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33« EARLY REMINISCENCES to the jaws. The type of the Roman Catholic priest in France and Italy has its own stamp. So also has that of the Evangelical pastor in Germany. And these faces are tell-tales of the inner man. Take, for instance, the portraits of two incumbemts in a single living in the North Countrie. Could any greater contrast be found ? Where the spiritual nature prevails, it reveals itself to all who have eyes to see. And, where it does not exist at all is quite as obvious. To what broken and troubled spirit would it occur to open his grief to the Rev. A. B. C-? He might as well pour out his soul to, and ask guidance from, a leg of mutton. Mr. C-may have been, and surely was, a most worthy man, and one well calculated to advise as to the employment of a fern-web as a fly for fishing in the river, and to recommend a pepsine lozenge in case of heart-burn, but, as to matters spiritual, he would as little understand them as I understand logarithms. Is not self-satisfaction written broad over that face ? Now look at the portrait of Canon D-who succeeded C-. It speaks of diffidence and sympathy. Would not the troubled spirit feel instinctively that in him might be found a feeling heart, a comforter and a prudent adviser ? C—— is the type of man who will spend his week-days at his carpenter's bench making a tea-caddy, and say on Saturday : " Confound it, I suppose I must write a sermon for to-morrow— and the tea-caddy not finished ! " As a boy at Pau, a certain Miss Smith sat at church near us. As the French said, elle est plus belle que la beaute mime. And so she was in the modelling of her features, in the gloss of her abundant auburn hair, in the pearly delicacy of her complexion ; and instead of listening to old Hedges, the chaplain, sawing away at his sermon, I studied Miss Smith's countenance, usually in profile, as she sat on the bench before me. I was puzzled for some time as to what was lacking in her face to content me, and at last I discovered; it was want of expression. Down in the depths of those blue eyes resided no soul, like a water-nymph in a pool giving it animation ; no kindly dimple showed in the cheek pink as a wild rose ; no smile flickered over those beautiful lips, no lines indicative of annoyance creased that ivory brow. In a word, she was as inanimate as a wax head in a barber's window, and consequently as uninteresting.