gallant child."-Winter's Tale. "But haymaking time," pleaded Margaret, ruefully, "mother, things come out of their way to tear me.' Mrs. Chesney laughed. "You I will never be lost for want of an answer," she said; "but you must try and be careful. That is a morning's work for me.' "I am sorry, mother," said Margaret. "We were scrambling in the hay-Jim, and Godfrey, and I-and it happened, somehow." "Well, it cannot be helped," said Mrs. Chesney, stooping to look at the long rent, and then turning back to the basket of undarned stockings. “Take it off, and I will do it presently." "I am very sorry," repeated Margaret, earnestly, following her mother's tired fingers as they moved swiftly backwards and forwards over the old stockings; "and you meant to go out with father." 66 "I can go this afternoon," said Mrs. Chesney, smiling without raising her eyes, only you must try and be a little quieter, Madge; you must, indeed." "Girls will be girls," said Mr. Chesney, looking up from his perusal of the Times. "It is an unfortunate fact." 66 'Only, girls will be boys in this case," said Mrs. Chesney. "Eh, Madge?" "The nature of the creature!" he answered. "You see, Margaret, what it is to have a good mother. But we must not let her work those pretty eyes too hard, or tire those pretty hands. We must spare her." Mrs. Chesney looked up with a suspicion of tears in her eyes. "Don't, Jim," she said; but she put down the stocking for a minute, and looked across at her husband with a sudden sweet smile. "You spoil me, as usual. What will Margaret think of hearing such nonsenso talked to her old mother? As if I would not work for people like you with pleasure!" "But even people like us cannot prevent you wearing yourself out," said Mr. Chesney; and it will do Margaret no harm to look at her mother and see a pretty woman." Women are always beautiful, I think, in the eyes that love them, even when the first fresh bloom of youth has faded, the roundness of girlhood gone from the face, the plumpness from the thin hands, and the eyes have the weariness of the perpetual struggle to make both ends meet. Mr. Chesney's wife had had no idle life, and the work, and thought, and care, had left their impress on her face; but it was a sweeter face now, he thought, than when it had been first raised, blushing and shy, to his, one evening sixteen years *Most of the Scriptural quotations in this series of papers are given in the words of the " Revised English Bible," printed by Eyre and Spottiswoode, and containing the latest and ripest results of conscientious Biblical criticism. The late Dr. Davies, and Drs. Gotch and S. G. Green, contributed to this admirable labour of revision. Even after that little ceremony was over, and she had gone to her husband, she could not resist turning once more to look with loving approval at the figure in the doorway. Margaret was shading her face from the fierce sunlight, and under the curving hand shone out two beautiful, steady eyes. The rest of the face had no particular beauty at that time, except in its promise of beauty to come, for the features were irregular and unsoftened, the figure loose and untidy. But Margaret's very unconsciousness of any charm made one of her greatest charms to others. Presently she saw the boys come racing towards her over the lawn. So, for fear of being tempted to break her promise, she turned and ran up to the nursery. In two minutes Jim, the younger, was hammering at the door. "Oh, I say, Madge," he shouted, "Oh, yes," said Margaret, smoothing the slender hand that lay in hers, and kissing it gently. "One field is carried, and we hope to get the other done to-night. But it" it is mean to cut away like that, looks like rain," she went on, turn- and the hay is lovely! ing up her face to the radiant sky, quick!" across whose blueness dull clouds were gathering. her skirts. "Does it?" said Mrs. Chesney, loosing her hand and gathering up "Then we ought to start. Is there anything you wish particularly to do this afternoon?" "Nothing," said Margaret. "Why?" Come "I'm not coming," said Margaret. "Hush-baby is ill! "Not coming!" Jim whistled in perplexity. "Why, what's the matter?" he said, opening the door, and looking cautiously in. "You never missed the last field before." 66 I can't come," said Margaret, a little dolorously. "I promised mother to look after baby. Go away, Jimmy boy, and enjoy yourself." "Your father is worried about the hay," said Mrs. Chesney anxiously, "and baby is so heavy with his cold that I do not like nurse to leave him alone. Would you mind sitting "How can I?" said Jim, angrily, with him till tea-time, while nurse" and you sticking up here like this! helps a little out of doors?" It's too bad of mother. She didn't "Oh, dear, no!" said Margaret, know it was the last carry." resolutely shutting her mind to the "Yes, she did," said Margaret. thought of the baby's temper. "I"Now do go away, Jim. You are waking baby. Don't be crossdon't you see I want to come too?" don't mind a bit." 66 Mrs. Chesney's brow cleared. Many thanks, my good daughter," she said. “ Good-bye." She stooped and lifted the soft young face between both her gloved hands, and kissed the smiling lips. “I see that you are not coming,” grumbled Jim. "And as you will not come when I want you to, you shall just wait, now, until I let you out." With that he clicked the key the cradle, was a denser, duller, sharply in the lock, and Margaret wavering veil of smoke. was locked in. "Let me out, Jim!" she cried, sharply rattling at the door. But she heard only his receding footsteps as he jumped from stair to stair. For a minute, and only a minute, Margaret's eyes clouded. It seemed harder, somehow, to be locked away from the sunshine, and hay, and merriment, than to be up in the nursery in voluntary exile. Baby was sleeping heavily, so Margaret took a book and waded through a few pages; but she was not a keen reader, so by-and-by she got up and stretched herself, and began to rock the cradle vigorously. Then she poked the little fire that had been lighted for baby's sake into a blaze, and put the kettle on for the nursery tea, and by that time the sunshine had enticed her to the window again, and she sat on the sill looking out. "How quiet it is!" she thought, leaning out to catch at the little grape tendrils under the window. "How much quieter it makes it seem being locked in!" A little breath of wind crept past her, and she looked back to see if it had wakened baby; and as she looked it seemed to her that a thin, filmy veil was between her and the cradle. She rose to her feet and crossed the room. As she did so the mist divided before her, and closed in again upon her footsteps. "It is smoke!" she said aloud. "I wonder if one of our chimneys is on fire." Leaning out of the window she looked up and down, right and left, but there was no sight anywhere but unbroken sunshine-no sound but the certain, ceaseless activity of life. She looked back into the room perplexed. There again, between her and Margaret grew white. Springing to the bell she sent peal after peal through the empty house, and poured forth her shrill voice across the lawn and garden beds. But no one heard. "Locked in!" she said. She was standing by the cradle, terrified and numb, her hands clenched together, her breath coming fast. "Oh, baby!" She knelt and lifted the sleeping child from the cradle, and laid him, wrapped in a shawl, in the furthest corner of the room. Then she stepped across the floor, and laid her hand upon the mantelpiece. It was hot, and a little tongue of flame was creeping from the carpet at her feet into the draught of the window. She started back with a horrified cry, and sprang to the window also, but with no thought of escape. Margaret had always the element of greatness in her that excluded the thought of self. She only remembered now her mother's face, the empty house, the sleeping baby, and her whole soul concentrated itself on one great effort. " "I must jump,' she thought. "Oh, if they would only hear!" She sent the whole agony of her despáir into the voice that rang out over the lawn, and strained her eyes into the sunshine for the sight of a human figure: but when no one came, she quietly did the one thing that seemed left for her to do. Creeping from the window.on to the narrow outside ledge, she let herself slowly down, until she was clinging by her two young arms alone, and then she loosed her hold. And at that moment a cry followed her from the room above: A little stunned, a little giddy, she picked herself up, and went stumbling upstairs to the nursery. Turning the key and opening the door a burst of flame met her; but |