cotland, in the United States and the Colonies this
metrical version of the 90th Psalm is sung to a fine simple tune
called St. Ann. But we are not and never have been as other men are.
Without a quiver of our nerves we run atilt at the most universally
accepted traditions. The very fact that every one else who uses the
hymn sings it to the tune called St. Ann would incline us to find some
other tune if such a thing were obtainable. We found one which
musicians, recognizing that we had some right to claim it as ours,
called "Irish" or "Dublin." This tune emerged suddenly from nowhere in
response to no particular demand in the middle of the eighteenth
century. It is anonymous, but it was at once wedded to the words of
that particular hymn, and we have used it ever since. It is difficult
to give an opinion on the comparative merits of two hymn tunes, and I
hesitate to say that ours is a finer one than that used by the rest of
the English-speaking world. I am, however, certain that there is in
our tune an unmistakable suggestion of majestic confidence in an
eternal righteousness, and that it very well expresses the feeling
with which we sing the hymn at political demonstrations and elsewhere.
It came to me that day across the waters of the bay, hammered slowly
out by the swinging bells, with a tremendous sense of energy. The
English St. Ann seemed lilty and almost flippant in comparison.

I raised my glasses again and took another look at the Union Jack,
blown out from its flag-post and displaying plainly its tangled
crosses. Then I noticed that men were entering the churchyard singly,
in pairs and in little groups of three and four.

"The Dean," I said, "must have some sort of service in church to-day.
If it isn't the Harvest Thanksgiving it must be an anniversary of
something. What happened at this time of year, Godfrey? I can't
remember anything."

I still stared through my glasses. I was struck by the unusual fact
that only men were going into the church. Then, quite suddenly, I saw
that every man was carrying a gun. I laid down my glasses and turned
to Godfrey.

"I wish," I said, "that you'd go down to the town--not to the church,
mind, Godfrey, but into the town, and ask somebody--ask the police
sergeant at the barrack what is going on in the church."

Godfrey is always at his very best when he has to find out something.
He would have made almost an ideal spy. If any one is ever wanted by
the nation for the mor