to influence her. She was more successful with me than I shall ever be with her.

That my mother had a great influence upon me, all my early life attests. As soon as I was old enough I was sent to college with a view of preparing myself for the ministry. Having finished college I went to the Princeton Theological Seminary, where I received instruction from such eminent theologians as Drs. A. A. Hodge, William H. Green, and Prof. Francis L. Patton. At the age of twenty-three, I became pastor of the Spring Garden Presbyterian church of Philadelphia.

It was the reading of Emerson and Theodore Parker which gave me my first glimpse of things beyond the creed I was educated in. I was at this time obstinately orthodox, and, hence, to free my mind from the Calvinistic teaching which I had imbibed with my mother's milk, was a most painful operation. Again and again, during the period of doubt, I returned to the bosom of my early faith, just as the legendary dove, scared by the waste of waters, returned to the ark. To dislodge the shot fired into a wall is not nearly so difficult an operation as to tear one's self forever from the early beliefs which cling closer to the soul than the skin does to the bones.

While it was the reading of a new set of books which first opened my eyes, these would have left no impression upon my mind had not certain events in my own life, which I was unable to reconcile with the belief in a "Heavenly Father", created in me a predisposition to inquire into the foundations of my Faith.

An event, which happened when I was only a boy, gave me many anxious thoughts about the truth of the beliefs my dear mother had so eloquently instilled into me. The one thought I was imbued with from my youth was that "the tender mercies of God are over all his children," I believed myself to be a child of God, and counted confidently upon his special providence. But when the opportunity came for providence to show his interest in me, I was forsaken, and had to look elsewhere for help. My first disappointment was a severe shock. I got over it at the time, but when I came to read Rationalistic books, the full meaning of that early experience, which I will now briefly relate, dawned upon me, and helped to make my mind good soil for the new ideas.

In 1877 I was traveling in Asia Minor, going from the Euphrates to the Bosphorus, accompanied by the driver of my horses, one of which I rode, the other carrying my luggage. We had not proceeded very far when we were overtaken by a young traveler on foot, who, for reasons of safety, begged to join our little party. He was a Mohammedan, while my driver and I professed the Christian religion.

For three days we traveled together, going at a rapid pace in order to overtake the caravan. It need hardly be said that in that part of the world it is considered unsafe to travel even with a caravan, but, to go on a long journey, as we were doing, all by ourselves, was certainly taking a great risk.

We were armed with only a rifle—one of those flint fire-arms which frequently refused to go off. I forgot to say that my driver had also hanging from his girdle a long and crooked knife sheathed in a black canvas scabbard. Both the driver, who was a Christian, and the Mohammedan, who had placed himself under our protection, were, I am sorry to say, much given to boasting. They would tell how, on various occasions, they had, single-handed, driven away the Kurdish brigands, who outnumbered them, ten to one; how that rusty knife had disemboweled one of the most renowned Kurdish chiefs, and how the silent and meek-looking flint-gun had held at bay a pack of those "curs" who go about scenting for human flesh. All this was reassuring to me—a lad of seventeen, and I began to think that I was indebted to Providence for my brave escort.

On the morning of the 18th of February, 1877, we reached the valley said to be a veritable den of thieves, where many a traveler had lost his life as well as his goods. A great fear fell upon us when we saw on the wooden bridge which spanned the river at the base of the hills, two Kurds riding in our direction. I was at once disillusioned as to the boasted bravery of my comrades, and felt that it was all braggadocio with which they had been regaling me. As I was the one supposed to have money, I would naturally be the chief object of attack, which made my position the more perilous. But this sudden fear which seemed to paralyze me at first, was followed by a bracing resolve to cope with these "devils" mentally.

As I look back now upon the events of that day, I am puzzled to know how I got through it all without any serious harm to my person. I was surprised also that I, who had been brought up to pray and to trust in divine help, forgot in the hour of real peril, all about "other help" and bent all my energies upon helping myself.

But why did I not pray? Why did I not fall upon my knees to commit myself to God's keeping? Perhaps it was because I was too much pre-occupied—too much in earnest to take the time to pray. Perhaps my better instincts would not let me take refuge in words when something stronger was wanted. We may ask the good Lord not to burn our house, but when the house is actually on fire, water is better than prayer. Perhaps, again, I did not pray because of an instinctive feeling that this was a case of self-help or no help at all. Perhaps, again, there was a feeling in me, that if all the prayers my mother and I had offered did not save me from falling into the hands of thieves neither would any new prayer that I might offer be of any help. But the fact is that in the hour of positive and imminent peril—when face to face with death—I was too busy to pray.

My mother, before I started on this journey, had made a bag for my valuables—watch and chain, etc.—and sewed it on my underflannels, next to my body. But my money (all in gold coins) was in a snuff-box, and that again in a long silk purse. I was, of course, the better dressed of the three—with long boots which reached higher than my knees, a warm English broadcloth cloak reaching down to my ankles, and an Angora collarette, soft and snow white, about my neck.

I rode ahead, and the others, with the baggage horse, followed me. When the two Kurdish riders who were advancing in our direction reached me, they saluted me very politely, saying, according to the custom of the country, "God be with you," to which I timidly returned the customary answer, "We are all in his keeping." At the time it did not occur to me how absurd it was for both travelers and robbers to recommend each other to God while carrying fire-arms—the ones for attack, the others for defense.

Of course now I can see, though I could not at the time I am speaking of, that God never interfered to save an unarmed traveler from brigands—I say never, for if he ever did, and could, he would do it always. But as we know, alas, too well, that hundreds and thousands have been robbed and cut to pieces by these Kurds, it would be reasonable to infer that God is indifferent. Of course, the strongly-armed travelers, as a rule, escape, thanks to their own courage and firearms. For, we ask again, if the Lord can save one, why not all? And if he can save all, but will not, does he not become as dangerous as the robbers? But really if God could do anything in the matter, He would reform the Kurds out of the land, or—out of the thieving business. If God is the unfailing police force in Christian, lands, he is not that in Mohammedan countries, at any rate.

As the two mounted Kurds passed by me, they scanned me very closely—my costume, boots, furs, cap and so on. Then I heard them making inquiries of my driver about me—who I was, where I was going, and why I was going at all.

My driver answered these, inquiries as honestly as the circumstances permitted. Wishing us all again the protection of Allah, the Kurds spurred their horses and galloped away.

For a moment we began to breathe freely—but only for a moment, for as our horses reached the