nd revived in
a generation that is coming. It is an ingenious device for
transferring the moral excellences of the remote past to the dim and
distant regions of an unborn future. The phenomenon sometimes becomes
positively pathetic. I remember reading, in the stirring annals of the
Melanesian Mission, of a native boy whom Bishop John Selwyn had in
training at Norfolk Island. He had been brought from one of the most
barbarous of the South Sea peoples, and did not promise particularly
well. One day Bishop Selwyn had occasion to rebuke him for his
stubborn and refractory behaviour. The boy instantly flew into a
passion and struck the Bishop a cruel blow in the face. It was an
unheard-of incident, and all who saw it stood aghast. The Bishop said
nothing, but turned and walked quietly away. The conduct of the lad
continued to be most recalcitrant, and he was at last returned to his
own island as incorrigible. There he soon relapsed into all the
debasements of a savage and cannibal people. Many years afterwards a
missionary on that island was summoned post-haste to visit a sick man.
It proved to be Dr. Selwyn's old student. He was dying, and desired
Christian baptism. The missionary asked him by what name he would like
to be known. 'Call me John Selwyn,' the dying man replied, 'because
_he taught me what Christ was like_ that day when I struck him.'

We have a wonderful way of associating certain qualities with certain
names. The name becomes fragrant, not as the rose is fragrant, but as
the clay is fragrant that has long lain with the rose. I see that two
European newspapers have recently taken a vote as to the most popular
name for a boy and the most popular name for a girl. And in the result
the names of John and Mary hopelessly outdistanced all competitors.
But why? There is nothing in the name of John or in that of Mary to
account for such general attachment. Some names, like Lily, or Rose,
or Violet, suggest beautiful images, and are loved on that account.
But the name of John and the name of Mary suggest nothing but the
memory of certain wearers. How, then, are we to account for it? The
riddle is easily read. Long, long ago, on a green hill far away, there
stood by the cross of Jesus His mother, and the disciple whom Jesus
loved. And, when Mary left that awful and tragic scene, she left it,
as Jesus Himself desired that she should leave it, leaning on the arm
of John. And because those two were