s gone. That is
what such statistics come to!

Five hundred years after, the whole scene is changed. The Church of
Christ, which for hundreds of years worshipped under-ground in Rome, has
found air and sunlight now. It is almost five hundred years after Paul
enters Rome as a prisoner, after Nero burned Rome down, that a monk of
St. Andrew, one of the more prominent monasteries of the city of Rome,
walking through that great market-place of the city--which to this hour
preserves most distinctly, perhaps, the memory of what Rome was--saw a
party of fair-haired slaves for sale among the rest. He stops to ask
where they come from, and of what nation they are; to be told they are
"Angli." "Rather Angeli," says Gregory,--"rather angels;" and with other
sacred _bon-mots_ he fixes the pretty boys and pretty girls in his
memory. Nor are these familiar plays upon words to be spoken of as mere
puns. Gregory was determined to attempt the conversion of the land from
which these "angels" came. He started on the pilgrimage, which was then
a dangerous one; but was recalled by the pope of his day, at the
instance of his friends, who could not do without him.

A few years more and this monk is Bishop of Rome. True to the promise of
the market-place, he organizes the Christian mission which fulfils his
prophecy. He sends Austin with his companions to the island of the
fair-haired slave boys; and that new step in the civilization of that
land comes, to which we owe it that we are met in this church, nay, that
we live in this land this day.

So far has the star of the baby of Bethlehem risen in a little more than
five centuries. A Christian dominion has laid its foundations in the
Eternal City. And you and I, gentle reader, are what we are and are
where we are because that monk of St. Andrew saw those angel boys that
day in a Roman market-place.

THE SURVIVOR'S STORY.

Fortunately we were with our wives.

It is in general an excellent custom, as I will explain if opportunity
is given.

First, you are thus sure of good company.

For four mortal hours we had ground along, and stopped and waited and
started again, in the drifts between Westfield and Springfield. We had
shrieked out our woes by the voices of fire-engines. Brave men had dug.
Patient men had sate inside, and waited for the results of the digging.
At last, in triumph, at eleven and three-quarters, as they say in
Cinderella, we entered the Springfield station.