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Title: The Quiver 12/1899

Author: Anonymous

Release date: September 2, 2013 [eBook #43621]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Julia Neufeld and the Online
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The Quiver 12/1899


From the Drawing by M. L. Gow, R.I.




I t was only just over a fortnight since we left England—according to the calendar, that is to say; but that way of reckoning time seems to me as misleading as the common method of £ s. d. in computing alms. Two days' weary railway travel to Marseilles after crossing the Channel, two days of smooth sailing to the Straits of Messina, then two of tossing "in Adria," till we ran under the lee of Crete; one spent in plunging along its southern shores, followed by a bright, warm day which brought us to the coast of Egypt (only to learn that if we entered the longed-for haven of Alexandria we should be subject to five days' quarantine at our next port); a tiresome day's run across this most choppy corner of the Mediterranean to Jaffa, and a landing there through the surf on a glorious morning, which made up for everything, and plunged us straight into the midst of Eastern life, with all its warmth of colouring to eye and ear; three hours' run by rail to Jerusalem, and five days there and thereabouts, almost bewildering us with a constant succession of scenes half-novel and half-familiar; another railway journey back to Jaffa, a pleasant run along the coast of Palestine to Beirut, and a day spent there. All this lay between England and Beirut as we finished an early breakfast on a February morning, and drove to the railway station through the busy streets of Beirut, full of picturesque life, and yet much more European than those of other Syrian towns. Our driver stopped on the way, somewhat to our amusement, to light his cigarette from a friend's!



(Photo: Bonfils.)

This railway line is a new one, due to French enterprise, and was opened in August, 1895. The Lebanon district owes much to the French. We were a party of seventy, and had chartered a special train. The distance is only about ninety miles; it seemed almost impossible that the journey should take nine hours, as we were told; but there are more than a score of stations,[194] and at each one the train (even a special) stops for several minutes—by order of the Government, we heard. And, more than that, the line passes right over Libanus and Anti-Libanus, reaching a point some 5,000 feet up, where the coast of Cyprus comes in sight over the blue waters of the Mediterranean; while, as one journeys east, the snowy top of Hermon stands out against the sky away to the south. A system of cogs and several reversings of the engine carried us high into the mountains in a very short time. Beirut was left far below, and we were among the snows, glad of the rugs and thick overcoats which wisdom (not our own) had advised us to bring; glad, too, by mid-day of the lunch we had brought with us. Even in the midst of the grandest scenery we were vulgarly hungry, and rather sleepy when we felt the rare atmosphere. After a time, the scene changed: we were in Cœle-Syria, among mulberries and vineyards, from which comes Lebanon wine. Here and there were mud villages, with picturesque groups of natives and cattle. We were the first large English party to pass over the line; and at one station a red-robed Syrian, who had served in a London milliner's years ago, asked eagerly for an English newspaper, to know what was going on in Constantinople! He got one from us about a fortnight old; we had none later. Elsewhere the natives were wondrously pleased to see some of our party playing at leapfrog during the stops.



(Photo: Bonfils.)

Over the hills the diligence road runs for the most part near the railway, and here and there we saw strings of mules winding along above us. We passed Anti-Libanus at an altitude of 4,000 feet above the sea, and at Zebdany entered the valley of the Barada (the ancient Abana), which we followed the remaining twenty-four miles to Damascus. Here and there are short tunnels or cuttings, and almost everywhere splendid cliffs, sometimes cavernous, and rich valleys with orchards and olive-trees.

About nightfall we ran into Damascus, and were driven to the Hotel Besraoui: we were getting used by this time to the apparently reckless manners of the Oriental driver. There are large barracks close to the station: the Government put them up when the railway was made, as a measure of political prudence. At Zahleh, the half-way station, whence runs the road to Baalbek, we had seen trucks full of Turkish soldiers returning[195] from the Haurân, where the Druses had been giving trouble; in fact, the first train chartered for our party at Beirut was taken for military purposes by the Government officials, so we understood, leaving us to wait till the next morning! And now we found troops bivouacked along the road by which we left the station for our hotel. They are good soldiers, these Turks, and not bad fellows, from what I have heard; but unpaid, unclad, unfed, many of them, we were told, had died under their hardships.

Arrived at the hotel, we passed through the entrance hall into an open central court, where a fountain was playing in the midst of leafy trees. By the stairs and balconies surrounding it we mounted to our bedrooms. The hotel was a new and a large one, but the almost unexpected incursion of a party of seventy taxed the resources of the kitchen somewhat heavily. It was not till breakfast-time, however, that this appeared: the Damascenes had evidently thought it a good opportunity to get rid of stores of eggs which had passed the first bloom of freshness. But there was no other ground of complaint. A large staff of native waiters had been drafted in to attend us in the large chilly dining saloon—for we were out of "the season." Before leaving the dinner-table we were warned that if anyone ventured into the streets he must, by law, carry a lantern; but that, as the city was full of soldiers, and a good deal of excitement prevailed—a number of Druse prisoners being expected—we had better stay indoors. There was not much temptation to do otherwise after a weary day's travel beyond stepping into the street to look up at the brilliant stars sparkling in the cold night, as they must have done to the eyes of patriarchs and perhaps of Magi, of Naaman and of Omar. And in the drawing-room there had actually been lighted a real fire—a rare luxury in Syria and Palestine. Of course, one must send some postcards to friends at home—it is not every day you can date a letter from Damascus—and there is always a diary waiting to be "written up"; but it was not long before we drifted bedwards, to sleep for the first time in perhaps the most ancient city in the world.



(Photo: Bonfils.)

Bright and early next morning we were at breakfast, and then scattered in groups to walk or drive about the city and its suburbs. It was still cold, and the natives needed the heat of the sun to "expand"[196] them; but it was pleasant to drive along the banks of the Abana, which flows through the city, and feel that one was on the extreme verge of modern civilisation. Entering "the street which is called Straight," which traverses Damascus from west to east, we drove slowly along, noticing the busy, prosperous look of the city. There were not the crowds of beggars and pilgrims to be seen in some quarters of Jerusalem. Above us were latticed windows, like those through which, elsewhere, the mother of Sisera once looked; and we saw bronze-work in progress, and great hanks of unspun silk, representing two of the staple trades of Damascus.



(Photo: Bonfils.)

We visited two houses, the first that of Shemaiah, a wealthy banker, who was ruined by lending money to the Turkish Government. We noticed imitations of living birds among the beautiful carved work on the walls of the magnificent room into which we were conducted. The house is a typical Eastern mansion, but it is now unoccupied. Our second visit, through a narrow and not very clean alley in the Christian Quarter, was to the traditional "House of Ananias." Oblivious of the historic record that St. Paul lodged in the house of Judas, in the street called Straight, and was visited there by Ananias, local tradition shows the cave in which the meeting took place in Ananias' house! We have to be satisfied, as in the case of many traditional sacred sites, with the reflection, "It was somewhere near here"; but as we continued our drive through "Straight" Street we read St. Luke's account of that journey to Damascus, and the events which were the means of changing the pupil of Gamaliel into the Apostle of the Gentiles. We were reminded of him again as we passed out of the triple East Gate. Its central arch is now built up, as well as one of the side ones; but by this, quite possibly, Saul was actually led in his blindness into the city. Not far away is pointed out the window by which he was 
let down. The house is in reality a modern one, but there are many examples round us of the kind of place in the "houses on the wall," which seem quite a feature of the city.



(Photo: Bonfils.)

But Damascus has other associations, and we have to visit "the house of Naaman," not many yards away. The traditional site is now suitably occupied by a leper hospital; and about its gateway we can see unhappy creatures in various stages of this living death. As we drove away, we read the story of Naaman, and opportunely noticed, if not a mule, at least an ass, with a "burden of earth," illustrating the Syrian's request for material to build an altar to Jehovah.

Pursuing our way through the suburbs, we found the roads more and more thronged with a motley Eastern crowd. It was Friday, the Mahometan Sabbath, which is, to some extent, a festal day; and, further, 600 Druse prisoners were rumoured to be coming in, and house-tops as well as streets were occupied by would-be spectators.

A considerable force of troops, armed cap-à-pie for active service, passed us, probably on the way to the Haurân; and what with them, and the camels, and the crowds, our drivers thought it well to turn back, instead of going any further—as, I think, was proposed to do—in the direction of the traditional site of St. Paul's conversion. So, returning through the city by a different route, we drove, past the Abana once more, to the heights of Salahiyeh away to the north-west. From thence there is a fine view of the "Pearl of the East," which lies, as is sometimes said, "like a spoon in the salad," the handle being the long straggling suburb which has grown up along the line of march by which Mecca pilgrims leave the city year by year. The resemblance was less striking to us than it would have been a month or two later, when the leafy springtime had clothed in green the broad expanse of trees, spreading around the minarets and domes and flat-roofed houses of the city. Snow-capped Hermon stood out quite clear to the west; and towards the east were pointed out the Meadow lakes, in which the "rivers of Damascus" lose themselves; and we knew—if we could not clearly see—that, beyond the limits of the oasis of which the city is the centre, the wide desert stretched away several weary days' ride to Palmyra. The site of St. Paul's conversion was pointed out in the distance; and, nearer at hand, the new barracks, and in the city itself, the ruins of the Great Mosque, once the glory of Damascus, destroyed by fire a few years ago.

From some such point as this Mahomet gazed upon this "earthly paradise," fair indeed to eyes accustomed to the dreary desert; and, declaring that man could not have his heaven both here and hereafter, refused to enter the city. By the time we were in our hotel once more, it was the hour for lunch; and, that over, a party sallied forth on foot to visit the Bazaars. All the Western associations of this word must be banished from the mind, before one can call up a picture of the thing as it is in Cairo or Jerusalem, or, most picturesque of all, in Damascus. The "streets," which Ahab won the Israelites the privilege of making in this city, were, I suppose, nothing else than bazaars. According to time-honoured custom, we have here a classification by trades: silversmiths, leather-merchants, silk-merchants, brass-workers, shoemakers, sellers of "Turkish delight," and other sweets, vendors of inlaid work and so on, all have their well-known places. Lofty arcades cover some of the rows of little open shops, with no door but a net, drawn across the front during its owner's absence. The shopkeepers themselves seem to come out of the "Arabian Nights"; so does the stream of passengers on foot or horseback, or with mules or donkeys, or even in carriages, passing through these busy scenes of traffic. On our way thither, we stopped for a moment to admire the "Plane-tree of Omar," the growth, according to tradition, of the staff which the prophet's brother planted here. It is a grand old tree.

Our dragoman undertook to do our shopping for us, but the sad experience we gained suggested (to say the least of it) that in such cases there is an understanding between him and the dealers not always to the advantage of the buyer.

As to the Eastern method of trade, it is, more or less, the same everywhere, with few exceptions. You ask the price of the article; the shopman names a figure at least twice its value; you turn away, but, relenting, offer him a fraction of what he asks; he shrugs his shoulders, raises his eyebrows, and probably extends his hands, intimating that he would be ruined; you turn away again; he follows you; you express utter indifference, but, at length, repeat your offer, and, when this haggling has gone on long enough, carry off your purchase for the nearest approach you can get to its real[199] value. I have heard of a bargain going on for a week! What between ignorance of the language, ignorance of the coinage, and ignorance of the value of the article, shopping in Damascus is venturesome work for travellers. With such purchases as we had secured, we wended our way homeward.

Some of our party invited friends engaged in missionary work in the city to dine with us, and from them we gathered many interesting scraps of information about the life and work of British missionaries under the Turkish flag. As to political events, even in their immediate neighbourhood, our friends told us they knew less than folks at home, and had to wait for the London papers to know the facts. As regarded personal danger, they went quietly on with their work, and the recent storm seemed to have pretty well blown over.

After dinner the entrance-hall was full of merchants, eager to dispose of their wares—silver and silk, antiques, such as daggers and swords, and so on. I think they drove a pretty brisk trade.

Consul House


(Photo: Bonfils.)

The open court soon presented another attraction. We were favoured there with two exhibitions of Damascene physical prowess. A pair of wrestlers, after baring themselves to the waist and greasing their bodies plentifully enough to suit Homer himself, displayed their skill to their own satisfaction; and a pair of doughty swordsmen engaged in a desperate combat, in which shouting and stamping seemed to bear an important part. They were certainly very careful not to hurt each other, only delivering in turn careful blows to be parried by the opponent's little shield, and then spinning round with the force of the blow to begin a new series of feints and shoutings and stamping. It was not a thrilling spectacle, though, of course, the surroundings gave it a certain interest. So our day in Damascus drew to its close, and we must be ready for an early start to-morrow.

A glorious morning saw us betimes at the railway station, where some of our friends from home came to see us off. About nine the train steamed away; up the valley, over the mountains, into the clouds and the snow, till the blue waves of the Mediterranean came in sight once more; then down, down, down the steep descent, till we ran just ere nightfall into Beirut.





By the Rev. A. R. Buckland, M.A., Morning Preacher at the Foundling Hospital.



The month of January brings around one anniversary which, of late, has been much in the minds of the British people. On January 26th, 1885, General Gordon was slain at Khartoum. Born at Woolwich in 1833, he had seen an extraordinary variety of service when he was sent to withdraw the garrisons shut up in the Soudan. It is needless to recall the circumstances of his gallant resistance in Khartoum, and of the noble valour shown in the unsuccessful endeavour to relieve him. The annals of the Empire can present to us men whose careers have been no less varied than that of Gordon, and soldiers whose piety has been as deep. Yet few of them have ever touched the public imagination as did the man who faced his death at Khartoum fourteen years ago.



(Photo: York and Son, Notting Hill, W.)

The anniversaries of December brought together two rival statesmen of the first rank; so do the anniversaries of this present month. On January 24th, 1749, Charles James Fox was born. On January 23rd, 1806, his rival, William Pitt, died. They passed away within a few months of each other, and lie together in Westminster Abbey, hard by the scene of their many struggles.



To the month of January belongs Francis Bacon, who was born on the 22nd. Posterity finds it an unpleasant task to join in the same thoughts the man who deserted his friends in the hour of their need, and used the highest office for the base ends of personal and financial aggrandisement, and the man who wrote the "Advancement of Learning" and the "Novum Organum." But Francis Bacon is not the only person whose practice has not always squared with the principles he taught to others. He died at Highgate in 1626.

To the same month belongs another philosopher, George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne. Born in 1685, he is remembered mainly for the system of philosophy associated with his name, which treats the exterior material world as existing only in the mind. Few now think of him as one of the first to feel deeply interested in the spiritual necessities of the heathen. He was the originator of a project for converting the savages of America through the agency of a college to be established at Bermuda.


"The Bible only is the religion of Protestants." The author of this oft-quoted and often misinterpreted saying was William Chillingworth, who died on January 30th, 1644. The sentence comes from his chief work, "The Religion of Protestants a Safe Way to Salvation." Chillingworth, who was born in 1602, and educated at Oxford, fell under the influence of Fisher, Laud's great opponent in the controversy with Rome, and was received into the Roman Church. But his mind was soon unsettled again, and Laud, his godfather, brought him back once more to the Church of England. He returned to Oxford, and gave himself to the defence of Protestantism. Chillingworth was a devoted Royalist, and saw service on the King's side in the Civil War. He died at Chichester, and was buried in the cathedral.

A contemporary of Chillingworth, born on January 25th, 1627, deserves also to be remembered in this place. Robert Boyle was the son of the great Earl of Cork, a conspicuous figure in the Stuart times. Educated at Eton, he settled down at Stalbridge in Dorsetshire to the study of natural philosophy. He found a place amongst the chief men of science of his day, and became one of the originators of the Royal Society. His foundation of the Boyle Lectures "for proving the Christian religion against Atheists, Deists, Pagans, Jews, and Mohammedans," was a witness, no doubt, to the mental struggles through which he himself had passed. He was, however, an active layman, full of good works, and one of the early friends of foreign missions. Boyle died in 1691, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.



(Photo: Walery, Ltd., Regent Street, W.)

On the thirteenth of the month, in the year 1838, died Lord Chancellor Eldon. He was one of a family of sixteen, the son of a Newcastle coal-fitter. He also might have been a coal-fitter, but his elder brother was at Oxford, on the way to becoming Lord Stowell. To him John Scott was sent, and the younger son, like the elder, used his Oxford chances well. He made a runaway marriage, and at one time seemed likely to take holy orders; but, helped by their parents, the young couple came to London. John Scott, after some waiting, made his mark in the Court of Chancery, and then went steadily on to the Woolsack. In politics, an unbending Tory, he distrusted all reform. But he was a good lawyer, though harassed by a capacity for doubting and the love of an "if."



(Photo: Barraud, Oxford Street, W.)

To the month of January belongs the establishment of the Hospital Sunday Fund. From the year 1869 to the year 1872 the late Dr. James Wakley, editor of the Lancet, urged the establishment of such a fund; but it was not until January 16th, 1873, that the meeting which gave birth to the movement was held in the Mansion House. Sir Sidney Waterlow was Lord Mayor that year, and he became the first treasurer and president of the fund.

There are several anniversaries in the month of January which have a peculiar interest for the supporters of foreign missions. On January 16th, 1736, the Rev. John Wesley was appointed by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel a missionary for Georgia. On January 9th, 1752, the Rev. T. Thompson, the first missionary sent to West Africa, landed at Fort Gambia. On January 1st, 1861, the heroic Bishop C. F. Mackenzie was consecrated in the cathedral at Capetown, the first bishop for Central Africa. There is no more pathetic story in the history of foreign missions than the account of his short episcopate. He was the first bishop consecrated in the Colonies for a region outside the limits of the British Empire.






By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.




"I have bad news for you, Anthony," said Lady Jane Trevithick, when the butler had at last closed the door behind him, and mother and son were left together.

"Not very bad, I trust, mother?"

"It is about your poor Uncle Wilton. I did not bother you with it till you had had your dinner. He is ill."

"Ill? What's the matter with him?"

"A very serious collapse, I'm afraid. The last letter said he was unconscious. You'll have to go to him, Anthony, I suppose."

"His state is not dangerous? Surely not, or you would not have delayed about telling me?"

"There is no immediate fear," said Lady Jane coldly. "I have only known of his illness a few days. If you had not been coming, I should have wired to you, of course. But since you were coming, I didn't see the use of it. The doctor said that everything was being done."

"Poor old Uncle Wilton. He is alone and ill, then?"

"He is always alone, so I do not see that that fact adds anything to his being ill."

"Of course, I must go to him. I didn't want to, though. Not just now."

He looked up at his mother's handsome face, almost as though he longed to find some tenderness in it; but there was none. Lady Jane, a superb figure in her brocade and diamonds, was calmly waving her fan to and fro, as if no such things as illness or loneliness or death existed in the world.

"You won't rush away, headlong? You can spare a day or two to me—and to Kitty?" She smiled frostily. "Kitty has been looking forward to your coming, Anthony."

"It is very good of Lady Kitty," he said, contracting his eyebrows in a frown. "She is still with you, then?"

"She is good enough to brighten up my loneliness, dear child. I don't know what I should do without Kitty."

"You seem to get on well together."

Again his fingers drummed impatiently.

"She is a dear child to me," said Lady Jane, her face becoming almost warm. "I wish she had been my daughter, really."

"You would rather have her than your son, mother?"

"You have never given me any trouble, Anthony, but you are more your father's child than mine."

"Some women would have loved me all the more," said the boy, again frowning heavily.

He took a cigar and lit it. Then he said, with apparent carelessness—

"It was good of Lady Kitty to go out to-night. I suppose she thought we would have things to talk about after nearly six months of absence."

"Oh, dear, no," said the mother. "It was an old engagement, that was all. Kitty knows I'm not sentimental."

"Except where she is concerned."

"I shall think you are jealous, Anthony," and as she spoke the half-softened expression momentarily lit her face.

"Of whom, mother?"


"Not of your mother, Anthony."

The young man again made an impatient movement.

"You are not interested in my six months of absence."

"Among savages, my poor Anthony."

"They are not the least bit in the world savages, mother. They are very charming people."

"I daresay, but who are they?"

"Mr. Graydon—and his family."

"Oh, I didn't know he had a family. Of course, he was married before he sold out. He married beneath him. It was something rather disgraceful, I think. Afterwards—he went under."

"I am sure he did nothing disgraceful, mother. He would be no more capable of it than—my father. Besides, I have seen Mrs. Graydon's picture; it hangs over his study mantelpiece. She was a lovely young woman, and very distinctly a lady."

Lady Jane yawned.

"Indeed! I am not interested in Mr. Graydon's family affairs. I know he married beneath him."

"Mother, why do you detest Graydon so much?"

At the point-blank question a dark flush rose to Lady Jane's cheek.

"I am not aware that I detest him. You are like your father, always making absurd friendships, and jumping to absurd conclusions."

"I am glad to be like my father."

She said nothing, and he went on, "Yes, of course, I must go to uncle at once. If I go to Liverpool to-morrow night, I should get a boat on Thursday. Yet I did not want to go now."

His mother glanced over her shoulder at him. There was an expectancy in her face which brightened and softened it.

"No, surely. Why, you haven't yet even seen Kitty. She will be vexed that she was out."

"I wasn't thinking of Lady Kitty."

"Oh!" and her face stiffened again. "I don't profess to understand the young men of the present generation."

"Mother," said the young man—and he blushed like a girl—"tell me plainly: how much truth is there in what you are always suggesting, that Lady Kitty's affections are involved where I am concerned?"

"What do you mean, Anthony? It is a question you should ask Kitty yourself. You are not afraid of the answer, surely?"

"I hope she cares nothing for me."

"You hope!" cried Lady Jane incredulously.

"Yes," said her son doggedly. "It is a disgustingly foppish thing for a man to have to say; but I hope it——"

"Are you mad, Anthony?"

"Not that I know, mother. You have always suggested a marriage between us, and have behaved as if there were some such understanding, but it has been entirely your doing. I was a young idiot not to have put my foot on it long ago, but worse than that I have not been."

"You will not dare to play with Kitty."

His mother had stood up and faced him, and her eyes blazed at him.

"I play with no lady," said her son, meeting her glance steadily. "I have fetched and carried for Kitty, because she was always here, and a woman—and young and pretty perhaps; I have never said a word of love to her."

"You have allowed it to be understood; and if you play her false now, you will kill her. You know how delicate she is. She is dearer to me than you are, ten thousand times over."

The young man bowed stiffly.

"I daresay, but that is no reason why you should persuade me that your will is, or has been, or ever will be, mine."

"Kitty's money would make you very rich."

"That would be the last reason, mother."

"If you brought me Kitty for a daughter, I should love you."

"I have grown used to doing without your love."

Her eyes blazed at him again.

"There is someone else, I suppose?"

"There is someone else," he repeated after her.

"Not someone you have met over there?"


"I thought ill would come of it; but you cared no more for my wishes than your father before you. Who is it?"

"I am sorry you are so bitter, mother. It is Mr. Graydon's daughter."

"Archibald Graydon's daughter!"

She put her hand to her throat with an hysterical gesture which he had never before observed in her. Her face was livid with anger, and for a moment its expression shocked him.

"You are going to jilt my Kitty for that man's daughter!" she cried, when she had recovered her power of speech.

"There is no question of jilting Lady Kitty," he answered steadily. "But I am certainly going to marry Mr. Graydon's daughter, Pamela."

"Some wild savage."

"A beautiful and gentle girl."

"You will be beggars together."

"Not necessarily. We shall not be very rich, but that is another thing."

Lady Jane turned from him, and gazed[204] at the fire. For several minutes there was silence between them. Then she spoke again without looking at him.

"You will go your own way, I suppose—only give me time to soften the blow it will be to Kitty."

He would have spoken, but she lifted her hand with an imperious gesture, and went on—

"Kitty loves you. Why she should I do not know, but, most unfortunately, it is true. I shall never speak of it again after this. Give me time, I beg you."

There was something imploring in her gesture.

"You can have plenty of time," he said. "But even yet I cannot believe she loves me. A woman's love is not given on such slight grounds. Why, I have never pressed her hand even."

"You know nothing about it. Would it have made any difference to you if you had believed she loved you?"


"You will not dare to play with Kitty."—p. 203.

"None. I love once and for ever."

"If I believed that to be true, I should be sorry for you."

"It is true, mother."

She waved him off contemptuously.

"It is true of a few people in this world, but you are not one of them."

"Mere assertion is nothing."

"Are you engaged to this—this young woman?" She brought the words out with a jerk.

"In honour, yes; formally, no."

"Ah, then you will go away, and I shall have my own time for telling Kitty."

"Yes, if you wish for it."

"You will not engage yourself to the girl till Kitty knows?"

"You are exacting, mother. I have to think of Miss Graydon too."

"You can think of her all your life. It is my Kitty that is to be deserted and betrayed. You don't know what you are doing."

"Mother, it is some mania of yours. Desertion and betrayal are strong words."

"Let them pass. Technically, I suppose you are free from reproach."

He made a weary gesture, and let her speech pass without answer.

Suddenly the silence of the room was broken by the frou-frou of a silk dress in the corridor outside.

"Ah, here is my Kitty," said Lady Jane. "Are you cold, my darling? and was your party pleasant? Come to the fire."

A young lady, slight and brilliantly fair, had entered the room languidly.

"So you have come, Anthony," she said, extending a white hand to him. "I hope you had a pleasant journey."

He helped her to take off her cloak, and she seated herself, as if by right, in the most comfortable chair in the room. The fire leaped and sparkled in the grate and brought millions of rays from the diamonds in her hair and on her neck.

"How cosy you are here!" she said. "It was a horrid party—so dull! That is why I came home early."

"You would like some tea?" said Lady Jane.


"Yes, please. Oh, thank you," as Anthony rang the bell. "It is pleasant to see you home again."


Lady Jane stooped and kissed her tenderly.—p. 206.

"He is leaving us very soon," said Lady Jane, and her tones were again cold and measured. "He feels it his duty to go to nurse his Uncle Wilton."

"Why?" said the young woman, lifting her eyebrows. "Is there no one at Washington to look after him? Or is the lot of a diplomat so friendless?"

Anthony frowned at her tone.

"He is very ill, and he is my father's only brother. My place is with him."

"You are a self-sacrificing young man. First, you bury yourself among Irish savages; now, at a moment's notice, you are off to nurse the sick. I should think a valet would do quite as well."

"Here is your tea, Lady Kitty," the young man said coldly.

"By the way, I sat beside such a pleasant old man at dinner, Sir Rodney Durant. He asked me about you, and I told him of your exile. I ought to apologise for calling your hosts savages, by the way, for he told me a most interesting story about your tutor—Graydon, isn't it? It seems old Lord Downside cut him off with an angry penny because he married some friendless little beauty. Scandal said the old lord himself had pretensions. And then, to spite his heir, he married his cook or someone, and has a wretchedly delicate little boy of thirteen or thereabouts. Why didn't you tell me, Auntie Janie, or did you not know?"

"I never take notice of gossip, Kitty."

"But is it gossip? You ought to know, for your husband and this man were friends. To hear Sir Rodney, the man Graydon was a sort of hero of romance."

"An old man's stories, my dear."


But Sir Anthony's face had brightened.

"Graydon is a splendid fellow," he said. "I am sure he is all Sir Rodney said." And his smile at Lady Kitty was now full of friendliness.

"Well, I'm sure it's nice to hear of such people nowadays," said Lady Kitty, yawning, "I thought they only existed in books. But such an interesting story, Auntie Janie! If you knew of it, why didn't you tell me, instead of treating the man as a kind of bucolic savage?"

Lady Jane stooped and kissed her tenderly.

"Go to bed, my darling," she said; "and don't sit up romancing. You must have your beauty-sleep, you know."

"Bother my beauty-sleep!" said the young lady irreverently.



The Vandaleur function was over, and for a long time to come the young women of that part must feel a certain flatness in their days, as one does when an event eagerly expected is over and done with.

For the sisters the function had been a series of triumphs, to all appearance. They had been, as Miss Spencer put it, "dressed as befitted their position." They had not had, after all, to call in Mrs. Cullen's Nancy, for on the Christmas Eve a delightful box had come for each of the débutantes, with Miss Spencer's love.

Pamela's contained a rather short-waisted frock of lilac silk, with a fichu of chiffon tied softly round the shoulders.

Sylvia's gown, made somewhat similarly, was of white satin, and her innocent face and golden head rose out of it a vision of loveliness.

It would be hard indeed to say which was the most beautiful girl that night; but Sylvia held her little court, or rather augmented it during the evening, while Pamela's, somehow, seemed to melt and fall away.

Miss Spencer found a comfortable seat for herself in one of the long galleries after dinner, and remained there, while one or another of her old cronies and admirers came up to talk with her.

She was almost as great a success in her way as Sylvia, of whom she caught glimpses now and again, waving her immense fan where she stood in the centre of the gallery, and playing with the conversation about her much as one plays at battledore and shuttlecock.

"The child will do," said Miss Spencer to herself, when Sir John Beaumont, an old admirer of hers, had gone to fetch her some refreshment. "Wonderful how she makes all those men look so delighted with her and themselves! It reminds me of a girl who could do that. Who was it? And what happened afterwards?... Ah! Pamela," she said, speaking aloud, "so you have come to see what I am doing."

"To stay with you awhile, Miss Spencer," said Pamela, creeping into the shadowy corner beside her.

"And where are all the beaux, my dear? It is not as if your heart was elsewhere."

Pamela smiled a wan little smile.

"I'm tired, Miss Spencer. I can't keep it up like Sylvia."

"Hoity-toity, tired! No, you can't be tired. It will be years before there is another event like this. Let me call Mr. Wandesforde over there to take you to hear this Dublin singer, Madame Squallini, or whatever the woman's name is. All the people have gone trooping off to the music-room to hear her."

