{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43700/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43700","id":"gutenberg_43700","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43700","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - European","Category: Music","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Short Stories","Religious newspapers and periodicals"],"text":"Transcriber's note:\n\nText enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).\n\nSmall capital text has been replaced with all capitals.\n\nText enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ESTHER AND HAMAN.\n\nBy M. L. GOW, R.I.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUIVER\n\nANNUAL VOLUME, 1899\n\n_PAPERS, ADDRESSES, STORIES POEMS, MUSIC_\n\nBY\n\n THE BISHOP OF RIPON THE DEAN OF WINDSOR\n SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D. ROMA WHITE\n DR. R. F. HORTON ARCHDEACON DIGGLE\n THE BISHOP OF DERRY GORDON SAUNDERS, MUS.D.\n KATHARINE TYNAN M. H. CORNWALL LEGH\n DEAN SPENCE THE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.\n ETHEL F. HEDDLE H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D.\n THE BISHOP OF STEPNEY MRS. HERBERT MARTIN\n DR. GEORGE MATHESON THE REV. SILVESTER HORNE\n ROLAND ROGERS, MUS.D. ELIZABETH L. BANKS\n CANON TEIGNMOUTH SHORE DR. HUGH MACMILLAN\n B. FLETCHER ROBINSON ARCHDEACON MADDEN\n DEAN LEFROY D. L. WOOLMER\n LINA ORMAN COOPER DR. W. H. LONGHURST\n FREDERIC E. WEATHERLY J. F. ROWBOTHAM\n ETC. ETC.\n\n[Illustration: logo]\n\nCASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED\n\n_London, Paris, New York & Melbourne_\n\nALL RIGHTS RESERVED\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Index]\n\nINDEX\n\n PAGE\n\n AMERICAN BOY-EDITOR, AN By ELIZABETH L. BANKS 267\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n AMERICAN COUNTRY PARSONS AND THEIR WIVES\n By ELIZABETH L. BANKS 327\n _With Illustrations by Gordon Browne._\n\n ANGELS' SONG, THE By the REV. HENRY BIDDELL 893\n\n ART OF READING, THE By the VEN. ARCHDEACON\n DIGGLE, M.A. 147\n _Illustrated._\n\n AS CHAPLAIN TO MR. SPEAKER By DEAN FARRAR,\n D.D. 45, 242\n _Illustrated._\n\n AT WORK AMONG THE VAN-DWELLERS By T. W.\n WILKINSON 995\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n AUTHOR OF \"RAB AND HIS FRIENDS,\" THE By the\n late PROFESSOR W. G. BLAIKIE, D.D., LL.D. 1091\n _Illustrated._\n\n\n BELL-RINGERS OF BISHOPS, THE By K. E. VERNHAM 627\n _With Illustrations by Shepperson._\n\n BIBLE CLASS, THE QUIVER 96, 192, 288, 383, 480,\n 576, 672, 768, 864, 960, 1056, 1146\n\n BIG CAPTAIN FELLOW, THE By EDITH E. CUTHELL 849\n _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._\n\n BIRTH OF IRIS, THE By ROMA WHITE 1137\n _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._\n\n BROUGHT AGAIN FROM THE DEPTHS By DEAN\n LEFROY, D.D. 503\n\n\n CAPTAIN JACK'S DAUGHTER By KATHARINE TYNAN 874\n _With Illustrations by W. H. Margetson._\n\n CARICATURE, THE By SCOTT GRAHAM 796\n _With Illustrations by G. G. Manton._\n\n CENTENARY OF THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY,\n THE By the REV. A. R. BUCKLAND, M.A. 483\n _Illustrated._\n\n CHASING OF THE SHADOWS, THE By D. L. WOOLMER 771\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n CHAT ABOUT JUVENILE OFFENDERS, A By MAJOR\n ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 939\n _With Illustrations by Lady Stanley (Dorothy Tennant)._\n\n CHILDISH MEMORIES OF LEWIS CARROLL By EDITH\n ALICE MAITLAND 407\n _Illustrated._\n\n CHILDREN'S SERVICES ON THE SANDS 913\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n CHURCH LIFE IN CANADA By OUR SPECIAL COMMISSIONER 814\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n CHRISTABEL'S REBELLION By E. S. CURRY 418\n _With Illustrations by P. Tarrant._\n\n CIRCUMVENTED By R. RAMSAY 218\n _With Illustrations by Percy Tarrant._\n\n CITY OF STRANGE CONTRASTS, THE By F. M. HOLMES 604\n _With Illustrations by Enoch Ward, Sydney Cowell, and\n J. M. Wimbush._\n\n COALS OF FIRE By J. F. ROWBOTHAM 284\n _With Illustrations by J. H. Bacon._\n\n COLINA'S ISLAND By ETHEL F. HEDDLE 589, 728, 834, 929,\n _With Illustrations by Max Cowper._ 985, 1069\n\n COLOURED JEWS, THE By D. L. WOOLMER 58\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n COME, YE SINNERS, POOR AND WRETCHED Music by\n the REV. W. J. FOXELL, M.A., B.MUS. 763\n\n COMMANDANT'S LOVE AFFAIR, THE By A. E. ORPEN 1084\n _With Illustrations by F. H. Townsend._\n\n CONTENT By ARCHDEACON SINCLAIR 1079\n\n COUNTING NOT THE COST By the REV. C. SILVESTER\n HORNE, M.A. 423\n\n CURIOUS CHARITABLE GIFTS By A. PALFREY HOLLINGDALE 454\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n COWARD'S VICTORY, THE By M. BRADFORD-WHITING 1106\n _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._\n\n\n DAY IN DAMASCUS, A 193\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n DIFFICULT SISTERS, THE By E. L. DE BUTTS 744\n _With Illustrations by S. Paget._\n\n DONKEY-BOY TO THE QUEEN By ALFRED T. STORY 82, 177\n _With Illustrations by J. Barnard Davis._\n\n DON'T BE AFRAID OF GOD By the REV. P. B. POWER,\n M.A. 822\n _Illustrated by W. S. Stacey._\n\n\n EASTER EGG ROLLING IN WASHINGTON By ELIZABETH\n L. BANKS 519\n _With Illustrations by Lester Ralph._\n\n EMPEROR'S VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND, THE By OUR\n SPECIAL COMMISSIONER AT BERLIN 1\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n END OF THE SONG, THE By F. E. WEATHERLY 225\n\n EVERYBODY'S HYMNS By the VEN. ARCHDEACON WYNNE, D.D. 831\n\n\n FACING DEATH FOR CHRIST By OUR SPECIAL COMMISSIONER 291\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n FICKLE FAMILY, A By R. RAMSAY 612\n _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._\n\n FIGHTER TO THE LAST, A 1008\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE By the REV. S. J. STONE, M.A. 790\n\n FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND DUTY By D. L. WOOLMER 899\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n FOR THE SAKE OF HER CHILD 395, 507, 638, 685\n _With Illustrations by P. Tarrant._\n\n FORGIVEN HITHERTO By PASTOR THOMAS SPURGEON 793\n\n FORGIVENESS By LOUIS H. VICTORY 524\n\n FUNDS, \"THE QUIVER\" 95, 192, 288, 384, 480, 576, 672, 768,\n 864, 960, 1056, 1146\n\n\n GARDEN IDYLL, A By J. R. EASTWOOD 706\n\n GIFT OF GOD, THE By the REV. GEORGE F. PENTECOST, D.D., 650\n\n GOD'S SPIRE By J. F. ROWBOTHAM, M.A. 714\n _With Illustrations by R. Gray._\n\n GOD'S WAYS EQUAL By the REV. HUGH MACMILLAN D.D., LL.D., 884\n\n GREAT ANNIVERSARIES By the REV. A. R. BUCKLAND M.A.,\n 35, 120, 200, 298, 416, 501, 587, 683, 791, 882, 981, 1067\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n GREEN FOLK, THE By ETHEL F. HEDDLE 426\n _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._\n\n GROWTH By R. SOMERVELL, M.A. 925\n\n\n HARVEST HYMN, A By CANON TEIGNMOUTH SHORE 962\n\n HEAVENLY CHEER Music by H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D. 278\n\n HERO IN DISGUISE, A By MARGARET WESTRUP 127\n _With Illustrations by Malcolm Patterson._\n\n HERO IN HOMESPUN, A By MARGARET MACKINTOSH 1011\n\n HIS STRANGE REPENTANCE By the VENERABLE ARCHDEACON MADDEN 461\n _Illustrated._\n\n HOME FOR THE FATHERLESS, A By D. L. WOOLMER 619\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n HOMES OF NOBLE POVERTY By B. FLETCHER ROBINSON 26\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n HOUSE BEAUTIFUL, THE By LINA ORMAN COOPER 89\n\n HOUSE COMFORTABLE, THE By LINA ORMAN COOPER 175\n\n HOUSE ECONOMICAL, THE By LINA ORMAN COOPER 249\n\n HOW BARNFORD CHURCH WAS SAVED By SCOTT GRAHAM 37\n _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._\n\n HYMN TUNES, NEW:--\n Jeshurun of Christ, The By SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D. 86\n O Wondrous Night! By CHARLES BASSETT 174\n Heavenly Cheer By H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D. 278\n Who Can Forbear to Sing? By ROLAND ROGERS, MUS.D. 377\n Rise, Gracious God, and Shine By H. WALFORD DAVIES,\n MUS.D. 469\n Remembrance By GORDON SAUNDERS, MUS.D. 562\n Lord's Table, The By E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B. 658\n Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Wretched By the REV. W. J.\n FOXELL, M.A., B.MUS. 763\n Jerusalem, My Happy Home By W. H. LONGHURST, MUS.D. 848\n Wondrous Cross, The By E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B. 927\n Lord of the Harvest By PHILIP ARMES, D.MUS. 1025\n O Thou Who Makest Souls to Shine By W. ELLIS, MUS.B. 1102\n\n\n INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE, AN 383, 479\n\n INTERVENTION OF TODDLELUMS, THE By HELEN BODDINGTON 53\n _With Illustrations by W. Rainey._\n\n\n JANE AUSTEN'S PRIVATE LIFE 845\n _Illustrated._\n\n JERUSALEM, MY HAPPY HOME Music by W. H. LONGHURST, MUS.D. 848\n\n JESHURUN OF CHRIST, THE Words by the REV. S. J. STONE,\n M.A. Music by SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D. 86\n\n JESUS SINGING By the REV. DAVID BURNS 1103\n\n JOSH THE POET By HARRY DAVIES 1001\n _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._\n\n\n KINGDOM OF HEAVEN, THE By the LORD BISHOP OF DERRY 23\n\n KNOWLEDGE OF THE FUTURE By the LORD BISHOP OF RIPON 214\n _With Illustrations by Herbert Railton._\n\n\n LADY DOCTORS IN HEATHEN LANDS By D. L. WOOLMER 97\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n LAND IN SIGHT By CLARA THWAITES 980\n\n LIFE SENTENCE, THE By HELEN BODDINGTON 920\n _With Illustrations by Gordon Browne._\n\n LIGHT THROUGH DULL PANES By D. L. WOOLMER 553\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n LIMITS OF HUMAN GENIUS, THE By the VERY REV. H. DONALD M.\n SPENCE, D.D. 122\n _Illustrated._\n\n LITTLE LADY WILMERTON By the REV. P. B. POWER 274\n _Illustrated._\n\n LORD OF THE HARVEST Music by PHILIP ARMES, D.MUS. 1025\n\n LORD'S TABLE, THE Music by E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B. 658\n\n LOVE-LIGHT By M. H. CORNWALL LEGH 779, 887, 1026, 1122\n _With Illustrations by Fred Pegram._\n\n LOVE'S DEBT By LOUIS H. VICTORY 57\n\n\n \"MAN PROPOSES\" By ALAN ST. AUBYN 825\n _With Illustrations by W. D. Almond_.\n\n MASTERFUL YOUNG MAN, THE By MARGARET WESTRUP 493\n _With Illustrations by G. Grenville Manton._\n\n MAY QUEENS OF WHITELANDS, THE By D. L. WOOLMER 579\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n \"ME AND TURK\" By K. E. VERNHAM 654\n _With Illustrations by W. H. C. Groome._\n\n METHODS OF PRAYER By the REV. WILLIAM MURDOCH JOHNSTON,\n M.A. 983\n\n MIDGET CHURCHES By J. A. REID 151\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER, THE By E. S. CURRY.\n _With Illustrations by W. H. Margetson._ 66, 160, 251, 30\n\n MISS CRANE'S FORTUNE By A. B. ROMNEY 337\n _With Illustrations by Gordon Browne._\n\n MISS LUCRETIA'S NEW IDEA By M. H. CORNWALL LEGH 526\n _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._\n\n MOTHER'S BIBLE, A 140\n\n MOTHERHOOD By LINA ORMAN COOPER 561, 752, 944, 1037, 1133\n\n MOTIVES OF JUDAS, THE By the REV. W. J. DAWSON, B.A. 748\n\n\n NEGRO CAMP-MEETINGS IN THE STATES By ELIZABETH L. BANKS 867\n _Illustrated._\n\n NEW CREATION, A By the REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D. 78\n\n NEW VOCATIONS FOR CHRISTIAN GIRLS 1017\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n \"NOT TOO LATE\" By the late REV. GORDON CALTHROP, M.A. 267\n\n\n O THOU WHO MAKEST SOULS TO SHINE Music by\n W. ELLIS, MUS.B. 1102\n\n O WONDROUS NIGHT! A New Christmas Carol. Words\n by ARTHUR BRYANT. Music by CHARLES BASSETT. 