Of course, sunrise to the aesthetic observer has always its charms. The powerful king of day rejoices "as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber" as he steps upon the earth over the dewy mountain tops, bathing all in light, and spreading gladness and deep joy before him. The lessening cloud, the kindling azure, and the mountain's brow illumined with golden streaks, mark his approach; he is encompassed with bright beams, as he throws his unutterable love upon the clouds, "the beauteous robes of heaven." Aslant the dew-bright earth and coloured air he looks in boundless majesty abroad, touching the green leaves all a-tremble with gold light. But glorious, and educating, and inspiring as is the sunrise in itself in many cases, there is occasionally something very remarkable that is connected with it. Rare is it, but how charming when witnessed, though till very recently it was all but unexplained. This is the _foreglow_. It is in no respect so splendid as the afterglow succeeding sunset; but, because of its comparative rarity, its beauty is enhanced. I remember a foreglow most vividly which was seen at my manse, in Strathmore, in January 1893. My bedroom window looked due west; I slept with the blind up. On that morning I was struck, just after the darkness was fading away, with a slight colouring all along the western horizon. The skeleton branches of the trees stood out strongly against it. The colouring gradually increased, and the roseate hue stretched higher. The old well-known faces that I used to conjure up out of the thin blended boughs became more life-like, as the cheeks flushed. There was rare warmth on a winter morning to cheer a half-despairing soul, tired out with the long hours of oil reading, and pierced to the heart by the never-ceasing rimes; yet I could not understand it.