"Please don't, dear Miss Spencer, I would so much rather sit here by you. I have heard a great many fine singers already."

"Why, what's come to you, Pam? You used to be as full of fun as Sylvia. Now you are like a girl whose lover has gone away—I know how such a one would feel—and has never come back to her."

Sir John Beaumont returned at this moment.

"I don't know whether your father or your sister is in the greatest demand, Miss Graydon," he said. "I heard peals of laughter as I passed the sitting-room, and, looking in, I saw your father delighting them. He's a charming fellow, upon my word. He's wasted on rusticity."

"Indeed, Sir John, I suppose the rustics ought all to be plain and stupid," said Miss Spencer.

"Ah, my dear lady," murmured the old gentleman, "that would be to do without you."

"Oh, I daresay; you always had a pretty speech ready. And what about Pam here?"

"Miss Pamela belongs to the country, as lilies and roses do."

"She likes to bloom in the shade," said Miss Spencer, a bit irritably. "What do you think of a girl who prefers to sit in the corner rather than hold a court as her younger sister is doing?"

"It's cruel to the young fellows, Miss Pamela—that's what it is."

"It isn't as if she were an engaged girl."

"Ah! that would be rough on the young fellows, before they had more than a chance of seeing her."

Pamela listened to this brisk interchange between her elders with a faint smile. She[207] certainly looked tired, and as the evening went on she held her quiet place by Miss Spencer, who was very animated, and talked enough to cover her silence.

Once she had realised that Pamela was really tired and wanted to sit still, her kindness of heart was aroused. She even waved off the swains who came at intervals to coax Pamela out of her corner.

At last the evening, which Pamela had felt endless, was really drawing to an end.

"You poor dears," said Sylvia, standing over them, and still waving her great fan, "I'm afraid I've been keeping you out of your beds an unconscionable time."

"Hear her!" cried Miss Spencer. "You'd think we were her grandmothers."

"Only Pam," said Sylvia. "I've been watching you. You didn't seem to find it dull."

Miss Spencer laughed, well pleased.

"I'm afraid we're much of a muchness," she said; "but your sister here, I'm disappointed in her. I think she has a headache, poor child. It isn't as if she had a lover now."

Pamela did not answer, but walked meekly by Miss Spencer's side, with Sir John Beaumont murmuring his old-world compliments in her ear.

Sylvia went on before, surrounded by a phalanx of black coats, which escorted her to Miss Spencer's carriage.

Pam listened to all the gay good-nights with a throbbing head and an extreme flatness and dulness of spirit.

"Graydon'll be up all night," said Miss Spencer as they rolled away. "He enjoyed himself immensely and added to the enjoyment of others. Your father's well-fitted to shine in society, girls. 'Tis a pity, as Beaumont says, he should be shut up here."

"Didn't he propose Mr. Vandaleur's health beautifully after dinner?" said Sylvia. "I sat where I could see him, and all the time he had a twinkle in his eye."

"He ought to be in Parliament himself," said Miss Spencer emphatically. "Vandaleur isn't worth a rush."

"But what was the matter with Pam?" asked Sylvia. "Why, Pam's asleep!"


Her kindness of heart was aroused.

"Never mind your sister, minx, but tell me about your conquests. Which of them did you like best?"

"Let me see," said Sylvia. "There was Captain Vavasour—from the barracks. He asked leave to call."

"Did he, indeed, and what did you say?"

"I told him yes, if he'd chance finding me unemployed. I'd so much to do feeding the fowls, and washing the dogs, and keeping the pony clean, let alone my household duties."

"Why, you've none, except eating the jam—and that's a pleasure. What did he say?"


"He said he'd be enchanted to help me at any of these occupations."

"That was nice of him. What about the other lad from the barracks?"

"Mr. Baker? Oh, I like him. He's game for anything. He's coming ratting with Pat one day. He has an English terrier, but I told him he wouldn't be a patch on Pat."

"You talked of ratting in that frock?"

"Yes, he was delighted. He confessed it was a passion with him."

"I saw you talking to the Master. He's a fine-looking fellow, but not a patch on Tom Charteris."


"Wake up, sleepy-head!"

"He asked me why I didn't hunt. I said I often thought of doing it on Neddy, only he was a buck-jumper. He said that wouldn't matter, except that all the world would be riding to hounds on donkeys presently and taking the ditches backward. He, too, is coming to call. They're all coming to call. I should like to see Bridget's face when she's expected to provide afternoon tea. If they keep ringing at the door, she won't pretend not to hear them; she has the excuse that the bell's broken. Then they'll have to go away in tears. I told that young St. Quintin, the Eton boy, so. He said, after he'd done crying, he'd come in by the window. I really believe he would. He's so cheeky."

"But you don't tell me which you liked best. I daresay they all thought you no end of a minx."

"Let me see," said Sylvia, with a dispassionate air. "Why, Lord Glengall, of course."

"Glengall! with his hatchet face and his forty odd years!"

"I think he has a dear face; his eyes are just like Pat's."

"I wouldn't think of Glengall—that is, if I were free."

"Ah, you see, I don't care seriously for boys. I like them well enough to talk to; but Glengall one can take seriously."

"He didn't join your court, though."

"No, he wouldn't. I actually went up to have a little chat with him, and he said, as if I were four years old: 'Now you must go and talk to the boys, Miss Sylvia. I don't want a dozen duels on my hands.'"

"I daresay he thought you a forward minx."

"I don't think he would. Only he would take some persuading to believe that I really preferred talking to him. He stood in a corner then, and watched Pam out of his nice, kind, faithful eyes."

"He wouldn't have any nonsense in his head about Pam? You don't mean that?"

"Oh, I don't think he's in love with Pam. He'd look just the same at me if he thought I was tired or melancholy. I think I'll try it."

"Let him alone, minx. But here we are," as the carriage stopped. "Wake up, sleepy-head!"—to Pam—"you can get to bed as fast as you like now."

But even when Pam was in bed, Sylvia still paced up and down, waving her big fan.

"I'm too excited to sleep, you old dunderhead," she said. "I wish it was all to come over again."

"You will be tired in the morning, Sylvia."

"No, I shan't; I shall be as fresh as possible. I shall dream it all over again. There, wait till I've brushed my hair, and I'll let you go to sleep. Not that I can understand your wanting to sleep; you were just as keen about this as I was."


"Yes," said Pam, languidly.

"I'm downright disappointed in you. Don't you know I'd have enjoyed it all twice as much if you were enjoying it too? I'm glad papa was there; the glances of enjoyment he sent me from the high table were exhilarating. Wasn't it nice the way all those little round tables were set out? And didn't Vandaleur junior do his duty well as a host? By the way, wasn't it low of Trevithick not to come back after all?"

"I daresay there was some good reason."

"Then he ought to have said there was. It is very uncivil to papa, too, not to return on the date arranged, and not to write."

"He couldn't mean to be uncivil," said Pamela, faintly.

"I'll tell you what. If I hadn't eaten those old sweets he sent me at Christmas I'd fire them back at his head: wouldn't you his old violets if they weren't dead and gone?"

Pamela touched in her dark corner a little basket of withered violets, which, for reasons best known to herself, she had taken to bed with her.

"You are too impulsive, Sylvia," she said, stung out of her silence. "Why should Sir Anthony be uncivil or unkind? I know he meant to return to-night."

"So I heard him say," said Sylvia, cynically; "but I never mind those boys, Pam; they've no ballast."

"Oh, Sylvia! I'm sure Sir Anthony has plenty of ballast. There must be some explanation, and when we have heard it you'll be ashamed of your rash judgment."

"Not I, for if it isn't true of him, it's true of most youths of his age. Do you think his mother's at the bottom of it, Pam?"

"How should I know, Sylvia? What makes you think of her?"

"Well, from something he let fall one day, I guessed that she didn't want him to come here. Then he showed me her photograph in his album. She looked chock-full of pride and insolence. I believe a woman who looked like that would do anything."

"I should think Sir Anthony would know his own mind in the matter."

"I daresay, but she may have been up to some mischief. And talking of mothers makes me think of Glengall."

"Why should it, Sylvia?"

"Well, there was that old mother of his. Think of his hard years, poor dear! No prosperity would wipe out the traces. He is as anxious-looking as Pat, and Pat is the very image of Micky Morrissy, who is always six months in arrear with his rent, and expects a notice of eviction any day. I say, Pam"—suddenly—"would you marry Glengall?"


"Would you? I know he's nearly as old as dad, and all that—but would you?"

"No, Sylvia."

"Well, then, I would. But he likes you better than me."

"He likes us both as his friend's little girls."

"I know; he'd never think of us in any other light. Still, if he liked me best, I'd make him think."

"How, Sylvia?"

"Why, I'd just ask him to marry me."

"He'd think you wanted the gold."

"That he wouldn't. It shows how little you know of him."

"Well, then, other people would."

"We shouldn't care about that."

"We? Who?"

"Glengall and I."

"Sylvia, you're talking as if you were really in earnest."

"So I am, but he likes you better than me. You ought to marry him, Pam."

But, to Sylvia's dismay, Pamela suddenly burst into tears.

"I shall never marry anyone," she cried amid her sobs.

"You poor dear old duffer, I was advising you for your good. But you're tired out. There, go asleep. I shan't take you to any more functions."

And Sylvia blew out the candle and jumped into bed. But Pamela, with the withered violets close to her, cried herself to sleep.



"There's a horse-fair at Kilmacredden on Saturday," said Lord Glengall. "I was thinking you might find time to come along with me and see what's to be picked up."

"It isn't time I'd be wanting," said Mr. Graydon, "and you know it isn't inclination."

"Very well, then, you'll come. We'll have to make an early start and give the mare her time over the mountain. Will four o'clock do?"

"For me, yes. Will you get up on Saturday morning and see that there's a cup of tea ready for me by four o'clock?"

This to Sylvia, who was demurely making tea at a side-table.

"You know I will. Next to being up all night I like to get up before daybreak."

Lord Glengall broke into a slow smile as he turned to look at the speaker. He sat astride a small chair, with his chin resting on the back. He still wore the frieze coat which he had on when he entered; and[210] with his clean-shaven, melancholy face and deep-set eyes, he looked like nothing so much as a hard-pressed mountain farmer, just as Sylvia had described him. Yet the smile was one of great sweetness, and the mingled simplicity and shrewdness of the face were far from being unattractive.


Lady Jane looked a little flurried.

"'Tis well for you, Graydon," he said, "to have little girls to do the like for you."

"You must marry, Glengall, and be properly taken care of," said Mr. Graydon.

"I'm past marrying," said Lord Glengall; "I leave that to the girls and boys."

"They'd make foolish marriages," said Sylvia, "if they were left to themselves."

Lord Glengall smiled more broadly.

"'Tis a prudent little woman you're owning, Graydon," he said. "You should turn match-maker, Miss Sylvia."

"For you, Lord Glengall?"

"I'll go bail you'd find no one to have me, Miss Sylvia."

"If I do will you entertain the proposal, Lord Glengall?"

"Provided she's not too old and will marry me for myself."

"I think I can find her for you, Lord Glengall."

"Come, Sylvia, give Glengall his tea, and don't be talking nonsense," said Mr. Graydon, laughing.

"Here it is for you, Lord Glengall, just as you like it—hot, strong and sweet."

"Thank you, Miss Sylvia; it's as good as ever I made for myself in the Bush."

The two men fell to talking of business matters, while Sylvia manipulated the teacups. Now and again she looked towards the door. Mary was finishing her letter to Mick in the chilly room upstairs, and Pamela had taken the dogs for a walk.

"If they don't come soon," muttered Sylvia over her teacup, "this tea won't be fit to drink, and Bridget's in no humour to make more."

A rat-tat at the hall-door knocker interrupted her meditations.

"Some of those young fellows from the barracks, Sylvia," suggested her father.

"It can't be," said Sylvia. "Mr. Baker[211] was here yesterday, and Mr. De Quincy on Tuesday, and Captain Vavasour's coming to-morrow."

"Lady Jane Trevithick," announced Bridget, flinging the door open.

"Oh, dear!" muttered Sylvia; "and it's one of Bridget's bad days when she won't wear an apron. Now, where has the woman dropped from?"

Lady Jane swept across the room magnificent in purple and sables.

"How do you do?" said Mr. Graydon, going to meet her. "This is a pleasure. My daughter, Lady Jane. My friend, Glengall. No, don't sit there. There's a dog in that chair."

For a self-possessed woman Lady Jane looked a little flurried. Without meeting her host's gaze, she took the chair he handed her, and turned it so that she sat with her back to the light. She bowed in answer to his introductions, and, having seated herself, spoke in a voice which she tried hard to keep under control.

"I find myself unexpectedly almost a neighbour of yours, Mr. Graydon, and I did myself the pleasure of calling."

"You are very good, Lady Jane."

He looked at her with kindly scrutiny. Perhaps he was trying to find in the middle-aged face the features of the proud and stately girl who had married his dearest friend years ago. If so, the darkness in which she sat baffled him.

"I am staying with Mr. Verschoyle," she went on; "I suppose you count him a neighbour?"

"Yes, as country neighbours go. I have met him sometimes on the Bench. I was not aware you knew him."

Lady Jane did not say that she had disinterred an old and almost forgotten invitation in order to lead up to this visit.

"I knew him years ago," she said. "But, by the way, have you heard from my boy?"

"Not directly—nothing since your Ladyship's letter."

"That is careless of Anthony! But he is nursing his uncle, you know, and I daresay is finding time for a little mild amusement as well."

"Trevithick is no better?"

"No, I am sorry to say. There is no saying when he will be better, or if he will ever be really better. My son thinks he ought to stay with him, however."

"I am sure he is right," said Mr. Graydon, heartily.

"And this is—Pamela, I suppose?" said Lady Jane, turning her head with forced graciousness to Sylvia, who was bringing her her tea.

"No; Pam will be here presently. This is Sylvia, my youngest girl."

"I am very much indebted to you all, Mr. Graydon, for making my son so happy. He was grieved not to return to you, I know."

Still her eyes never met those of her host.

Seeing that he was practically ignored in the conversation, Lord Glengall got up awkwardly, and with a bow to the visitor, and an affectionate nod to Sylvia, took himself off.

"Ugh!" said Lady Jane to herself; "he smells of the stables! And to think of Archie Graydon coming down to associate with such bucolics!"

Mary came in a little later and was introduced. Then came Pam. The February air had blown a fitful flame into her cheeks, and when she entered the drawing-room, not knowing there was a visitor, Lady Jane's name blew the flame higher, and then extinguished it altogether.

Her father watched her curiously, as she stood looking gravely down into Lady Jane's face. The lady, who could be gracious when she liked, held Pamela's hand a minute, and there was a caress in her voice as she spoke to her.

"I can't feel," she said to Mr. Graydon, "that your girls are strangers to me. I have heard such charming things about them from my son."

"Well, indeed," said Mr. Graydon, to whom belief in the goodwill of all the world came easily, "I should hope that we need not be strangers to a Trevithick. I have never forgotten my love for Gerald, Lady Jane."

"He was devoted to you," said the widow.

No one could have supposed from Lady Jane's manner that the visit was a painful and difficult ordeal to her. Yet, when she was seated in her carriage again, and had driven out of sight of Mr. Graydon, bowing bare-headed on the doorstep, she drew a sigh of actual physical relief.

Mr. Graydon returned to the drawing-room, rubbing his hands together.

"What a charming woman!" he said, coming up to the fire.

"I call her a cat!" said Sylvia, concisely.

"Oh, Sylvia!" cried Mary Graydon and her father simultaneously; but Pamela said nothing. Lady Jane, for all her empressement, had not made Pamela believe in her; indeed, Lady Jane was not sufficiently an actress to deceive any but the most simple people. It was new to her to play a part—to pretend fondness and friendship where she felt arrogant dislike; and, to give her her due, she had played it badly.

The day after Mr. Graydon had gone to the horse-fair with Lord Glengall, he came out of the study as Pamela was going languidly upstairs, and called her in. He put her in a comfortable chair by the fire, and then stood leaning on the dusty mantelpiece, and regarding her with a wistful and tender gaze.


"Not well, Pam?" he said at last.

"A little out-of-sorts," she answered, dropping her eyes before his gaze.

"When did it begin, Pam—this being out-of-sorts? Up to Christmas I thought you were blooming like a wild rose."

Pamela made a movement as if to escape.

"One is not always just the same," she said; "and you fancy things, dad."

"Glengall noticed it, too. Don't go, child—we haven't finished our conversation."

"Lord Glengall is as fatherly to us as you are. He is always watching us like a mother-hen over a brood of ducklings."

Pamela spoke with an attempt at her old sparkle, but her face retained the cold dulness which had fallen upon it of late, and which made the father's heart ache to see it.

"Glengall is a good fellow, Pam," he said, wistfully.

"He's a dear," said Pam, in her listless way.

"A girl might do worse than marry Glengall."

"That's what Sylvia says."

"Sylvia's a wise child. And what do you think, Pam?"

"I?—I haven't thought about it."

"Could you think of it, Pam?"

Pamela looked at him incredulously.

"Poor Glengall would like to marry you, Pam. He's troubled about you, poor fellow. He'd like to take you away, and show you all the beautiful world, and lavish his wealth upon you. Could you do it, Pam?"

To his consternation, Pam put down her head on the study-table, and burst into tears.

"There, Pam, there! I didn't mean to distress you, and I know Glengall wouldn't for the world. I only told you because I thought you ought to know. He has no hope at all himself—and would never ask you, I am sure. Only he is so good. I should know a little girl of mine was safe with him."

Pam still sobbed, with her face buried in the dusty papers.

"There, there, child!" said her father, "don't think about it any more. Poor Glengall! Of course, I know he's too old, and you are only a child; and he'd be the first to say the young should marry the young."

"I don't want to marry anyone," sobbed Pam. "Why can't I join a sisterhood and be at peace?"

Mr. Graydon passed his hand fondly over the rumpled curls.

"You'd hate it, Pam, that's what you would. You'd come back again in a week."

"I hate the world!" cried Pam. "The world is so cruel."

"Poor little girl!" said her father wistfully, though he smiled at the same time.

"Pam," he said suddenly, "is there—is there anyone else?"

"There isn't," sobbed Pam, "and if there was, I wouldn't tell you."

"I only asked, Pam, because I thought I might be able to help you."

"No one can help me," cried Pam, "except by letting me alone."

"Very well, then," said her father patiently. "I'll let you alone. Only dry your eyes, and be comforted. I'm afraid you'll have to wash your face, Pam. You've been flooding my old tattered Euripides with your tears, and you've carried off half the dust from him. There, child, be comforted. I won't say another word about Glengall. He's just like myself, poor fellow, only anxious to take care of you. Sure, I know you're a child, and ought to have your freedom for years yet."

"I wish her mother were here now," said Mr. Graydon, as he closed the door behind his daughter.

He looked up at the pure and innocent face of his wife's portrait.

"I wish I had your wisdom, darling," he muttered. "It is so hard for a man to deal with little girls. And, ah! what they lost when you went to heaven!"

He sat before his study-fire deep in thought. Then he got up and paced the room to and fro, with his brows knitted and his hands behind his back.

"I'll do it," he said, half-aloud, at last. "I expect money difficulties would really stand in the way. I know Trevithick died poor, and Lady Jane had little of her own. The lad must love her if she loves him. And it will smooth the way. At worst I shall only suffer a rebuff. I can bear it for the sake of Mary's children. And poor Molly too! Why need she spend her girlhood fretting for her lover when a little money would make things straight?"

He sat down and his face cleared. Again he looked up at the benignant eyes of the portrait.

"I am doing the best I can for them, Mary," he said, speaking aloud as if to a living person.

That evening he announced his intention of taking a run to London during the following week. Such an unusual thing in their quiet life provoked an outcry of surprise from his daughters.

"I may be an old fossil," he said, "but I'm not a limpet attached to a rock. Perhaps I'm tired of you all. Perhaps I'm starved for a walk down Piccadilly, or a visit to a good concert hall. Perhaps—perhaps."

But he gave them no explanation after all of his reason for going.

One event crowded upon another. The next[213] morning, at breakfast, Mr. Graydon drew out a large, boldly addressed envelope from the post-bag.

"Now, who can this be from?" he said, putting it down and looking at it curiously. "'London, W.' Now, who'd be writing to me?"

"Better open it and see," said Sylvia, daintily chipping the top off her egg.

Mr. Graydon broke the seal and read it.

"It's from Lady Jane Trevithick," he said soberly; "a very civil letter. She's sorry she wasn't able to call again; and—and—she wants to know if one of you girls—she mentions Pam, I see—will go over and stay with her. It is very kind of Lady Jane."

He pushed the letter towards Pam, who took it unsteadily, and held it before her face as she read.

"I'd rather not go," said Pam, putting down the letter. "I can't go—I've no frocks."

"I should like you to go, Pam," said her father, wistfully. "The invitation is kindly meant, and Lady Jane moves in very good society, and is influential. Why should my girls be buried here? As for the frocks—I can spare ten pounds—I really can manage that. How much can be done with ten pounds, Mary?"


"Poor little girl!" said her father wistfully.

"A good deal. Oh! I hope Nancy Cullen is still at home! We'll go round after breakfast and see."

"Must I go?" said Pamela.

"I think you ought to go, Pam," said her father; "and we will travel together. I shall wait for you till you can be ready."

In his heart Mr. Graydon thought that the invitation was a sort of guarantee for his daughter's happiness. If Lady Jane had not known or suspected that her son was in love with Pamela, and had not been prepared to accept her, why should she have asked her on this visit?

"I used to think her a proud and cold girl in the old days," he said to himself; "but, of course, the girl of my dreams was so different! After all, I daresay Gerald made no such mistake as I used to fear."

"You will go then, Pam?" he said aloud. "The change will do you good; and you will enjoy yourself."

"Very well," said Pamela, listlessly; "I would rather be here, but if you wish I will go."




Knowledge Of The Future.


By the Lord Bishop of Ripon.

"Do not interpretations belong to God?"—Genesis xl. 8.


The words were spoken by one of those men who have moulded the history of the world. When he spoke them he was a prisoner, forgotten in his misfortune and blameless of offence. He was passing through a time of trial. Later he was destined to emerge into a position of much power and usefulness.

Joseph had shown from the first a character and qualities which distinguished him from his brethren. They were men with little or no thought beyond their daily work. In the open fields, watching their flocks and enjoying, after their day's task, physical repose, they found enough to satisfy them. He possessed a soul which went out beyond such a level of life; he reached out to something higher. Like the great French preacher, he could not leave his soul amid mere earthly things. In his brethren's eyes he was a dreamer. They were practical, and they had no sympathy with his dreams. He, meanwhile, was full of a wistful wonder, longing to find out the meaning of the strange visions which filled his soul. Life to him must be something more than eating, drinking, and tending sheep. No doubt a touch of egotism and personal ambition mingled with his dreams; this belonged to his youth; this, in time, would pass away. Life, with its stern and remorseless reality, would come to test him and his visions, proving what manner of man he was. Meanwhile, he was better with his dreams of the larger purpose and scope of life than his brethren, who were content with somewhat material gratification.

Time showed that he was no mere dreamer. The day came when the Prince of his people let him go free. The opportunity of large and noble service came to him; and he showed force, readiness of resource, sagacity, and practical vigour. His genius it was which mitigated misfortune and averted disaster. He foresaw and provided for the days of scarceness; he piloted Egypt through the bitter seven years of famine. His dreams were not the idle dreams of an empty mind; they were the visions of an energetic and finely tempered spirit. His gifts stood the strain of practical duty.

They had previously endured the[215] harder test of adversity, neglect, and inaction. There are powers which lose their bloom under the pressure of prosaic duties; there are powers which wither under the shadow of misfortune and obscurity. The trial which comes from neglect is, perhaps, the severer, since it is hard for men to believe in themselves when there is seemingly none else to believe in them. But in the darkness of those neglected days the genius of Joseph remained bright. His insight, his power of vision, was not dimmed in the prison. He entered into the sorrows of other men; he showed a sympathy with their difficulties; he strove to read for them and with them the meaning of their lives.

And the sustaining source of his powers breaks out into view in the words of our text: "Do not interpretations belong to God?"

We can realise the pathos of the question and the tried, yet unbroken, faith which it reveals. Joseph is trying to read the meaning of the dreams of his fellow-prisoners. Life, and the experiences of life, he assures them, are not meaningless. He will not forego his faith in the significance of life. We may not be able to explain all; but there is, nevertheless, a meaning in all. It is as though he said, "I too have known my visions—beautiful visions of life's triumphs and life's joys. They faded with my growing years; and instead of the achievements which I saw in my dreams, there came false accusation, imprisonment, and neglect; but though the golden light of those visions is gone, they were not meaningless. I wait still for the unfolding of their significance. Still I rely upon Him who will make all things plain—for do not interpretations belong unto Him?"

As we listen to the words, we feel how aptly they fit into our own lives.

We, like Joseph, have had our visions. We dreamed of the bright things, the noble achievements, the splendid triumphs which life would bring; but as life unfolded her stern sequences of reality, the golden lines of our dreams vanished, the splendid tints of the morning melted into the light of common day.

Or perhaps our dreams have not gathered round ourselves, but round others—Love, which sets her objects in such golden lights, that she sees visions for them brighter than ambitions can dream for itself.

It may be only the little child, whose prattle half-pleases, half-worries you; but you are delighted to be so worried to win such pleasure. The dear innocence of its winsome ways, its simpleness and quaint airs of sagacity, are perpetual fascinations. In their lives we live; and for them we see visions and dream dreams.

"Thou wert a vision of delight
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight,
A glimpse of heaven."

But the vision of delight fades. The promise which the vision gave seems to be denied its fulfilment.

It may be the young man, standing on the threshold of life, bearing himself with quietness of manner, but full of a happy gentleness and thoughtfulness towards others, and gifted with a sweet and rare conscientiousness in little things.

Or, again, it may be the man of maturer years, full of high and chivalrous impulses, ready like a knight of old to gird on his sword, and yearning to fill his life with worthy deeds, and yet blending, with all noble martial ardour, tender and generous thoughts for those who are dear, dearer than life, to his heart.

At this season—teeming with tender and sorrowful memories—visions such as these rush back upon our thoughts. The deep pathos and the sad tragedy of life speak to us out of such memories; for what golden dreams gathered round the heads of those who were so dear; and what sorrow is ours, when with the revolutions of the sun, the visions melt away; and all the hope, the promise, the expectation of achievement are exchanged for sorrow and solitude of heart. Then we too, like Joseph, find that our dreams can fade; we too encounter the gloomy days which succeed the bright morning of our hopes. We are imprisoned with sorrow; the iron enters into our soul; the bars of stern adversity shut out the cheerful sunlight of other days.

In such hours, when life, which seemed at one time so full of glorious meanings, droops into darkness and seems to grow cold and insignificant, our stay must be that of Joseph. Our trust must be in the living God. The vision seems to have lost its meaning. Life has become,[216] to our sorrow-stricken hearts, flat, stale profitless, and meaningless; but it is not so. There is One who can fulfil our best dreams and give back to us their lost meanings. "Do not interpretations belong to God?"

Our trust must be in Him, and in none else. True, there is often to be met with in life the easy chatterer who will take upon himself to explain everything for us. All things are easy to the man who has never faced mental anguish or heart-sorrow. He will not hesitate to interpret our dreams for us, but his pretensions are vain. The dream and the meaning of the dream are for us alone. Men may soothe us in our grief. Their kindness and their attempted sympathy may be welcome to us, as the faded bunch of flowers from a child's hot hand may be sweet and acceptable; but to read the meaning of the vision, and to explain it aright, to disclose its fulfilment, showing to us that nothing is vain and no vision wholly meaningless—to do all this belongs to God; for do not interpretations belong to Him? He alone can sustain our trust in the trials of life. He alone can give us back the visions which so soon vanished from our sight.

The power to realise this constitutes the difference between the secular and the spiritual disposition. In the view of one poet, man is but a compound of dust and tears. Life is but sorrow mingled with earthliness; but better and higher than Swinburne's thought is Wordsworth's teaching. The older poet has the nobler view. He will not let life sink down to a mere secular meaning; it is more than grief and earth. There is that in us which transcends the earth and can triumph over tears:

"Oh! joy that in our embers
Is something that doth live."

Into the world we came, but not as mere dust, to be mingled with tears. There was a breath of the Almighty which breathed upon us:

"With trailing clouds of glory did we come
From God, who is our home!"

The divine spark is ours. It kindles a light and a fire. It calls forth visions past all imagining. Our young men, by a Divine Spirit's help, may see visions, and our old men dream dreams. And these visions are not mere idle fancies, creations of our folly or of our ambition. True, there are foolish visions and empty dreams; but all visions are not foolish, nor are all dreams empty. Far more empty is the soul that has no visions, to whom no bright and noble outlook upon life's possibilities can ever come. This is what Shakespeare recognises. Theseus is the man of action. He has dealt with the hard prosaic work-a-day world. To him the visions of the poet or dramatist are alike empty imaginings. The grandest and the most foolish are alike only beautiful bubbles which will vanish with all their rich colourings into empty air. The work of the poor players, who labour in their foolish fashion to give him pleasure, is no worse and no better than that of the most finished actors. To him all ideas or visions are unpractical and unreal. He is a man of action, loving deeds and despising dreams.

There is a sort of virtue in this; but how secular it all is, how low and insignificant life becomes, if no noble ideas and no heavenly visions environ it! How vain its achievements, if there be no promised land and no divine fire to give light in the night season! And so Shakespeare lets us see that, while idle dreams are vain enough, yet that for a man to be wholly without them, and to be destitute of ideas and visions, is to be poor indeed.