174\n\n OUR CHRISTMAS STOCKING DISTRIBUTION 384\n\n OUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDS 22, 106, 241, 290, 468,\n 525, 659, 697, 808, 928, 1007, 1083\n\n\n PARABLES IN MARBLE By ARTHUR FISH 344\n _Illustrated._\n\n PEASANT GIRL POET OF ITALY, THE By the late\n CANON BELL, D.D. 721\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n PICKING THEM UP By D. L. WOOLMER 675\n _Illustrated._\n\n PICTORIAL SERMONS By ARTHUR FISH 387\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n PLEDGED By KATHARINE TYNAN 10, 107, 202, 350, 442, 542\n _With Illustrations by F. H. Townsend._\n\n POWER OF A GREAT PURPOSE, THE By the DEAN OF WINDSOR 311\n\n PRINCE'S MESSAGE, THE By ROMA WHITE 464\n _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._\n\n PROSPECT AND RETROSPECT By the REV. GEORGE MATHESON,\n M.A., D.D., F.R.S.E. 263\n\n PULPIT MANNER, THE By F. M. HOLMES 133\n _Illustrated from Life._\n\n\n QUIVER SANTA CLAUS, THE 96, 187\n\n\n READING OF THE LAW, THE By the REV. WILLIAM BURNET, M.A. 739\n _With Illustrations by J. Finnemore._\n\n REAL EAST LONDON, THE By the LORD BISHOP OF STEPNEY 434\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n REAL PROPERTY. By the REV. R. F. HORTON, M.A., D.D. 333\n\n REGINALD'S LAST TRY A Complete Story By M. A. BALLIOL 1098\n _With Illustrations by G. Nicolet._\n\n REMARKABLE \"CHURCH\" TREES, SOME By A. PALFREY\n HOLLINGDALE 1114\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n REMEMBRANCE Music by GORDON SAUNDERS, MUS.D. 562\n\n RISE, GRACIOUS GOD, AND SHINE Music by H. WALFORD\n DAVIES, MUS.D. 469\n\n ROGER PETTINGDALE By H. A. DAVIES 141\n _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._\n\n ROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY SCHOOL WORKERS\n 95, 191, 288, 382, 480, 576, 672, 768, 864, 960, 1056, 1146\n\n ROSY PALM, THE By MYRA HAMILTON 946\n _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._\n\n\n SACRED BOND IN NORTHERN CLIMES, THE By the\n REV. E. J. HARDY, M.A. 660\n\n SARAH'S DELIVERANCE By MRS. HERBERT MARTIN 809, 907\n _With Illustrations by W. Rainey._\n\n SCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL AND HOME By the REV.\n J. W. GEDGE, M.A. 91, 185, 281, 378, 473,\n 570, 665, 761, 857, 954, 1050, 1140\n\n SEEKING AND SERVING GOD By the REV. OWEN THOMAS, M.A. 1039\n\n SELF-HEALING By the REV. HUGH MACMILLAN, D.D., LL.D. 539\n\n SHORT ARROWS 93, 187, 283, 380, 475, 572, 667, 764,\n 860, 956, 1052, 1142\n\n SILENT SERMONS By J. A. REID 707\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n SOME FAMOUS EASTER HYMNS 534\n _Illustrated from Photographs_.\n\n SOME REMARKABLE SERVICES By GEORGE WINSOR 226\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n\n TEMPERANCE ENTERPRISE IN NEW YORK By A. PALFREY\n HOLLINGDALE 854\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS By A LEADING TEMPERANCE\n ADVOCATE 87, 182, 279, 375, 470, 567, 663,\n 754, 854, 951, 1047, 1135\n _Illustrated._\n\n TEN LITTLE INDIANS, THE By HOWARD ANGUS KENNEDY 563\n _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._\n\n THEIR LITTLE MANOEUVRE By EVELYN EVERETT GREEN 319\n _With Illustrations by Sydney Cowell._\n\n \"THEY SEEK A COUNTRY\" 603\n\n THREE SONGS OF BIRTH By the REV. HUGH MILLER, M.A. 172\n\n TIRED By H. BROOKE DAVIES 552\n\n TO AND FRO By MRS. NEIL MACLEOD 972\n _With Illustrations by W. H. C. Groome._\n\n TRIXIE'S TALENT By EDITH E. CUTHELL 757\n _With Illustrations by R. Cubitt Cooke._\n\n TRUE NAZARITES By the REV. E. A. STUART, M.A. 600\n\n TWICE ROUND THE BIBLE CLOCK 314\n _Illustrated._\n\n TWO VIEWS OF LIFE By F. J. CROSS 1121\n\n\n UNANSWERED TELEGRAM, AN By M. PENROSE 701\n _With Illustrations by G. G. Manton._\n\n\n VANISHED ARTS FROM THE CHRISTIAN HOME 369\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n VISIT TO THE KINGDOM OF SILENCE, A By D. L. Woolmer 964\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n\n WAIFS, NEW QUIVER 192, 475\n\n WAY OF HOLINESS, THE By the VEN. ARCHDEACON DIGGLE 698\n\n WE CAN By E. W. HOWSON, M.A. 362\n\n WEATHER WISDOM OF THE BIBLE By the REV. H. B.\n FREEMAN, M.A. 802\n _With Illustrations by Henry A. Harper._\n\n WHO CAN FORBEAR TO SING? Music by ROLAND ROGERS, MUS.D. 377\n\n WITTY SCOTSMAN, A By the late PROFESSOR W. G.\n BLAIKIE, D.D. 632\n _Illustrated._\n\n WONDERFUL PURSE, THE By MYRA HAMILTON 365\n _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._\n\n WONDROUS CROSS, THE Music by E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B. 927\n\n WORK AND PLAY IN CRUTCHLAND By D. L. WOOLMER 1059\n _Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n\n ZET By E. E. CUTHELL 1043\n _Illustrated by A. Campbell Cross._\n\n[Illustration: decorative]\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUIVER.\n\nTHE EMPEROR'S VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND.\n\nBy Our Special Commissioner at Berlin.\n\n_Illustrated from Photographs._\n\n\nFew projects of Church extension have attracted so much attention\nas the forthcoming opening of the Lutheran church in Jerusalem: a\nmovement which has been zealously pushed forward by his Imperial\nMajesty the Kaiser of Germany and King of Prussia, and will be\nhappily consummated by an imposing ceremony, at which his Majesty\nand his illustrious consort will be the central figures, just about\nthe time that this number reaches its thousands of subscribers. So\nimportant is the movement, and with such close attention has it\nbeen watched by the religious bodies of England, that a special\nrepresentative was sent to Berlin, who was fortunate enough to be\nreceived by some most distinguished Personages and kindly furnished\nwith many details of the scheme, and all the information that it was\npossible to give--so much in advance as the exigencies of a monthly\nperiodical demand.\n\n[Illustration: A VIEW OF VENICE.\n\n(_The Imperial Party's Place of Embarcation._)]\n\nIt will be as well to first speak of the requirements for a new\nLutheran church in Jerusalem. For a great many years there has been\na considerable German colony in the city, its members steadily\naugmenting year by year. In the time of Frederick William IV. of\nPrussia a joint Protestant bishopric (German and English) was\nestablished, the right of appointment to lie with each country\nalternately. The first Bishop was a converted German Jew holding\norders in the English Church; two others succeeded him, and then in\n1886 Prussia withdrew from the agreement.\n\n[Illustration: THE LATEST PORTRAIT-GROUP OF THE GERMAN ROYAL FAMILY.\n\n(_Photo: J. Baruch, Berlin._)]\n\nNearly twenty years previous to this latter date the Sultan had\npresented to King William I. a disused building, which formerly was\nthe property of the Knights of St. John, in order that a Protestant\nLutheran church might be erected on the site. For some reason, the\nwork was delayed for a considerable period, and the members of the\nGerman Evangelical Church have been worshipping in a small temporary\nchapel, by the side of which the handsome new church has been\nreared. The work has been carried on by a pastor and an assistant\nteacher, and there has also been a good school in conjunction with\nit. The foundation stone of the church was laid on October 31st,\n1893, and it was thought the consecration would take place in 1897;\nbut things were not in readiness, and so the event was fixed for\nOctober 31st of this year--the anniversary of the birth of the\nEvangelical Church, being the day on which Luther nailed his thesis\nto the church door in Wittenberg.\n\nThe Kaiser and Kaiserin have long cherished a wish to visit the\nHoly City and tread the land which Christ trod when on earth; and\nno better opportunity could possibly occur than when a new Lutheran\nchurch was about to be consecrated. Both their Majesties have done\nmuch--not only by rightly using the immense influence which they\npossess, but also financially--to further Church work; and, apart\nfrom any other cause, the opening of this sacred building for the\nuse of their countrymen in a foreign land could not fail to enlist\ntheir sympathetic interest. The undertaking is a pious and domestic,\nand _not_ a political, one, spite of several assertions to the\ncontrary; and all who have the cause of true religion at heart\ncannot but rejoice that there will be another pulpit from which the\nrisen Saviour will be proclaimed to the residents of God's chosen\nland.\n\nTheir Imperial Majesties will leave Berlin by special train for\nVenice, where a brief rest will be taken previous to the embarkation\non the royal yacht _Hohenzollern_. The dignitaries of the Lutheran\nChurch and invited personages will travel in another direction.\nLeaving Berlin by train, they embark on the _Midnight Sun_ (an\nEnglish vessel flying the English flag) at Trieste; thence they\nwill proceed to Alexandria. Having explored that city, they will\nvisit Cairo, and thence, returning to Alexandria, they will go on\nto Jaffa, and so through Palestine to Jerusalem, where they arrive\nabout midday on October 25th. The next few days will be spent in\nviewing the city and neighbourhood, and on the 31st the entire party\nwill be present at the formal opening of the \"Erl\u00f6ser-Kirche\" in the\npresence of the Kaiser and Kaiserin.\n\n[Illustration: JAFFA (JOPPA) AT THE PRESENT DAY.]\n\nBut I wish more particularly to draw your attention to the route\ntaken by their Majesties, as this was particularly pointed out to\nme in Berlin. Venice--the principal port on the Adriatic--will\nnaturally claim some share of the interest of the Imperial couple,\nand the Palace of the Doges, dating from the fourteenth century,\nwith its many historical and awful associations; the famous\ncathedral of St. Mark--a venerable building of the eleventh century,\nrich in cupolas and mosaics, and marble columns to the number of\nfive hundred--as well as other renowned places, will be visited.\n\nAt Venice their Majesties will go on board for a voyage of four\ndays down the Adriatic, and up in a northerly direction through\nthe Dardanelles and Sea of Marmora, direct to Constantinople and\nthe Golden Horn. Here the Sultan has made great preparations for\ntheir reception. Special buildings are being erected, old roads\nwidened, and new roads made; moreover, all streets to be traversed\nby the Imperial party are being properly paved--not before it was\nrequisite--thousands of gas-jets are being added to the meagre\nnumber which have hitherto done duty, and the Yildiz Palace has\nbeen completely overhauled and refitted. In short, Abdul Hamid is\nincurring tremendous expense in order to entertain his distinguished\nvisitors right regally. The sojourn will extend over several days,\nand many places will be visited, including the royal palaces--which\nabound in Constantinople--the mosques, tombs, towers, and bazaars;\nand as their Majesties will be in the city on a Friday, the\n\"Selamlik,\" or Sultan's procession to the mosque, will be included\nin the programme.\n\nOn leaving Constantinople, the Imperial yacht will steam round\nAsia Minor to the Syrian coast, passing many attractive places,\namongst which may be mentioned the Plains of Troy and the Isle of\nPatmos. A run of about three days will bring them to Kaiffa, more\ngenerally known as Haifa. Here the Kaiser and Kaiserin will land\nabout midday on October 25th, at the special new landing-stage\nwhich has lately been erected for the purpose. The first stone of\nthis was laid amidst much ceremony by the Mutessarif of Acre, in the\npresence of the entire Consular body, the troops, and all the local\nnotabilities. The ceremony was, of course, a Mohammedan one, a sheep\nbeing sacrificed upon the stone, and the blessing of Allah invoked\nupon the coming Imperial guests.\n\n[Illustration: A VIEW OF MODERN JERUSALEM.]\n\nOnce landed at Haifa, thenceforth the Imperial expedition will be\nentirely under the guidance of Messrs. Thomas Cook and Son, the\nwell-known tourist agents, Mr. Cook himself personally conducting\nthe party to Jerusalem. The Sultan had previously offered tents,\nhorses and carriages for the journey, but these the Emperor at\nfirst declined, as he was anxious to avoid giving any political\nsignificance to an expedition undertaken solely on religious\ngrounds, and for the purpose of the formal opening of the Church\nof St. Saviour or the Redeemer. At the earnest solicitation of\nthe Sultan, he, however, finally consented to use horses, mules,\ncarriages, and wagons provided by the Turkish monarch. The journey\nwill be performed in true Oriental style, everything else necessary\nbeing furnished by Thomas Cook and Son.\n\n[Illustration: HAIFA, AND THE BAY OF ACRE.\n\n(_The Landing-Place of the Imperial Party._)]\n\nThe Kaiser will make the journey on horseback, the Kaiserin in an\nopen carriage. The route is to be exactly the same as that followed\nby ordinary tourists, and the entire party will camp out at night\nin the usual way. The first day's journey will occupy nine or ten\nhours, and tents will be pitched for the night outside C\u00e6sarea,\nin full view of the Mediterranean. Thence the party will ride to\nJaffa, a journey of ten hours. The town is beautifully situated, and\nextensively planted with orange groves. There is a good carriage\nroad from it direct to Jerusalem, and a railway, which was opened\nsome six years since. The Imperial party will spend the night under\ncanvas outside the city, the view of which has an added interest,\ninasmuch as there is within its walls a considerable German colony.