oid the greatest danger of physical weakness.
It is easy for Christian relatives or friends to pester a dying
Freethinker; it is easy even, in the worst moments of weakness, to
put words in his mouth. But if Freethought friends visit him, he feels
strengthened and relieved. Allies may well be needed, sometimes, in such
a battle with bigotry.

After all, "Wait till you die!" is an argument of folly and cowardice.
What can we conjecture of any other life except from our experience of
this? On this earth reason is the safe side, honesty is the safe side,
humanity is the safe side; and what is the safe side here is likely to
be the safe side elsewhere.

DEAD THEOLOGY.

This is an age of "series." Every publisher issues one, and the number
of them is legion. As far as possible they are written by "eminent
hands," as old Jacob Tonson used to call his wretched scribblers in
Grub-street garrets. But not every publisher can secure such an eminent
hand as a live Archbishop, This has been achieved, however, by Messrs.
Sampson, Low, Marston, and Company. Having projected a series of
"Preachers of the Age," they were fortunate enough to enlist the
Archbishop of Canterbury under their banner. His Grace, as it is
etiquette to call him, though his natural name is Edward White Benson,
leads off the publishers' attack on the British public with a volume of
sermons entitled _Living Theology_. It is well printed on good paper,
the binding is appropriate, and the price of three-and-sixpence puts it
within the reach of the great middle-class public which cares for such
things. We are far from sharing the opinion of a carper who remarked
that, as sermons go, this volume is rather dear. Thirteen sermons by an
Archbishop! Could any man in his senses expect them for less money?
The real wonder is that a man with L15,000 a-year should condescend to
publish at all. We ought to feel thankful that he does not charge us a
guinea a volume.

Prefixed to the thirteen sermons, at fourpence apiece, including the
binding, is an excellent photogravure portrait of the Archbishop. The
face is keen and scholarly, and not unpleasant. A noticeable nose, a
large fluent mouth, shrewd eyes, and a high well-shaped head, make on
the whole an agreeable picture. Something about the features shows the
preacher, and something more the ecclesiastic. It is the type, and the
best type, of the learned priest. Nobody could look at this portrait and
call Edward Whit