The true idea of life lifts us above the secular plane and places us where the heavenly vision is possible, and where the Shekinah light of God's presence is ever visible—though seen now as cloud, and now as flame.

But for the full meaning of all the visions and experiences of life, we must wait. The vision is from God; the experience is from God; from Him will come the explanation. "Do not interpretations belong to God?" The vision was given us yesterday—we must wait for its interpretation; the meaning comes to-morrow.

It is in the spirit of this principle that our Lord spoke, "What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter." So at another time He spoke: "It is not for you to know the times and the seasons." There is a sweet interpreting "afterwards" of life's[217] bitter experience. "No chastening seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." Our faith carries us forward to that interpreting hereafter, when once we realise that interpretations belong to God.

Herein we are not different from Christ our Master. He had the vision of the world conquered, but the vision faded; and in its place came Gethsemane and Calvary, the loneliness and the cross. And yet afterwards came the interpretation. The vision, though it faded for a time, did not die out unfulfilled. The kingdoms of the world are becoming the kingdoms of the Lord and of His Christ.

So it is the order of life that first should come the glory of the vision; then the fading of its colours, the grey day and the postponed realisation; and then afterwards the glorious interpretation. Not now is the interpretation. Now is the sadness, now the sense of disappointment, now the temptation to think that all brightness is gone, and all hope lost; but hereafter the love which gave the vision and the love which took it away will make all plain—no whit of the beauty and the beatitude which the vision promised will be lost. The vision is for an appointed time. Till then, rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him. The gem hidden in the earth will yet sparkle in heaven's light. The meaning of all will be made plain, hereafter, in God's own light and in God's own way; for interpretations belong to God.



(From the Drawing by Herbert Railton.)




A Complete Story. By the Author of "Lady Jane's Companion."


"I tell you he does not dream of Dolly. How can you imagine anything so absurd?"

That was how the family tyrant addressed her mother, and poor Mrs. Rhodes was, as ever, annihilated. It was a vain thing to try and brave Georgiana. There she stood in the window, majestic, the eldest daughter, her straight hair stiffly ridged with hot irons, her face pale, and her lips determined, altogether handsome, but very hard. Behind her one had a glimpse of a forlorn little figure wandering in the grass. The sight of that lonely figure, and a dim idea of its unhappiness, made the poor lady pluck up spirit to murmur still—

"I—I—I thought that Freddy——"

"Impossible!" said Georgiana; her voice vibrated with a little more than disdain. "Why, what could he see in a stupid little goose like that? It would be cheaper to buy a sixpenny doll and set it up in his house; then at least he could always change it. But if he wants a wife——"

In the garden Dolly was walking rather sadly among the trees, and her white skirts brushed against the grass like a sigh. She was a little slip of a thing with Irish eyes, great and grey, always brimming with either a laugh or tears; and she had the dearest eager face in the world. It was a troubled face now, for she could not understand why life had been made bitter to her just lately. Perhaps it was because of some unwitting sin, perhaps because the family tyrant felt, like her, the approaching parting with their old playfellow. Georgiana had a peculiar way of showing when she was vexed.

The Rev. Frederick Cockburn had not always been six feet high and a parson. And for the greater part of their lives they had only been parted by a garden wall. Even when he was at college he was continually running down, and they had never made a plan without him; he belonged to the girls like a brother. Later he had had to admonish them as a curate, but he had[219] been their old comrade still. Of course, he was lucky to get a living offered to him so young, and it was only right that he should accept it, but still it was a blow.

Freddy had run in so often to talk it over (the girls knew all about his house and his parish, down to the woman who played the harmonium and dragged the chants) that they had forgotten it was so far away. Now they had suddenly to remember.

Dolly was under the weeping ash, where she and Freddy had hidden when they were little. Georgiana had had the biggest bite of the apple, and then she had deserted and said, "I'll tell!" How she would miss him! Always he had been her champion, defending her when Georgiana was angry and pulled her hair. And although these days were past she wanted him more than ever. It had hurt her lately that he should have been monopolised by Georgiana and that she had been thrust back and made a third. He was a young housekeeper, and the eldest daughter could talk of carpets and curtains and butcher's bills. To Dolly life was a weary nightmare of Freddy serious in a chair, and Georgiana giving him good advice. Vainly she tried to keep her lip steady, leaning her head in among the leaves.

Half a mile away a black object was sitting on a fence whistling impatiently, inwardly furious with Georgiana.

"If she would only come out of the gate!" he said, hitting wildly at all the buttercups in his reach. "If she'd only give me a chance. But she's just pinned to Dolly, and I never can get a minute."

His whistle grew more lugubrious.

"And I'm off to-morrow!"

Never in the ancient days, when he used to stand in front of his younger playmate and defy Georgiana, had he felt her to be such a tyrant. He longed to stand up to her and shake his fist at her as of old. An instant he stood on the highest rail of the fence to reconnoitre beyond the trees, and then sat down again in despair.

"I know she thinks I'm not good enough for Dolly," he said; "we always were enemies, but she might let me ask her. It's Dolly's business."

Then he jumped down in a hurry that would have been undignified in any vicar less young and eager. Among the trees he had caught sight of the unaccompanied white flutter of Dolly's dress.

At the familiar whistle she started, reddening and glancing fearfully towards the house.

The tyrant's ears were sharp, but for once it appeared that she had not heard it, and Dolly rushed down the tree-hidden path to the gate. Her head was just under the green branches and they caught at her hair as she hurried, the prettiest picture in all the garden, with a quaint little forward stagger.

"Oh, Freddy!" she said.

He was leaning over the gate, which was fastened with a complicated arrangement of twisted string, meant to hold it together and keep it shut. There was something earnest and business-like in his manner; he hardly smiled at her greeting, and it hurt her. His face was so desperately solemn.

"Do you want Georgiana?" she said, bravely, "to—to talk about—furniture?"

He looked at her reproachfully across the gate.

"Dolly," he said, "how can you be so unkind? I've been haunting the place for hours, watching to catch you alone. I've no chance if I go to the house, and—and I can't stand housekeeping and chairs and tables——"

At the emphatic climax they had to laugh. He was struggling mechanically with the string, and Dolly was making believe to help him.

"You used always to jump it," she said. Their hands touched as they fumbled at it, and she felt a new and disturbing thrill. "Hadn't you better do that, if you have not become too grand?"

"Don't," said Freddy. Ah, their fingers had been too near; he caught hers and held them tight. "They are all chaffing me about being a Vicar and having a house and all that. Asking if I've got anybody to put into it. But what's the good if you can't get the girl you want?"

"Oh!" said Dolly, looking startled and shrinking as far as the imprisoned hand would allow. He held it fast.

"Dolly," he said, "we've always been chums, you and I. Let me tell you, and then you must tell me honestly if you think—if I've got any chance——"

He was interrupted.

"Is that you, Freddy? What a[220] blessing! I wanted to tell you what you must do about the study."

It was with a kind of terror that he saw Georgiana charging down upon them remorselessly through the trees. Dolly had wrung her hand away and vanished with a little sound like a gasp, and he, on the wrong side of the gate, was almost speechless with wrath and temper.

"If a man can't furnish his own study as he likes——" he stammered darkly, turning on his heel. Georgiana was like a fate.

"What was Freddy saying?"

A rather sad little face was visible among the leaves of the weeping ash.


He saw Georgiana charging down upon them.

"I—I don't know, Georgiana. He was just beginning—I think he has fallen in love again."

The elder girl glanced at her young sister with a gleam of suspicion, but Dolly had spoken in all good faith. And, indeed, in the dim past Freddy had once or twice been smitten and had confided his troubles to the kind ears of Dolly. They had been slight affairs and, although unhappy, always less tragic than laughable.

"He did not say who it was?"

"No," answered Dolly, "because you interrupted. I—I—I'm trying to guess."

Georgiana turned her back on the wistful grey Irish eyes.

"Can't you?" she said, and walked away, utterly hard-hearted.

*      *      *      *      *      *

That evening there was a formidable leave-taking. To Freddy Cockburn it was a nightmare.

As he sat in the drawing-room being talked to by Georgiana and Mrs. Rhodes[221] (Dolly was very silent) he grew desperate. The last precious minutes were ticking loudly, now and then marked by a warning whirr, as the grandfather's clock reproached him.

He listened to them, but all the while he was wandering backwards hand in hand with Dolly—Dolly who now sat so distantly in the window.

With a start his mind came back impatiently to the present.

"Good-bye, my dear boy. We shall hear how you get on. Your mother will write and tell us——"

"You must let me know how you manage about the stairs," said Georgiana.

They accompanied him to the door, lingering affectionately to watch him go, and behind them the great brown clock was ticking the last, last minutes reproachfully. He shook hands and waited, desperately bold.

"Will you come to the gate with me, Dolly?"

There was a slight pause at that abrupt invitation. He saw Dolly involuntarily start forward and then hesitate, with a faint red wonderment in her cheek. He waited, gazing back eagerly at his fate in the balance.

"Yes, Dolly—come along!" said Georgiana.


The Vicar of Little Easter was in his study. He had not been writing sermons, but pens were lying about the table, and there were other signs of an intellectual struggle.


The old lady looked up keenly.—p. 222.

"I can't do it," he said at last, crumpling up many fragments of blotted paper, each the unlucky beginning of a letter. Then he thrust his hands through his hair, giving it a despairing rumple.

"It's no good," he said. "I can't put it in a letter, and it does look a cowardly way of—asking. Like chalking up a thing and running round the corner. If I were a girl and a fellow wrote to me instead of coming and standing to his guns, I should call it—cheek."

"Dear Dolly——"

He tore the last attempt furiously across.


"She would think it was a joke and show it all round the family for them to laugh at it too," he lamented; "if Georgiana did not kidnap it first. I don't think she would stick at that, and I'm afraid she regularly hates me. Queer!"

He stared forlornly at the heap of papers, and then all at once an idea struck him and he jumped up.


With sudden energy he flung out of his study and crossed the hall. His mother was sitting in her room—the only place that was quite in order—stitching rings on curtains. She was going to stay and put him to rights before returning home and leaving him in his glory.

"What is the matter, Freddy?" she said.

"I was thinking," said the Vicar soberly, "that you've a lot to do. Couldn't you ask one of the girls over while you are here to help?"

"If you think the place is ready for visitors," said Mrs. Cockburn, smiling. The girls were, of course, Freddy's old companions.

"Well, you might ask Dolly; I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

The old lady looked up keenly, but his manner was very careless.

"Why not Georgiana?" she inquired. "Eldest first."

"I don't think she could be spared just now," said the Vicar, hiding his alarm, "and—and I'd like the place to be tidy before she came."

So Mrs. Cockburn wrote and invited Dolly.

The answer came very quickly: Dolly could not leave home just now.

While his mother was reading out the many sufficient reasons, Freddy stared hopelessly across at the fatal letter. His face expressed utter dejection until about halfway through. At the last clause it lighted up with an inspiration. He leaned over the table.

"Then, mother, of course, you'll ask Georgiana?"

His mother glanced at him oddly.

"Do you want her?"

"Want her?" cried the Vicar. "Rather!"

There was no mistaking the eagerness in his voice. It betrayed itself in the very stammer with which he proceeded.

"I didn't know she would come, but if Dolly's to manage the school treat this year, and if Dolly's to take the club, they won't want Georgiana. Tell her we can't possibly get the house put to rights without her. Say whatever you think will bring her. Only make her come."

He got up and fetched his writing things from the study. Mrs. Cockburn had to write the invitation then and there, almost to his dictation.

"Tell her she must come!" he cried impetuously, rushing away to look for a stamp, and then riding in with the letter himself to catch the early post. Mrs. Cockburn looked after him amused, but just a little bit disappointed.

"It's Georgiana then, after all," she said.

*      *      *      *      *      *

Three days later Georgiana was installed at Little Easter.

She arrived with rather too many clothes for a person who was to help in getting a house in order, but that did not prevent her from buckling to. Mrs. Cockburn, a kind old lady with a twinkle of humour to comfort her in her trials, was taken aback by her visitor's authoritative grasp at the reins; but Freddy, having suffered more nearly from her tyrannical ways, thought he had never known her so gracious. In fact, he repented himself of the hard things he had been thinking—of all but a certain determination.

"I don't believe she hates me really," he thought. "It was only that she didn't want me to marry Dolly."

He made that reflection whilst shaving with care the morning after her arrival. On coming down to breakfast he found her at her post. She had already whisked away half the litter that was hampering the breakfast-room, and was making the tea. As he came in she nodded.

"Good morning, Freddy. Your mother is breakfasting in her room. What a wilderness your house is at present! The first thing after breakfast will be to have a man in and put down the carpets."

"But they are down," stammered the Vicar, who had laboured hard all the past week.

"All crooked," said Georgiana.

She poured out his tea and sat down opposite, with an air of calm superiority and possession (which the Vicar was too[223] agitated to remark). Having long since made up her mind as to what she wanted, she was not unduly elated at the present turn of affairs. Freddy was always fickle, and it had taken very little pains to keep him apart from Dolly while that fancy lasted. It was not her part to consider Dolly—Dolly, years younger, and pretty, and always liked.

Something like exultation glittered in Georgiana's eyes. She had a glimpse of Dolly at home and smiled; her triumph was pitiless.

"Oh, by-the-bye," she said. "Your idea of furnishing the drawing-room is too ridiculous. It ought to be smart and shiny—a company room. You don't want old pictures and comfortable chairs!"

"Don't I?" said the Vicar with a half-smile, thinking whose whims he had tried to suit in the furnishing.

"No," said Georgiana. Her tone was lordly. "I'll tell you what I will do. You shall drive me into the town, and I will help you to choose what you really want."

"Do——," began the Vicar, and then stopped hastily, reddening. She looked at him witheringly, unaware that the word suppressed had been simply "Dolly."

"In the meantime——" she vouchsafed after a crushing pause. He looked up suddenly from his letters.

"I'm afraid you'll be dull, Georgiana," he said, rising. "It's awfully good of you to come, and perhaps you can find some amusement. You can do what you like, you know—so long as you don't touch my study, or trick it up like a heathen place in Japan. The fact is, I find I must leave you and mother for a day or two. Is that the dogcart? My train is at half-past ten."

Georgiana looked out of the window. There was the dogcart, and a beast of a brown horse pawing and snorting, to take him away to the country station. She turned round angrily, like a person who had been cheated.

"Why?" she asked.


"Dolly!" he cried in a voice of triumph.—p. 224.

Freddy had left the breakfast table,[224] and was stacking his letters behind the clock. He answered her with a kind of chuckle—

"Important business."

Three minutes later, he was running down the stairs, got up for a journey. Mrs. Cockburn was just saying good-morning to the rather blank-looking visitor, and he kissed her hurriedly.

"I must go off at once," he said. "Georgiana will explain. And I say, mother"—in a tone of anxious hospitality—"don't let her go home, or anything, till I come back. I must catch the early train."


Dolly was all alone.

There was no dragon guarding her, and she might wander unwatched about the garden, unvexed by the family tyrant's whim. However, she sat forlornly under the willow tree.

She was disappointed at not being allowed to go and visit Mrs. Cockburn, but, queerly enough, it had hurt her more to find her refusal met by that urgent invitation to Georgiana. It was a much warmer letter. Mrs. Cockburn had been told in inviting Georgiana to say whatever would bring her, and she had according written—"Freddy says she must come," twice.

They were ringing in Dolly's ears, these impetuously written words; but she had not any right to be angry—and hardly any right to be sad. Only, if that message had been in her letters, she would have defied them all.

The sun burnt down over all the garden, except under the sad green shade of the willow tree. Afterwards, it sank lower and lower behind the beeches until it was almost dusk. It was then that Dolly heard a familiar whistle.

She started up from the grass, and her wistful face was scarlet. It must be imagination.

Almost before she knew it she was hurrying up the path.

"Oh!" she gasped, finding herself at the gate, and ready to turn and fly as the strange whistler came in sight. Her heart beat too fast for her to hear any step. As if it could be him!

"Dolly!" he cried, in a voice of triumph.

"How did you get here?" she panted.

He vaulted the gate this time, and was immediately by her side.

"By train," he said coolly. "As soon as I'd got Georgiana safe I bolted."

Dolly paled slightly. Had he come to make an announcement?

"Will you come in to mother?" she said faintly; but Freddy barred the way.

"No," he said. "I won't."

She was almost frightened. He was so white and eager, and so emphatic.

"Dolly," he said, "I've got my chance at last. Georgiana thinks I'm not half good enough for you, and I'm sure it's true, but I don't care, she'd no right to fight as she did for her lofty plans. It's your business. And Dolly—Dolly—I love you so!"

*      *      *      *      *      *

"I like the house," said Georgiana.

She spoke in a slightly patronising tone, and poor Mrs. Cockburn sighed.

"It is rather big," she said. "But if Freddy should marry and settle down——"

"It will not be too big," declared Georgiana. "I have been drawing up my ideas about the rooms. And I have toiled all the morning in the study." Mrs. Cockburn looked alarmed. Even in a possible daughter-in-law this was rather drastic.

"He will not like you to touch his study."

"I know. He charged me to let it alone," said Georgiana calmly; "but it is no good giving in to a man's absurd notions, and he had crammed it with such extraordinary things. I have made it look like another place."

Again Freddy's mother sighed. It was the familiar tone of the family tyrant. She sighed for Freddy.

The sigh was interrupted by his return. Unexpectedly as he had disappeared yesterday, he came back. They heard him cross the hall with a long, quick, eager step, and then he burst in upon them, a boy again.

"Well, where have you been?" asked his mother, smiling. He was so tired and dusty, and so excited.

The Vicar looked at her like a school-boy, half-proud, half-shy.

"I've been to the old place," he said, "to ask Dolly if she would have me. And she says 'Yes.'"

R. Ramsay.





(By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.)

I read to you one golden morn among the leaves of June,
The flowers were sweet around our feet, the river sang its tune,
I know not what the story was that stole upon your ears,
I only saw your listening eyes were full of tender tears.
I sang to you when twilight fell, and all the world had flown,
A song that rose from out my heart and was for you alone,
I cannot tell what words I sang,—of gladness or of pain,
I only knew I felt your heart give back the sweet refrain.
And when the night in silence rose, and all the song was o'er,
The world was full of happiness I ne'er had known before,
I know not what I told you then or what you said to me,
I only knew your heart was mine for all the years to be.





(Photo: K. J. Harrison and Co., Kewaigue, Isle of Man.)



Up and down the country there are several religious services held which are remarkable, not so much on account of the character of the service as in consequence of the strange places in which they take place. Of course, there are strange services—a few of which are detailed later—but,/ nevertheless, the majority obtain their notoriety by reason of their unusual place of assembly.

For instance, who has not heard of the famous open-air service at Kirk Braddan churchyard in the Isle of Man?—a service which on an August Bank Holiday Sunday has attracted a congregation of twelve thousand people. Indeed, so great has been the crush on occasions that it has been impossible for the collection plate to reach all those gathered within sound of the preacher's voice—a truly lamentable fact from the churchwardens' point of view.

If the weather is fine, these open-air services begin, as a rule, on Whit Sunday and continue to the end of September, or, virtually during the whole of the holiday season. They were instituted in a somewhat remarkable way by a former vicar, "Parson Drury," as he was familiarly called, when it was decided to build Kirk Braddan New Church in consequence of the old church falling out of repair and being altogether inadequate as far[227] as size was concerned for the worshippers who attended. Accordingly, while the new church was in process of erection, Mr. Drury conceived the happy idea of using the spacious churchyard, and so popular was the innovation that it has been kept up in the summer ever since.

Now the services are conducted by the present vicar—the Rev. Canon Moore—and, fittingly enough, his pulpit is the immense limestone slab erected to the memory of the founder of the churchyard services, "Parson Drury." It was felt, when the good man died, that no better memorial could be raised than a stone which might be utilised as a pulpit in the "Nature's church" where he had delivered so many powerful sermons.

The hymn-papers are distributed as the people pour into the churchyard on Sunday morning. The hymns are most heartily sung by the congregation. They are well known, and the tunes are also such as all can join in, and the effect of eight or ten thousand voices singing the simple strains is wonderful.



(Showing the eggs presented for the Egg Service.)

During the summer the aggregate number of worshippers amounts to sixty or seventy thousand, from all parts of the United Kingdom, but principally Lancashire and Yorkshire. Many people join in the service which is going on at the same time in Braddan new church close at hand, but the great majority prefer the open air under the shadow of the old trees and the venerable church.

It is rather remarkable that the Isle of Man should also possess what is believed by many to be the largest open-air service in the world. There are some folk who think that the Sunday service in Hyde Park answers to this description, though it is certain, in point of size, there is not a great deal of difference between that and the one held on Douglas Head.

There is, in reality, apart from the size, nothing very special to say about this service on Douglas Head. It is an ordinary service of an exceedingly simple character. Every attempt, however, is made to get a first-rate preacher, and two or three bishops have taken the service. Archdeacon Sinclair, who is a frequent visitor to Manxland, has officiated on several occasions. As at Kirk Braddan, the congregational singing is the great feature of the service. The Bishop of Sodor and Man is naturally the most[228] popular of all the prelates who figure prominently at these services.

After these monster services, it is a delightful change to come to the "Egg Service," which was instituted in 1894 by the Rev. S. Alfred Johnston of St. John's, Streatham. It was thought that one of the most beautiful ways of observing Hospital Sunday would be to send a consignment of eggs to some of the patients in the great London hospitals, and accordingly the congregation were requested to make their offerings of eggs on the day when the various churches unite in rendering financial aid to the institutions in question.

The "Egg Service," like most other things, had a small beginning, for only 220 eggs were contributed the first year. In 1895 the number of eggs rose to 446, while the year following no less than 1,618 eggs were given. It was felt, however, that in Jubilee year a special effort ought to be made in view of the general assistance then being afforded to the hospitals by the scheme of the Prince of Wales, and so a "Jubilee" offering was arranged.

The service succeeded beyond all anticipations. Over five thousand eggs were to be seen in St. John's Church on Hospital Sunday, and the arrival of the various members of the congregation, carrying baskets of new-laid eggs, excited a great deal of local interest. By some means Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York heard of the service that year, and sent a sovereign to be spent on eggs. For this sum two hundred were obtained, the difficulties of transit alone preventing the Duchess from personally sending the eggs. It is only right to add that the giving of the delicacies referred to in no way interferes with the financial offertory at the service, which is forwarded to the Hospital Sunday Fund.


(Photo: J. Chenhalls, Redruth.)


There is some prospect of these "Egg Services" becoming an institution in other parts. This year the Essex town of Maldon has followed the good example[229] set at Streatham. Carey Church, Reading, also made an initial effort of the same kind this year.


(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)


These "Egg Services," inasmuch as they help the needy, call to mind the "Doll Service" that is held at St. Mary-at-Hill, Eastcheap, the church of the Rev. W. Carlile, the founder of the Church Army. On the Sunday before Christmas the congregation are requested to bring dolls, which are laid on a table near the altar. The gentlemen as well as the ladies are expected to provide a doll in some way or other, and consequently a goodly number of these ever-popular playthings are dispensed on Christmas Eve to the poorest of children in the East End of London. Mr. Carlile's service is now a fixed institution.

The followers of John Wesley are numerically very strong in Cornwall, and it is not surprising therefore that the strangest service held by that denomination takes place in that part of the country. A service in an old quarry is a decided novelty, and the fame of the "Gwennap Pit" service is justly popular with its lusty-voiced congregation of Cornishmen. Every Whit Monday the gathering takes place, so the Methodists within a radius of twenty miles are able to make it a day of pleasure as well as profit. The pit is situated not far from the quaint little town of Redruth.

The quarry forms a natural amphitheatre. Circular in form, and possessing row after row of steps, it is able to seat a good congregation, most of the members of which arrive by brakes. In the centre a sort of rostrum is erected for the various speakers, for addresses (and not a sermon) are the order of the day.

In days gone by John Wesley preached in this disused quarry to crowded congregations. Cornish folk always welcomed heartily the founder of Methodism, and they hold this monster service in memory of the time when Wesley frequently used the pit, first of all because it was the only place big enough, and secondly on account of the fact that it was the only one he was allowed to use. As a rule, great preachers are not invited, as the congregation prefer to hear the leading "local preachers." It is the boast of many a man that he first attended with his grandfather, who had already spent a good many Whit Mondays at Gwennap Pit.


The Oxford "May Morning" service is well known throughout the country, chiefly because it is the oldest of such gatherings, and—what is more—by far the best attended. It is held, as everybody knows, upon St. Mary Magdalen's tower at five o'clock in the morning, and is attended by the President and Fellows of the college as well as the members of the choir. A few strangers, however, are admitted, and, all told, the number of people on the tower amounts to about two hundred. The crowd in the street below, however, runs into thousands, instead of hundreds, as the illustration of the people on the bridge which crosses the River Cherwell fully bears out.


(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)


(A crowd which gathered at four o'clock a.m.)

No matter what event takes place, the service is held on May Day. The crowd begins to assemble soon after four o'clock in the morning, when the bells begin to ring, warning the citizens that the time of service is approaching. At half-past four the choir begins to assemble, and one by one the members begin to make their way to the top of the tower, which very soon presents an animated appearance on account of the limited space to be obtained. When at last the hour of five arrives, and the clocks of the city begin to denote the time of day, the choir bursts forth into song ere the clocks have ceased striking.

The holding of the service confers upon the college the right of presentation to the living of Slimbridge in Gloucestershire, upon the income of which there is said to be an annual charge of ten pounds for the music on the top of the college tower. Similar services were at one time held at St. Paul's Cathedral, and at Abingdon, but after a time the custom died out. There is, however, no likelihood of that happening at Oxford, the service now having too great a hold upon the favour of the public.

Every July a most remarkable service[231] is held at Folkestone. Like the majority of seaside resorts, Folkestone owns a big fishing industry, and it was felt that a service of thanksgiving for the harvest of the sea was just as desirable as the ordinary harvest festival. So every year the clergy and choir of the parish church march through the streets, singing hymns, and when the harbour is reached the fisher-folk join in the service of praise to God for the blessings vouchsafed in the past, and pray to be kept safe from harm in following their dangerous avocation, and also for "heavy catches" in the year to come.

Kirk Braddan churchyard service is not the only one of its kind in the country, though it is the biggest. For years a similar service has been held in the spacious churchyard of St. Tudno, situated on the Great Orme's Head at Llandudno.



(Photo: Photochrome Co., Cheapside.)

The services are held both in the morning and evening, and although the Llandudno churches have special preachers during the season, none of them is so well attended as St. Tudno's. The service is simple and hearty, the singing is good—for Welsh people can sing—and the voices of the visitors blend harmoniously with the rich native element. All the tunes are well known, and the same can also be said of the hymns, which are printed on hymn-sheets to avoid the necessity of bringing books.

The congregation is a varied one. Men are there dressed in cycling costume, while caps and straw hats, with other holiday attire, are adopted by the great majority. The ladies are allowed to put up their sunshades, if they wish, and everybody is permitted to do as he or she desires. The graves form the seats. Some of the more adventurous perch themselves on the headstones, while others lay full length on the grass mounds, many of which are unadorned with names of any kind. The rector, the Rev. J. Morgan, has a loyal band of workers, who distribute the hymn-sheets, and also hand out cushions to the many ladies present. The congregation, which often numbers a couple of thousand, forms the choir.

One of the most pleasing parts of the service is the taking up of the offertory. This is chiefly done by boys, many of them being the children of visitors, and the youngsters are only too delighted to take part in this novel duty.

When the congregation disperses comes the prettiest scene of all, as the people[232] wend their way down the hill—a long, unbroken line, which seems to reach as far as the eye can distinguish.


(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)


How many people are there, aware of the fact that the railway town of Derby has a series of services at the breakfast hour for the men engaged in the engineering works? These are attended by two thousand men every morning, and owe their origin entirely to the idea of one man of very humble circumstances in life. Yet this quiet, unassuming man initiated one of the grandest services in the country, held not occasionally but upon every working day in the year.

Thirty years ago very few men were employed at the works of the Midland Railway, compared with the number who work there to-day. Many of the men, whose homes were too far distant to admit of their returning for breakfast, were obliged to bring this meal with them. George Wilkins, the founder of these mess-room services, was in charge of an engine-room, and in the winter, as it was a nice warm spot, some of the men asked Wilkins if they might have their meal by his fire. The engineer gladly consented, and, being a Christian man, he took the opportunity of reading the Bible to them.

This fact got noised abroad, and other men joined in. The reading was first of all supplemented by prayer and then by singing. The fame of the little service continued to grow, until at last Wilkins's engine-room was not nearly big enough, and the place of service had to be moved to an open shed outside. For[233] some time this shed answered the purpose; but as the railway works grew, and more men were employed, the attendance at the service increased, until at last it was absolutely necessary to erect rooms especially for the service.



(Photo: H. R. de Salis, Uxbridge.)

First of all, grace is sung, and then the men set to work to eat their breakfast. Plates rattle and knives and forks jingle as the speaker for the day reads the Bible and gives a forcible address. But every word is heard, for the men are very attentive while eating their food. This is not surprising, for the services are taken by well-known laymen and clerics, and if a notable preacher is in the neighbourhood or about to pass through Derby, he is requested to break his journey and say a few words to the railway men at their breakfast. Many gladly do this if their engagements permit.