\nThe remainder of the journey to Jerusalem will be carried out in\nthe same manner over ground that is scripturally historical and\nhighly picturesque, passing as it does over the Plains of Sharon, by\nLydda and Emmaus--where Christ walked with His disciples after the\nResurrection--and so on through the Valley of Ajalon, by Kirjath and\nJesrun; arriving at Jerusalem on Saturday, October 29th, where tents\nwill be pitched on ground acquired by the Evangelical Jerusalem Fund.\n\n[Illustration: THE JAFFA GATE AT JERUSALEM.\n\n(_From here the Emperor and Empress go on foot to the Holy\nSepulchre._)]\n\nThe actual entrance of the procession into the city will be\nimposing, but, once within the Jaffa Gate, the Kaiser and Kaiserin\npurpose going on foot to the Holy Sepulchre, with an entire absence\nof any State surroundings. The route from the gate to the Sepulchre\nhas been entirely renovated for their Majesties by the Sultan.\nNeedless to say, this block of buildings containing the Chapel of\nthe Sepulchre is surrounded by much that is legendary, and has\nbeen the scene of many and fierce contentions. Now it is under the\nprotection of the Sultan, and Moslem soldiers guard it, and are\nstationed within the vestibule to keep order amongst the various\nChristian pilgrims who visit it. Various chapels credited to various\nnations are within its portals, the Church of the Sepulchre being,\nof course, the chief place of interest.\n\nThe rotunda of the sepulchre is the principal part of the building.\nIn the centre of the adjoining vestibule, or Angel's Chapel, lies\nthe stone which is said to be that which the angel rolled away from\nthe mouth of the sepulchre; then by passing through a lower door you\nenter the Chapel of the Sepulchre; it is very small, only holding\nthree or four persons at one time. Very much controversy has taken\nplace regarding the correctness of the site of the Holy Sepulchre.\nIt must of necessity be an uncertain matter, as the course of\nthe city wall has not been clearly ascertained, and it seems an\nundoubted fact that in the fourth century the actual site of the\ntomb was completely lost sight of. Pilgrims who visited Jerusalem\nat that period centred their entire interest on the place of the\nAscension of the Lord, worshipping and revering the living, and not\nthe dead, Christ.\n\nIt is perhaps hardly necessary here to point out the difference\nbetween ancient and modern Jerusalem. Many of the old landmarks are\nstill in existence, some of which I shall have occasion to mention\nlater. There is a large German colony now resident there, and during\nhis Majesty's visit he will receive representatives of this colony\nat the German Consulate.\n\n[Illustration: CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE.]\n\nSunday will be a memorable day for the expedition, the first event\nbeing the attendance at morning service in the Church of the\nNativity at Bethlehem, to be followed by the opening of an orphanage\nfor Armenian children.\n\nIn the afternoon certain sacred places on the Mount of Olives will\nbe visited. The entire Mount is replete with interest, for there is\nno other place which was frequented so much by Christ when on earth.\nIt is a significant fact that, so far as can be ascertained from\nthe Scriptures, Jesus never spent one night within the precincts of\nJerusalem, but was wont to spend them on the Mount of Olives.\n\nThe Brook Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat are each near, and\nare amongst the places to be visited by the Kaiser and the Kaiserin\non that special Sunday. But as interesting as any event of the day\nwill be an open-air service to be held on the Mount, attended by\ntheir Majesties, the whole of the personages forming the expedition,\nand the German settlement in Jerusalem. The bands of the royal yacht\nand the escorting squadron, which will have journeyed up from Haifa\nfor the purpose, will perform the musical part of the service.\n\n[Illustration: DR. BARKHAUSEN OF BERLIN.\n\n(_Organiser of the Tour_.)\n\n(Photo: Johannes H\u00fclsen, Berlin.)]\n\nThe next day--Monday, the 31st--the consecration of the Church\nof the Redeemer in the M\u00e2rist\u00e2n will take place; the ceremony\nwill be somewhat imposing, as a large number of clergy and\ndistinguished personages will be taking part in it. The list of\nrepresentatives who will be present reads as follows:--The members\nof the Evangelical Church Council specially formed for the\nJerusalem expedition; the representatives of the German Evangelical\nEcclesiastical Governments; the invited Foreign Church Corporations;\nthe Knights of the Order of St. John; the invited representatives\nof the missionary societies who are working in Palestine and\nSyria; the Gustave Adolf Society; the whole of the Evangelical\nChurch in Jerusalem; their Imperial Majesties and suite. I may say\nthat everyone present who has gone out from Germany will wear a\ndecoration that has been specially designed, known as the Jerusalem\ncross; these, in fact, will be worn the whole route of the journey.\nThe military element will be in the minority, consisting only of\nabout sixteen men, eight of them belonging to the Imperial Body\nGendarmerie, and eight to the Kaiserin's bodyguard; these, however,\nwill not travel up with the Imperial party, having gone out from\nBerlin some little time beforehand to accustom themselves to the\nhabits of the country.\n\n[Illustration: THE NEW LUTHERAN CHURCH, JERUSALEM.]\n\nImmediately subsequent to the ceremony at the church the Kaiser and\nKaiserin will start for a two or three days' visit to places of\ninterest around Jerusalem, commencing by riding to Jericho, which\nwill take about six hours. The Imperial party will halt there for\nthe night, camping at the foot of Jebel Harantel.\n\nOn the succeeding day visits will be paid to the Dead Sea and the\nJordan, the latter one of the most wonderful rivers of the world,\nwith a history running through the entire Bible. Various other\nplaces of much interest will be seen, and then their Majesties\nreturn to Jerusalem, going back to the coast by train, and taking\nship again at Jaffa for Haifa.\n\nFrom here they will visit Nazareth--which is memorable as the home\nof Jesus. It is still a flourishing place, partly built on rocky\nridges. There is a Latin chapel which is supposed to be built over\nthe workshop of Joseph; also a small chapel known as the Table of\nChrist, which is merely a vaulted chamber containing the table\nat which the Saviour and His disciples sat. Tiberias and the Sea\nof Galilee will be visited. Bethsaida, the birthplace of some of\nChrist's disciples, and other small places in the vicinity, will\neach come in for a share of attention.\n\n[Illustration: A PRESENT-DAY VIEW ON THE JORDAN.]\n\nProceeding northward, the expedition will view other places, but\nnone, perhaps, so beautiful as one at which they will make a brief\nstay--Damascus, the oldest city in the world. It is situated on the\nwestern side of the great plain, at an elevation of two thousand two\nhundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea, and is beautiful\nbeyond all description. On an elevated part of the Anti-Libanus,\nwhich rises to a height of nearly four thousand feet, there is\nerected a dome of victory, from which the best view of the city and\nthe seven rivers can be obtained, as also of the white-streaked\nmountains, the chocolate plain, and the rich and varied colours\nof the foliage of the trees. Within the city stands a citadel and\na palace. Damascus has seventy mosques, and about one hundred and\nfifty other places of worship in addition; and each of the principal\nreligious communities occupy different parts of the city. In the\nsame way different industries are carried on, each in their own\nquarters exclusively, having their own bazaars for the sale of\ngoods. The place is highly prosperous, and its appearance is, as I\nhave said, extremely beautiful. Thence the Kaiser and Kaiserin will\njourney on to Egypt, seeing Alexandria, Cairo, and going up the\nNile; but here space forbids us following them.\n\nIt is a visit which cannot fail to impress all; the Kaiser himself\nto no ordinary extent, considering his remarkable power of grasping\nthe religious and romantic elements of ancient history and its\nfamous scenes. What he will see will stir his heart to no ordinary\ndegree, sensitive as is his mind to all such impressions. It must\nalso sensibly appeal to the cultured members of every religious\ncommunity, and all will watch this Imperial pilgrimage with unusual\ninterest, and wish for it a happy and prosperous finale.\n\nI cannot close this without tendering my respectful thanks for\nthe gracious kindness accorded me in Berlin, and for the valuable\nassistance rendered me by Dr. Barkhausen, the President of the\nEvangelical Church Council for the Jerusalem Expedition, this\ngentleman being chiefly responsible for the entire arrangements.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: PLEDGED]\n\nPLEDGED\n\nBy Katharine Tynan, Author of \"A Daughter of Erin,\" Etc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nFATHER AND DAUGHTER.\n\n\nMr. Graydon and his daughter Pamela were jogging leisurely home from\nthe little market town of Lettergort. There was no reason to hurry,\nand if there had been, Frisky, the little fat pony, whose frisky\ndays were long over, would not have been aware of it.\n\nIt was very hot, a morning of late summer; but Pamela's creamy\ncheeks were as cool as the firm petals of a lily. She bore as if\naccustomed to it the jog-trot of the pony and the frequent ruts into\nwhich their chariot bumped, flinging her from the seat as though she\nwere the football in a hotly contested game.\n\nMr. Graydon kept up a contented whistling when he was not commenting\non the fields and the cattle as they passed. That had been a long,\nhot summer, and for once in a century people had begun to long for\nthe patter of rain on the leaves.\n\n\"Woa, Frisky--woa, little lad! That's a nice colt of Whelan's down\nthere by the sally-tree. Do you see, Pam? Now, I hope the poor\nfellow will get a handful of money for it. He'll need it this\nsummer,\" Mr. Graydon would say.\n\nOr, again, it would be a farmer going their own way from Lettergort.\n\n\"Good-morning, John.\"\n\n\"Good-morning, your honour. How did the calves do wid your honour?\"\n\n\"I'm not complaining, John. Murray of Slievenahoola gave me thirty\nshillings apiece for them. It was as much as I hoped for.\"\n\n\"Aye, they wor but weanlin's. An' 'tis no use keepin' stock this\nsummer.\"\n\n\"How did you do with the heifers, John?\"\n\n\"Didn't get the price of their feed, your honour. Wirra! 'tis a\ndesperate summer. The hay wasn't worth cuttin', and the oats is\npitiful.\"\n\nAgain, it would be a labourer with a scythe on his shoulder whom Mr.\nGraydon would stop to ask after his household concerns. Everywhere\nthey passed a smile followed Mr. Graydon's broad back in its faded\nhomespuns.\n\n\"'Tis a rale pleasant word he has in his mouth, God bless him! an'\nhim a rale gentleman an' all,\" followed him from many a cottage-door.\n\n\"You've done your marketing, Pam,\" said her father, turning to her.\n\n\"I'd plenty of time, dad, while you chatted to your million\nacquaintances.\"\n\n\"And sold my calves, Pam.\"\n\n\"You might have sold a thousand in the time.\"\n\n\"Well, well, Pam, it is my little world, you see. I hope the\nperishable things won't be broken when we come to the rut by\nMurphy's gate. 'Tis a foot and a half deep at least. Johnny Maher\nought really to mend this road.\"\n\n\"You ought to make him, dad. What's the good of being a magistrate?\"\n\n\"What indeed, Pam! Sure, I never get a job done for myself. There's\nold Inverbarry now, and he a lord, and he's getting the private road\nthrough his park mended at the public expense. And he as rich as\nCroesus, the old sinner!\"\n\nMr. Graydon rubbed his hands with benevolent amusement. His\ndaughter glanced at him with a pucker between her white brows. The\nviolet-blue eyes under curling black lashes exactly reproduced\nher father's, though at this moment the expressions were widely\ndifferent.\n\n\"You're too easy-going, dad. You should make Johnny Maher mend the\nroad.