George Wilkins, the founder of these services, is dead, but a visit to Derby cemetery reveals the fact that his work has not been forgotten by those who now enjoy the fruits of his labour. Over his grave a fitting memorial has been placed, and upon it is inscribed the following: "In loving memory of George Wilkins, who died November 19th, 1872, aged fifty-three years. He was a faithful servant of the Midland Railway Company, and under God's guidance the beginner of a work for Christ which lives on still, though he is gone. Out of love for his character and gratitude for his work, his friends and fellow-workmen have erected this stone. His constant song was 'God is Love.'"

One does not hear very much nowadays of the open-air baptismal services which fifty years ago were so popular with the Baptist churches in the country districts. In Cambridgeshire, however, they still take place in many of the villages, and our illustration shows the service at Bottisham Sluice, which is situated near Waterbeach, the scene of the late Mr. Spurgeon's earliest labours. The minister stands in the river, and the candidate for church membership wades in to him and is immersed in the waters. A house near by is utilised for dressing purposes.

George Winsor.



Coals of Fire

A Complete Story. By J. F. Rowbotham, Author of "Solomon Built Him an House," Etc.

It was twenty years since I left Hambleton as the curate, and on the identical day I returned as vicar. I sat meditating in the little village inn, while a gig was being harnessed to draw me to the vicarage. I wondered how the place would look. I wondered whom I should see and recognise. Twenty years produce innumerable changes. Those whom I had known as boys would have grown to men, and men and women would have become silver-haired and wrinkled, and perhaps past the power of recognition, until a familiar voice in dubious accents should say, "I am such a one. Do you not know me?" To such a query I felt I should have to reply, "I knew you twenty years ago, and if you assure me you are the very same person, I know you now. But the identification must come from yourself."

"The gig's ready, sir," cried the man at the hotel parlour door, and in obedience to this admonition I shut up my tablets and took my seat in the vehicle. Off went the horse. I whizzed past all the familiar places en route, and at last was landed safe and sound at the vicarage, but somewhat dazed and bewildered by the sudden panorama of a vanished past presented to me during the ride.

My experiences of the next few days proved to be exactly as I predicted. I saw innumerable people who turned out to be old acquaintances, though it was on the strength of their telling that I found them to be so. I should never have known them again in a crowd, nor would they, I imagine, despite their assertions, have known me. I saw old Haynes once again, Smart the gardener, England the bell-ringer who was so fond of frequenting "The Rose," Higgs, Nutcher, and many more.

Localities had not altered so much as people. I noticed that the old apple-tree in the vicarage garden bent down with the identical curve in its trunk, and seemed to have the exact number of apples upon it which it had when I left it. The vicarage had much altered, though, and so had its surroundings—several new cottages being built which quite shut out the pretty prospect from the study window which once was.

I found the circumstances of many of the inhabitants, like the "extension" of the vicarage, to have altered likewise. I found several people poor and reduced in circumstances whom I left fairly well-to-do. I met some people now in comparative opulence whom I remembered so poor that they were glad of doles from the curate. All this is a striking instance of a very great truth in English life, which is that circumstances, as generations pass, are on a sliding scale. If you look for the descendants of the nobility of some centuries ago, you will find them in the humblest cottagers of to-day. And if you search for the descendants of the former cottagers of our land, you will find them in its present nobility. Life fluctuates so in great cycles of time; and in the little cycle during which I had been absent from Hambleton, thus had existence fluctuated and changed.


Two visits in particular I intended to pay, namely, to the squire, and to Farmer Brownlow; and before many days elapsed I contrived to pay them. I saw the squire and the farmer, and I must confess I was very much struck by the change that had come over them both, but particularly Mr. Brownlow, whom I remember tall, erect, and jovial. I concluded there must have been more dissensions in his family since I last knew them, and that trouble was impending. I made such domestic inquiries as I could without receiving much satisfaction; but I took care to observe the greatest reticence about his son Arthur.

I must mention, in explanation of my last sentence, that when I was curate here Arthur Brownlow was a boy of about twelve or fourteen, and one of the brightest and most ingenuous lads it has ever been my lot to know. He was also blessed with a beautiful voice, and sang in the choir of the church all the solos in the anthems. Shall I ever forget the melodious tones that floated from that boy's lips? Neither I nor any who heard him can cease to remember them.

The popularity which the boy gained, the favour which he received from everybody and anybody, was so marked and so universal that it ultimately excited the envy and hostility of his elder brothers, who were young men of twenty and over, and who were, moreover, prompted to their animosity by the suspicion that their father intended to bequeath the farm (which was his freehold) and all his money to his favourite son, and leave them unprovided for.

Arthur's mother was Mr. Brownlow's second wife, who had been very dear to him, but had only lived about three years, and then had passed away, leaving as a legacy to her husband the little baby boy scarce two years old. The child became the farmer's idol, and was more and more worshipped as he grew to boyhood.

The elder sons being in the main clownish, stupid fellows, it was a common speech, half in joke, half in earnest, with the farmer:—

"You lads are strong of build and dull of wit. Why don't you exert your strength in other spheres than this, and leave the farm to little Arthur when he grows up? You, Hugh, might, for instance, go to America. William, you might take a piece of land of your own—you are old enough to manage it and strong enough to work it. You, Robert, should apply for the post of farm bailiff with Mr. Weatherstone or somewhere else; and you, Thomas, should go in for sheep farming in the colonies. There is your life mapped out for you all. It will be many years before I am laid on the shelf; and you are all getting too old to be anything but drags on me; while by the time I am about settling down in my chimney corner, to take my ease henceforth, Arthur will be just of an age to take the farm off my hands and commence the management of it. This will, moreover, keep the land in one piece, instead of chopping it up into five."

These words, I say, were often used by Mr. Brownlow in jest to his sons, who were a lazy lot, and who ought, moreover, to have been on their own hands by now. He possibly meant little more than jest, for he was not the sort of man to cut any of his family adrift at that time; but his sons chose to take the remarks in thorough earnest, and they one and all wreaked their bitterest spite on poor Arthur in consequence, till his life became almost intolerable to him.

He would often come to me in those days, and say:

"Mr. Calthorpe, I don't think I can stand it any longer, sir—at least, without telling father; and then, if I do that, I don't know what might be the consequences. He would certainly be so angry that he would send all my brothers away, which I should never wish to be done. Or, if he did not, they would persecute me still worse than they are doing. So between the two things I don't know what to do."

I strove as hard as I could to exhort the boy to patience, giving him what comfort I could, and I even offered to intercede between him and his brothers; but this proposal he would not listen to, and finally he decided that he would bear all in silence and would not tell his father. So that matters were at a deadlock, and remained so, until a new development began in the persecution of Arthur Brownlow by his brothers—which consisted in the deliberate attempt on their part to poison his father's mind against him by all sorts of stories and fabrications, and so get rid of him.

The diabolical attempt was made with greater and more elaborate cunning than I should have imagined such stupid young men as the Brownlows to be capable of. They not only carried on the plot themselves but got their neighbours—the young Spencers of Bray—to assist them, and from all sides Farmer Brownlow kept continually hearing of the precocious vices and bad manners of his darling son, which were at first discredited by him, but afterwards believed, and then greedily sought after.

"It is all this incense that comes to the boy along of his singing that is spoiling him," he said to me one day. "And you, Mr. Calthorpe, are partly to blame for encouraging it. What good can all that howling and caterwauling do the lad? Not a bit, that I can see, except that it takes him into company from which he would be better away. It stuffs the boy's head with nonsense, sir, and it will never bring him to any good."

It was in vain that I pointed out that there was practically no foundation for any of these charges against his son, who was one[236] of the model boys of the parish. The farmer regarded me as a biased witness, and kept his own opinion of the matter, which was more and more inimical to poor Arthur every day. Do what I could in the way of mediation, it was all no good. The ball once set rolling, continued to roll in the same direction, until one day I heard, to my unspeakable concern, that Arthur Brownlow had broken into his father's bureau and extracted five pounds from it, that the money had been found in his possession, and that he was now in the custody of the police.


"I disown him, sir."

I remember what a sensation the trial made at the assizes in the neighbouring town of C——. I appeared as a witness in the boy's behalf, and spoke up for him right gallantly; but all intercession and testimony were of no avail—the evidence was held to be quite conclusive. Although the father did not appear against him, the brothers did, and their testimony was sufficient to convict the boy, who was found guilty and sent to a reformatory for two years.

I saw him before he went, and he said to me—

"Tell father, sir, that I am unjustly condemned. Tell him it was a plot of my brothers, and that I would scorn to do such an action. But tell him, moreover, that after this disgrace I could never bear to show my face in the village again, and when I come out of this place I shall go beyond the seas or somewhere, but certainly shall never come to Hambleton, nor shall he be troubled by seeing my face again."

I wondered what effect this message would have on the old farmer, but to my surprise he received it with the greatest nonchalance.

"Aye, aye, sir," he said in reply, as with black face and lowering brow he sat in his parlour with his sons around him. "The lad has brought disgrace on the family. I disown him, sir. I knew what all this singing and caterwauling would lead to: I said so from the first, and my words have come true. He need never seek to see my face again until he has redeemed his character. Then I'll see him, but not till then. Meantime, as you are going to the reformatory occasionally to visit him, tell the lad—for, although a thief, he is a son of mine—that I will provide him with what money is necessary, when he leaves that home of thieves and vagabonds, to set up in something or to go away to some colony, or anything he likes; and then, as I say, when he has redeemed his character, he can come and see me—but[237] not till then. Tell him he shall have the money, sir, when he wants it; but tell him that till he has redeemed his character I disown him."

The money, however, was never applied for by Arthur Brownlow. I saw him several times at the reformatory, and, indeed, tried to get him released on the ground of insufficient evidence, but in vain. When the end of his time came, he obtained some employment—I know not how—went to London, and then I lost sight of him; for a month or two afterwards I left my curacy in Wiltshire and took another in Northumberland.

I saw the Brownlows now for the first time since that event of twenty years ago. I was informed incidentally that they had never heard anything more of Arthur. "I suppose," said one of them, "he's gone to the bad long ago."

The old man in the chimney corner now white-haired and bowed down with age, suffered a wistful look to pass over his face occasionally, but that was all. No more was said, and no more did I say. In a short time I had forgotten the story of twenty years ago as completely as they had and as the village had; but there was one remark alone of that afternoon's conversation which dwelt in my mind: "I suppose he's gone to the bad."

"Gone to the bad!" Why, there was one thing plain. All the Brownlows seemed to have gone to the bad—not Arthur alone—for a more besotted, lazy-looking set of men it had never been my lot to see.

It is the experience of every clergyman, when he comes to a new parish, that he can soon find by a sort of intuition where the troublesome spot in that parish is likely to be; and I very soon knew by instinct that the troublesome people in my parish would be the Brownlows—as was amply proved immediately after my arrival. Scarcely a day passed but one or other of them was at the vicarage. Now it was Robert—now it was Hugh—now it was Thomas. One came requesting me to go to see their father, who was "in dreadful low spirits." Another told me they had a horse for sale, and asked me if I would like to buy it. The third, Thomas Brownlow, wanted to borrow a little money of me; and this was the first actual hint I got of the hazardous state of their affairs.

"No, Thomas," I said, "I cannot lend you that money; for, in the first place, it is your father, not you, who ought to have asked for it, if the object is to make repairs on your farm; and, in the second place, I think I am considerably poorer than you. A well-to-do farmer has considerably more cash than a poor parson, and so for the second reason I must absolutely decline."

But this rebuff produced no diminution in the importunity of the Brownlows, which at last culminated in the appearance of the eldest brother and the father one day at the vicarage, when they told me, with much display of emotion, that the farm was heavily mortgaged, and, indeed, had been so for some time, and that the mortgagee, to whom no payments had been made for some time past, threatened to foreclose. Could I therefore either lend them the money, or get it from a friend, or ask the squire to oblige them, or, in fact, help them in any way whatever?

At the moment I could think of no way in which I might be of service to them in the manner indicated; but as, despite their importunity, I was sincerely sorry for them, I said I would turn the matter over in my mind, make inquiries, and let them know by the morrow if I could do aught for them.

The same afternoon my old college friend, Vincent Harrowby, who was vicar of a neighbouring parish, drove over to see me, and dine with me. It was the first time we had met for twenty years or more, and it was to celebrate our meeting that I had given orders to my housekeeper to prepare a somewhat elaborate repast in his honour and for our mutual delectation. As we sat over dessert, Harrowby talked of a score of subjects to which I paid a vague and partial attention; but at last, as his "inextinguishable tongue," as we used to call it at college, kept up its eternal stream of talk, I found myself listening with rapt attention to what he was saying, which sounded incredible to my ears.

"You remember that young choir boy of yours, Arthur Brownlow?" Harrowby was remarking. "Well, I saw him some years ago—about ten years, I think—and he had developed then into a man of means. He had plenty of money, I was told, and was in every respect a fine fellow. I often wondered what it was in his private history which you used to allude to in such a guarded manner——"

But before my friend had been able to finish his sentence I, to his great surprise, brought down my fist upon the table with the remark—

"The very man that is wanted! Where does he live, Harrowby, and what is his address?"

"As to that," replied my friend, with a look of amused surprise, "I cannot tell you to a street now. But I suppose he will be somewhere in the neighbourhood where I knew him, and that was in such and such a street, Bloomsbury" (naming it), "where he was practising as a solicitor. Doubtless he may have changed his residence, but Bedford Row ought to know him."

I then briefly explained to my friend the[238] circumstances which would make Arthur Brownlow's appearance at the present juncture a godsend for the distressed family; for I must add that one or two of the sons were married and had families, on which innocents, even more than on the men, the blow would fall.


"The very man that is wanted!"

"We must apply to him at all costs for the money," I remarked. "He will never refuse to help his father, even if his brothers were traitors. One of them must go to London to-morrow and search out Arthur and obtain the funds needed."

And so it was agreed, and the agreement was acted on; but our best efforts, the personal search of Thomas Brownlow, the most diligent inquiries of myself and my friend Harrowby, during the short time at our disposal, were unable to discover any trace of the missing Arthur, who was gone, like the wind, without a vestige to mark his flight. No one seemed to know or remember much about him. Those who affected to, said some one thing, some another, and in the Law List his name was not to be found.

The condition of the Brownlows had meanwhile become worse. The little ready money which they had, had been expended in the journey to London and the prosecution of the inquiries after Arthur. They looked hungry and dejected, and I was informed that the mortgagee, incensed at their inattention to his applications for money, had definitely decided to put someone in possession of the farm by the last day of May.

I recommended the brothers to make a last appeal personally before the end of May arrived, and see if by their united rhetoric they could soften the inflexible heart of Mr. Suamarez. This with rustic reluctance they ultimately consented to do.

The four brothers, Hugh, William, Robert, and Thomas, proceeded to Ashcroft. I believed they walked there, as their last horse had been sold some months ago, and they had not a sixpence left to pay railway fare. They arrived at the mansion of the inexorable mortgagee, and were summarily refused admission by the servant, as I had been. But with a pertinacity worthy of a better cause the four men hung about the place hour after hour, with the intention of securing a parley with Mr. Saumarez, with whom they were quite unacquainted, having hitherto conducted their negotiations through his agent.

Towards the evening, as they prowled about the coppice surrounding the house, they saw the owner of the manor, accompanied by his wife and their young children, come on to the lawn, and no sooner was the opportunity presented than the four men burst through the bushes and approached him.

Mrs. Saumarez turned deadly pale, and threw her arms round her children at the sight of these four ill-clad and travel-stained loafers, for so they looked, so suddenly appearing on[239] the lawn of the house, while Mr. Saumarez stood in front of his wife and children and angrily demanded what they wanted.

"It is just this, sir," said Hugh, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve preparatory to making a speech, "we are the Brownlows, sir, and we have travelled fifty miles to see you, sir. You're going to evict us from our little farm that we have had in our family for years and years without number. Give us some delay, sir—forgo your intention for this year—till after the harvest, at least, until we see what sort of crops we may have, and out of the profit of them we can pay you your demands."


Mr. Saumarez angrily demanded what they wanted.

"These speeches are all idle," responded Mr. Saumarez testily. "I made up my mind long ago. I know you to be good-for-nothing men, through whose laziness your old father's farm has got into its present condition. You deserve no pity, and you deserve no delay. For the present state of affairs you have only yourselves to blame. You must take the consequences of your conduct."

"Oh, sir." began Hugh, who was the spokesman of the rest, "think of our circumstances. We have children, as you have; they will all be thrown on the world——"

"Into this," replied Mr. Saumarez, "I cannot[240] go. When the mortgage came into my hands—which it did along with some adjoining property about a year ago, on my return from abroad—I made a particular point of asking my agent what sort of men conducted the farm. And hearing from him that they were four brothers, all men of questionable character, named Brownlow, who owed their present degradation to their own laziness and folly, I said I wished to hear no more, and that the farm, which stood conveniently adjacent to a manor which is also mine, must be appropriated with no more delay than the usual legal routine permitted of. That is what I said to my agent. I presume—in fact, I know—he has acted on my orders. I have nothing more to say about it, so I wish you a good evening."

"We have children—two of us are married men," exclaimed Hugh, appealing to Mrs. Saumarez.

"We have had sickness in the family for months past," added Robert.

"It is not our fault—the harvests have been bad year after year."

But they were speaking to deaf ears. Mr. Saumarez, motioning to his wife and children, was turning away to enter the house.

"I don't know," said Thomas, who had not hitherto spoken, "what will become of our old father——"

"What?" inquired Mr. Saumarez sharply, turning round, "Is your old father still alive?"

"Yes, he is," they all replied at once, staring at him with most unfeigned surprise.

"I understood from my agent," replied Mr. Saumarez, his voice getting thick as he spoke, "that there were only you four brothers—men who deserved—men whom I knew to be——Look here, you Brownlows. You tell me your old father is still living. Is he well? Is he in fair health? Does his memory remain good? And how—how do you treat him in his old age?"

"How do we treat him, sir?" inquired Hugh Brownlow and the rest, speaking slowly and gazing at Mr. Saumarez as if they had seen a ghost. "Why, as to that——"

"As to that," I said, appearing from the drawing-room with old Mr. Brownlow on my arm—for in deference to his expressed wish, after the departure of his sons, I had travelled with him by train to Ashcroft in order that he too might plead, and we had just arrived—"as to that, Mr. Saumarez, the father can best answer for himself. See if he is not still an honoured and reverend sire. Look at him yourself, sir; for before heaven I believe you are Arthur Brownlow."

"Yes," exclaimed the old man on my arm, his eyes streaming with tears, "it is my son, my own son Arthur, at last! My former ruin is nothing to my present joy, for I see the boy whom I have wronged, whose reproaching image has been present with me for years—I see him at last before me; I hold him in my arms; I ask pardon of him, profoundest pardon, for all the injustice I have done him; and I rejoice to think that at last my lifelong sorrow is at an end."

Arthur was weeping on his father's neck. The brothers stood around petrified with astonishment.

"It is true," said Arthur Brownlow in a voice choked with emotion; "it is true that, had my brothers been the only parties concerned, I might perhaps—nay, I am sure I should—without compunction have retaliated as the world retaliates. But I never knew—I never suspected—that you, my father, were among them. I have wept for you as dead, for such tidings reached me some time ago. I have mourned for the unjust opinion you held of me, mourned since my boyhood, and even as a man I mourned. But now I hold you in my arms—alive, God be thanked! and forgiving, Christ be praised! And greater happiness can I not know, save if one of my own children should bring me the same experience, and then my felicity might be as great."

The mystery of the lost identity of Arthur Brownlow was easily explained. He had prospered in the world as Arthur Brownlow, when my friend Harrowby knew him; but shortly after that date he had married a Miss Saumarez, who held large estates in Jamaica, and whose name he was compelled to take for the sake of securing the entail of her property to the children. He had lived in Jamaica for nearly ten years, and had recently come back, to find some property near Hambleton added to his possessions, and with it the mortgage over Brownlow's farm. His agent only knew that Brownlow's farm was managed by the young Brownlows, since the old father had long retired from active participation in it; and with this account of the place Arthur Brownlow was naturally satisfied, since he believed his father had died some years ago. He intended to punish his brothers for their treachery and cruelty, but it is questionable whether his intention would ever have gone beyond reading them a severe, salutary lesson and then reinstating them in their freehold. At any rate, as circumstances happened, it had no chance of doing so, for the sight of his father so overwhelmed poor Arthur with joy, that all was forgotten, all was forgiven, in that happy moment; and now in the whole of my parish there is not a happier or better conducted place than Brownlow's farm.




Dear Readers of The Quiver,

The recent Rescript of the Czar of Russia, inviting the Great Powers to entertain the idea of a general disarmament, was naturally received with joyful acclaim by the whole Religious World. There were some, of course, who shook their heads dubiously when they heard of it. "Can it be true," they said, "that the Autocrat of All the Russias is on the side of peace?" And then they have proceeded to hint at ulterior motives for the announcement. But the great majority of Christian people have preferred to take his Imperial Majesty at his word, and to accept, with deep thankfulness to Almighty God, the Supreme Disposer of all men and all things, this gracious sign of a long-hoped-for age of universal peace and good-will, foretold by the prophets and proclaimed by the herald angels at Bethlehem.

But the Great White Czar himself does not need to be reminded that Governments are powerless unless they are supported by the peoples whom they represent in the International Councils thus convened. And this support, when voiced in a definite form, is a mighty force which will carry everything before it. Here, then, and now, under the inspiration of this blessed Christmas season, is given us an opportunity of responding to the call for Peace, which, if neglected, may not be repeated for many a generation yet to come.

We have been awaiting the inauguration of a collective expression of Christian approval and support of the Peace Rescript, not only from our own, but from all the Christian nations; but up to the present no such international movement appears to have been organised. We therefore invite our readers all over the world to join in a hearty and thankful endorsement of the sentiment of the Czar's Manifesto, and thus set in motion a powerful engine for good. We suggest also that they should all enlist their adult friends, without restriction of sex or creed, in the same Christlike cause, by obtaining their signatures to the declaration to be found on the other side of this leaflet.

When the sheet has been filled up With all the signatures obtainable, it should be returned without delay to the Editor of The Quiver, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C. Further sheets will be supplied, post free, on application, or any number of plain sheets may be added by the collector as required.

In the service of the Prince of Peace,
The Editor of the Quiver


An Honorarium of Ten Pounds will be awarded to the Sender of the First Thousand Signatures, under regulations which will appear in our next issue.



(No person under sixteen years of age should be asked to sign.)

We, the undersigned, desire to express our earnest sympathy with the peace proposals contained in the recent Rescript of his Imperial Majesty the Czar of Russia, and hereby authorise the attachment of our names to any International Memorial having for its object the promotion of Universal Peace upon a Christian basis.

Names.          Addresses.











Our Roll of Heroic Deeds


One of the many notable acts of bravery which are constantly being performed by the members of fire brigades all over the kingdom is here depicted. The lower floors of a house situated in Portland Street, Manchester, were in flames, and in an upper window a man suddenly appeared and cried for help. A ladder was immediately procured, but, to the dismay of the onlookers, it was too short by several feet, and seemed absolutely useless. However, Fireman Lawrence swarmed up the ladder, closely followed by Clayton, and when they reached the top, the latter so placed his arms that Lawrence could stand upon them and thus reach the narrow gutter above, on to which he clambered. The breathless crowd beneath them watched Lawrence balance himself on the ledge, and, with great difficulty and at terrible peril to his life, pass the imprisoned man to his companion. When Lawrence, by the help of Clayton, gained the ladder in safety again, thundering roars on roars of applause worthily greeted the plucky men in recognition of their magnificent bravery.



EX-SPEAKER PEEL.     By F. W. Farrar, D.D.,     MR. SPEAKER GULLY.

(Photo: Russell and Sons.)    Dean of Canterbury.         (Photo: Bassano, Ltd.)


Some Reminiscences of Parliament.



I once had the honour of meeting Mr. Gladstone at a very small dinner-party of some eight or ten persons; and after dinner I found myself sitting beside him and one of our most distinguished men of letters—Mr. W. E. H. Lecky, M.P. It happened to be a time when party feeling was running very high in Parliament, and I purposely turned the conversation in that direction. The question of Home Rule was under discussion, and it was common for Irish members—especially for some who were of very excitable temperament—to be called to order. Strong language was frequently used, such as quite passed the ordinary limits of Parliamentary conventions. I mentally recalled the current anecdote—I do not know whether it be true or not—that Daniel O'Connell, in one of his fierce disputes with Mr. Disraeli, had said that he must be descended from the unrepentant thief; and I asked the great statesman whether, during his half-century of experience in the House of Commons, there had been any change in the license of vituperation, which happened at that moment to be specially prevalent. "No," he said; "in that respect there has been no change. At all the crises which my memory recalls there have been outbursts of violent expression quite as strong as any which have been heard of late." As the conversation continued, he mentioned two changes which had occurred in the House of Commons—one a mere matter of costume; the other of much greater significance. An American guest at the dinner-table had observed that he could not[243] remember any other party since he had been in England at which he was the only person present who wore a moustache. Mr. Gladstone said that, when he first entered Parliament, there were actually more members who still wore pigtails than those who wore the beard or moustache. At that time no one, as a rule, indulged in those appendages except officers in the army. There was one exception, the late Mr. Muntz, who was for many years member for Birmingham; and so noticeable was this exception, that in the House he was popularly known as "the man with the beard."



(Photo: Melhuish and Gale, Ltd., Pall Mall, W.)

The other change was this: "In old days," said Mr. Gladstone, "the House used to have an absolute control of bores." Few of the members took frequent part in the debates. Discussion seemed, by common consent, to be left mainly to a score or two of leaders. There were gentlemen who had been for long years representatives of important cities, who were never known to have opened their lips. I myself in my boyhood knew one highly respected member who, if I remember rightly, had sat for a county town for nearly fifty years, and whose sole contribution to the debates in Parliament, for all that period, had been the single sentence, "I second the motion!" It is widely different now. I suppose that now any member who has sat for a number of years, and never even made his maiden speech, is a rare exception. Although the gift of utterance is supposed to be very much less rare than once it was, yet the few only are able to speak really well. This, however, does not prevent members from the free expression of their opinions, because in print one speech does not look very much unlike another. In many cases in these days members are speaking with far less reference to the House than to the Press gallery. Their constituents expect them to speak, and like to see their names and remarks in the daily papers, however ruthlessly they may be abbreviated by the reporters. In former days a bore was never tolerated. After a very few sentences the House gave such unconcealed expression to its impatience, and the orator was interrupted by such a continuous roar of "Divide, divide!... 'vide!... 'vide!... 'vide!" that the stoutest-hearted, after a short effort, gave way, and the House was not afflicted with a wearying tide of commonplace, "in one weak, washy, everlasting flood." At present it is not always so. It is indeed but seldom that a member feels perfectly willing to bestow on his fatigued fellow-senators the whole amount of his tediousness; but I have, not infrequently, seen a member listen with the blandest smile of indifference to the torrent of interruptions which marred his oratory—and tire his audience into partial silence by leaving on their minds the conviction that he intended to say out what he had meant to say, so that the shortest way to get rid of him would be to let him maunder on to the end!



Reverting to the subject of strong language in the House, and again speaking of O'Connell, I asked Mr. Gladstone whether he had been present when the great demagogue had convulsed the House with laughter by his parody on Dryden's epigram on the three great poets, Homer, Virgil, and Milton. "Oh, yes," he answered. "I see him now before my mind's eye, as, with a broad gleam of amusement over his face, he kept looking up at Colonel Sibthorpe,[244] the somewhat eccentric member for Lincoln, and then jotting down something in his notes. Colonel Sibthorpe, having been an officer in the army, was exempt from the then current convention of being close-shaven, and he was bearded like a pard. I cannot recall the exact epigram, but I remember the incident perfectly."


(Photo: Lawrence, Dublin.)


(From the Painting by David Wilkie.)

I had never seen O'Connell's epigram in print, but I quoted it as I had, years ago, heard it quoted to me—and quite incorrectly. "Oh, these colonels!" said O'Connell, "they remind me of the celebrated lines of the poet"—

"Three colonels in three distant counties born,
Armagh and Clare, and Lincoln did adorn;
The first in lengthiness of beard surpassed,
The next in bushiness, in both the last:
The force of nature could no further go—
To beard the third she shaved the other two!"

That was the form in which I had heard it quoted, but Mr. Lecky at once suggested that the third and fourth lines were purely imaginary, and I have since found that they really were something to this effect—

"The first in direst bigotry surpassed,
The next in impudence—in both the last."

Delivered as the supposed "celebrated lines of the poet" were in O'Connell's rich brogue, and with his indescribable sense of humour, it may well be imagined that it was long before the laugh of the members died away!

In old days I was not infrequently present in the House during the gladiatorial combats, which were then of incessant occurrence, between Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli. The House was always crowded, and the scenes were marked by an interest and vivacity which are now of far rarer occurrence. I well remember a long and brilliant speech of Mr. Disraeli's, which occupied perhaps two hours or more, late at night. During the speech—as is very common—he had to refresh his voice repeatedly by drinking some composition or other. Water is the safest refreshment for speakers under these circumstances, but I suppose that the friend who had been thus ministering to the speaker's necessities had brought sherry, or something of that kind. The consequence was that, without any fault on his part and quite unconsciously, Mr. Disraeli—who was, I believe, an habitually temperate man—was speaking at last with far less point and lucidity than was his wont. At the close of his speech Mr. Gladstone rose to answer, and began by the remark, "I shall not notice any of the concluding observations of the right honourable gentleman, because I am sure that the House will agree with me in thinking that they were due to"—and then he added with marked emphasis—"a somewhat heated imagination."