\"\n\nMr. Graydon dropped a rein to pull one of his daughter's silky black\ncurls.\n\n\"You wouldn't be having me too hard on the poor fellow, and he with\na sick wife and an old mother and a pack of children. Eh, little\nPam?\"\n\nPamela shook her head severely, and the red mouth, which had drooped\nat the corners when she was serious, parted over white teeth in a\nlaugh fresh as a child's.\n\n[Illustration: \"How did the calves do wid your honour?\"]\n\n\"You've no conscience, dad, any more than Lord Inverbarry or Johnny\nMaher. You're conniving at their wrongdoing, you see.\"\n\n\"Maybe I am, Pam--maybe I am. Only I don't suppose it seems\nwrongdoing to them--at least, not to Johnny Maher, poor fellow.\nInverbarry ought to know better.\"\n\nThey jogged along for a few minutes till there was another jolt.\nSimultaneously there was a crash at their feet, and Mr. Graydon\npulled up with an exclamation.\n\n\"There goes some of your crockery, Pam. I hope it's not the lad's\nlooking-glass.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Pam, with a sigh of despair. \"Perhaps now you'll\nget Johnny Maher to see to the road. If it's his looking-glass,\nhe'll have to shave as Mick St. Leger used, with the lid of a can\nfor his looking-glass.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor Mick was used to our ways. He didn't mind. But this is a\npublic-school man. We'll have to furbish up for him, little Pam, and\nput our best foot foremost, eh?\"\n\n\"It looks like it,\" said Pam, gazing down at the jumbled parcels at\nher feet. \"I'll tell you what it is,\" she said: \"it's the glass for\nhis bedroom window. It is all in smithereens. He'll have to put up\nwith the brown-paper panes, as Mick St. Leger did.\"\n\n\"Never mind, never mind. The lad's a gentleman, and he'll see we're\ngentlefolk, though we're as poor as church mice. He won't mind,\nyou'll see, Pam; gentlemen never do mind these things.\"\n\n\"You're thinking of Mick still, dad. You forget that Gwynne man who\nwouldn't stay because he got nothing but potatoes for three days.\nAs if we could help the roads being frozen and Frisky not being\nable to get to Lettergort! Do you remember Gwynne's face over the\npotato-cake the third day? Yet I'm sure Bridget had done her best.\nWhat with potatoes in their jackets, and mashed, and with butter,\nand without, and in a salad, and at last in a cake, I'm sure there\nwas no sameness about the diet.\"\n\n\"Gwynne was a--well, of course, he was a gentleman, but as\ndisagreeable as a gentleman can be. Besides, Pam, potatoes probably\ndidn't agree with him; they don't with everyone, you know, and\nGwynne was dyspeptic. I don't know what the lads are coming to. In\nmy young days we didn't even know the word dyspepsia, much less the\nthing.\"\n\n\"Gwynne was hateful,\" said Pamela. \"He expected us to kill the\nchickens for him when every single chicken was a pet, and so tame,\ndear things! that they would walk into the drawing-room and perch on\nyour knee.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that's why Gwynne wanted them killed,\" said Mr. Graydon.\n\n\"Nasty thing!\" said Pamela. \"I was glad when we saw his back. He\ncouldn't bear the dear dogs lying on his bed either, though Mary\ntold him it was a proof of their friendliness towards him. He fired\nhis bootjack after Mark Antony, you remember, and though it's not\neasy to stir up Mark Antony, yet I'm glad he had the spirit to go\nfor Gwynne's legs.\"\n\n\"Mark Antony had been burying bones under Gwynne's pillow, my dear.\"\n\n\"Only because it was a wet day, and he never liked to go out in the\nrain. I daresay if he'd had time he'd have removed the bones to the\ngarden. However, I don't suppose this youth will be like Gwynne.\nWhat do you think, dad?\"\n\n\"His father was the best fellow ever stepped on shoe-leather. If the\nlad is like him, we shan't complain. What a handsome, dashing fellow\nhe was! I can see him now in his scarlet and gold lace that night at\nLady Westbury's ball, where I first met----\"\n\nHe broke off suddenly with a little sigh. \"That was another world,\nPam.\"\n\n\"A world well lost--was it not?--dad.\"\n\n\"Aye, a world well lost, little girl.\"\n\nIt was plain to see that a tender intimacy existed between this\nfather and daughter.\n\n\"I daresay he'll find my ways rather old-fashioned, Pam. It was an\nodd thing that his father should have remembered me, and have wished\nthe lad to come to me.\"\n\n\"It would have been odd if he hadn't,\" said Pam shortly.\n\n\"There are new ways and new methods in the world since I was at\nOxford. I daresay the lad'll find me rather rusty in my knowledge.\"\n\n\"You'll teach over his head, as you always do, and you'll get great\ndelight out of it. You'll forget all about your pupil, and you'll\ngo mouthing Greek poetry till we think downstairs that the study\nchimney is on fire. And while you're growling and thundering the\nyouth will be making caricatures of you under the table, or cutting\nhis name deep in the oak of your precious study table.\"\n\n\"Is that my way, little Pam?\"\n\n\"That's your way, dad. There was never one of your pupils that could\nfollow you, only little Sells, and he died young, poor boy!\"\n\n\"Ah, little Sells. I am proud of Sells. He died fighting the\nsmall-pox with all the heroic soul in his little body. He had the\nmaking of a fine scholar.\"\n\n\"Never mind, dad. None of us can do more than die heroically. And\nSells would always have been a poor curate. They'd never have made\nhim a bishop.\"\n\n\"I suppose not, poor lad! Scholarship doesn't count for much, Pam.\"\n\n\"Or you wouldn't be here, dad.\"\n\n\"I'd always be in the ruck, Pam; I'm afraid I'm a worthless old\nfellow. From what you say, Pam, I'm as much of a failure at the\nteaching as anything else. I'm really afraid it's true.\"\n\n\"Never mind, dad. As Mick St. Leger said, you taught them better\nthings. It isn't your fault that you're over their heads.\"\n\n\"Did poor Mick say that, now?\" said Mr. Graydon, answering the first\npart of her sentence. \"Mick was a good boy; but no scholarship in\nhim. A child could beat Mick at the Greek verbs.\"\n\n\"He was more at home with a rod or a gun,\" assented Pamela. \"Only\nfor the noise he made you'd never know he was in the house. There\nwas no fun he wasn't up to.\"\n\nMr. Graydon's face suddenly became serious.\n\n\"You'll remember this lad's not Mick, Pam,\" he said; \"you and\nSylvia, I mean, for, of course, Mary is always prudent. Don't behave\nwith him as if you were all boys together. Now, that locking Mick in\nthe hayloft, or going with him to Whiddy Fair, would never do with\nthis boy.\"\n\n\"That was five years ago, dad,\" answered Pamela, looking with a\ndemure smile at the hem of her pink cotton frock where it covered\nher shoes. \"We were wild little colts of girls, then, with our hair\ndown our backs. Besides, we never meant to _leave_ Mick in the\nhayloft; we only forgot he was there in the delight of finding a\nwild bees' nest; and we cried coming home from Whiddy Fair, we were\nso tired and so hungry.\"\n\n\"Till I overtook you with Frisky, and drove you home and comforted\nyou.\"\n\n\"You should have spanked us, dad, and sent Mick to the right-about.\"\n\n\"So I should. If you'd been boys, I daresay I'd have known a better\nway with you. But what can one do with little girls? Then poor Mick.\nI knew it wasn't Mick's fault. You'd been leading him astray, as\nusual.\"\n\nBut Frisky had pulled up suddenly at a rather dilapidated gate, with\na post falling to pieces, and the two halves of the gate fastened\ntogether with a piece of string. Out of the lodge within poured a\nstream of blue-eyed and chubby children, who stood regarding Frisky\nand his freight with shy and friendly smiles.\n\n\"Halloa, you rascals,\" called out Mr. Graydon, \"run and call your\nmother, some of you. Gone with your father's dinner, is she? She\nseems to be always gone with your father's dinner. You can't get\ndown to open the gate, Pam? No, I see you can't; you're built in\nwith parcels round your feet. Here, take the reins, and I'll get\ndown myself. Only don't let Frisky get his head, or he'll run off\nwith the other post, as he did with that one.\"\n\n\"Frisky is not likely to do that, dad. He's got more sedate since\nthose days. It was about the same time that Sylvia and I locked Mick\nin the hayloft.\"\n\n\"Five years ago, Pam? It can't be five years ago. I'd never have\nleft that post unmended five years. Why, it was only the other day I\nwas saying I'd have over the mason from Lettergort to mend it.\"\n\nHe had now done fumbling with the tie of the gate, and Pamela drove\ninto the overgrown avenue. While he was replacing the bit of string\nhe kept up a running fire of jests with the small, shame-faced\nchildren, to which she listened with a half-smile.\n\n\"Dear old dad,\" she said to herself. \"He has been so long letting\nthings go that he even forgets that he has let them go. And I'm his\nown daughter.\"\n\nShe took up a breadth of her pink frock and looked at it. There was\na rent of at least three inches in it. Pamela shook her head in mute\nself-reproach.\n\n\"It'll never do for 'Trevithick's lad,' as the dear dad calls him. I\ndon't suppose he's used to young women with rents in their frocks.\nAnd I am a young woman, and so is Sylvia, though our own father has\nnever found it out.\"\n\nAs she sat waiting, a dreamy smile came to her lips and a softness\nto her eyes. It was like a prophecy of what \"Trevithick's lad\" was\nto bring--like the dawn of love, sweet and bitter, that was to bring\nPam the hoyden into her woman's inheritance.\n\n\"Come along, dear,\" she said with a start, turning to her father:\nit seemed as if his head-pattings of the children would never come\nto an end. \"Frisky's getting uneasy, and will bolt with me and the\ncrockery, if you don't hurry up.\"\n\nHer father jumped into the little cart with a laugh.\n\n\"I forgot that you were waiting, Pam, those infants have such\npleasing ways. But as for Frisky running away with you, why, bless\nme! he's had time to get old since he ran away with the post; at\nleast, so you say, though I should never have believed it--never!\"\n\n\"And now,\" said Pam, \"you're going to be turned out of house and\nhome for the next few days. Unhappy man, you little know how you've\ncarried soap and scrubbing brushes for your own destruction.\"\n\nMr. Graydon gave a gasp of genuine alarm.\n\n\"Soap and scrubbing brushes! But what for, Pam? I am sure everything\nis very clean--except my books; and I won't have the books touched,\nmind that--I won't have my books touched.\"\n\n\"Indeed, then, and I'd advise you to say that to Bridget yourself,\nfor I'm sure I won't. She's taken a fit of industry, and says she\nmight as well be living among haythens, wid th' ould dust an' dirt\nthe masther's for ever gatherin'. 'Them ould books of his,' she\nsays, 'would be a dale better for a rub of a damp cloth, and then a\npolish up wid a duster.'\"\n\n\"Pam!\" cried the unhappy gentleman. \"She wouldn't dare put a damp\ncloth near my books.\"\n\n\"She'd dare most things, would Bridget. It's your vellum covers\nshe's after chiefly. She says they're unnaturally dirty.\"\n\nShe looked at the beloved face, which bore a look of genuine dismay\nover its genial ruddiness.\n\n\"Never mind, dad,\" she said. \"Bridget promises great things; but\nbetween you and me I believe the great clearing up will just end in\nwhat she herself calls a lick and a promise. I don't suppose she'll\never get so far as your possessions--I don't really believe she\nwill.\"\n\n\"Don't let her, Pamela darling, will you?\" said her father\nentreatingly. \"Why, good gracious! my classics in vellum! A damp\ncloth! And Bridget's damp cloth! It would be enough to send me to an\nasylum.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Come along,\" she said.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nPREPARATIONS.\n\n\n\"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's,\" began Bridget.\n\n\"Bother Lord Carrickmines!\" said Miss Sylvia Graydon. \"We know\neverything that happened at Lord Carrickmines', and that can't have\nbeen much, seeing you've lived in this house since before I was\nborn.\"\n\n\"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's,\" went on Bridget with a kindling\neye, \"the young ladies--and sweet young ladies they were, Miss Mabel\nand Miss Alice--would have scorned to sit on the kitchen table\nswingin' their feet an' givin' advice they worn't asked for when\nthere was work to be done in the house. They were more likely to\ncome an' help----\"\n\n\"In their pink and blue silks, Bridget dear. You know they always\nwore pink and blue silks. Besides, I only advised you for your good.\nYou're going the wrong way entirely about mending that chair. The\nfirst time Sir Anthony sits on it he'll go flat on the floor.\"\n\n\"Well, then, it won't be you'll go flat on the floor, Miss Sylvy,\nso you needn't be talkin' about it. There, bother the thing! The\nmore nails I drives in it the more it splits, till the cracks in\nit is like the spokes of a wheel. I believe 'tis you sittin' there\ngivin' me impudence, Miss Sylvy. Sure it's the contrary ould thing\nentirely. I wish I'd never bothered after it.\"\n\n\"Why did you, then? Why can't he sit on his trunk, as Mick used to\ndo? I'm sure he can't be better than Mick.\"\n\n\"There's a deal o' differ, Miss Sylvy, between the rank of a 'Sir'\nan' the rank of a meleetia leftenant, though Mr. St. Leger was a\nreal nice young gentleman, when not led into mischief by you or Miss\nPamela. You see, I learnt the differ when I was at Lord----\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Bridget,\" said Miss Sylvia, jumping off the\ntable, \"I'll go and pick currants in the garden. You were saying\nyesterday they were dropping off their stalks for want of picking.\"\n\n\"Aye, do, dearie. I'll be makin' jam as soon as I get this weary\ncleanin' done, an' you'll help me with the stirrin', Miss Sylvy, an'\nwrite the labels for me?\"\n\n\"That I will, Bridget, on condition you give me a pot for myself.\"\n\nBridget looked fondly after the slender young figure as it went out\nin the sunlight, followed by a very fat bull-dog which had been\nbasking before the fire.\n\n\"There,\" she said to herself, \"Miss Sylvy's real willin', if you\nonly take her the right way. Sure, as I was sayin' to the master the\nother day, you'd never miss a young gentleman in the house as long\nas you'd Miss Sylvy. Miss Pamela's real pleasant, too, but give me\nMiss Sylvy, for all she's more like a boy nor a girl. But there, a\nhousehold of females is apt to weigh on the spirits, as I say, so\nit's well we have Miss Sylvy, for the master's ever abroad or shut\nup wid his musty ould books.\"\n\nAt this moment a lieutenant of Bridget's appeared on the scene. This\nwas Mrs. Murphy, a stout village matron, who had been brought in to\nassist in the great cleaning up, preparatory to the arrival of the\nnew pupil.\n\nThe good woman was steaming like her suds, of which she carried a\nvery dirty bucketful.\n\n\"Well, that job's done,\" she observed, \"an' the room ought to be\nclane enough to sarve him another twelvemonth. I don't know what the\ngentry wants wid all the clanin' at all. 'Tis meself wouldn't like\nould buckets o' suds rowled round the flure o' my little room at\nhome. They say washin' flures is the cause of a many coulds. How is\nthe work wid ye, ma'am?\"\n\n\"I'm not progressin' much, ma'am. I was just tellin' Miss Sylvy that\nit was her sittin' and laughin' at me was puttin' out my hand. Sit\ndown for a minute, ma'am, an' have a noggin o' buttermilk to cool\nye. There's time enough to be pullin' up the master's ould carpet\nthat hasn't been up in the memory o' man. He won't be home this hour\nyet.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss Flanagan,\" Mrs. Murphy\nobserved, as she seated herself.\n\n\"Indeed, they're contrairy cratures, like all men. They like\nclaneness, but they don't like to be claned. See how they're always\nmoppin' themselves in could baths enough to give them their end, and\nyet water about their rooms is somethin' they can't endure. When I\nwas at Lord Carrickmines's, the housekeeper put me, as it might be\nyou, ma'am, to pelt an ould bucket o' water round his lordship's\nstudio. He was a hasty man, an' he caught sight o' me enterin' the\ndoor--oh, bedad! he took the ould blunderbuss an' promised me the\ncontints of it if I didn't quit.\"\n\n\"The master here's rale quiet, though. He won't be for murdherin'\nyou, glory be to goodness!\"\n\n\"I daresay he'll raise a pillalew all the time,\" said Bridget\nphilosophically, \"but 'tis no use mindin' him.\"\n\n\"Yez have great preparations anyway, an' people's comfort all out\no' the windy. I suppose 'tis a rale grand young gentleman yez are\ngettin'?\"\n\n\"Well enough, well enough,\" said Bridget loftily. \"He's what ye call\na baronite.\"\n\n\"Rowlin' in gould, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Well, then, ma'am, I was never curious enough to ax his fortin'.\"\n\nUndeterred by this glaring snub, Mrs. Murphy went on placidly:\n\n\"He'll be a fine match for wan o' the young ladies.\"\n\n\"He might be,\" assented Bridget, as if she had thought of it for the\nfirst time.\n\n\"Miss Sylvy now'll dazzle the eyes of him wid beauty. I wouldn't ask\na greater beauty meself if I wor a young gentleman.\"\n\n\"Oh, the beauty's there, never fear. You wouldn't find a sweeter\nangel than Miss Sylvy sittin' up in church on Sunday, wid the\nfeathery hat she made herself, poor lamb. The little face of her,\nand the big shiny eyes, an' the darlin' hair puffed out about her.\nOch, indeed, you'd go a long way to bate Miss Sylvia in beauty.\"\n\n\"So the young gentleman'll think, I'll be bound.\"\n\n\"Indeed, then, I hope he won't be wastin' his time, for if he was\nto come makin' love to Miss Sylvy, 'tis as like as not she'd make a\nface at him.\"\n\n\"Well, then, it'll be Miss Pamela.\"\n\n\"May be, may be. Anyhow, it won't be Miss Sylvy, for she's just an\nimp of mischief, for all she has the face of an angel. The master\ncalls her 'Boy.' 'I was lookin' for a boy,' says he, 'an' 'twas\nherself that come. But sure, after all,' says he, 'I'm not sure\n'twas any mistake at all, at all.'\"\n\n\"And now, Mrs. Murphy,\" said Bridget, with a sudden return to\nauthority, \"I'd be obliged to you if it was your work you was\ngettin' about, an' not sittin' here idlin' all day. Stir your lazy\nbones, woman, an' be off to the master's studio, or 'tis never done\n'twill be at all.\"\n\n\"Well, indeed, ma'am,\" said Mrs. Murphy, with a justly aggrieved\nair. \"Here I wouldn't be at all, exceptin' by your own invitation.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss\nFlanagan.\"]\n\nBridget hurried upstairs through the quiet house flooded with\nmorning sunshine. Carrickmoyle stood on a plateau, and looked away\nover the bleached country and the summer-dark coppices. It was a\nsquare house, kindly of aspect, despite its ruinous condition, and\naround it lay a rich old garden, full of damask roses and such\nwealth of fruit as only come with years to a garden.\n\nAn orchard, gnarled and overgrown, was down in the hollow. A\ndelightful place it was to dream away a summer day, with no sound\nto break the stillness save only the moan of the wood-dove or the\ndropping of ripe fruit.\n\nAs Bridget went upstairs she paused at a window. Below her, flitting\nhere and there through the raspberry canes and currant bushes, she\ncaught a glimpse of Sylvia's blue frock.\n\n\"There she is, the lamb,\" muttered the old woman, her face\nsoftening. \"There she is, wid that Mark Antony at her heels, helpin'\nhimself to the raspberries, I'll be bound. An' she, pretty lamb!\n'tis more she'll be atin' thin pickin', I'm thinkin'. But never\nmind, never mind, we can't be young but wance.\"\n\nIn the room intended for the new pupil Mary Graydon, the eldest of\nthe three girls, was sitting, puckering her forehead over a mass of\nmuslin that overflowed her lap.\n\n\"What are you in trouble about, Miss Mary?\" asked Bridget.\n\n\"I don't know how to cut this into curtains for the window at all,\nBridget dear,\" said the sweetest, most plaintive voice; \"it's so\nnarrow and the window so wide.\"\n\n\"What have you got at all, child? 'Tisn't your poor mamma's muslin\nslips?\"\n\n\"It is indeed, Bridget. They were only going to pieces where they\nwere, and we can't afford curtains, and I'm sure if mamma was alive\nshe'd tell me to 'take them.'\"\n\n\"Indeed, then, I'm sure she would, Miss Mary, for she was like\nyourself; she'd give the clothes off her back to anyone she thought\nwanted them worse. Give me the scissors, jewel, an' I'll just\ncut them out for you. I once got a prize in Major Healy's lady's\nsewin'-class for cuttin'-out when I was a girl; though you'd never\nbelieve it, to see the botch I made of the chair I was tryin' to\nmend.\"\n\n\"It isn't quite the same thing, Bridget, you know. Oh! thank you,\nthat _is_ clever. How are you getting on downstairs?\"\n\n\"Pretty well, Miss Mary, but 'tis aisy does it wid that woman, Mrs.\nMurphy. She's a great ould gossip of a woman; 'tis no wonder Tim an'\nthe childher are the shows of the place. I was hard put to it to\nshut her mouth--her tongue's longer thin my arm--an' get her to the\nmaster's studio before he came home.\"\n\n\"Oh, poor papa! You're surely not invading him, Bridget?\"\n\n\"Aye, am I. The woman's up to her shoulders in dirty soap-suds by\nthis time, unless she's found someone more ready to listen to her\nthin I was. There, Miss Mary, there's the curtain; I've made a nate\njob of it, haven't I?\"\n\n\"You have indeed, Bridget. I wish you'd teach me some of your\ncleverness.\"\n\n\"Arrah! what would you want with the like? Sure, 'tis only by\nrayson of a little inconvaynience that rale blood-ladies like\nyourselves has to lift your hands, if it was only to wash your\nfaces.\"\n\nMary Graydon shook her head. Hers was a face which seemed irradiated\nwith a quiet inward light, and her eyes were gentler than the eyes\nof doves.\n\n\"You must teach me all you know, Bridget, for I shall always be\npoor.\"\n\n\"You mane when you marry Mr. St. Leger, Miss Mary?\"\n\nThe girl nodded without speaking, but a sudden rush of happy colour\ncovered her innocent face.\n\n\"Don't be thinkin' of that, my lamb. The ould lord'll come round\nbefore that. Sure he couldn't be as hard-hearted a naygur as he lets\non.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not, Bridget. He has a little son of his own now, you\nsee, and so the less reason for forgiving papa.\"\n\nBridget lifted her eyes and hands.\n\n\"Him wid a little son indeed! Cock him up wid a little son, an' him\nwid wan foot in the grave! Well, there's no gettin' over the ways of\nsome people. But 'tis time for me to be gettin' about my work, or\nI'll be as bad as that Murphy woman. Just you call to me, Miss Mary,\nif you want to know anything; but don't go spoiling them eyes on Mr.\nMick, puttin' too fine work into that baronite's curtains.\"\n\nShe went off then, and for a time there was silence in the room,\nbroken only by the occasional efforts of Pamela's Irish terrier,\nPat, to better Bridget's bed-making. The windows, brown-paper panes\nand all, were flung wide open, and there was a lovely prospect\nof plain and hill, and wood and river, stretching away into the\npearl-grey distances. A little wind sang like a lullaby in the\nleaves of the sycamore outside the window, and from the garden below\ncame a drowsy humming of bees.\n\nBut to the girl who sat there dreaming dreams a scene widely\ndifferent presented itself. She saw a parched Indian plain and a\nrow of low white buildings. All around there was a clearing, but\nbeyond was the mass of the jungle, where the jackals cried by night\nand the lions roared thunderously. Somewhere in that baking place\nshe saw the face she loved--the plain, honest, devoted face of Mick\nSt. Leger, who had passed from the Militia to be a subaltern in a\nmarching regiment. Five years at least would elapse before he came\nhome--five years, with all their chances of trouble and loneliness,\nand, alas! of death.\n\nMary Graydon trembled over her sewing as the longing for her lover\nbecame almost intolerable. Then she snapped a thread off short, and\nlifted her eyes in a quiet way which had become natural to her when\nshe was alone. She could not know what was happening to her dear boy\nunder those deadly skies; but there was One who knew and whose love\nwas greater still, and she could trust that love even if its will\nwas to slay her.\n\nThere was a quick step on the stones, and the sound of someone\nrushing up two steps at a time.\n\n\"Oh! here you are, Molly,\" cried Pamela, rushing in breathless.