It was unfortunate in those years of political antagonism that the two eminent leaders were men of temperaments absolutely antipathetic. It would have been difficult to find two men who, remarkable as were their gifts, differed from each other more widely in almost every characteristic of their minds. Mr. Disraeli was a man of essentially kind heart, and one whom I have good reason to regard with respect and gratitude. Much of his apparent acerbity, many of his strong attacks, were really only on the surface. I feel quite sure that for Mr. Gladstone—in spite of the many interchanges of criticism which sometimes sounded a little acrimonious—he felt not only a profound respect and admiration, but even no small personal regard. On one occasion he spoke of his great rival as "my right honourable friend, if he will allow me to call him so." The characteristic of Mr. Gladstone's mind was an[245] intense moral sincerity, and he could not return the compliment. One cannot but regret that he felt himself unable cordially to reciprocate the kindly expression. Had he felt able to do so—had these two political opponents been able from that time to speak of each other as "my right honourable friend"—many acerbities of debate might have been materially softened. But in his reply, Mr. Gladstone, while he spoke with kind appreciation, could not, or would not, use the phrase which Mr. Disraeli had on that single occasion adopted. Perhaps he attached to it a meaning far deeper than its conventional significance. At any rate, the fact remains that, while in his response he spoke with dignified recognition of his opponent's gifts, and was evidently gratified by the expression he had used, he could not get himself to call Mr. Disraeli by the sacred name of "friend," and that word was, I believe, never again exchanged between them. But I only mention this little incident because in different ways it seems to me to have been touchingly to the credit of the best qualities of both. And in spite of so many years of gladiatorial combat in the arena of the House, when Lord Beaconsfield died Mr. Gladstone pronounced a eulogy upon him, generous yet strictly accurate in every particular.



On another occasion Mr. Gladstone—more suo in his earlier days—had almost leapt to his feet to make a controversial speech, which he had poured forth with all that intensity of conviction which held the House in rapt attention even while many of its members were being convinced against their will. Mr. Disraeli began his reply by the remark that "Really the right honourable gentleman sprang up with such vehemence, and spoke with such energy, that he was often glad that there was between them"—and here he laid his hands on the large table at which the clerks sit and at which members take the oath, which occupies the greater part of the space between the Government bench and the leading members of the Opposition—"that there was between them a good solid substantial piece of furniture." The House laughed good-humouredly at the little harmless sarcasm and at the notion of Disraeli requiring a barrier of personal protection against such vehement assaults! I was told by one who heard the remark—and it is a pleasant little incident—that, on the evening after this speech, Mr. Gladstone had met Lady Beaconsfield at some social gathering, and, so far from resenting the little hit at himself, had cordially complimented her on the excellent speech which her husband had made on the previous evening. There is, however, no doubt that Mr. Gladstone sometimes winced under the subtle swordplay of his antagonist,[246] just as Mr. Disraeli must have felt the force of the rolling tide of his opponent's oratory. But while Mr. Gladstone sat listening with every emotion reflected on his expressive and mobile countenance, Mr. Disraeli sat motionless, with features as unchanging as if he wore a mask.

The Chaplain of the House has an excellent seat in the gallery—one of the best seats for seeing and hearing—assigned to him by the courtesy of the members. I not infrequently availed myself of the privilege of occupying this seat, and in this way I was present at some of Mr. Gladstone's last appearances in the House, I particularly recall an incident which has since then been frequently alluded to, and which was very highly to the credit of Mr. Gladstone's essential kindness of heart. Mr. Austen Chamberlain, son of the Right Hon. J. Chamberlain, had delivered what was, I believe, his maiden speech. It exhibited many of the qualities of clear enunciation and forcible statement which make his father one of the best speakers in the present Parliament. Mr. Gladstone and (I suppose) the Liberal party in general had felt much hurt by the separation of Mr. Chamberlain from their councils, and by his partial alliance with their political opponents; and this feeling could not but be shared by Mr. Gladstone, who carried into politics an ardour of conviction of deeper intensity than is felt by ordinary minds. Mr. Austen Chamberlain's speech had, of course, been delivered in favour of views which Mr. Gladstone impugned, and nothing would have been easier to him than to bring down on the head of the young member the sledgehammer force of his experience, eloquence, and intellectual supremacy. So far from this, Mr. Gladstone not only pronounced a warm eulogy on the speech, but went out of his way to say—turning to Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, and entirely overlooking any momentary exacerbation of political opposition—that it was a speech which, in the ability and the modest force with which it had been delivered, "could not but be very delightful to a father's heart." Simple and spontaneous as the expression was, it caused visible pleasure to all who heard it. Such genuine amenities do much to soften the occasional exasperations of political struggle.



(When making his maiden speech.)

I have heard many fine and telling speeches in the House from its foremost debaters, from the days of Lord Palmerston to our own; but certainly I have heard no orators who impressed me at all so deeply as Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bright. It is, however, generally acknowledged that most of Mr. Bright's finest and most memorable speeches were not delivered in the House of Commons, but to vaster and more sympathetic audiences of the people from the midst of whom he had sprung. If I were asked what was the most eloquent speech to which I ever listened, I should at once answer, The speech which I heard Mr. Bright deliver at St. James's Hall at the time of the Second Reform Bill. The meeting was a mass meeting, and a ticket had been given me for the platform by an old friend and schoolfellow. I was seated between him and Mr. Frederic Harrison, just behind the orator of the evening. In the front row with Mr. Bright were the Rt. Hon. J. Ayrton, who had been First Commissioner of[247] Works, and Mr. W. A. Cremer and Mr. Odger, who were prominent working-men leaders of the time. Among the audience, in the middle of the hall, sat Mr. John Stuart Mill, then one of the most celebrated thinkers of the day; and, throughout the meeting, he applauded with vehemence, freely bestowing his claps even on the obvious crudities of some of the working-men who subsequently spoke. As I was close behind Mr. Bright I could almost read the notes which lay before him on his broad-brimmed hat. They showed his method, which was carefully to write out his speech, to learn it by heart, and to refresh his memory by having before him some sheets of paper, on which in a large legible hand he had put down the leading substantives of every sentence. Besides the magic of his strong, manly, sympathetic voice, and the force of his Saxon English, and the purity of a style formed on the best models—especially, I believe, on John Milton and John Bunyan—he owed much of his power as an orator to the extreme deliberation of his delivery. Owing to this, an audience was able to see the point which he was intending to bring out, long before he actually expressed it. They were gradually wound up into a pitch of ever-increasing excitement and sympathy until the actual climax, so that it almost seemed as if the speaker was merely expressing in his single voice the common sentiment of thousands. Now, at the time of which I speak, Mr. Bright had been passing—as all the best and greatest men have to pass in their time—through what he called "hurricanes of abuse, and tornadoes of depreciation." He was commonly spoken of, in many of the daily papers, not only as a Radical, but as a revolutionary Jacobin, a political firebrand, and a pernicious demagogue. The point which he wanted to impress on his deeply sympathising hearers was that it was monstrous so to characterise him, when all that he had done was to point out the actual existence of perils which he had neither created nor intensified, but about which he had only uttered those timely warnings which sometimes enable a patriot to avert the terrible consequences that it might otherwise be too late to remedy. He spoke as follows, and the audience, which crowded the hall to its utmost capacity, followed him from clause to clause with breathless stillness. I cannot quote his exact words, but they were to this general effect:—


(Photo: Fradelle and Young.)


"I have," he said, "been called an incendiary, a firebrand, a dangerous agitator. Now, supposing that I were to go to the inhabitants of a village or hamlet on the side of a mountain, and were to say to them, 'Do you see that thin blue smoke which is issuing from the rifts of the mountain summit above your heads?' and were to warn them that it was a menace of peril. Suppose that they were heedless of my warning, and denounced me for awaking unnecessary alarm: and suppose that soon afterwards the mountain became a huge bellowing volcano, filling the heavens with red-hot ashes, and pouring huge streams of burning lava down its sides. Would it have been I who created that volcano? Would it have been my hand which stored it with combustible materials? Should I have been a dangerous agitator because I had[248] warned the dwellers in that mountain hamlet to avert or escape from the perils by which they were 'menaced'?"


(Photo: Fradelle and Young, Regent Street.)

Such is my recollection of the passage which I heard so many years ago, and which I have doubtless spoiled in attempting to reproduce. But when the great orator, speaking with weighty deliberation, had reached the dénouement of his striking metaphor, so powerfully had he wrought on the feelings of his hearers that an effect followed such as I have never seen on any other occasion. The whole vast audience, as though swayed by one common impulse, sprang to its feet—not gradually and at the initiative of one or two claqueurs and partisans, but with an absolutely electric sympathy, and they remained on their feet cheering the speaker for five minutes. It was by far the most decisive triumph of the magic and mastery of eloquence that I have ever witnessed in my life.

Another remarkable incident occurred at the same meeting. Mr. Ayrton, in moving a vote of thanks to the chairman, had alluded to a huge procession—part of a demonstration of the working-classes in favour of the Reform Bill—which had taken place in London a few days previously. Lady Burdett-Coutts had witnessed the procession from a balcony in the window of her house as it passed down the length of Piccadilly and Oxford Street. She had been recognised, and, knowing her generous beneficence, the working-men had cheered her. Mr. Ayrton alluded to this, and had the very dubious taste to express a strong regret that the Queen, who was at Buckingham Palace, had not done the same. The allusion was singularly misplaced, and Mr. Ayrton, as one who had been a member of the Government, ought to have known that under no circumstances could her Majesty thus recognise a demonstration in favour of a Bill which excited great differences of opinion, and was still under discussion by the House of Commons. The speech was still more mal à propos because it seemed, whether intentionally or not, to attribute to her Majesty a lack of that sympathy with the aspirations of the people which, on the contrary, the Queen has invariably shown, so that her kindness of heart has won a more unbounded affection than has ever been lavished on any previous Sovereign. Mr. Bright felt how unfortunate was this gaucherie, into which the speaker had perhaps unintentionally been led. He saw also how injurious it might be to the effect which the meeting would otherwise produce. When he rose to acknowledge the vote of thanks to himself, he not only defended her Majesty from the blame which Mr. Ayrton had implied, but, alluding with touching simplicity to the long and uninterrupted devotion which the Royal Lady had shown for so many years of widowhood to the memory of her great and princely consort, he showed the unfairness of the insinuation which might seem to have been implied.

The great voices of Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bright are silent. They have passed from the heated arena of politics, "to where beyond these voices there is peace"; and they have not left their equals behind them. We seem to be passing through one of those interspaces in national life which are not illuminated by minds so bright with genius as those which have ceased to shine. The soil of the next generation may perhaps produce a harvest as rich, or richer. Meanwhile we may at least rejoice that

"Great men have been among us; hands that penned
And tongues that uttered wisdom:—better none."




By Lina Orman Cooper, Author of "Our Home Rulers," Etc.


"Domestic economy consists in spending a penny to save a pound. Political economy consists in spending a pound to save a penny."

Such is an aphorism left us by one of the wisest of men. It exactly defines the principle on which I shall deal with the subject of this paper. Real economy means good management, and is quite apart from penuriousness. It implies proper regulation of a household, and careful disposition or arrangement of work. We can be thrifty of our talents, time, and money without being niggardly, for frugality need never descend into parsimony if we are watchful. There are more precious things than £ s. d., after all, and looking after those other things makes us sympathetic and original.

For instance, the real House Economical suggests sunshine and purity. Without these, smallness of rent will be more than counter-balanced by increase in doctors' fees. Of necessity, it must be liberally and variously supplied, or satiety follows. It is true that red herrings offer a larger amount of nutriment for a given sum of money than any other kind of animal food. Yet it would not be really economical to feed our households continually on halfpenny herrings. A farthing dip is the cheapest light obtainable—but eyes would be ruined if we provided nothing but single candles in our establishments. Spices and condiments are rather adjuncts of food than necessities, yet they are medicinal in their properties and of extreme value in rendering food more palatable and stimulating a jaded appetite. So far for food—for it is with food we generally find a tendency to save begins.

True economy consists in maintaining the standard of health in a family at its highest. Expenditure towards this end can never be extravagant, even if it ranges from thick curtains over our doors to silk mufflers in windy weather. Not to provide our children with warm underclothing on the score of expense is the height of extravagance; to be content without sanitary surroundings and labour-saving appliances the depth of foolishness.

The House Economical may first of all be beautiful. A horizon that is bounded by a need for thrift more often than not tends to greyness and gloom. This should not be. Lovely surroundings are of economic value in keeping spirits up to a certain point. Digestion is promoted by eating in a bright, airy dining-room. A well-arranged bedroom may be productive of sleep.

Comfortable homes are economical ones, in the best sense of the word, saving time, fatigue, and temper. One hour's opportune rest on a Chesterfield may save hours of malaise and headache. The House Economical will have rules sufficiently elastic to allow of such occasional pauses in work—"come-apart-and-rest-for-a-while" possibilities—if called for.

One great principle in the House Economical is never to spend money on unwanted things because they happen to be seen. Another is, when wanted, to get the best procurable. "Cheap and nasty" is a very true union of[250] words. Yet we must remember that some inexpensive substitutes are quite as good as costly things. A copper kettle, for instance, looks just as well and wears longer than a silver one. A1 plate lasts a lifetime if taken care of. Serge is more useful than satin, and just as suitable in its way.

"She looketh well to the ways of her household" was said of the virtuous woman of old. In the House Economical we must most closely follow her example in its ingle-nooks. Our average cook thinks it good to use only lumps of orrell in the range, ignoring the possibilities of saving in any form. Now all housekeepers know that pokers should be absent from the hearth if we would limit coal bills; that cinders, sifted and washed, are most useful fuel for frying and laundry work; that a judicious admixture of wet slack with wood or "nuts" is advisable. There are two economical ways of building and maintaining good fires in our parlours. One is to ignite at the top and suffer to burn downwards. The other is to lay and light after the usual fashion and "backen" with a bucket of damp coal dust. Either procedure gives a fire that will burn for hours without attention, if not "raked" by Mary Jane. We need not, like the ghost in Hamlet, "be condemned to fast in fires" even in the House Economical, if we see that every hearth burns its own cinders—that the kitchen stove consumes every bit of table refuse—and that the coal man delivers eight bags of slack with every ton of coal.

In the House Economical some laundry work must be done—by all means send out starched things. But Jaeger underclothing, and all flannels, last longer when washed at home. It has been said that servants, nowadays, are like monkey soap—and "will not wash clothes." But insertion of a clause in our hiring lease would show them what is required in this line. To keep woollies soft and unshrunken, they must be soaked in a bath containing two parts cold to one of hot water. In this, a handful of boiled soap jelly is stirred (to a lather) and to it one tablespoonful of ammonia (liquid) added. This volatile spirit loosens all dirt, and our clothing requires no rubbing, only a thorough rinsing. After shaking well, the garments must be hung out in a shady, sunless place to dry, and finished with a warm smoother. No "cast-iron back with a hinge in it" is required for scientific washing, and a few minutes' weekly supervision will enable the mistress of the House Economical to clothe her household in double garments without fear.

In the House Economical we shall rigidly exclude everything fusty and dusty. Therefore carpets will be conspicuous by their absence from the sleeping-rooms, especially those threadbare old lengths and squares usually relegated to our bedrooms. Floors will be disinfected and stained, at the cost of a few pence, by the use of permanganate of potash, and polished with beeswax and turpentine. A cleanly smell, exemption from germs and spores and microbes, and knowledge of the perfectly sanitary condition of our sleeping chambers will result.

"A stitch in time saves nine" is the motto writ large on the lintel of the House Economical. A supply of carpenterial tools, then, will always be at hand to prevent recourse to that most expensive luxury—the British workman. We shall oil locks and link chains, keep our window cords mended and its sash running free. We shall learn how to hammer and plane and file and screw. A bit and brace will be no wonderful instrument to us but a much-used friend. A handy man about the place is a well-known boon. Who can value at her right worth the handy woman?

It is a well-known fact that "many hands make light work," but we must remember that limbs imply mouths, and that mouths must be filled. Hence, in the House Economical, each child will have its own vineyard to keep. Helpful, willing little fingers will be trained to usefulness. Our young folk find as much pleasure in resultful effort as in objectless employment—making beds can be as much "play" as arranging a doll's house—and Tommy can be taught to mend as well as to break.

Perhaps, in the House Economical, we are inclined rather to forget that there is a time to spend as well as a time to keep (Eccles. iii.). The very fact of an economic course in general ought to help us to a liberal one at proper seasons. Cheese-paring and skinning a flint are occupations at all times to be avoided, more especially so when festivals or hospitality call for an open hand. The royal road to prosperity is bordered by scattered wealth and watered with generosity. The wisest of men said so, and I believe him.

What can I say further of the many other avenues leading up to and from the House Economical? Of the soap to be bought by the stone and the soda in sacks? Of the plaice for luncheon instead of halibut? Of rhubarb mixed with cherries, and such like? In treating of such details in the House Economical, we are treading on less flowery meads than when considering its twin sisters—the Palace Beautiful and the House Comfortable. Yet, perhaps, it needs more real wisdom to run a family coach on economically pleasant lines than it does to be either artistic or cosy. "Common tasks require all the force of a trained intellect to bear upon them." So it needs a cultivated brain, sanctified common sense, and skilful hands, to brighten the everyday minutiæ of life in the House essentially Economical.





By E. S. Curry, Author of "One of the Greatest," "Closely Veiled," Etc.




Mrs. Lytchett was paying a homiletic visit to Mrs. Bethune. She often did. She had great ideas of the duty of a Bishop's wife in keeping the wives of all the other clergy up to theirs; and there was much in the Bethune household that, in her opinion, required exceptional looking after. She liked Mrs. Bethune very much, and pitied her not a little. Just now, she must require help in managing Marjorie. A girl fresh from school—and not at all the school Mrs. Lytchett had advised for her—was almost always tiresome at first, till she had been settled into her place. Mrs. Lytchett meant to settle Marjorie.

"Oh, I am glad to see you up, and looking well," she said, coming in briskly on the early afternoon's calm.

Mr. Bethune put a chair for her beside his wife's sofa, and then sat down again to the littered table. He had long ago attuned himself to a placidity and aloofness in the midst of chatter which nothing ordinary could disturb.

"How dreadfully busy Mr. Bethune looks! Is it another book?" Mrs. Lytchett said.

With a murmured, "I had better go and look after the boys," Marjorie obeyed a glance from her mother's merry eyes, and went away through the window. She was apt to fret and rebel at Mrs. Lytchett's interferences, and was specially resentful at any implied criticism of her mother.

"What a big girl Marjorie grows! She is quite startling sometimes. One forgets she isn't a child."

"She has grown up early—to fill my place," with a little sigh.

"Oh, I hope not," was the cheery response. "She could not do that, you know—at any rate, not so successfully. By the way, I came partly to ask about her. Is she engaged to Mr. Warde?"

"Engaged? No. She is scarcely eighteen."

"But he evidently admires her—there is no mistaking that—he takes complete possession of her. Now, what do you wish about it?"

"It isn't what I wish," gently. "You are very kind—but Marjorie is a girl who will settle such a matter for herself."

"Oh, but that is nonsense! Those things can always be managed with proper care."

"But I should be sorry to have her managed. Nothing forced upon Marjorie will make her happy. She must be left to herself."

"How mistaken! You would not leave her to herself if a bad man were in question."


"I should take care not to put her in the way of a bad man," with dignity.

"You would prevent her meeting him? Exactly; then why act differently when it is someone you like? However, there is time for that. There is another matter. Do you know anything of Mr. Pelham's household?"

"No, nothing."

"The Bishop likes him, thinks him a great acquisition, and he visits at Oldstead. I had him to dinner, and he and Charity sang nicely. I'm not sure," looking wise, "that there isn't something between——However, he sent his baby to see me this morning—a most wilful, spoilt little thing. That nurse will not do at all."

"You share Sandy's opinion."

"Ah! I heard your boys had taken to the baby. Perhaps that was what made her so tiresome this morning. I warned Mr. Pelham what mischiefs they were," candidly. "But the nurse is insufferable. Dressed in a sort of dove-coloured dress and a hat, and all her hair waved—kid gloves, and an embroidered skirt under her dress. I asked her if Mr. Pelham had given her leave to dress like that."

"A man does not notice," said Mrs. Bethune, glad that Marjorie was not by to comment.

"I told her that I should speak to him, as she did not seem to realise her own duty, and also about the child's dress. It was ridiculous."

"A man could not know," suggested Mrs. Bethune.

"She was very impertinent, and then we found that the baby had run away. We could not find her anywhere, and she had got to the Bishop's room through the window. It seems that your boys had shown her the way. It seems rather hard that the Bishop of the diocese shouldn't be free from intrusion in his own palace. And he was very busy—just going off."

At mention of her boys a little tender smile crept into Mrs. Bethune's eyes. "He is always good to the boys," she said to the implied reproach.

"Good, yes—but that should prevent advantage being taken. And the baby has a temper," pursued Mrs. Lytchett. "She fought and screamed when I took her from his knee. She is evidently being brought up very badly indeed. I am going to see about it now. Do you think he will be back? I hear," in accents of disgust, "that he rides backwards and forwards on one of those horrid bicycles."

Mrs. Lytchett paused to wonder a little at the sudden flush suffusing Mrs. Bethune's face, but went on: "I hope he won't introduce these things into the Precincts, now we have kept them away so long. I should have thought they might very well be left to Blackton and such places."

"Even the Duchess rides," Mrs. Bethune said softly. She felt guiltily conscious that Marjorie and Charity, under Mr. Pelham's instructions, had been riding for some days past—not only in the Deanery garden as at first, but far away into the country.

"The Duchess is the Duchess," sharply. "She does and tolerates many things that seem to me a great pity."

Mr. Pelham had ridden home early that day, with the idea in his mind of taking his baby down to the Canons' Court, and himself consulting Mrs. Bethune about her. Marjorie had said, "Mother will know"; Charity had said, "Ask Mrs. Bethune, she is the nicest woman to consult"; and his own drawing in the direction where Marjorie might be found made him jump at the advice.

But he had found a tearful nurse and a belligerent baby; and he was just emerging from a lively interview in the study, where he had been told that, "if she couldn't dress as seemed fitting in such a house, as the attendant of Miss Pelham, not just like a common nurse, she would like to give a month's notice," when he met Mrs. Lytchett crossing the hall to the drawing-room.

"This is very kind of you," he began, conscious of an audible sniff and the angry rustle of skirts behind him; and before him, Mrs. Lytchett's tilted nose and stony eyes fixed in the same direction. He had a man's horror of a scene, and he glanced apprehensively at the turned-down corners of Mrs. Lytchett's mouth.

"Bring Miss Barbara, nurse," he said hastily, and ushered his visitor into the drawing-room.

"What a remarkable apartment!" Mrs. Lytchett said in her deep voice, looking round. "What alterations you have made!"

"I hope you like it," he said courteously.

"I daresay I shall, when I get used to it. I'm not one that approves of changes," she responded. Then turning from frivolities, she sat down and began seriously upon her business.

"Your little girl came to see me this morning. I am afraid that nurse of yours is very unfit for her position, and is doing her great harm. She is spoilt and very wilful."

"My little Barbara!" murmured Mr. Pelham, a pang filling his heart at such words in connection with his baby, followed immediately by a feeling that he should like to do some harm to his visitor. Just then the door was opened widely, and the baby stood within the doorway.

To eyes not jaundiced, she was a perfect[253] picture in a fitting frame. The sun shone in, through old stained glass, on the brown panelling of the hall behind her. A ray, through a side window of the drawing-room, fell upon her, lighting up her vivacious, dark beauty. Nurse, on seeing the visitor, had hastily given vent to her temper, and arrayed her in the latest Regent Street confection—a dainty short-waisted, long-skirted white satin frock trimmed with costly lace, under which the bare pink toes just peeped, for Barbara had scouted the accompanying shoes.

With her face dimpling into smiles at sight of her father, she caught up her skirt with one hand and hurried towards him.

"Noo f'ock," she called out.

Then she recognised the visitor, and paused, remembering the morning's conflict, putting her finger into her mouth and considering. A little to her father's dismay she tilted her nose, and said interrogatively, "Bip? Bip?" much as if she were questioning a terrier. Then she slowly sidled to his knee, eyeing Mrs. Lytchett the while in evident doubt of her intentions.

"Bip? Bip?" she queried again insistently, pointing her finger at the visitor.

"What is it, Barbie?" her father asked gently.

"She means the Bishop," explained the Bishop's wife in disgusted tones. "That is what she was screaming all through the hall this morning, when I brought her from his study. It is a dreadful name. You must say 'Bishop,' little one," she commanded in deep tones, bending towards the baby.

Barbara was not easily frightened, but the atmosphere was stormy, and her dressing had been hurried. She glanced up into the stony eyes above her, and perhaps gauged the lack of sympathy. With a quiver of her rosy mouth she said faintly, "Barbedie say Bip," and having thus asserted herself, threw herself against her father's knees, her face buried. He afterwards related that he heard murmurs of the obnoxious monosyllable; but fortunately the situation was relieved by a piercing whistle that now sounded through the windows.

As she heard it, a delighted smile came over Barbara's lifted face—a kind of record of past delight and future hope. She raised her hand, and pointed vaguely at the outside world.

"Boy," she said ecstatically, wriggling hurriedly from her father's knee. It was Sandy's summons to his comrade, and she hastened to answer it.

"I think it is the Bethune boys on their way home from school," Mr. Pelham said apologetically.

"It certainly sounds like them—no one else could make such a dreadful noise," Mrs. Lytchett answered. "Are you going to let that child go out like that, with no shoes on, and in that dress? Ah, there!"


"What a remarkable apartment!"

She had risen and approached the window, with the view of intercepting Barbara's exit. But the baby was too quick. Hastily wriggling down the steps, in a manner peculiarly her own, she was seized upon on either hand by David and Sandy—apt at quick evasions, as well as in seeing cause for them—and 
was striding with huge strides across the lawn. Point lace and satin were of no account with the Bethune boys, any more than were bare toes and a hatless head. The girl-baby, all smiles to them, they found delightful, no matter in what she might happen to be cased.


His keen eyes took in all the details of the scene.

"That dress will be ruined," Mrs. Lytchett said tragically; and she proceeded with energy to convey her opinions as to the dressing of little children, as well as of their nurses. When she at last withdrew to pay a visit on the Green, Mr. Pelham closed the big gate behind her with a sigh of relief.

"I daresay she is right," he thought. "But what unpleasant 'right.' I will ask Mrs. Bethune."

He felt always irresistibly drawn by the dark beauty of Mrs. Bethune's eyes. No one could see the appeal in them without a pang. Even amidst her merriment, their wistful beauty somewhat belied it. Mr. Pelham found her helplessness and patience very pathetic. She looked so young to be a prisoner—so young, too, to be the mother of all those boys—whose noise was, however, curbed somewhat near her sofa.

When she had heard his errand, she said, "I thought you had come for your little girl. She came down half an hour ago with my boys, in a dress fit for a princess. I feared they had stolen her away. We have ventured to take it off, and put her into one of the boy's blouses. I really couldn't let her go and dig in such clothes. Yes," in response to his look, "they are all in the garden. Go and see if you like her in it, and then you shall have a pattern."

Mr. Pelham, on emerging through the window into the garden, saw that the "all" included also Mr. Warde. That gentleman had shown himself disinclined to follow the Bishop's lead in being civil to the newcomer. He had not yet called on him—though when they met they were friendly in discussing mutual tastes.

Mr. Warde was sitting with Marjorie under the beech tree on the lawn, and Mr. Pelham was struck by the look of intimacy, long-established, that the books and work scattered on the table seemed to prove between them. He could not know that Mr. Warde had joined Marjorie, after she had gone out to overlook the boys. He only saw that they were sitting together in the summer shade, talking in low voices—the man with a look on his face, and a possession in his attitude, which could not be mistaken—the girl with a wistful appeal shining in her dark eyes, which might well be a response.

A cold doubt fell on the beholder as he walked slowly towards them, and his keen eyes took in all the details of the scene. He had heard rumours—Charity had half-revealed the understanding between them—but his heart had refused belief.

Could it be that, after all, they were engaged? If so, he knew that life—which, with its new possibilities, had lately become strangely sweet—would again be a dark and careful problem.



Barbara had been exercising all her fascinations in beguiling Mr. Warde. She was attired in one of Orme's blue smocks, in which her small body was somewhat lost, but in which she was equally pretty as when attired in her own daintinesses. Her nurse had fostered in her a taste for dress, which so far prompted a desire for her father's approval; but the male tuition she was now under promised soon to qualify this taste.

She had informed Mr. Warde of her importance in Orme's dress, and received his sympathy, with pretty little pattings down of the blue linen, until recalled to business by Sandy's whistle.

"Bardedie go dig," she announced, showing all her white teeth in an alluring smile, and trotting off to the cave side.

Down below, the boys were strenuously repairing the ravages of the thunderstorm, and all hands—and baskets—were in requisition. The rôle of highwayman, like that of ghost, having palled, they were eager to begin the more important one of settler. David had arranged the start for the next day, and they were excitedly making preparations and collecting necessary stores.

These included numerous and unlikely things.

"Settlers have spades; we shan't want any, as ours isn't diggin' ground," objected David to Sandy's list.

"It's ridic'lus to go settling wivout spades," said Sandy.

"Less to carry, and there'll be enough, and it isn't like straight, even ground."

"We must have a blanket. That can come off a bed. It's a mountain, Dave, 'member—the top of a mountain. An' our fambly to get up an' all. It'll be awfly hard," said Sandy, stopping for a moment in his burrowings to mop his heated face. Just then Barbara danced in, planting her feet in great delight in the damp mud Sandy had excavated.