\n\"We've got home, papa and I; and the glass for these windows is\nall in a smash, and three of the new tumblers, and the youth's\nshaving-glass. And what do you think, darling? The youth's coming\nto-day--this afternoon. That dear old dunderhead of a father of\nours has been reading 'Thursday' for 'Tuesday,' and has just had a\ntelegram to undeceive him.\"\n\nMary lifted her hands in dismay.\n\n\"Dad's to meet him at Lettergort at four-thirty. It's just as well\nit happened, anyhow, for, instead of going into his study to read\nthe _Sentinel_, I've headed him off for the stables to see if Frisky\nmust have a shoe. So he hasn't discovered yet the terrible havoc\namong his household gods. Maybe, if we can get things to rights\nbefore he finds out, he'll never know his room has been cleaned at\nall, at all. I'm sure Mrs. Murphy will leave as few traces of the\ncleaning as possible.\"\n\n\"What _are_ we to do, Pam?\"\n\n\"Why, do nothing. It's just as well the glass is broken, for there'd\nbe no time to put it in. Besides, I'm of Bridget's opinion, that\nbrown paper's a deal comfortabler-looking in the could weather.\"\n\n\"But his dinner, Pamela?\"\n\n\"Why, kill the red cock. He's been insufferable, strutting about\nwith his hoarse crow, since he killed my dear bantam. Besides, he\ncan't live much longer; you know he's very old.\"\n\n\"But won't he be tough? Besides, how are we to catch him?\"\n\n\"As to the toughness, the youth will think it's the habit of Irish\nfowl. As to catching him, I think he might be trapped in the\nrose-bush opposite the hall-door, where he and his wives have taken\nto roosting; and a nice thing they've made of the rose-bush. He's\nso old, poor dear! that he goes to bed while yet the sun's high;\nbut, mind, I'll have nothing to say to catching him, lest it should\nsavour of revenge for my Dick.\"\n\n\"But, Pam, the house is upside down; and Sir Anthony comes at\nfour-thirty, you say?\"\n\n\"Four-thirty his train is due. But papa must take him a round\nthat'll keep him till seven. You may trust Frisky, if Frisky gets a\nchance, though in the ordinary course of things they'd arrive here\nfrom Lettergort in half an hour. Then the train _may_ be more late\nthan usual, to oblige us.\"\n\n\"I suppose papa must keep him out?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course, he must. It's an interesting country and a charming\nday. Later on, of course, he'll find out that Lettergort Station is\nonly round the corner, so to speak; but he'll think the long drive\nwas an aberration of his Irish host.\"\n\n\"But won't he be tired after his long journey?\"\n\n\"He'll be more tired if he has to help us to catch the red cock;\nthat is, if we don't succeed in surprising the poor thing.\"\n\n\"Yes, I suppose we'll have to ask papa to do that. And Pam, darling,\ndo run down and see what Mrs. Murphy is doing in the poor dear's\nstudy. He has always been so happy there that it's a shame to\ndisturb him with the knowledge that it has been invaded.\"\n\n\"Leave that to me. You'd say I was a born general if you saw the\nway I headed him off when he came in. I'll lock Mrs. Murphy in, if\nnecessary, and then make a prodigious search for the key.\"\n\n\"Don't do that, Pam, darling.\"\n\n\"Only as a last resource. Never you fear, I'll keep the poor\ndarling's mind undisturbed. You'll see he never suspects anything,\neven when I ask him at lunch where I shall find the quotation,\n'Alas, unconscious of their doom, the little infants play.'\"\n\nAnd Pamela did ask him at lunch, and the poor gentleman gave\nher innocently the information she asked. Though, as she said\nafterwards, it was a shame to keep him in the dark, for he loved\na joke so dearly that he would have enjoyed one even at his own\nexpense.\n\n[Illustration: Mary lifted her hands in dismay.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nSIB ANTHONY TREVITHICK.\n\n\n\"Well, if the ould train isn't batin' herself for bein' up to time!\"\nsaid Pat Sheehan, the porter at Lettergort Station. \"She'll draw\nup at this platform twenty-five minits before she's due be the\ntime-table, an' an hour an' twenty-five before her usual time.\"\n\n\"'Tis Timothy Dolan that's drivin' her,\" said the person addressed,\na little old woman like a robin, with a soft little voice hardly\nbigger than a bird's twitter.\n\n\"The power of love is wonderful,\" she went on; \"sure Tim's spakin'\nto Mrs. Doyle's little Katty, an' he's raced the thrain so that he\ncan dart up an' see the little girl while the ould ingin' is pantin'\nthe sides out of her like a dog after a gallop.\"\n\n\"More than punctual!\" commented a young gentleman, who was standing\nin a first-class carriage, looking from the shining landscape to the\nface of his chronometer.\n\nHe was a good-looking fellow, with honest brown eyes and a face that\ntold of constant living in the open air. He was lean as a hound,\nand almost as long; presumably he would fill out, but even now his\nlong-legged youthfulness was not without its attractive side.\n\nAs the train drew up at the platform he pocketed his watch, and\nbegan to gather his belongings leisurely. They seemed to be a good\nmany--gun-case, golf-sticks, fishing-tackle, hat-case, rugs and\numbrellas, and all the rest of it. While he was thus engaged a\ngood-natured face, belonging to the red-bearded and red-haired giant\nwho was guard of the train, looked in at the window.\n\n\"No hurry, sir, if you're not goin' on. If you are, there'll be time\nto take a dander up the town an' get a bit of dinner.\"\n\n\"Indeed? I didn't know you made a long stop here,\" said the youth,\npausing in his occupation of locking a small portmanteau.\n\n\"No more we do. We're supposed to skelp along wid the letters\nfor Ballintaggart beyant the mountains there. But you see,\nsir\"--insinuatingly--\"the driver's gone to see his sweetheart.\nThat's how we got in so early. Tim is the boy for not lettin' the\ngrass grow under the thrain when he has a mind. I remember when this\nould thrain was bet in a race wid a pig; but Tim's put another face\non her.\"\n\n\"Oh--indeed. And when will you start again?\"\n\n\"Whenever your honour likes. I wouldn't be for hurryin' a gentleman\nover his dinner, to say nothin' of Tim, that's a dacent boy, an'\ndeserves a good turn.\"\n\nThe traveller laughed with an enjoyment that lit up a face grave in\nrepose.\n\n\"You don't mind letting the people at Ballin--what's-its-name?--wait\nfor their letters?\"\n\n\"Och, surely not. Maybe 'tis a week before some o' them 'ud hear be\nchance there was a letter for 'em at the post-office, an' be that\ntime every wan in the place'll know what's in it. It'll be: 'There's\na letter below at the post-office for you, Judy, wid an order in it\nfor a pound from your Uncle Con in Philadelphy'; or, 'Miss Geraghty\nbelow at the post-office was tellin' me there's grand news from the\ndaughter in New York--twins, no less, an' all doin' well.' Sure, the\npeople themselves is the last to hear, barrin' the polis.\"\n\n\"But why should the police be in the dark?\" asked the young\ngentleman, as he finally concluded putting his traps together.\n\"Here, help me out with these, please. I'm getting off here, or I'd\nbe delighted to fix the hour for going on.\"\n\nMat Connor, the guard, beckoned to Pat Sheehan.\n\n\"Here's a man 'ull run 'em anywhere you like in his ass-cart for\nyou, sir, an' welcome. As I was sayin', sir, the polis has nothin'\nto do but pick up news, and there's an objection to doin' away wid\ntheir ockypation--that's all. They're dacent men, the polis.\"\n\n\"I expected a carriage or something to meet me.\"\n\nMat Connor looked up and down the platform, where the little woman\nstood alone, enjoying the excitement of the train's arrival. Then he\nwent to the door and looked out. As he came back he again carefully\nscanned the platform, as though he might have overlooked such a\nthing as a carriage.\n\n\"Not a sight of one I see at all, at all, sir. Where might you be\nfor, if I may make so bould as to ask?\"\n\n\"I'm going to Mr. Graydon's, of Carrickmoyle. I daresay he'll be\nhere presently, as he knows the hour the train is due.\"\n\n\"Och, Mr. Graydon'll be here, never fear. He'll be rowlin' round\nin his little car in less thin no time. The gentleman's for Mr.\nGraydon's, Pat. Just get his things on the ass-cart an' run them\naround before another train's due.\"\n\n\"It is not far, then?\"\n\n\"If you turned to the right when you wint out, an' kep' your eyes\nshut, only feelin' your way by the wall, you'd be turnin' in at the\ngate of Carrickmoyle in, maybe, half an hour. But sure, here's Mr.\nGraydon himself comin' to look for you. I suspected he wouldn't be\nlong.\"\n\nThe young gentleman turned round and saw coming towards him along\nthe platform a lively, fresh-coloured man, of fifty or thereabouts.\nIn spite of his old Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers of grey\nhomespun, yellowed and browned with hard wear, there was no\nmistaking Mr. Graydon for anything but a gentleman. His face beamed\ncordiality on the new arrival, and his blue eyes shone with pleasure.\n\n\"You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony, very heartily welcome to\nCarrickmoyle! Have you been waiting? I'm so sorry. I made certain to\nbe in time. Indeed, I had an errand to do a little further, but, of\ncourse, I turned in as soon as I saw the train had arrived.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony.\"]\n\n\"The train was over-punctual, sir, and I have been very well\nentertained while I waited.\"\n\n\"I daresay, I daresay. There are worse comrades than Mat. Many a\npleasant day's shooting I had with Mat for companion. Eh, Mat,\nyou don't forget the night in the Moyle river when our legs froze\nwaiting for wild duck, and we thought we'd have to stay there till\nthe hot weather set us free.\"\n\nMat grinned delightedly for response.\n\n\"The worst of Mat is he's a born poacher. Doesn't respect\nInverbarry's preserves or anybody else's, and isn't to be\nfrightened, though I tell him Inverbarry'll lock him up one of these\ndays.\"\n\n\"Not wid your honour on the bench. But 'tisn't me that poaches. 'Tis\nthe bit of a dog. You couldn't insinse respect for the law into that\nlittle baste's head wance he's put up a hare or a partridge.\"\n\n\"Well, good-bye, Mat, good-bye. Tell the old mother I was asking for\nher. How are you, Mrs. Kelly? What's the last news from Nora? The\nbest, that's a good hearing. Come along, Sir Anthony. Don't drop any\nof the gentleman's things on your way, Pat.\"\n\nMr. Graydon bustled his new pupil out of the little station, and\ninto the very disreputable pony car, with a blissful oblivion of its\nshortcomings.\n\n\"You won't mind coming to the village with me till I deliver my\nmessage? I was very near forgetting it. Then I'll have you home in\nless than no time. You'll be glad of a wash-up and a cup of tea.\"\n\nSir Anthony assented, but he was preoccupied, tucking his long legs\naway under the seat of the little car. When he had time to look at\nhis host, he found him gravely regarding him.\n\n\"You are like your father, just such another as he was at your age.\"\n\n\"I am glad you think so, sir. I am proud to be like him.\"\n\n\"Ah, he was a fine fellow, my lad.\"\n\n\"He never forgot you, sir, and your old friendship, though, as he\nsaid, you had chosen to bury yourself far away from your friends. He\nused to say that no man had more friends, or deserved them better.\"\n\n\"Did he say that?\" and for a second Mr. Graydon's eyes were misty.\n\"Ah, well! he showed he remembered me when he wished his boy to be\nin my hands.\"\n\n\"You are good to have me, sir.\"\n\n\"Not at all, my lad. I shall be very glad of your companionship, and\nshall feel sometimes as if it were Gerald Trevithick beside me as of\nold instead of his boy. And your mother? I hope you left Lady Jane\nwell.\"\n\n\"Quite well, thank you, sir.\"\n\n\"And what did she think of her only son burying himself in the wilds\nof Ireland?\"\n\n\"She respected my father's wishes,\" said the young fellow, and Mr.\nGraydon detected a note of coldness in the voice which had been so\ntender when he spoke of his dead father.\n\n\"Ah, here we are,\" said Mr. Graydon, as they turned into a tiny\nstreet of mud cabins and drew up in front of a general shop. \"Just\ntake the reins for a minute while I give Mrs. Lennan my daughter's\norders. Oh, is it yourself, Mrs. Lennan? You shouldn't have troubled\nto come out. You're looking bonny in spite of the hot weather.\"\n\n\"The same to you, Mr. Graydon,\" said the little rosy-cheeked woman,\ncurtseying. \"What can I do for your honour to-day?\"\n\n\"I've a list here as long as a woman's tongue, Mrs. Lennan, though\nthe tongue isn't yours or we'd wish it to be always wagging. Let me\nsee--here it is: soap, candles, matches--there, you'd better take it\ninside and get Mike to read it for you. He's a fine scholar, I hear.\"\n\n\"Indeed, then, he is, sir, though his mother oughtn't to be talkin'\nabout it. Thank you, sir. I'll put the things together in less time\nthan you'd say them over.\"\n\nWhile they waited in the village street, Mr. Graydon beguiled the\ntime by genial gossip with every man, woman, and child who came the\nway.\n\n\"How well you get on with the people, sir,\" Sir Anthony could not\nhelp saying.\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Mr. Graydon, with a little surprise. \"You\nsee, we've known each other so long. Things and people change little\nin these out-of-the-way places.\"\n\n\"I couldn't do it, if it was to save my life. Besides, the people\nwhere I come from wouldn't understand it.\"\n\n\"Ah, I suppose not. We Irish are more of a large family--which is,\nperhaps, the reason why we wrangle sometimes.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you recollect all their ailments, and the names\nand conditions of their families, and all the rest of it.\"\n\n\"I am about through them so much. Your mother would understand. I\ndaresay she plays the Lady Bountiful a good deal.\"\n\nThe young man's lips parted over a range of beautifully white and\nstrong teeth.\n\n\"No,\" he said, a little grimly. \"The mater isn't at all the\ndistrict-visiting sort, I assure you, sir.\"\n\nWith a feeling of having blundered, Mr. Graydon changed the subject.\n\n\"I was glad to see your gun-case,\" he said. \"There's any amount\nof game about here. The mountain yonder has no end of rabbits;\nand there's plenty of teal, woodcock, grouse, and partridge. Good\nfishing, too, in the Moyle--the sweetest salmon-trout that ever\ngrilled over a clear fire; and a mile or two away there are big\nsalmon for the taking.\"\n\n\"Unpreserved?\" cried the youth, with sparkling eyes.\n\n\"Well, not very strictly preserved. That mountain yonder,\nCarrickduff, is part of my singularly unprofitable property, and the\nMoyle runs inside my walls.\"\n\n\"If you don't keep me too close to work, sir, I foresee that I shall\nfind Carrickmoyle a paradise.\"\n\n\"There are worse places than Carrickmoyle,\" said Mr. Graydon, with\na sparkle of pleasure in his eye. \"Oh, I shan't overwork you. I\nbelieve in out-of-doors for young fellows. When I am busy--I daresay\nI shall be a little busy at times with a book which I have had in\nhand some years--the children will look after you.\"\n\n\"You have children, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, three little girls. The eldest is, I'm afraid, becoming\ngrown-up; but the others are quite children, and as wild as little\nhares.\"\n\nBy this time they had passed the rickety gate and were approaching\nthe house, the double doors of which stood hospitably open.\n\nMr. Graydon drew up on the gravel-sweep opposite the door.\n\n\"I must take Frisky round,\" he said, \"and, meanwhile, will you go\ninto the drawing-room? It is the first door on the left. I'll be\nback with you in a minute, as soon as I've found little Tim to take\nFrisky from me--likely as not he's playing marbles in the paddock.\"\n\nSir Anthony did as he was directed. The big hall, when he had\nentered it, was full of sunlight, but otherwise bare as poverty. A\nbig fireplace, where the brasses tarnished and the steel rusted; a\ngreat handsome box, intended for billets of wood, but now coldly\nempty; some dusty antlers and shields on the high wall--these were\nnot cheerful.\n\nWhat was, was the sound of young laughter proceeding from the door\nto the left--exuberant laughter, full of enjoyment, accompanied with\nan odd little sound of rushing hither and thither.\n\nThe young fellow's face lit up as he went forward.\n\n\"The children playing 'Puss in the Corner,'\" he said to himself, and\nwent almost on tip-toe.\n\nBut as he reached the door he was met by a sudden silvery shriek.\nSomething feathery and very hard struck him between the eyes; then\nthe thing dodged him, but before he could discover what it was\nanother missile followed; at the same moment the silvery voice\ncried, in accents of despair:--\n\n\"Very well, you wretch! go, if you will; but you have disgraced\nCarrickmoyle, and left the baronet without any dinner.\"\n\nBut let Sir Anthony himself explain these extraordinary happenings,\nand how he met his fate, and the strange shape in which love came to\nhim.\n\nEND OF CHAPTER THREE.\n\n[Illustration: Our Roll of Heroic Deeds]\n\nThis series of pictures of heroic deeds is fittingly inaugurated\nby the portrayal of the splendid heroism of the nursemaid Fanny\nBest, of Tiverton, who, by her courage and presence of mind, was\ninstrumental in saving the lives of her charges when attacked by\nan infuriated cow. As will be seen, she kept a firm hold of the\nperambulator, and at the risk of her own life boldly resisted the\nrepeated thrusts of the animal until help arrived. The Editor\nis always pleased to hear of such instances of self-sacrificing\nbravery--either in men or women--with a view to the award of the\nMedal of The Quiver Heroes Fund, such as was sent to Miss Best at\nthe time.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN]\n\nTHE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN\n\nBy the Lord Bishop of Derry.\n\n\"Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.\"--St. Matthew\niii., 2.\n\n\nThis proclamation, made by the Baptist, is the best possible\nbeginning for a gospel, since men will never repent unless they feel\nthat better things are open to them.\n\nTherefore, as the next chapter informs us, these same words were\nthe first utterance, the modest germ, of the profounder teaching of\nour Lord Himself, and He started from the precise point to which\nthe forerunner had led his followers. The next step was to fill up\nsomewhat these slender outlines by saying, \"The time is fulfilled,\nand the kingdom of heaven is at hand: repent ye, and believe in the\ngospel\" (St. Matthew iv. 17; St. Mark i. 15).\n\nThis announcement is necessary still. How often have we excused our\nmisdeeds by the abject plea that we could not help ourselves! It is\nabject, it is a confession of slavery; but, if true, it is a perfect\ndefence. None may blame us for doing what is inevitable, or failing\nto do what is impossible. If a giant were to force a torch into my\nhand and with it to explode a powder magazine, I should not be the\nmurderer of those who perished by my hand. I should feel outraged\nand indignant, but not remorseful.\n\nAnd whoever is really certain that he \"cannot help\" his\nintemperance, or sloth, or anger, need not feel remorseful any more,\nbut he also ought to feel outraged and indignant. But against whom?\nGod? or Satan? or himself, the self of other days? For, after all,\nan act which is quite uncontrollable now may have sprung from the\nwilful acts of long ago, from compliances that forged habits which\nhave now become bands of steel.\n\nAt all events, the gospel does not deny man's debasement and\nthraldom; it asserts, not that you are naturally free, but that\nyou are graciously emancipated; it is preoccupied, not with your\nstrength, but with the approach of reinforcements. \"The kingdom of\nheaven is at hand.\"\n\nNow think how urgently a kingdom of heaven is required. We know\nto our cost that there is an awful kingdom of hell--an organised\nand systematic power of evil. Christ Himself said it. He declared\nthat Satan could not cast out Satan because evil in this world\nis regulated, coherent, and organic--it is a house, a kingdom,\nworking consistently, and it would fall if it were divided against\nitself. And we are beset by its forces, entangled, and made captive.\nWhatever be our frailty, they seize upon it. Am I selfish? The\ncarelessness of others makes me dishonest. Am I uncharitable? Their\nfailings provoke my scorn. Am I light and trifling? Their example\nbeguiles me into excess. Am I irascible? Their injustice lashes\nme into fury. Am I sensitive? Their neglect discourages, their\nharshness ulcerates me. Am I affectionate? Their kindness disarms my\njudgment and drugs my conscience to sleep.\n\nAnd the evil which these nurse in me becomes in turn a snare to\nother men.\n\nAnd all these influences are wielded and swayed by malignant and\nterrible intelligences, our foes, our tyrants.\n\nTherefore we have need of a kingdom as real, a power of goodness as\nsystematic, to overcome in us this organised pressure from beneath.\n\nAnd hence it was not mere goodness, but a kingdom of organised and\npotent goodness, which Jesus from the first proclaimed.\n\nWhat is the meaning of the phrase, \"the kingdom of God\"--\"of\nheaven\"? Many excellent people believe it to be something still\nfuture, the outcome in another dispensation of forces latent still,\nthe millennium, the personal reign of Christ. And we must not\ndeny that there are passages which indicate that such will be the\nfulness and triumphant issue of His kingdom. But Christ did not say,\n\"Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at least nineteen centuries\naway from you.\" And again, when tauntingly questioned as to when\nthis kingdom should come, He answered that it was come already, \"not\nwith observation,\" yet among them.\n\nAnd, indeed, He, being Himself the Anointed One, was always speaking\nof the kingdom; so that, while the rest of the New Testament\nmentions it thirty-three times, it is mentioned in the gospels one\nhundred and twenty-five times.\n\nFor He spoke to men who understood the phrase, being steeped in Old\nTestament promises of the Messianic time; and they, when their turn\ncame, had to preach where the mention of a new kingdom would be as\nalarming as it was to Herod.\n\nIf, then, our Lord had even once employed a safer expression, this\nwould so much better suit His followers as inevitably to displace\namong the Gentiles His own favourite phrase, \"the kingdom.\" And\nso it comes that the word \"church,\" which He is only known to\nhave uttered on two occasions, is found elsewhere one hundred and\nthirteen times.\n\nThis is, indeed, an evidence of the accuracy of the reports, for if\nthe discourses of our Lord were not genuine, how could they have\nbeen marked by this distinctive peculiarity when the Church had\nbecome used to employ a different word?\n\nAnd surely it _is_ the Church, this kingdom which our Lord spoke of\nas a field where tares were growing, as a little seed which became a\ntree, as a net which embraced alike good fish and bad?\n\nIt is the organised coherent power of the world to come, confronting\nevil with an influence and mastery superior to its own.\n\nRepent, said Christ, because the empire of wickedness is\ntottering--because the iron sceptre of the tyrant is about to\nbreak--because the prince of this world is soon to be cast out.\n\nWhat do we know of the constitution, and what of the spirit, of this\ndivine kingdom upon earth?\n\nJesus declared its constitution when He said that, while the kings\nof this world put forth an imperious sway, and men obsequiously\nreckon them benefactors who exercise lordship over them, with us\nthe conditions are reversed, and he is greatest who stoops, helps,\nserves, and forgets the ambitions that usurp and trample.\n\nWhat encouragement for the penitent! In the realm which he\nnow enters--where he fears to be reproached for his past\nrebellion--every true leader has it for an ambition to help and\nserve him; and he is made sharer in a vast and sublime citizenship,\nwhere all, from the Prince of Life to the lowliest true servant, are\nunited in desiring his victory and joy.\n\nOh, if this is true, if the Conqueror of Death and Hell has received\ngifts for us, and ever liveth to make intercession for us, and if,\nin one grand and organised strain and stress of effort for the\nright, angels and principalities and powers, and things present and\nto come, and Paul and Cephas, all are ours, then, in the approach of\nsuch a kingdom, in the voice that bids us rally to such a standard\nof emancipation, what hope, what animation, what an opening of\nprison doors!