"Me," she demanded, "me too. Barbedie dig"; and, seizing a basket, she began to fill it, in keen emulation of Orme's business-like[256] labour. Orme was a most useful coadjutor in anything. When once set to work, he always went on stolidly till he was told to stop, or till material failed him. Nothing in the way of temptation, no delight or allurement, could turn him aside.


Marjorie lifted her head to meet his gaze.

Marjorie's tools, like his, were her two little fat hands, and these were soon, to her delight, plastered with mud.

"How shall we get her?" inquired David, pausing and looking at the baby, working so ardently. "Must she come too?"

"'Course she must," said Sandy. "We ain't got no other girl. 'Sides, it ud be a shame to leave her out just when the fun begins. She'll have to be fetched. We'll get her to tea."

The boys' heads got together over schemes which grew more and more ambitious, and by the time the passage was cleared of the débris and mud, and the little ones shunted back from discovery of its exit, all details had been planned.

Sandy, hearing voices, reconnoitred, with only his eyes above ground, to find out whether friend or foe were with Marjorie. He was delighted to see Barbara's father. Here was his opportunity.

It was probably the dirtiest little boy in England who came persuasively to Mr. Pelham's side, holding the transformed Barbara—now almost equally dirty—by the hand.

"Your baby likes our house," he said. "May she come to-morrow, and stop to tea?"

Barbara, gazing with delight at her unrecognisable hands, held them up to her father's view; sufficient plea, she held these hands for a repetition of delight. And when Ross and Orme ambled up alongside, regarding him solemnly with their round blue eyes, awaiting his verdict, he said "Yes."

Sandy's remnant of conscience prompted him to say, "We'll bring her back some time—honour bright. Don't want that nasty nurse prancing 'bout."

"Hush, Sandy!" said Marjorie.

"Don't," reiterated Sandy sturdily; "her skirts scrape an' scratch—an' she screams if you do things sudden."

"I hope it is quite safe," Marjorie said a little anxiously, as Barbara was marched off to the nursery by all her swains, to be cleaned, and reinstated in her satin gown. "Sandy doesn't quite realise what a baby she is."

"No harm could happen on the way down,"[257] Mr. Pelham said thoughtfully, "and it is but a step from my gate to the Court. I have watched how careful they are with her."

Marjorie's solicitude for his baby prompted him to inquire, rising unwillingly when that small person reappeared, "Are you dining at the Deanery to-morrow?"

"Yes," answered Marjorie. "Charity has some musical people coming down from London—and you——"

She paused, recollecting Charity's pretty air of possession when mentioning Mr. Pelham and his singing. She had said, "Mr. Pelham and I have been practising together a good deal—he sent for some new songs from town. Our voices suit perfectly—there are very few evenings, when we are disengaged, that he doesn't find his way down the hill."

She did not mention the warm and recurrent invitation of the Dean. Nor could Marjorie realise the allurement of the pretty drawing-room with its charming hostess to the lonely man. Possibly, neither would she have believed that sometimes a visionary hope that he might find her with her friend had been his lure.

Marjorie's was a home to which he did not often like to venture unasked. One evening, he had volunteered to be Charity's messenger; and he had been struck by the aloofness and quiet of the little scene into which he had been announced.

The lamp, on the minor canon's table, shining white on the scattered papers, lit up his scholarly face, as, busy with his writing and the thoughts it brought, he turned a far-away gaze on the visitor.

Another lamp, by Mrs. Bethune's sofa, shone on Marjorie's burnished head, and lighted the fragile beauty of her mother. Both were busy with needlework—the pretty smocks of the little boys. Mrs. Bethune's slender hands rested whilst she welcomed and talked to Mr. Pelham; but Marjorie's went on with their occupation. He noticed, too, the open book which lay upon the table; the quiet homeliness of this little scene, which yet Marjorie's rapidly moving fingers made part of a more strenuous life than the one he had just left; the work-a-day room in which were no luxuries, except the little table of hothouse flowers, always kept fresh and fragrant by Mrs. Bethune's many friends; and the bent, aloof figure of the student—all gave the room a totally different atmosphere from the luxurious apartment whence he had come. Its calm, and peace, and withdrawal, struck Mr. Pelham with a sense of chill. He had no part in it. Mother and child were enough for each other. Marjorie had none of Charity's pretty restlessnesses and fusses for her visitor's entertainment. As the conversation went on, she scarcely raised her eyes. He talked to Mrs. Bethune, prolonging the conversation that he might enjoy the quiet pose of Marjorie's slim figure, the pretty curves of cheek and ear, and the moving swiftness of her fingers.

Only now and then Marjorie lifted her head to meet his gaze, with the wistful look now becoming habitual. For Mr. Warde's steady wooing, although, according to his promise, unvoiced, was sufficiently assiduous; and Marjorie was unconsciously making up her mind to a future which she realised would be a great delight to her parents. She was quite matter-of-fact about it. It did not occur to her that she was of sufficient importance to revolt at such a future. She did not once say to her mother, "It is my own life I have to live. Why should I marry Mr. Warde if I don't love him?" She put aside the fancies of a far different lover which, in moments of unrest, or rare idleness, filled her day-dreams.

"Life isn't a fairy tale," she settled with a sigh, at the remembrance of an arresting look she could not banish. "He cares for Charity. Everybody says so. How can I be so silly? And yet—and yet——"

"Could you not come up and see my house some day?" Mr. Pelham had asked that evening, as he was leaving. "Oh!" as a sudden thought struck him, "I have a carriage—scarcely ever used. I believe it could be made as comfortable as your chair. Would it shake you too much? And then," turning eagerly to Marjorie, "your mother could drive every day it was fine. It would be a kindness to use it!" he pleaded.

Marjorie's face lit in response. "Mother does drive sometimes. Mr. Warde——" and with angry dismay, the looker-on beheld the mounting flush. "Oh, everybody is very kind in that way," she finished hurriedly.

"But come and see my house and pictures," he persisted, turning to Mrs. Bethune. "Come to-morrow, and I will be at home to show you them, and see that you are not tired."

The visit had been duly paid and enjoyed, and plans for others made, till it soon happened that, thanks also to the boys and Barbara, scarcely a day passed without communication between the Canons' Court and The Ridges.

And so love, unconsciously fed and fostered, had grown apace.

There was a silence under the beech tree after Mr. Pelham's departure, during which both Marjorie and Mr. Warde were busy with their own thoughts. It was broken by Mr. Warde.

"When is that engagement to be announced? Is it settled yet?"

"What engagement?"


"Pelham and your friend, Charity. I never drop in of an evening but I find him there."

"Perhaps he says the same about you," said Marjorie, a flash of mischief in her eyes.

Mr. Warde's speech had broken in upon a dreamy wonder, which was making a song of joy in her heart, as to the meaning of Mr. Pelham's lingering look as he had said good-bye. With a start of recollection, and a pulling of herself together, Marjorie remembered that she had known this man, on whose looks she was dwelling, just six weeks. Six weeks! And this other man, sitting so near, with an air of possession at which her whole heart rebelled—though she quelled the expression she was longing to give way to—she had known all her life! All her life he had been intimate—one of them—as near almost as her father. And how good he had been to her, to them all! How the household would miss the constant care—first for one, then for another—which in so many ways he had evinced. Marjorie's conscience smote her when she recalled his many kindnesses, accepted as a matter of course, as between lifelong friends; kindnesses, as she quickly remembered, entirely on one side.

The recollection of her mother's pleading for him drew Marjorie's eyes in mute questioning to his face. Would he feel very much if she could not bring herself to care for him? He looked so comfortable, and healthy, and prosperous. Surely it could not matter to him what a girl might do? And then—he turned, and looked at her suddenly, to meet the questioning in her eyes. A queer, rigid expression hardened his mouth. For a moment he waited, as though preparing for a blow. Then he stood up and looked down at her, shielding her by his action from any lookers-on from the windows.

"Well, Marjorie, you have something to say to me?" and she heard him catch his breath, and pause to recover, before he added: "Say it quickly, dear. Have you changed? Have you reconsidered?"

"Mother——" stammered Marjorie, taken by surprise; "no, I haven't changed, but——"

"Yes," he encouraged; and he vaguely wondered that she was not stunned by the loud beating of his heart. It had come at last, what he longed for. It overmastered him.

"Mother said—it is love." Her head was bent, and her voice was a whisper, scarcely audible in the soft summer air; but the man heard.

"And you—and you?" he breathed.

Marjorie lifted her eyes, startled. This—what was it?—this transforming emotion, shining in the eyes, usually so quiet? She shrank back.

"No, do not," she implored. "I do not know—I do not feel like that."

She made as though to rise, and pushed him gently away. What had she said? What had she done to cause such feeling?

"Nay, Marjorie," he said, and he grew rigid again in self-control; "tell me what was in your mind. I will not vex you—I will claim nothing; only tell me—tell me," he entreated.

Marjorie, looking into her memory, searched in vain for something that would meet this demand. A vague memory of her mother's words about marriage and Mr. Warde, mingled with the Duchess's conversation at the Deanery; a recollection of the constant coupling of Charity's name with that of Mr. Pelham; a tired feeling that she had been worsted in a struggle, and could no longer fight; a yearning for comfort in some undefined sorrow, to which she could give no name—a sense of irrevocableness, of emptiness, of ineffable longing. This is what Marjorie felt, and from which she turned, as human nature will turn from a hurt to which experience can give no cure.

"I do not think—I do not know whether it is love," she said at last. The man winced unconsciously at the icy aloofness of the girlish voice. "But—if—you—care——" The words fell sighingly from her lips.

"If I care?" he repeated slowly, and his voice was as cold as hers in the effort at repression; "if I care? Marjorie, I care so much that to make you happy, to win your love, I would give my life. My darling"—he paused—"how dear—how dear—I cannot make you understand. You shall never regret—never!"

He looked down for a second at the bowed white face, so unlike the face of a happy girl hearing her lover tell that she is beloved, and said softly:

"You will like to be alone; I will go. Do not think of me in any other way than as just your old friend, until—until you give it me willingly. I will claim nothing more."



"What's he been doin', Margie?"

Ages had passed, so it seemed to Marjorie, since the departure of Mr. Warde, when Sandy's question reached her ear. All the boys were standing round, looking at her with inquisitive concern. Marjorie, a limp heap, inattentive, unready to listen to them, was a new experience. Ross and Orme had tender hearts, not yet hardened by contact with an unsympathetic world. The[259] latter had dug his elbows into his sister's knees, and was looking up pitifully into the far-away eyes that did not even yet see him. Conscious of the blankness, Orme felt moved to whimper; Ross thumped with sturdy fists the limp knees which, hitherto, for baby weaknesses had provided firm support.

"What's he been doin', Margie?"

As the question reached her far-away consciousness, Marjorie came back to reality with a sudden start. Mr. Warde had forgotten that the boys were still in the garden, so occupied was he and so quiet were they. But as the tea-hour approached, first one, then another, finally all four pairs of eyes had been cautiously lifted above ground to survey the situation.

Something, perhaps, in Mr. Warde's appearance, some intuition of unwonted agitation in the interview going on under their eyes, had warned David against intrusion, and he had held Sandy back until the visitor was gone.


"Seems you're struck all of a heap, Margie!"

"Seems you're all struck of a heap, Margie," said David now. "Has he been scolding?"

"Not exactly," faltered Marjorie; she could not meet the inquiring glances bent on her from all sides. She felt sore and shaken; and the familiar faces brought back to her recollection the full meaning of the interview through which she had just passed. What had she done? what had she said? With a shock she realised that she had agreed to become Mr. Warde's wife. Her whole soul shrank.

"Ain't we goin' to have any tea?" Sandy inquired, his mind bent on an opportunity for the acquisition of stores.

"Is it tea-time?"

"Bell went ever so long ago."

"Didn't you hear it, Margie?" Ross inquired, much impressed at such absent-mindedness.

"No, Ross. Go in, all of you, and get clean," Marjorie ordered, glancing from one to another, feeling less like a victim under the eyes of her judges now that they too were in a position to be criticised.

"'Stead of eatin' much," Sandy had exhorted beforehand, "you've got to save."


If Marjorie had not been so occupied with her own perplexities, she must have noticed, first, the ravenous appetite of the four; next, the rapidity with which the bread-and-butter and cake disappeared. All the pockets were bulging when Ross was deputed to say grace, but the little boy's face looked very disconsolate indeed. Regardless of Sandy's frowns, after struggling through the formula, in accents of lingering unwillingness, he added—

"Ain't had a good tea—me hungry as hungry."

"Me, too," said Orme hopefully.

Marjorie glanced suspiciously round on the faces of her brothers, and then at the empty board. Even so preoccupied as she was, she could not but suspect that some means, other than natural ones, must have been used to banish all that food. And when the same thing happened the next afternoon also, when a more than usually varied abundance graced the table in honour of Barbara's visit, she spoke.

"I can't think," she was beginning to protest, when, to Sandy's delighted relief, Mrs. Lytchett was announced as being in the drawing-room, and asking specially for her.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Marjorie, her mind travelling back to all her misdemeanours. "What can it be? I hope not the cycling."

But it was. There was an amused flash in her mother's eyes, while Mrs. Lytchett's lips looked as though they were carved in stone, so very determined was her aspect.

"I hope it isn't true, Marjorie, what I hear?" she said in aggrieved tones.

"What is that?" asked Marjorie.

"Three of those horrid bicycles passed me this afternoon close, whirling by at a furious pace. I had been to the Deanery, to tell Charity how sorry the Bishop was to miss her music. She wasn't in; and passing the garden entrance—the garden entrance—ah, I see it is true!"

For Marjorie's aspect was unmistakable. It was one of guilt. She did nothing, but sat down in a somewhat limp manner in the chair near which she stood, and looked blankly at her inquisitor.

"So I asked; I could scarcely believe my eyes. That young footman was lounging near; I suppose he was waiting for the bicycles, wasting his time. And he said you have all been riding a long time."

"Not so very long," Marjorie answered in excusing accents. "Only about a month."

Mrs. Bethune laughed, though she looked at Marjorie anxiously. When they were not too bitter, she enjoyed the humour of the encounters between Mrs. Lytchett and Marjorie. Generally the latter showed fight; but all that day she had been unusually quiet.

"I thought you knew how much the Bishop and I hated the horrid things."

The tones were deeply reproachful.

"I thought—he—had changed," Marjorie stammered.

"No; he will never change, neither shall I"—in accents of certainty. "The Bishop thinks them most unbecoming. How did you learn? I hope that young footman——" She paused, unable to put into words the suspicion she had conjured up.

"We learnt—Mr. Pelham showed us—in the Deanery garden. It isn't difficult."

"I am sorry you didn't think more of your position in Norham before setting such an example. And they cost so much!"

"Mine was a present," murmured Marjorie, unwontedly gentle.

"A present! From Mr. Pelham?"

"It came with Charity's."

"From the Dean. Oh! that is different."

Marjorie's memory went back to the sunshiny afternoon under the chestnuts at the Deanery, when the two new glittering machines—just arrived from the maker—had been brought out to Charity's tea-table.

"One for me!" she had exclaimed, reading the label in delight. "How kind of the Dean!"

But when she thanked the Dean, in pretty gratitude, a little later, he had disclaimed the gift.

"Who sent for it for me? Can it really be for me? Not Mr. Pelham, surely?" (for it was he who, at the Dean's request, had ordered Charity's). He, too, disowned being the giver.

"But you know?" Marjorie asked.

"Yes, I know. The giver is one who has every right to give you pleasure."

Something in his manner put her on the track, and she remembered that the Bishop had been in the garden when the purchase had been talked about. When she saw him next, he did not disavow her thanks.

"I like to see you enjoying yourself, my dear," he answered in his kind tones. "I thought how bright and happy you both looked the other day. Only don't have any accidents."

"I don't think it was the Dean," Marjorie's truthful nature prompted her to answer now. "It was—the Bishop."

"And I asked him not! I begged him not to carry out his intention. Poor Norham!" with a sigh, "it has given in at last, and now you and Charity have started, every girl in the place will follow. I blame the Duchess."

When the visitor had gone, Marjorie stood for a moment at the window, anxiously watching Sandy speeding up the garden as fast as his legs could carry him.


"The boys have got some scheme on, I believe, mother," she said. "Dave and Sandy have been full of mystery all day, and Ross is pompous. I wish we weren't going to leave you alone to-night," she said tenderly.

"I like you to go with your father, dear—he will not stay for the music, so I shall not be alone long. And now—I must expect to lose you gradually, dear."

"Oh, not yet." With passion Marjorie pushed the thought away.

Many little hindrances occurred whilst she was dressing. One knock preceded the entrance of Sandy, an unwonted visitor at such a time. He looked eager and excited; but he stood fidgeting by Marjorie's dressing-table, watching the arrangement of her hair, and did not appear in any hurry to explain what he needed.

"Is all girl's hair done like that? What a bover it must be," he remarked after a little time. "I should like that tiny, squinchy, soft brush, Margie."

"What for?"

"To brush Barbie's hair. It's in a awfle mess."

"Well, take it," said Marjorie kindly. "And it's time you took her home. She goes to bed at seven, and you promised."

"Yes, but"—objected Sandy eagerly—"not to-day. Mr. Pelham said she might stay a bit longer. Is your bed or mine biggest, Margie?"

"Mine. What a funny boy you are, Sandy."

"Could I have a blanket off your bed, Margie? Nurse'll fuss ever so, if I take ours—an' I can't poss'bly do wivout one."

Marjorie's thoughts had passed away from her little brother and his needs; and the absent assent she gave was enough for Sandy. He dragged the blanket from the bed, and ran off, hugging it in his arms. He found always that directness was his best aid. Not often did Sandy beat about the bush.

Marjorie went down, cloak and gloves in hand, a dainty, graceful figure in her soft white dress. Her father was waiting for her, sitting in unwonted idleness by her mother's sofa.

Marjorie looked at them curiously as she crossed the floor, noting, as she would not have noted another time, that her mother's hand was clasped in her father's. Love, the love she had pledged herself to, was theirs. They loved each other well, it was easy to see; though, to Marjorie, it seemed impossible that her dignified father could ever have told his love behind a door.

Her aspect was stern, like that of a young judge, as she looked down upon them now. Somehow, to her, love's outward features were no longer fair.

"You look very nice, Margie," her mother said softly, looking at the tall, slim form, crowned by its cold pure face. "That dress is a success. Look, father."

Mr. Bethune turned his eyes upon his daughter, and smiled.

"Yes," he said; "she looks sweet and clean. She is like you, Alysson," his voice lingering and breaking, "in the old days."


Anxiously watching Sandy speeding up the garden.

Marjorie heard, wondering. Alysson! How sweet the name sounded with that caressing accent on its second syllable. This was the first time she had ever heard her father call her mother thus.

She walked beside him through the evening sunset, down the Canons' Court, to the music of the cathedral chimes; her cloak cast round her emphasising the youthful slenderness, which made her seem so tall. Mr. Warde, from the Deanery steps, watched them approach, his heart bounding with[262] delight at her fairness. Only when they reached the door, a thought occurred to Marjorie, and she turned to her father in a little concern.

"I saw nothing of the children. I quite forgot them. Did you see them?"

"Mother said"—it was work-a-day "mother" now, not the tenderly breathed "Alysson"—"that they had gone off, she thought, with Pelham's baby."


The hasty, flying figure.

"Oh! I hope so," said Marjorie, with a little cold thrill of prophetic fear. "How careless of me not to see! However, mother will see that it is all right."

Charity's London friends had been late in arriving, and dinner had been put back a little to give them time to dress. It was about half-finished, and the timepiece on the mantelshelf was chiming half-past nine, when Marjorie saw a footman speaking to her father at the other end of the table.

Mr. Bethune asked a quick question or two, and then rose and slipped away.

Marjorie wondered for a moment, and then again grew interested in her neighbour's talk. When Charity's signal drew the ladies into the hall, she was detained a second by the enveloping skirt of one of the ladies.

A colloquy was going on at the hall door. The soft night air streamed in, feeling cool and grateful to Marjorie's heated cheek. As she lingered, she caught the hurried words in a familiar voice—

"Tell Mr. Pelham, please, immediate! Mr. Bethune is gone to the police—but he is to go, and Miss Bethune, at once to Mrs. Bethune. Poor lady, she is——"

With a little cry, Marjorie was at the door.

"What is it, nurse?" she asked breathlessly. "Barbara?"

Almost with a note of triumph at the importance of her news, the woman said, "Neither Miss Barbara nor any of the young gentlemen can be found anywhere, miss. They have all clean disappeared. Oh, sir," in accents of direful import, as Mr. Pelham reached Marjorie's side, "Miss Barbara is lost!"

Down the steps, waiting for no wrap, sped Marjorie; and the twilight, now descending on the Canons' Court, closed her in. For a second, through the dimness, Mr. Pelham saw the hasty, flying figure in its soft white robe, and caught a glimpse of her face. It was a vision that burnt itself on his memory.

Mr. Warde leapt with him down the wide steps.

"We shall soon find her, never fear," he said kindly—he had only heard the end of nurse's message. "I will call my servants, and be with you directly."




By the Rev. George Matheson, M.A., D.D., F.R.S.E., St. Bernard's, Edinburgh.

"But many of the priests and Levites and chief of the fathers, who were ancient men, that had seen the first house, when the foundation of this house was laid before their eyes, wept with a loud voice; and many shouted aloud for joy."—Ezra iii. 12.


One of the finest and most poetic touches of human nature occurs in the most prosaic book of the Bible—the Book of Ezra. It is like a single well-spring in a dry, parched land, like one lingering leaf of autumn in the heart of winter. It is found at that scene where the foundation of the new Temple is laid. The passage thus records the mingled feelings of the spectators: "But many of the priests and Levites and chief of the fathers, who were ancient men, that had seen the first house, when the foundation of this house was laid before their eyes, wept with a loud voice; and many shouted aloud for joy."

The passage is suggestive for all time. We see it repeated at the opening of every January. Nay, it is not limited to inauguration days; it recurs wherever youth and age are found side by side. At the presentation of every new thing there are two attitudes among the crowd—the young shout and the old weep. They are looking through two different glasses—hope and memory. Neither of them is worshipping in the building in which they stand. Youth sees the house gilded by the rays of to-morrow; age beholds it overshadowed by the light of yesterday. Youth claps its hands over its coming possibilities; age says, "It is nothing to what used to be in the old days." Youth disparages the first temple, and says the new is better; age exclaims with the Scottish poetess:—

"There ne'er shall be a new house
Can seem so fair to me."

You will observe that in neither of these cases is the attitude pessimistic. Both see roses; both are agreed that a happy time is somewhere; but they differ as to where the roses lie. Youth sees them at the end; age beholds them at the beginning. The one has placed its Garden of Eden in the future; the other has planted it in the past. Both are optimists; but they seek their goal by opposite ways. Youth is for advance; it cries with a loud voice, "Speak to the children of Israel, that they go forward." Age is for retreat, for regress toward a former day; it would say with the ancient poet, "Return unto thy rest, O my soul."

Which is right? Neither. Both are one-sided; each ignores something in the other. Let us begin with youth—the tendency to disparage the past, to set hope against memory. It forgets something—that hope is itself an inheritance of the past. Why does youth clap its hands previous to experience? It is because the young man has got in his blood the experience of past generations, and the result has been on the side of happiness rather than of misery. If the result had been on the side of misery, youth would not have hoped; it would have despaired. Instinct is the fruit of past habit; instinctive hope must come from long prosperity. Christianity itself has propagated from sire to son an inheritance of hope; Christ in us becomes the hope of glory. Paul declares that the highest ground for hope is to be found in the past: "He that spared not His own Son, shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" He means that nothing in the future need be too much to expect after this exhibition of love in the past. The handing down of such a thought is alone sufficient to create sunshine. It causes the average child in a Christian population to be born an optimist—to come into the world with an expectation of blue sky, and to dream of a good for which he has no warrant in personal experience.

But if youth is one-sided in disparaging the past, age is also so in disparaging the[264] future, in dwelling on the past exclusively. The old man tends to say that the former days were better than these. If he could get back to these former days, he would make a discovery. He would find that, in point of fact, there was not one of them which was not lit by to-morrow's sky. Take the boy's game. To one looking back through the years, it seems to have been a pure enjoyment of the hour; in truth, it was never so. What the boy saw was more than the game of play; it was the game of life. To him the game was an allegory: it represented something beyond itself—the chances of the world. That which made him glad in his success, that which made him sad in his defeat, was not mainly the fact but the omen. The game was to him rather a sign of the future than an event of the hour. Or take the girl's doll. Was that purely a pleasure of the hour? Nay; the hour had very little to do with it. She was living in a world of imagination—a world to come. The doll to her represented motherhood. She had already in fancy a house of her own. She reigned; she administered; she managed; she had put away childish things. There are no moments so speculative as our real moments; no sphere is so full of to-morrow as what we call the events of the hour.

But, although each view separately is one-sided, there is an extreme beauty in their union. It is one of the finest laws of Providence that youth should see the end at the beginning, and that age should see the beginning at the end. Let us glance at each in turn. Let us begin with youth. And let us remember what is the problem before youth: it is, how to advance. Now, I have no hesitation in saying that nothing causes us to advance but a vision of the future. Paradoxical as it may sound, if there is to be progress, the end must get behind the beginning and push it on. No other vision will impel us forward. The past will not. I do not think the effect even of bright memories is stimulating; they tend rather to make us fold the hands. The present will not. How short is the effect of any actual joy! If a windfall comes to you, you contemplate it perhaps for a few moments exclusively; presently you say, "What will my friend think when he hears of it?" The thing itself is not sufficient. It cannot bear the weight even of five minutes. It is incapable of self-sustenance. It would die at its birth if it were not supported by to-morrow.

Therefore it is that God leads on the youth of individuals and communities, not by a sight of their environment, but by a vision of the end. He shows them the end without perspective—without the years between. He knows that by nature the child ignores all between—that in the presence of any coming joy he cries, "Not to-morrow, nor to-morrow, nor to-morrow, but the next day." And so our Father has always begun by showing us the next day. He came to Abraham and said, "Get thee out of thy country, and I will make of thee a great nation." He did not tell him that Egypt and the desert and the Jordan lay between. If He had, his steps would have been paralysed on the threshold. Did you ever ask yourself what is the earliest revealed doctrine of the New Testament? Is it justification, sanctification, effectual calling, the perseverance of the saints? No, it is none of these: it is the second coming of Christ—the completed glory of redeeming love. When Paul sat down to write his first epistle to the Thessalonians—the earliest book of the New Testament—he began at the end. He let the world hear the final bells ringing across the snow. He concealed the snow; he veiled the intervening years; he said, "To-morrow." He did not tell that a Red Sea of trouble and a desert of visionless waiting lay between. And he was right. Men heard only the bells, and the bells lured them on. They helped them to tread the snow; they nerved them to cross the sea. They sustained them to meet the desert. They sounded nearer than they were; they rang ever the one refrain, "Christ is coming"; and the persistent strain of to-morrow hid the jarring of the passing day.

But if it is benevolent that youth should see the end at the beginning, it is no less a bounteous provision that age should see the beginning at the end. "Say not that the former days were better than these" is a counsel wise and true. But it is none the less wise and true that to the eye of the old man the past ought to be glorified. It ought to be glorified because it needs to be glorified. The past never got[265] justice while it was passing. Childhood ignored it; youth disparaged it. The hour laid gems at our feet which we did not see, or which, seeing, we despised. We kept asking when Elias would come; and Elias had come already. To us, as to Moses, the hand of God was laid over the face while God was passing by; we did not discern the actual blessings of the day. Are we never to discern them here below? Must we go hence without seeing the world in which we dwell? Shall we be sent forth to gaze on things unseen before we have looked at the objects which have been actually in our hands? God says "No." He says the past must be righted, righted on the earth, righted by the earth. He has appointed a day even here in which each man shall judge the world in which he has dwelt—in which he shall reverse his former judgment. The crooked shall be seen straight, the rough places shall appear plain, the glory of the Lord, which was veiled in passing, shall be recognised in retrospect; and the end will pronounce the beginning to have been indeed very good.

Therefore it is that the eyes of the aged men rest more on the old house than on the new. The old is to them really a new house. They have seen it for the first time. They did not see it when they were living in it; their eyes were then on the coming temple, and the voice of the present God spoke to them unheard. Therefore, on the quiet road to Emmaus—the road of life's silent afternoon—God shows them the disappearing form of yesterday; and, like Jacob, they exclaim in deep surprise, "Surely the Lord was in this place, and we knew it not; this was none other than the house of God."

And this explains something which otherwise I could not understand. In the Book of Revelation the host of the redeemed in heaven are represented as singing two songs—the song of Moses and the song of the Lamb. Why two? The song of Moses I can readily understand; it is the triumph of the future—the shout over the coming emancipation. But why sing the song of the Lamb? Why chant a pæan over the sacrifices of yesterday? Why allow the dark memories of the past to dim the glory of the approaching day? Is there not something which jars upon the ear in the union of two anthems such as these?



(Photo: J. Horsburgh and Son, Edinburgh.)

No; there would be something jarring without it. All other heavens but that of the Bible sing the song of Moses alone; they ask nothing more than to be free from the pain of yesterday. The heaven of Christ would be content with no such aspiration. It deems it not enough to promise the joys of to-morrow—the golden streets, and the pearly gates, and the luscious fruits of an unfading summer's bloom. It seeks to connect the future with the past, to show that in some sense the glory had its birth in the gloom. It would reveal to us that the golden streets have arisen from our desert, that the pearly gates have opened from our brick walls, that the luscious fruits have sprung from the very ground which we used to deem barren. It would tell us that the crown has been made from the materials of our cross, that the day has come out of our dusk, and that we have climbed the[266] heights of Olivet by ascending the steps of Calvary.

And is not the heaven of Christ true in this to human nature? What you and I are seeking is not merely nor even mainly emancipation. That would be something, but not all; I want a justification of my past bonds. It is not enough to be able to say "I am all right now." Have I not wasted time? Are there not years which the locusts have eaten? Might not this emancipation have come sooner? Why should I not always have been free? Is it any vindication of God's dealings with Job that at the end he gets back houses and brethren and lands? No; that is a mere appendage to the story. The patriarch wants to learn, and we want to learn, why he was afflicted at all. We are not satisfied merely because the grey is followed by the gold. We wish to know that the grey has made the gold. The song of Moses may tell how the peace came after the storm; but the song of the Lamb alone can say, "God answered Job out of the whirlwind."

Our future, then, like our present, must be a blending of memory and hope. The stones of the heavenly temple must be stones that have been hewn in the quarry of time; otherwise they will not sparkle in the sun. The marriage supper of the Lamb is a union of to-morrow and yesterday; no other bells will ring Christ in for me. Grace is not enough; it must be justifying grace—grace that vindicates my past. In vain shall I walk by the crystal river, in vain shall I stand upon the glassy sea, if the light upon each be only the sun of to-morrow. My sea must be "glass mingled with fire"—calm that has been evolved by tempest, rest that has grown out of struggle, beauty that has shaped itself through seeming anarchy, joy that has been born of tears. To-morrow morning and yesterday evening must form together one day—a day in which the imperfections of the old house will explain the symmetry of the new, and in which the symmetry of the new will compensate for the short-comings of the old. So shall the first and second temple receive a common glory, and memory and hope shall be joined for evermore.




By the late Rev. Gordon Calthrop, M.A.

The cords were knotted round me fast,
I writhed and plucked them as I lay;
But Sin too well her net had cast—
I could not tear myself away.
Then hissed a voice, "Give up the strife;
Too late thou seek'st to change thy life."
Another spake—"Make God thy Friend,
And then 't is not too late to mend."
But I had scorned the proffered love,
And bidden Heav'n's angels from me flee;
How could I think that Heaven would move
To stretch a helping hand to me?
So hissed the voice, "Give up thy hope:
Some paths to hell must downward slope."
The other said, "God is thy Friend;
Why should it be too late to mend?"
The time was bitter. Ah! how oft
I almost dashed aside the cup!
But Hope her banner waved aloft,
And God's great Son still held me up.
And if the voice hissed, "Thou art long
In conqu'ring foes so old and strong,"
The other cried, "With God thy Friend
It cannot be too late to mend."
And when the bitter day was done,
And forth the demons howling fled,
I went to strengthen many a one
Whom, like me, Sin had captive led:
I told them, though a voice of fear
Might speak of ruin in their ear,
Another said, "God is thy Friend,
It cannot be too late to mend."




By Elizabeth L. Banks.



(Photo: Eisenmann, New York.)

"The Sunny Hour—A Monthly Magazine for Boys and Girls. Published and Edited by Tello d'Apery, a Boy twelve years old."

This was the inscription which appeared on the title-page of a new periodical which made its appearance in New York a few years ago. Editors of important daily and weekly newspapers, finding the pretty brown-covered magazine on their desks along with more ambitious-looking first numbers of other periodicals, stopped in the midst of their work to glance over the result of a twelve-year-old editor's work. Accustomed as they were to reading and hearing of prodigies in America, the land of prodigies, they were yet surprised at the enterprise, not to say the audacity, of the young boy who essayed to put himself before the public as the editor and proprietor of a magazine.

"The commercial instincts of the American nation show themselves in its very infants!" they reflected amusedly. "A few years hence that twelve-year-old, grown to be a man, is likely to make Wall Street hum."

Commercial instincts! Well, yes, perhaps, but of an order more likely to bring about results in the neighbourhood of Baxter Street and the other poverty-stricken haunts of the lowly East Side than among the brown-stone business palaces of Wall Street.

Turning to the first "leader" written by the young editor on his editorial page, the literary critics were told in childish language why so small a specimen of humanity had dared to venture into the world of letters.

"I am twelve years old," ran the leading article, "so I hope all the public will excuse any mistakes I make in my paper. I am publishing it to earn money to buy new boots and shoes and get old ones mended for poor boys and girls in New York who have to go barefooted. That's what I'm going to do with all the profits. I want to make enough money to rent a house where I can have my offices and lots of room for a Barefoot Mission, where the boys and girls in New York can come and get boots for nothing. I hope the public will buy my paper, which is a dollar a year and ten cents for single copies."

How to Manage Fathers and Mothers.


I have had a father and mother twelve years, and I am said to manage them pretty well, and I am going to tell all boys and girls just how I do it, and it would do no harm for them to try the same plan and see how it works in their cases.


So it happened that when the important editors of New York and other large cities read the leading article in the first copy of The Sunny Hour, there was a kindness and gentleness in their tones as they threw the little periodical over to the "exchange editors," saying, "Here, this little thing isn't a bad idea at all! Be sure you notice it in your reviews."

I doubt if any other new paper ever published received from its contemporaries such kind and encouraging "press notices" as did The Sunny Hour, and when it[268] appeared upon the stalls for sale the newsdealers sold a great many copies.



When the first number of his magazine was off his hands, little Tello began to think of ways and means for insuring its success and getting as much money as he could for his Barefoot Mission. He decided that he must have patrons, and so with his own hands he folded up and addressed copies of his paper to many great people of whom he had heard. One of the papers went to the Queen of England, and along with it was posted a letter to her Majesty telling her all about his paper and his mission and asking her to let her name go first on his list of patrons. What mattered it to the Queen that she was simply addressed as "Dear Queen" by the little American boy who wanted her for his patron! In the reply which she sent through Sir Henry Ponsonby, she told him of her interest in his noble work and gladly became his first patron.

Letters and papers were also sent to the Empress of Russia, the Queen-Regent of Spain, Queen Olga of Greece, Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, the Khedive, and numerous other royalties, all of whom wrote to him and became his patrons and subscribers. The great Church dignitaries of America, Europe, and Asia, wrote charming letters to the boy-editor, subscribing for his paper and saying that they would like to be considered patrons of The Sunny Hour Mission.

After the first number of the magazine appeared, the list of contributors became a very notable one indeed. The Queen of Roumania (Carmen Sylva) wrote several autograph poems for it, and sent an autographed photograph for publication. The Prince of Montenegro, Prince Albert of Monaco, Prince Roland Bonaparte, Osman Pasha (Grand Master of Ceremonies to the Sultan), Pierre Loti, Sir Edwin Arnold, Mr. Justin McCarthy, Sully-Prudhomme, the Rev. Edward Everett Hale, Marion Harland, and many[269] other literary celebrities, had articles, stories, and poems in The Sunny Hour, for which they asked no reward, except the knowledge that they were helping to sell the paper and thus putting shoes on little bare feet.



With the money that came in from the subscriptions and advertisements for the paper, a building on Twenty-fourth Street was rented as an editorial and mission house. It was fitted up in the most practical way possible, with a play-room for the very little "Barefoots," a library for the older ones, a reception-room for "Barefoots," a storeroom for boots and shoes, and the editorial and publishing offices of The Sunny Hour. Though the help of grown-up people was always gladly received, only little folks were employed about the headquarters of the boy-editor and missionary. His assistant editor was a boy of his own age, Jack Bristol, whose happy face and manner gained for him the title of "Jolly Jack." Three small boys, friends of the editor, were the type-setters and printers. They had a small steam press on which they printed the magazine. Florencia Lewis, a young girl, acted as secretary and general manager.

I must not forget to mention another very important employee of the mission, who acted as carrier and distributer of boots and shoes to the little "Barefoots." He also was of very tender years—or rather I should say months, for Prince Roland Bonaparte, the St. Bernard puppy, though very much larger than many of the children who took the shoes he carried to them in his mouth, was only a few months old when the mission was started. "Prince," as he was called for short, was (and is) one of the most indefatigable and enthusiastic supporters of the Barefoot Mission in New York. As a puppy he always had a place of honour in the reception-room where the barefooted children went to make their requests. By the time he was four months old "Prince" learned to tell a "Barefoot" on sight, so that, as soon as a poor little shivering tot made its appearance, the puppy would wag his tail and gravely trot into the storeroom, procure a pair of boots, and, returning, lay them at the bare feet of the applicant. It must[270] be confessed that "Prince's" sagacity, great though it was, did not always enable him to select just the right-sized boot for the would-be wearer. There were also a few occasions, during his initiation into his new duties, when he disgraced himself by chewing up one shoe while the "Barefoot" was putting on the other, but he has outgrown these puppyish proclivities. He now weighs one hundred and seventy-five pounds, and is one of the finest and most useful St. Bernards in New York. When out walking with his young master, he always stops in front of any shops where boots and shoes are displayed in the windows, and with a worldly-wise look in his eyes and numerous wags of his huge tail seems to be trying to calculate in his mind just how many applicants at the Barefoot Mission could have their feet shod if the shopkeepers did their duty. It takes all Tello's powers of coaxing and persuasion to keep him from entering the shop and carrying off by force (in his mouth) some of the wares displayed for sale.



Not all, perhaps only a very few, new enterprises in the literary world are able to meet all their expenses and show a profit during the first year of their existence, but the twelve-year-old boy's enterprise was able to do this. Beside meeting all his expenses, he had at the end of the first year been able to distribute 760 pairs of shoes to the poor children of New York. Not all of these were new. Some were old ones mended by Tello's special shoemaker in such a way as to make them almost as good as new in the matter of usefulness, if not in appearance. Then people began to send in stockings (some new, some old), dresses, boys' suits, underwear, old playthings, etc., until the Barefoot Mission became indeed a blessed place to the poor of New York. When Christmas came, the boy-editor provided a great Christmas tree and festival, where not only boots and shoes and clothing were distributed to the needy, but turkeys and ham, and cakes and "candies" were given out, to the great delight of the 700 children who attended it. Here is one of the many pathetic little letters the young editor received just before one of the Christmas festivals. It was published at the time in The Sunny Hour:—

"Dear Mr. Tello,—Me and my little sister and the baby can't have no crismus this year 'cause our father is dying and[271] granma is sick with perelisis and our little bruther died two weeks ago and the city had to bury him. Mother is not working 'cause the baby is too little—there's ten of us all counted. So if you have any crismus won't you let us come, for we all haven't got clothes to keep us warm nor shoes, and no coal except what my big brother picks up—nothing to eat hardly. Yours respecfully."

Childish letters of appeal similar to the above have been coming in ever since the mission was started, and they have acted as a continual spur to the young missionary. The distributions increased until one day 3,032 pairs of shoes and stockings were given out, and about 2,000 flannel garments as well.



(Of which there are only five in existence.)

Meanwhile The Sunny Hour magazine increased in interest and circulation. The list of eminent contributors and patrons became larger every month. Very busy men and women, for the product of whose pens the editors of the best periodicals were willing to pay liberally, sent in gratis to The Sunny Hour stories and poems to be edited by a little boy.

Present Tello


(Photo: D. Garber, New York.)

(Showing the Medals and Orders presented to him by European and Asiatic Sovereigns.)

When the mission and the magazine had been running for about three years Tello d'Apery's health broke down from overwork, and through the kindness of a friend he made a trip round the world, leaving his paper and mission in the care of "Jolly Jack," the assistant editor. The boy carried copies of his little paper along with him, his object being to interest everyone he met in his work, and this object was attained to such an extent that on his return he numbered among his subscribers nearly every Oriental potentate. He was received in audience by the Sultan and the Khedive. The latter was especially kind to him, delegating one of his sons to show him about Cairo, and became so interested in the Barefoot Mission that he contributed one hundred dollars towards it. It was during his visit to Egypt that Tello d'Apery became distinguished as the only American boy who has ever been decorated by a foreign potentate. The Khedive conferred upon him the Order of the Medjidieh, which carried with it the title of Bey. Other orders, medals, and titles have been showered upon the young American. He is a Chevalier of the Order of Bolivar, conferred upon him by the President of Colombia. The Order of Umberto was also conferred upon him in Italy. He is also a Chevalier of the Order of St. Katherine, and another order gives him the title of "Don." He has received in all eighteen decorations and medals, and it is by special request that he has had his portrait taken with a[272] number of his decorations fastened to his coat. In writing to me recently concerning this portrait, he says: "Of course, being an all-round and patriotic American boy, I could not use a title, and care only for my decorations because of the good friends who gave them to me and the interest that they show has been taken in my work by great people abroad."

With this issue I present the initial number of The Sunny Hour, modestly, as becomes so young an editor, but hopefully, because I mean to try and make it worthy of a place in every home where there are children.

If I find as much encouragement in my subscription list and advertising patronage, as I hope, I shall enlarge my paper every three months, and add new features. In any case it has come to stay one year.

I shall devote my paper to such literature as mothers will approve, and there will be no Indian Scalping, nor pistols, nor any such thing. I shall always uphold the cause of temperance and morality and so shall not touch upon politics, and it shall be my earnest endeavor to deserve well of the public.

If my paper ever falls below expectations, please remember that I am only twelve years old.—The Editor.



All paying subscribers, who desire it, are entitled to a cabinet photograph of the editor, with his autograph. This is not done from vanity, but because he thought perhaps some persons might like to see what the youngest editor and publisher in the world looks like.


When Tello returned from his travels, much improved in health, his boy friends took a notion to call him "Chevalier d'Apery," but on pain of his sore displeasure the title was dropped, he declaring that it was not for publication but only as an evidence of good faith on the part of his decorators. A medal that he very highly prizes is a gold one given him by the venerable Patriarch of Alexandria, Sophronius, who had it struck when he had been fifty years in office. There are only four others like Tello's in the world. The Patriarch presented one to Tello, one to the Queen of Greece, one to the late Queen of Denmark, and one to the Empress Dowager of Russia. Sophronius is now one hundred and six years old, and is one of Tello's most devoted friends, writing frequent letters to him in Apostolic Greek.

Many also are the presents Tello d'Apery has received from noted people. Don Carlos of Spain, the Queen of Greece, and many other royalties, have sent him tokens of their interest and esteem, so that, besides his medals and decorations, he has a number of interesting and valuable scarf-pins, rings, etc. While in Athens the Queen of Greece entertained him at the palace, and begged him to make her a member of The Sunny Hour Mission Club, which he did by himself pinning at her throat the pretty little badge of the Order of The Sunny Hour, the Queen repeating after him the promise made by all those who join the Club: "I promise to give one hour each week to some good action. I will be kind to my parents, to my brothers and sisters, to the poor and the unfortunate, and to animals."

These Sunny Hour Mission Clubs are auxiliaries of The Sunny Hour and Barefoot Mission, and have been formed in different parts of the world. There is one in Paris, which has been very prosperous, and there has also been one in London. There are a number of little persons belonging to royal families who wear the badge of The Sunny Hour. Among them are the little Lady Alexandra Duff, and the tiny Prince Boris of Bulgaria.

After his return from abroad Tello d'Apery published an account of his experiences in a book called "Europe Seen through a Boy's Eyes," all the profits of which went to buy shoes for the barefooted children of New York. He also, in order to get more money for his work, started a little book and stationery shop, spending a part of his time there behind the counter and a part of it behind his editorial desk. Recently his health has again failed, and he has been obliged to lessen some of his arduous labours. He is now trying to establish a mammoth boot- and shoe-mending shop[273] of his own, where old foot-gear may be repaired at less expense than it is now. When this object is accomplished, some of the "Barefoots" themselves will learn the cobbler's trade and work in the establishment, thus helping others while helping themselves.

The idea is to rent a building, or at least a part of a building, for the purpose, and issue circulars to the residents of New York and vicinity, asking them to send their old boots and shoes to the building, or, better still, to have a horse and cart go about from house to house to collect them. Then two or three expert cobblers will be hired for a few months to mend them and to take a certain number of apprentices from among the "Barefoots" and teach them the trade of cobbling. Only such boys as show a liking and aptitude for the work will, of course, be chosen as apprentices. They will spend the whole day or only a few hours a day at the work, as their other duties permit. Not only will they be taught to mend boots—they will also be taught to make them. When they have learned their trade they will receive the same wages as other workmen are paid. Of course, when The Sunny Hour "Barefoots" (or, rather, those who have been "Barefoots" in times gone by) become expert shoemakers, there is no reason why they should confine their efforts to making and mending boots for the New York poor alone. Tello d'Apery hopes that many orders for men's and women's and children's footgear will be received from well-to-do New Yorkers, so that not only will the expenses of the establishment be met, but an extra amount of money taken in for the mission. It is a magnificent scheme, and we can but hope that this noble American boy may be able to carry it out.






By the Rev. P. B. Power, M.A., Author of "The Oiled Feather," Etc.


Hard by the village of Hopedale, away from railways and their whistles, and indeed pretty nearly from the world in general, was a very beautiful castle, surrounded by pleasure grounds, and gardens for both fruit and flowers.

The place had been well kept up, because old Lord Wilmerton, the grandfather of the little lady of whom I am going to tell you, was a proud man; and he would not have it said that any of his properties were allowed to go to ruin, or even to run wild. But the old Lord himself never went there nor did his son, the father of the present little Lady Wilmerton. The place was too dull for them; they liked the gaieties of London and the Continent, and the country had no charms for them.

Little Lady Wilmerton's father and grandfather were now both dead. Her father died first, and her grandfather soon followed him to the grave. And now our little lady was a Countess, for in her family the title did not die out with the males, but, when there were no sons, passed on to the daughters, if there were any. And as with the title went most of the estates, the little Countess, who was only twelve years old, became the mistress of Hopedale Castle, and the village and, indeed, the country for, I might almost say, many miles round.

The last thing that anyone in Hopedale would have ever thought of was her little ladyship's coming to live at the Castle. Great, therefore, was the astonishment of everyone when they heard that she was to live there for a large part of the year—and, moreover, that she was coming almost at once.

At first the report was treated as an idle rumour, but when a carriage arrived one day at the Castle with an elderly gentleman and a much younger man, and a second carriage with a lady and her maid, there could be no doubt that something was about to take place. Moreover, the agent had been summoned to meet this old gentleman, and he and the new arrivals were known to have gone all over the Castle. This gentleman was the little Countess's guardian, and the younger man was his solicitor; and the lady was a distant relative of the little Countess, and was to be her caretaker—for her mother had been dead now three years.

Such a possibility as the Castle being inhabited could not take place without causing much talk in the village. Old and young had their say about it—some of the old, I am sorry to say, at the "Green Dragon," the village ale-house; and some at their cottage doors, or when they met in the street.

The children too had their ideas and speculations—very different, of course,[275] from the older people's, but very decided, nevertheless.

As to the folk at the "Green Dragon," some were for the lady's coming and some were not, and each party were positive.

"I tell you," said old Joe Crupper, the saddler, "there ain't no good a-comin' out of this. We've got on very well hereabouts for many a year, without having anyone to worrit us from that place. Why can't they let it be as it has been so long? It don't want anyone to live in it to keep it warm. Why, I'm told that they've burnt thirty ton of coal in a winter to keep the place aired. We don't want no great people down here in these parts; we can get on well enough by ourselves. I didn't never know any good come of the haristockracy," said the saddler, giving the table a thump.

"But I'm told," chimed in a meek little man, who frequented the "Green Dragon" more for gossip than for drink, "that the new 'lord' is a little lady, and is only twelve years old."

"Joseph Simmons," said the saddler, looking witheringly into the little man's face, "you are a man of edication, and ought to know better. As to the little 'lord' being a lady, I ask you and all the company"—here the saddler looked round—"what difference does that make? Isn't a goose a goose, whether it's a goose or a gander? Would you say, when 'tis roasted, 'Who'll take a bit of gander?' No, goose or gander, 'tis a goose. In like manner, it don't matter whether 'tis a boy or girl, a man or a woman"—and here the saddler paused, evidently seeking for a further variety in sex, which he could not find—"excuse me," said he, looking deprecatingly round, "if I stop for a moment, for the argument is deep, and one's liable to get tangled a bit—a man or a woman. Yes, the argument is plain, and I defy you, Joseph Simmons, to beat it. A haristocrat is a haristocrat, whether it be man or woman, boy or girl."

"I humbly beg pardon if I've given any offence," said the meek little man. "You were once in London for a day, and you ought to know more than I do."


"All the haristockracy wear gold crowns," said Dolly.—p. 276.

"Ah, you're now coming to your senses," said the saddler. "I always knew that you were a sensible man; the best of us forget ourselves at times, as you did just now. You just mind what I say: no good will come of this haristocrat."[276] And as the saddler led most of the company by the nose, they all went away with a terrible prejudice against the little Countess.

The children, too, had their ideas and their talks. They had heard that the new "lord" was a lady, and that she was only twelve years old.

This was a puzzle to them, and no effort of their mental powers enabled them to understand it; but they could—each according to their own cast of mind—have their ideas on the subject, and talk of and debate about them amongst themselves.

And so it came to pass that they, as well as their elders at the Green "Dragon," had their argument about the newcomer.

We often form our ideas of people out of our own fancies; and we are very often wrong, and I would recommend all young people not to be in too great a hurry in forming their opinion about others, until they have something to go on.

In the present instance Dolly Strap, who hated lessons, and whose one desire was to run wild, said she "was sure that the little haristocrat that was coming" (for the saddler's word had got all over the village) "was a girl who never learned any lessons, who never did and never would be obliged to; who was allowed to jump over hedges and ditches, and never got whacked for tearing her frock. Look here!" said Dolly, exhibiting a long rent in her frock; "that means smackers to-night, girls, at eight o'clock; and as like as not there will be smackers to-morrow night too. And haristocrats jump over hedges and ditches, and tear their frocks to pieces every day, and they only gets new ones for their pains, and never a smack get they; and if the day was wet, and they couldn't get out of doors to tear them, then you may be sure they does it somehow indoors, leaping over chairs, or somehow. You know," said Dolly, with a leer in her eye, "when you want to do a thing, you can always do it—somehow."

"I don't know about dress," said Martha Furblow; "but you may be sure she's dressed very grand—lots of feathers and flowers in her hat, and plenty of lace and beads all over her."

"And she has dozens of dolls, you may be sure," said Mary Mater. "I've heard say that there are dolls that say 'Papa' and 'Mamma,' and that open their eyes and shuts 'em too, and winks when they wants to look knowin'. She'll have some that asks you how you are, and says, 'Very well, thank ye, and how are you?'"

"Ah," said Jenny Giblet, "and her sweets—do you think of them? Hard-bake every morning for breakfast, and ginger-pop, and bottles of peardrops, and boxes of peppermints—she don't go in for pennorths, not she."

"And a gold crown—only not quite so grand as the Queen's," said Dolly. "All the haristockracy wear gold crowns when they go to see the Queen, and on Sundays when they go to church."

Thus the village children settled amongst themselves all about the little Countess, and the outcome of it all was that, as she was so much better off than they, she was to be disliked, and when she came into the village—if, indeed, she ever did—they were to turn up their noses at her, just as they made sure she would turn up her nose at them.

There was one, however, amongst the group who ventured to put in a word for the poor little Countess—this was Patience Filbert—whom, in spite of themselves, everyone liked, for Patience was good to all. The child was a little younger than the Countess. She had long fair hair, and round grey eyes which seemed to open wide when she talked to you and looked you, as she often did, so honestly, so wonderingly, so lovingly in the face.

Patience ventured to say that, perhaps the little Countess might be very nice, and if she was born a countess that was not her fault; but poor Patience was told that she was a silly little thing.

"Yes, yes," said Dolly Strap; "you was hatched out a little goose, and you'll be a little goose until you die. Now you go and give your Bullie his dinner; you sat up with him half the night, and I hope he won't die."

"Yes," they all said, "we hope he won't die," for they all liked Patience—as, indeed, who could help doing?—and they knew that her bullfinch was her great pleasure in life.

Poor Bullie! he was indeed ill, drawing near his end. He no longer sang when Patience sang, nor hopped from his cage[277] to eat out of her mouth. He had fulfilled his mission in life, by making the delicate child happy in what would have been many lonely hours, for she could seldom play with other girls; and now in his death Bullie was about to play a greater part than he had ever done in his life.

Bullie lingered two or three days, during which time he had three warm baths and apoplectic fits, to the last of which he succumbed, and, turning himself on his back and throwing his legs up into the air, he departed this life. As Bullie had nothing to leave—at least, so far as he knew—he died without a will, though in reality he left a good deal, which was divided amongst all the inhabitants of Hopedale, making them ever so much richer than they had been before.

And it all came about in this way.

When Bullie died, it was determined amongst the children that he should have a public funeral. Patience Filbert would have liked to bury him just by herself; but two considerations induced her to let her little neighbours have their way. There was first the kindly feeling shown to herself, and then there was the honour done to Bullie. And so Bullie was carried to his burial; his body was wrapped in a clean pocket-handkerchief, and his coffin was an old cigar box with wadding and sweet herbs inside. There was a long avenue of trees leading up to the Castle gate, beneath a particular one of which it was decided the body should be buried. Here it was interred.

There was one more at the funeral than was expected. The little Countess was there. She had seen the small procession as she was out for her morning walk, and followed respectfully at a little distance all the way. Moreover, she was at the ceremony of interment, only standing a little way behind the rest.

The child was dressed in a simple holland frock, with a black ribbon round her waist, and another round her plain straw hat. Her servant was so far behind that she seemed to be quite by herself.


She put her arm round Patience's neck.

The funeral over, the little Countess came forward, and the tears came into her eyes when she saw how the chief mourner cried, for poor Patience Filbert was very sad; and although she was a countess, she put her arm round Patience's neck, and wiped away her tears.

Who was she?

"Lady," said Dolly Strap, who was rather rude, "what's your name?"

"They call me 'the Countess,'" said the child, "but my name is Mary. Should you all like to come up to the garden? There is plenty of fruit."

And they went, wondering that a countess could be so plainly dressed, and so feeling, and so kind.

Our feelings in this life are very  mingled—joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy. So was it in this case. For the funeral party (now replenished with gooseberries) returned with a new Bullie in a gilt cage; it was the little Countess's own pet which she gave Patience to make up her loss.

The little Countess's treatment of Patience—her sympathy, the tears which came into her eyes when she saw another's distress—knocked the bottom out of all the saddler's arguments against the "haristockracy," and the little man cock-a-doodle-doo'd over him tremendously at the "Green Dragon." And every door in Hopedale was open at once to the little Countess, and every child in the place was ready to put his hand to his hat or curtsey to her. One kind act of real sympathy had opened all hearts to her; and who knows how much prejudice against us will be done away with, and how many hearts will be opened to us, even by one act of sympathy and love?


Heavenly Cheer.

Words by Thomas Kelly, 1806.
H. Walford Davies, Mus.D. (Organist of the Temple Church.)

1. On the mountain-top appearing,
Lo! the sacred herald stands,
Welcome news to Zion bearing—
Zion long in hostile lands:
Mourning captive!
God Himself will loose thy bands.
2. Has thy night been long and mournful?
Have thy friends unfaithful proved?
Have thy foes been proud and scornful,
By thy sighs and tears unmoved?
Cease thy mourning!
Zion still is well-beloved.
3. God, thy God, will now restore thee;
God Himself appears thy Friend!
All thy foes shall flee before thee—
Here their boasts and triumphs end:
Great deliverance
Zion's King vouchsafes to send.



By a Leading Temperance Advocate.


The good old wish which we offer to all our readers points its own moral. There was great practical sagacity in Joseph Livesey's method of arranging to send a temperance tract to every family in Preston on New Year's Day. Christian men and women, who are in sympathy with the efforts of those who are fighting against our national vice, would give a great lift to the work by starting the New Year as total abstainers themselves. As New Year's Day falls on a Sunday, we trust the clergy and ministers will "remember not to forget" to drop a word for temperance in their Watch Night and New Year's Day sermons.



(President of the Dublin T.A.S.)



(Photo: Glover, Dublin.)



(With large public hall in rear.)


For upwards of sixty-two years the Dublin Total Abstinence Society has perseveringly held on its way, a record not surpassed by any temperance association in the sister country. When one remembers the "storm and stress" through which Ireland has passed during this eventful period, the fact that this ancient society still survives is a tribute to the enthusiastic labours of its executive officers of which they may well be proud. The old-fashioned method of "signing the pledge" is still kept in the forefront at all the meetings of the society. It rejoices in a coffee palace with a commodious public hall, in the very heart of the city of Dublin, and from year's end to year's end there is one attractive round of lectures, entertainments, clubs, and popular festivities, variously adapted to meet the requirements of the young and old alike. It was at a meeting under the auspices of this association that the late Sir Benjamin Ward Richardson, F.R.S., made the memorable deliverance: "The sale of drink is the sale of disease; the sale of drink is the sale of poverty; the sale of drink is the sale[280] of insanity; the sale of drink is the sale of crime; the sale of drink is the sale of death." The president of the society is a well-known Dublin physician, Dr. E. MacDowell Cosgrave, and the hon. secretary is Mr. Thomas Willson Fair, whose devotion to the cause has made his name a household word in Irish temperance circles.


It will be remembered that last month we mentioned that under the word "abstaining" in the new dictionary, Dr. Murray quoted from the "Clerical Testimony to Total Abstinence," published in 1867, in which the present Bishop of Carlisle stated that a certain "bride was the daughter of an abstaining clergyman." Who was she? Well, first of all, let us clear the way by saying that Dr. Bardsley, in his testimony, cited the case of his own family. He said he was the eldest of seven sons, who were brought up as total abstainers by total abstaining parents. He then added, "To some readers who, upon occasions of family festivities, have been perplexed by their abstaining principles, it may not be uninteresting to learn that when, recently, one of the seven entered the happy estate of matrimony, the bride was the daughter of an abstaining clergyman. Here, then, was a difficulty. Should the wedding-day be regarded as an exception, and a little laxity allowed? The question was decided in the negative, and, notwithstanding the little protests as to 'such a thing never having been heard of before,' and the fear as to what that mythical personage Mrs. Grundy would say, the wedding was conducted on total abstinence principles. Amongst the good things of God provided, the spirits of evil were wanting—but not wanted, for the general remark was 'How little they are missed!'" We ask again, "Who was the bride?" In view of Dr. Bardsley's reference to the mythical Mrs. Grundy, our reply looks just a trifle piquant, for the bride was a Miss Grundy, the daughter of the Rev. George Docker Grundy, M.A., then (and still) Vicar of Hey, near Oldham. We tender our hearty congratulations to this grand old churchman, who graduated in honours at Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1828, was ordained in 1830, and entered upon his present benefice more than sixty years ago!


In the Temple Gardens, on the Victoria Embankment, there is a beautiful drinking-fountain, the work of Mr. George E. Wade. It is an exact facsimile of one executed by the same artist for the World's Women's Christian Temperance Union and erected in a prominent position in the city of Chicago. The funds for the purchase of the London fountain were mainly collected by children of the Loyal Temperance Legions, in response to an appeal from Lady Henry Somerset. At the unveiling ceremony, which took place in May, 1897, her Ladyship presented the fountain to the London County Council, and Miss Hilda Muff, who, of all the children, had collected the largest sum, had the honourable privilege of declaring the fountain free to all.



(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)


The friends in Norwich are organising a Sunday Closing Demonstration, to be held in the historic St. Andrew's Hall, on January 24th. The annual business meeting of the London Temperance Council will take place on January 27th. Temperance Sunday for the diocese of Liverpool has been fixed for January 29th, and Bishop Ryle has issued a letter to all his clergy urging the due observance of the day. The annual New Year's Soirée of the United Kingdom Band of Hope Union has been fixed for January 30th, and the annual meetings of the same institution will be held in Exeter Hall on May 10th. The seventh International Congress against the Abuse of Spirituous Drinks will be held in Paris from April 4th to 9th.




With Illustrative Anecdotes and References.

January 15th.—Christ's First Miracle.

To read—St. John ii. 1-11. Golden Text—Ver. 2.


Last lesson told of disciples coming to Christ one by one. John the Baptist pointed to Him as Lamb of God—the sin-bearer. Andrew and John, hearing this, followed Christ. Andrew brought his brother Simon. Christ bade Philip follow Him, and he brought his friend Nathanael. Now Christ works miracle which confirms faith of all.

I. The Need (1-5). Third day after call of Nathanael. Cana, his home, near Nazareth, sixty miles from Bethabara (i. 28). A wedding party. Mary, mother of Jesus, evidently a family friend. Christ and His five new disciples among the guests. Supplies ran short, perhaps from poverty or from larger number of guests than expected. Painful position of bridegroom, giver of feast. Mary notices, tells Christ, receives answer, "What is that to Me and thee?" He is best judge of right time for help. She knows His loving heart, is sure He will do something; therefore bids servants obey Christ's orders.

II. The Supply (6-11). Waterpots ready, but empty. Been used for washing before meals (St. Mark vii. 3). Christ orders them to be filled—twenty gallons each. Governor of feast tastes first. Finds it excellent wine—such as usually put on table at beginning of feast—commends bridegroom for it. What was the result?

Satisfaction to Mary, who knew her Divine Son.

Faith strengthened in the new disciples of Christ.

Glory to Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God.

III. Lessons. 1. About wine. God's gift (Ps. civ. 15), to be used sparingly—a little (1 Tim. v. 23).

2. About Christ. How was His glory manifested? By sympathy—sharing home-life—its joys and sorrows. Believing wants of His people.

3. About ourselves. The benefit of such a Friend (Ps. cxliv. 15). Difference between this world's blessings and those of Christ. This world's come first—health, riches, fame, etc. Christ's come last—glory, honour, immortality. Which are best? Then seek those things which are above (Col. iii. 1).

God's Bounty.

On a cold winter's day a poor woman stood at the window of a King's greenhouse looking at a cluster of grapes which she longed to have for her sick child. She went home to her spinning-wheel, earned half a crown, and offered it to the gardener for the grapes. He ordered her away. She returned home, took the blanket from her bed, sold it for five shillings, and offered this sum to the gardener. He repelled her with anger. The Princess, overhearing the conversation and seeing the woman's tears, said to her, "You have made a mistake, my good woman. My father is a king; he does not sell, but gives." So saying she plucked a bunch of the best grapes and placed them in the happy woman's hands.

January 22nd.—Christ and Nicodemus.

To read—St. John iii, 1-17. Golden Text—Ver. 16.

Christ now in Jerusalem. Probably in retirement because Jews hostile. Picture Him with His new disciples in house in a back street on a windy night (ver. 8). A knock at the door. A Rabbi, member of the Sanhedrim (vii. 50), enters cautiously; he seeks to know more of this new teaching.

I. Regeneration of Man (1-8). The inquiry. Nicodemus, a searcher after truth, comes to Christ the new Teacher, whom he acknowledges as sent from God, as testified by His miracles. What must he do?

The answer. He must have a new birth, i.e. be changed into a spiritual state—be concerned with inner things of God. This change only wrought by work of Holy Spirit on soul, of which washing by water, as in baptism, is outward sign. How does the Spirit work? Invisibly—seen in effects, as wind on water. Irresistibly, its power being divine—as at Pentecost 3,000 converted (Acts ii. 41). But man's will must co-operate.

II. Lifting up of Christ (9-15). Effects of new birth. The regenerate see the truth revealed desired long (St. Luke x. 24), and bear witness to others—as new converts after Stephen's death (Acts viii. 4).

Subject of the new teaching. Christ Himself, His Person, Son of Man—the Perfect Man. His dwelling-place, heaven; not by ascending there, but as being His own eternal home.

Christ's lifting up. On a cross—a sacrifice for sin, giving eternal life to those who believe, of which brazen serpent was a type (Num. xxi. 9).

III. Love of the Father (16, 17). How shown? He gave, sent, spared not His Son (Rom. viii. 32). Why shown? That man may not die, but live eternally.

Lesson. 1. The new birth. Am I changed?

2. Christ lifted up for me. Am I saved?

3. God's love. What am I giving in return?

A Great Change.

Queen Victoria once paid a visit to a paper-mill. Among other things she saw men picking out rags from the refuse of the city, and was told that these rags would make the finest white paper. After a few days her Majesty received a packet of the most delicate white paper, having the Queen's likeness for the water-mark,[282] with the intimation that it was made from the dirty rags she had noticed. So our lives, renewed by God's Spirit, can be transformed and bear His likeness.

January 29th.—Christ at Jacob's Well.

To read—St. John iv. 5-15. Golden Text—Ver. 14.

Christ leaves Jerusalem, travels north with His disciples, passes through Samaria, reaches Sychar, near Shechem. Rests at Jacob's well while disciples buy food in neighbouring town.

I. The Story (5-9). Time. Noon by Hebrew reckoning, or 6 p.m. by Roman time.

Place. Jacob's well. Bought by him (Gen. xxxiii. 19), burial-place of Joseph (Josh. xxiv. 32).

Persons. Jesus and the woman. He wearied, but, ever ready to do His Father's work, opens conversation. Uses the water, thirst, spring, as illustrations of spiritual truths. He asks her for water. She is surprised, because of national hostility.

II. The Water of Life (10-15). Christ tells of His power to give living water. She thinks He means deep spring water, and asks how it is to be obtained. He then explains His meaning: water—commonest and simplest of all liquids—emblem of gifts and graces of Holy Spirit.

Its source. Gift of God alone. Offered freely to all (Isa. lv. 1).

Its necessity. If any have not God's Spirit, they are not His (Rom. viii. 9).

Its nature. Pure—from God's throne (Rev. xxii. 1). Refreshing—joy of salvation (Ps. li. 12). Healing (Rev. xxii. 2). Satisfying (Isa. lxi. 1). Unfailing—wells of salvation (Isa. xii. 3).

Its results. Everlasting life.

III. Lesson. Drink of this living water which Christ offers to-day.

Living Water.

The fountain of living waters is God Himself. It is not a mere cistern to hold a little water; it is a running, living stream, and a fountain that springs up perpetually. Now a fountain is produced by the pressure of water coming down from a height, and never rises higher than its source. Our spiritual life has its source in heaven. It came from God, and to God it will return.

February 5th.—The Nobleman's Son Healed.

To read—St. John iv. 43-54. Golden Text—Ver. 53.

Christ has passed through Samaria, returned to Cana. Now works first miracle of healing.

I. Faith Beginning (43-47). The father. A courtier of Herod Antipas, King of Galilee. In trouble because of son's sickness. Hears of Jesus and His wonderful doings—will see if He can help him. Leaves his home to go and meet Jesus. Urgently entreats Him to come from Cana down to Capernaum on the Lake of Galilee to visit and relieve his dying son.

II. Faith Increasing (48-50). Christ seems to hesitate—makes a difficulty. He wants strong faith. He sees father desires external signs, personal visit. Christ must have implicit faith. What does Christ do? Does not comply with the request nor refuse, but calmly tells him his son lives. The man believes, and returns home.

III. Faith Perfected (51-54). Met by his servants on way back. They had noted the change for the better in the boy, hastened to meet the father and tell the good news. What does he ask? The time exactly agreed. So the father knew that Christ was more than man—that He was Lord of life and death—the true Son of God. No more doubts.

Lessons. 1. Trouble leads to prayer and prayer to blessings.

2. Belief in Christ brings peace and happiness.

3. He is the same Lord to all them that believe.

Freemen of the Gospel.

An old man once said that it took him forty years to learn three simple things. The first was that he could not do anything to save himself; the second was that God did not expect him to; and the third was that Christ had done it all, and all he had to do was to believe and be saved.

February 12th.—Christ's Divine Authority.

To read—St. John v. 17—27. Golden Text—John iv. 42.

Christ has returned to Jerusalem to keep one of appointed feasts (ver. 1). There He healed a cripple at the Pool of Bethesda on the Sabbath, which caused the Jews to persecute Him for "breaking" or relaxing the Sabbath day. Christ answers them.

I. The Father's Work (17, 18). God is Creator of world and Father of all. The Sabbath not a time for inaction. Does everything stop? Earth continues to revolve, winds blow, vegetation grows. Sabbath a rest for man from work by which livelihood gained, but also a day to be spent in works of mercy. Thus Christ works on with the Father. His claim to be equal with God angers the Jews.

II. The Son's Work (19-23). Same as the Father's—does nothing by Himself. He shares the Father's counsels—loving bond of sympathy between them. Shares Father's work—giving life to dead (i. 4). Christ already done this when raised Jairus's little daughter (St. Matt. ix. 25). Also raised dead souls by forgiving sins and leading to new life. Example—sick of the palsy (St. Matt. ix. 2) and the woman who had sinned (St. Luke vii. 37, 47).

Christ also appointed as the Judge (Acts xvii. 31). Therefore equally with Father claims honour from men. To dishonour Him is to dishonour God.

III. Man's Relation to Christ (24-27). How can he obtain this new life? Must hear and accept Son's word, must believe the Father, Who speaks through the Son (xvii. 3; Heb i. 2). Then he passes from death in sin (Eph. ii. 1) to life in Christ (Col. iii. 3). This a present change. Old things passed—all become new. New faith, hope, love. New life for soul now, for body hereafter.

Lessons. 1. It is lawful to do good on the Sabbath.

2. If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.

Full Salvation.

Those who trust Christ do not trust Him to save only for a year or two, but for ever. In going a long journey it is best to take a ticket all the way through. Take your ticket for the New Jerusalem, and not for a half-way house. The train will never break down, and the track never be torn up. Trust Jesus Christ to carry you through to glory, and He will do it.—Rev. C. H. Spurgeon.



Notes of Christian Life & Work.

"The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple."


I n response to the request of many of our readers, we give the following account of this great picture, a special reproduction of which (in colours and suitable for framing) was presented with our November number. With the idea of the picture in his mind, Mr. Holman Hunt went, in 1854, to Jerusalem to obtain local colour and models for the work. "Truth to Nature" being the principle of his art, he desired to get as near as possible to the probable aspect of the scene he was attempting to depict. The Temple he had to construct for himself, and this he did after studying Eastern, and especially ancient Jewish, architecture, the only part painted from an actual fact being the marble pavement. This he copied from the floor of the Mosque of Omar, which, according to tradition, is the only remaining portion of Herod's Temple. He experienced great difficulty in getting models for his figures, owing to the suspicion having arisen that he was a Christian missionary in disguise. By the end of eighteen months, however, he had painted in all the adult figures from actual models, and, returning to England, he managed, by the help of Mr. Mocatta, to get a boy from the Jewish community in the East-End of London to sit for the figure of Christ. Every detail of the picture has a symbolic interest. The rabbi on the left, clasping in his arms the Torah or sacred roll of the Law, is blind and decrepit, and the other rabbis, with their phylacteries and scrolls, are all characteristic of the proud, self-righteous, sects to which they belonged. Joseph carries his own and Mary's shoes over his shoulders—even in their haste they had remembered the injunction to remove them when entering the house of the Lord—and Mary is clad in robes of grey and white, with a girdle fringed with orange-red, the colours of purity and sorrow. Christ wears a kaftan, striped with purple and blue, the colours of the royal house of David. He is pulling the buckle of the belt tighter—"girding up His loins"—and in spite of the "Wist ye not that I must be about My Father's business?" has one foot advanced in readiness to go with His earthly parents. Through the doorway the builders are still at work; they are hoisting into position the block which is to be "the chief corner-stone of the building."



(Photo: T. F. McFarlane, Crieff.)


St. Paul's Bennett St. Sunday School, Manchester Quiver Medalists March 1st. 1898.

Blind Peter and his Bride.

In spite of his blindness, Peter was a very happy man. A young girl, brought up in the American Presbyterian School in Pekin, emphatically declared that he was the best, the cleverest, and the best-looking of six candidates for her hand. She enjoyed the unheard-of privilege of choosing her husband, and, as her relations approved the selection, settlements were at once arranged. Her hair was cut in a fringe, which 
in China marks an engaged maiden; the contract was drawn up on a sheet of lucky scarlet paper, and Peter undertook to make a regular allowance to his mother-in-law. Neither the bride nor Peter's relations ever had occasion to regret their decision. He was one of the earliest pupils in the School for the Blind established in Pekin in 1879. As a boy of twelve years old, he was led to the door by his brother aged fourteen. They were orphans, and on their first begging tour, and the elder said that he could support himself by work, but could not gain sufficient food for two without begging. The blind boy was admitted, and he quickly gained a high character. Within two years he was the ablest and best teacher of the blind in Pekin, and he had knowledge and influence which might be the means of bringing light and understanding to untold numbers groping in darkness of mind and body. It is calculated that the blind in China number at least 500,000, and they have the character of being amongst the most depraved of beggars. Miss Gordon-Cumming tells the story of blind Peter in her new book, "The Inventor of the Numeral Type for China." The Chinese Dictionary contains from 30,000 to 40,000 characters. It is true that to read a book so sublimely simple as the Bible it is sufficient to learn 4,000; but the length of this task deters the majority of people from the attempt. Mr. W. H. Murray found it possible to reduce the distinct tones of Mandarin Chinese (used in four-fifths of the Empire) to 408, and to represent them in numerals, embossed in dots according to Braille's system. Miss Gordon-Cumming devotes several pages to explaining the invention and the means by which it has been carried into good effect. The result is that blind men and women have not only been raised from demoralised beggary, but have become teachers of others afflicted like themselves, and in some cases of the sighted illiterate or deaf and dumb.

A Notable Group.

In the course of our last volume we had occasion to refer several times to the remarkable Sunday-school in Manchester which contains no less than forty-five teachers, all of whom have served for over twenty years as active officers of the school. This discovery was made in connection with our Roll of Honour for Sunday-school Workers, and each of the forty-five was awarded The Quiver medal. These teachers have since associated themselves in a photographic group, the result of which we reproduce on the opposite page. It forms an interesting and unique memento of an interesting and unique school.

A Quiver Hero.

The latest addition to the Roll of Quiver Heroes and Heroines is Captain James Hood, of the London tug Simla, who, on October 17th last, was by his self-sacrificing courage and presence of mind instrumental in saving twelve members of the crew of the Blengfell off Margate. The circumstances attending the conspicuous act of Captain Hood are probably still fresh in the minds of all our readers, and it is only necessary to recall that on the day in question his tug was in attendance on the naphtha ship Blengfell, when the latter vessel was suddenly rent in two by a terrific explosion, which resulted in the sudden death of the captain of the doomed ship, his wife and child, and six other persons. Hood immediately saw that the only way to save the men left on the wreck and those struggling in the sea was to steam right alongside the burning ship, there being no time to lower boats. This he courageously did in the face of several minor explosions, and knowing full well that at any moment the remaining barrels of naphtha might ignite and blow his vessel to pieces. Fortunately he was successful in rescuing the survivors, and was able to steam away in safety from the burning ship. Our readers will undoubtedly endorse our opinion that Captain Hood has nobly earned the Silver Medal of The Quiver Heroes Fund, which it has been our pleasure to hand to him.



(The latest Quiver Hero.)

(Photo: W. Bartier,
Poplar, E.

Unusual Diffidence.

An able public man known to the writer was asked the other day to speak at a conference upon one of the subjects to be debated. He replied that he could not do so, as he did not know much about the question and had not time to study it in all its bearings. How much shorter and more profitable would speeches and sermons be if those who deliver them were as conscientious as our friend! But "fools rush in where angels fear to tread," and speak loud and long out of the abundance of their ignorance. When a man has only one idea, has seen only one side of a thing, knows only a limited number of words, and is in possession of good lungs, there is no reason why he should ever stop speaking.


Distributing Mansion House Money.

Four great famines in India have marked the reign of Queen Victoria—each more widespread than the last, but each successively occasioning less loss of life. It was in the famine of 1868-69 that Lord Lawrence initiated, as a working principle for the Administration, a sense of personal responsibility for every life lost. In the last, that of 1896-97, the scarcity extended from the Punjab to Cape Comorin, but the skill in checking starvation was greater than in the preceding one of 1877, and the number of sufferers relieved exceeded three millions. Whilst many of India's sons gazed up at the cloudless sky with the calm desperation of fatalists, the Government and missionaries fought side by side to repel hunger and death. England subscribed £550,000 through the Mansion House Relief Fund alone. The scourge fell most heavily on the Central Provinces, and the paternal Government had not only to deal with present necessity, but to provide for the future. Our illustration is copied from a photograph of a scene in Central India. An English Government servant sits at a table covered with money from the Mansion House Fund, and he is granting fifteen rupees to a cultivator for seed rice. A crowd of applicants for similar relief surround him.



(Photo: Rev. A. Logsdail)

For Old and Young.

By a curious coincidence two of the various works which call for notice this month are by present contributors to our own pages, and two are by future contributors. It is unnecessary to deal with the former at length—even if space permitted—and it is sufficient to state that Dr. Joseph Parker's second volume of his series of "Studies in Texts" (Horace Marshall and Son) is as full of pregnant and forceful thoughts as its predecessor; whilst in "Love to the Uttermost" (Morgan and Scott) our old friend, the Rev. F. B. Meyer, has tenderly and reverently expounded the principal incidents and texts contained in the latter portion of the Gospel of the disciple "whom Jesus loved."—From Mr. Elliott Stock comes a small volume of "Addresses to all Sorts and Conditions of Men," which have been delivered at various times and in various places by Archdeacon Madden, who is well known as an earnest and gifted preacher to young men, and we can but hope that these outspoken truths may, in their more permanent form, be the means of much lasting good. We hope shortly to introduce Archdeacon Madden more directly to our readers by means of our own pages, and also Dr. R. F. Horton, who is responsible for "The Commandments of Jesus," which has just reached us from Messrs. Isbister. It should be emphasised at once that the book does not deal with the commandments given to Moses, but with the commandments delivered by our Lord whilst on earth. Dr. Horton claims that a careful study of these will prove that they form "a sufficient, authoritative, and exact rule of life" at the present day, and he has ably upheld and explained what he so happily terms "the eternal[287] code of Jesus."—To turn from theological to lighter works, we are pleased to draw attention to Mr. S. H. Hamer's "Whys and Other Whys" (Cassell and Co.), which would form an admirable present for little people. The author tells a number of humorous stories of "Curious Creatures and their Tales," which will amuse and delight the children, whilst the many quaint and clever illustrations by Mr. Neilson combine to make this one of the best gift-books of the season.—For the little ones and also to "children of a larger growth" we can heartily commend Mrs. Orman Cooper's life of "John Bunyan, the Glorious Dreamer" (Sunday School Union), which is written from an extensive knowledge of the subject (gained principally from many years' residence in Bedford), and is also copiously illustrated.—We have also to acknowledge the receipt of "Rabbi Sanderson" (Hodder and Stoughton) by Ian Maclaren, which forms a companion to his former short story, "A Doctor of the Old School," though we feel it is not so brilliant as the latter; of "Neil Macleod" (same publishers), an interesting and well-written story of literary life in London; and also of "Silver Tongues" (Morgan and Scott), which consists of a series of talks to the young by the Rev. John Mitchell, based on simple objects of common knowledge, such as a leaf, a thimble, flowers, etc., and enriched by many appropriate lessons.

Four Anchors from the Stern.

These anchors, our Revised Version tells us, the sailors "let go" on St. Paul's disastrous voyage towards Rome, "fearing lest haply we should be cast ashore on rocky ground." There is many a reef of rocks which threatens a young man or woman's barque, as it is pushed off across the waters of life's ocean; and, at the close of this century, one such reef is certainly the neglect and desecration of the Sabbath. It is difficult, perhaps undesirable, to lay down minute rules upon a subject concerning the details of which good folks conscientiously differ; but, in days when the social trend is distinctly towards laxity, there are four main principles which must be binding on all who acknowledge the New Testament as the supreme law of life. Little, comparatively, is said there about the observance of the first day of the week, but that little is very helpful and suggestive. (1) Sunday should be a day of joy. It was "with great joy" that the holy women returned from the sepulchre after the resurrection. Let us try and make Sunday bright and happy, especially to children and to the poor. (2) Sunday must be a day of worship. The disciples were wont to meet together to break bread in remembrance of their Master, and (Acts xx. 7) to hear a sermon. (3) Sunday must be a day of generosity and kindness. The apostle specially enjoins that each one should "lay by him in store, as he may prosper." The spirit of this command must forbid selfish entertainments and recreations, which impose extra toil on hard-worked servants. (4) Sunday should be a day of rest, and (to some extent, at least), of holy contemplation. St. John the Divine at Patmos was "in the spirit on the Lord's Day," when he saw the vision of the New Jerusalem. Sundays upon earth are a preparation for "the Sabbaths of Eternity." Neglect and desecration are "rocks ahead." Young men and maidens who fare forth into the world, and are apt to be driven rockward by the powerful and dangerous currents of public opinion, will find that these four stout scriptural anchors will hold their craft secure and fast.

Crowns of Thorns and Crowns of Righteousness.

A man called upon President Lincoln, introduced himself as one of his best friends, and asked for a Government post, then vacant, on the ground that it was solely through the applicant's exertions that he was elected to the Presidency. "Oh, indeed," said Lincoln; "then I now look upon the man who, of all men, has crowned my existence with a crown of thorns. No post for you in my gift, I assure you. I wish you good-morning." Thus it is that, when we obtain them, we care nothing about things that once were objects of our ambition. It will not be so with the never-fading crowns of righteousness that are the rewards of another and happier world.



(The veteran Leicester Sunday-school teacher.)

(Photo: A. Pickering, Leicester.)

The Leicester Silver Medallist.

Many of our readers will be pleased to see the accompanying portrait of Miss Anne Harrison, the veteran Sunday-school teacher of Leicestershire, who was recently awarded the Silver Medal and Presentation Bible for the longest known period of service in that county. Fifty-eight years ago Miss Harrison commenced work in the Sunday-school attached to the Baptist Chapel in Harvey Lane, Leicester, and is still to be found at her post Sunday after Sunday, devoting all her energies to the cause which is so near her heart, and which she has so faithfully served for over half a century.



The Special Silver Medal and Presentation Bible offered for the longest known Sunday-school service in the county of Sussex (for which applications were invited up to November 30th) have been gained by

Mr. Charles Watts,
14, Western Road, Hove,

who has distinguished himself by fifty-one years' service in the county, forty-nine of which were spent in Christ Church Sunday School, Montpelier Road, Brighton.

As already announced, the next territorial county for which claims are invited for the Silver Medal is


and applications, on the special form, must be received on or before December 31st, 1898. We may add that Durham is the following county selected, the date-limit for claims in that case being January 31st, 1899. This county, in its turn, will be followed by Devonshire, for which the date will be one month later—viz. February 31st, 1899.

Erratum.—Susan Hammond, the Essex County Medallist, was inadvertently described in our November number as Miss Hammond instead of Mrs. Hammond.


The following is a list of contributions received from November 1st up to and including November 30th, 1898. Subscriptions received after this date will be acknowledged next month:—

For "The Quiver" Christmas Stocking Fund: Jessie B., Clerkenwell, 2s. 6d.; A School Girl, Stockport, 3s.; A. Newport, Dorchester, 1s.; L. Holland, Crouch End, 2s.; C. D., Bradford-on-Avon, 2s.; A Sunday Scholar, 1s.; M. T., 3s.; E. E., Newmarket, 3s.; B. Burston, Moreland Court, 1s.; A Few Friends at Hazelwood, 5s.; F. S. T., 1s.; R. S., Crouch End, 5s.; E. M. Ellis, Derby, 1s.; Mrs. S., Newport, 5s.; Mrs. J. Cunningham, West Kensington, 5s.; E. Baylis, Woldingham, 10s.; Violet, 2s.; H. D., 10s.; G. S. Andrews, 3s.; A Reader, 2s.; E. R. Boys, Warlingham, 3s.; M. A., Kilburn, 1s.; Sympathy, 1s. 6d.; Mrs. Anderson, 1s.; Anon., Croydon, 2s. 2d.; M., Horsham, 5s.; S. L. G., Camberwell, 5s.; Anon., East Grinstead, 10s.; Anon., Dublin, 1s.; W. Dellar, 1s.; Little Florrie, Brighton, 2s.

For "The Quiver" Waifs' Fund: J. J. E. (132nd donation), 5s.; A Glasgow Mother (102nd donation), 1s.; S. A., Newport, 10s.; A Swansea Mother, 5s.

For Dr. Barnardo's Homes: An Irish Girl, 6s. 6d.; E. E., Newmarket, 2s.

The Editor is always pleased to receive and forward to the institutions concerned the donations of any of his readers who wish to help the movements referred to in the pages of The Quiver. All contributions of one shilling and upwards will be acknowledged.





25. Why was the place where our Lord performed His first miracle called Cana of Galilee?

26. Why was such a large quantity of water provided at Jewish feasts?

27. How many disciples were with Jesus at the marriage in Cana of Galilee?

28. What proof have we that Nicodemus was a member of the Sanhedrim or great council of the Jews?

29. In what words does our Lord refer to His crucifixion while speaking to Nicodemus?

30. What was the piece of land which Jacob gave to his son Joseph?

31. In what way could the woman of Samaria speak of Jacob as "our father"?

32. How did the Samaritans show their belief in Jesus as the Redeemer of all mankind?

33. In what way did our Lord manifest His Divine power to the nobleman of Capernaum?

34. At what celebrated place in Jerusalem did our Lord heal a man who had been ill for thirty-eight years?

35. Quote words in which Jesus speaks of Himself as the Judge of the quick and dead.

36. Why was it that when our Lord said to the Jews "My Father worketh hitherto, and I work," they sought to kill Him?


13. He broke the most solemn oath which he had made to the King of Babylon (2 Chron. xxxvi. 13).

14. His eyes were burned out, and he was taken prisoner to Babylon (Jer. lii. 11).

15. The prophecy of Ezekiel, who foretold that Zedekiah should die at Babylon, but should not see it (Ezek. xii. 13).

16. He says the revelation of the Old Testament was given at various times, and in many different ways, but the Gospel was revealed to mankind by the Son of God Himself (Heb. i. 1, 2).

17. "Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?" (Heb. i. 14).

18. It declares the divinity of Christ and records the deeper spiritual truths of His teaching (St. John i. 1-14, and xx. 31).

19. "The Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us" (St. John i. 14).

20. "Behold, I will send My messenger, and he shall prepare the way before Me" (Malachi iii. 1, and iv. 5).

21. "For thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God; the Lord thy God hath chosen thee to be a special people unto Himself" (Deut. vii. 6; St. John i. 11).

22. When his brother, St. Philip, tried to bring him to see Jesus, he said, "We have found Him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write" (St. John i. 45).

23. Jesus said unto him, "Before that Phillip called thee, when thou wast under the fig tree, I saw thee" (St. John i. 48).

24. As Jesus passed by St. John said, "Behold the Lamb of God!" (St. John i. 36).

Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Missing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the original text.

Page 266: "God answered Job out out of whirlwind." The transcriber has change this line to: "God answered Job out of the whirlwind."