\n\nRepent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.\n\nWith mutual help for its constitution, now what is its aim and\ntemper?\n\n\"The kingdom of God,\" said St. Paul, \"is not self-indulgence, not\neating and drinking, but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the\nHoly Ghost.\"\n\nIt is not any _one_ of these isolated from the rest.\n\nRighteousness, for instance, means conformity to rule; a sceptre of\nrighteousness is the same thing as a straight sceptre.\n\nBut can you not imagine a life of conformity to rule, a life\nperfectly righteous, being hideous?\n\nThink, for instance, of a slave in a plantation, rising early,\ntoiling until absolute exhaustion arrested his incessant labours,\nperfectly temperate, sober, and obedient. But all this was because\nthe sound of the lash was in his ears, and the scars of it on his\nflesh; and all the while his soul was either stupefied or frenzied.\n\nWell, it is not practically possible, but it is conceivable in\ntheory--and Christ conceived it--that, even thus, in the fear which\nhas torment, one should thoroughly obey God, remembering the pangs\nof remorse, and foreboding those of hell. And I repeat it: such a\nrighteousness, pressed on the reluctant soul by external forces,\nwould be hideous. It is the righteousness of the prodigal's brother:\n\"I never transgressed.... Thou never gavest me a kid.\"\n\nBut the kingdom of God is righteousness combined with peace; it is\nobedience to an inner law--to a law written in the heart and mind.\n\n\"Righteousness, and peace, and joy.\" How little of real penetrating\njoy comes into an average human life! \"Happy,\" says Thackeray, who\nknew men so well, \"happy! who is happy?\" And even the calm and\ntranquil Wordsworth, most blameless of the children of his time,\ncomplained that--\n\n \"We are pressed by heavy laws,\n And often, glad no more,\n We wear a face of mirth, because\n We have been glad before.\"\n\nNor, to be frank, is the life of a Christian altogether and\nperfectly joyful. \"Even we ourselves do groan within ourselves,\"\nwrote Paul to the same church for which he prayed that the \"God of\nhope would fill them with all peace and joy.\"\n\nBut the reason he groans is because he has only the first fruits of\nwhat is coming. He groans waiting for the redemption of the body,\nand the old nature still has power to hinder and to thwart him.\nWhat is new in him tends to happiness, the higher and holier part\nof him is all for joy; that is true of him in some degree which\nis observed of his Master (despite one apparent exception by the\ngrave of Lazarus), that He is often said to have His soul troubled,\nbut only once that He rejoiced in spirit. \"The kingdom of God is\nrighteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.\"\n\nThis kingdom, Jesus said, was at hand. And when His disciples were\nrejected, and shook off the dust of the city from their shoes, He\nbade them say, \"Nevertheless, of this be ye sure, that the kingdom\nof God is come nigh unto you.\"\n\nAnd it is nigh unto us to-day. It is felt in the inmost soul even of\nthose who would be ashamed to confess its presence.\n\nEven when you are most miserably defeated in striving to be good,\nmost ashamed of failure, even when (to return to our starting-point)\nyou declare that you cannot do the thing that you would, even then\nyou do not entirely believe yourself; the conviction of lofty\npossibilities will not quite begone; righteousness, and peace, and\njoy, still haunt your imaginings and disturb your guilty pleasures;\nyou feel, you know, that these things are your heritage, and without\nthem you can never be content.\n\nWhat does this strange, illogical, incessant experience mean?\n\nThere is a beautiful old legend of a Christian girl, betrayed to\nmartyrdom by her pagan lover in the bitterness of his rejection,\nwho promised as she went to die to send him, if it were allowed to\nher, some proof of her religion. On that same wintry night, as he\nsat and mourned, the legend says that a fair boy left at his door a\nbasket filled with flowers of such bloom and fragrance as never grew\nin earthly gardens. Whereupon he arose and confessed Christ, and\npassed through the same dusky gates of martyrdom to rejoin her in\nthe paradise of God.\n\nLike those flowers of unearthly growth, proclaiming the reality of\nthe unseen, so do our unworldly longings, our immortal spiritual\naspirings, our feeling after a Divine Deliverer, if haply we may\nfind Him, prove that the kingdom of God is at hand.\n\nEvery thought of God comes from God, and is already the operation of\nHis Spirit.\n\nEvery desire for Christ is Christ's forerunner in the soul, and bids\nus welcome Christ.\n\n\"Repent ye, and believe the gospel.\"\n\nHOMES OF NOBLE POVERTY\n\n=By the Author of \"England's Youth at Worship.\"=\n\nTo be miserably poor throughout life is a burden sufficiently hard;\nto sink from riches to poverty is a tragedy. Yet it is a tragedy\nthat we see constantly occurring around us. To struggle with\ndespairing pride to preserve that outward show which is falsely\ntermed respectability; to see fair-weather friends slink one by\none away; to surrender the little luxuries, innocent enough in\nthemselves, that have grown to become a part of life itself--that\nis what it means to slip down the hill of fortune. \"Give me neither\npoverty nor riches,\" says the Book of Proverbs, the embodiment of\nwisdom for all time.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: J. G. Williams, East Molesey_.)\n\nNOBLE POVERTY AT HAMPTON COURT.]\n\nIn poverty, as in all things else, there are degrees. What may be\nwealth to one may be destitution to another. It depends upon what\nthe previous habits of life have been. Take, for instance, the\ngentlemen and ladies, many of them bearing the noblest English\nnames, to whom the Queen grants apartments in the old Palace of\nHampton Court. They are not without small incomes themselves, and\nthe rates and taxes they have to pay amount to no inconsiderable\nsum. Yet to live rent free is a boon that enables them to live\ncomfortably.\n\nShortly after the commencement of his reign George III. closed the\nPalace as a royal residence, and from that time private families\ncommenced to occupy its innumerable rooms. These \"royal squatters,\"\nas they have been called, at first behaved in doubtful fashion.\nMany had been granted leave to stay for a few weeks, and quietly\nproceeded to make it a permanent residence. Worse still, they seized\nadditional rooms when they thought they could do so in safety, and\nsometimes let them out at a substantial rent to their friends. News\nof these strange doings was carried to the king, who became very\nangry, as an existing letter that he wrote shows to us. It was\nproclaimed that no one would in future be allowed to occupy a suite\nof apartments save under the Lord Chamberlain's warrant. Gradually\nthe thousand rooms of the great building were divided up into,\nfirstly, the State apartments, and, secondly, fifty-three private\nsuites, varying in size from ten to forty chambers. At the present\ntime these suites are granted, as a general rule, to the widows\nof men who have distinguished themselves in the service of their\ncountry. To no more worthy use could the Palace have been placed;\nindeed, the tact and discrimination which have been exhibited by our\nQueen and her advisers in the distribution of these benefits cannot\nbe too highly praised.\n\nAbout the royal pensioners of Hampton Court many interesting and\namusing stories are told. When debt brought imprisonment as its\npunishment, a certain gentleman retired to the rooms of a relation\nin the Palace, and claimed the immunity of a royal residence. The\nbailiffs knew that they could not arrest him there, and hung about\nat the gates, while he took his daily exercise upon the roof. One\nday he incautiously ventured out and was arrested; but he escaped\nfrom his enemies, swam the river, and got back into safety again.\nRed-tape rules supreme in the management of the royal buildings, as\nthe pensioners know to their cost. Certain windows, for instance,\nare never properly cleaned, owing to the fact that the Woods and\nForests Department washes the outside of the panes and the Lord\nSteward's Department the inside. As the two departments rarely\nmanage to do their cleaning on the same day, the windows are usually\nin a state of semi-obscurity. To obtain the use of an old staircase\nthat led from her rooms to the gardens, a lady had to successively\npetition the Lord Chamberlain of Her Majesty's Household, the Lord\nSteward and Board of Green Cloth, the First Commissioner of Her\nMajesty's Works, and, finally, the Woods and Forests!\n\n[Illustration: _Photo Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)\n\nHOUSES OF THE MILITARY KNIGHTS, WINDSOR CASTLE.]\n\nWhile chronicling the movements of the Queen, reference is now and\nagain made in the daily press to the Military Knights of Windsor.\nNevertheless, but few who read about their doings know of what that\norder consists. They are officers who have distinguished themselves\nin some of our innumerable little wars, and yet in their old age\nfind themselves solely dependent on a very diminutive pension.\nFrom the Queen they served so faithfully and well they receive an\nannuity and a lodging in that vast palace, Windsor Castle. The order\nis, indeed, a pendant to that better-known home for the veterans\nof the rank and file, Chelsea Hospital. Its history is peculiarly\ninteresting. When that gallant warrior, King Edward III., founded\nthe Order of the Garter, he ordained that each of the twenty-six\ncompanions should be allowed to present an \"alms-knight\" to the\nprovision made for them by the king. According to the original\ngrant, these veterans were to be \"such as through adverse fortune\nwere brought to that extremity that they had not of their own\nwherewith to sustain them nor to live so genteely as became a\nmilitary condition.\" That they might live \"genteely\" they were given\na lump sum of forty shillings a year, and twelve pence each day they\nattended the royal chapel--a small pension, it seems to us, but it\nmust be remembered that money has vastly decreased in purchasing\npower since those early days.\n\n[Illustration: A MILITARY KNIGHT OF WINDSOR.]\n\nBut evil fortune awaited the alms-knights. They had been placed\nunder the supervision of the canons of St. George's Chapel, and\nthese priests seem to have bullied them unmercifully. Under Edward\nIV. the quarrel had grown to such a pitch that the king interfered.\nMonks carried long tales to the monarch of the insubordination shown\nby the stout old warriors to the rules that had been made for their\ngovernment. The alms-knights replied, but in cunning they were no\nmatch for their adversaries; \"deeds not words\" might have been their\nmotto. In the end they were shut off from the royal bounty, and, as\nan old chronicler of the times remarks, \"how they next subsisted\ndoth not fully appear.\" Bluff King Hal, however, took pity on the\npoor old gentlemen that yet remained in the land of the living, and\nset apart certain lands for their maintenance. Queen Bess added\nto their lodgings, but issued a series of strict regulations as\nto their behaviour, which well became the maiden Queen, however\ndistasteful they were to the alms-knights themselves. Their old\nenemies, the canons of St. George's Chapel, were informed that they\nwere to consider themselves responsible for their behaviour, and\nsevere penalties awaited a \"haunter of taverns\" or a \"keeper of\nlate hours.\" When the Queen visited Windsor they were to be ready\nto salute her; lastly, it was ordained that no married man could be\nadmitted to the order, bachelors and widowers being alone eligible.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)\n\nA BROTHER OF ST. CROSS.\n\n(_Of the Order of Noble Poverty_.)]\n\nUntil the reign of William IV. their uniform was more ornamental\nthan comfortable. Indeed, during hot weather it must have been\nwell-nigh intolerable, consisting as it did of a flowing red mantle,\ndecked with a \"scutcheon of St. George\" upon the shoulder. Since the\nreform instituted by that king, however, it has consisted of a red\nswallow-tail coat, dark blue trousers, cocked-hat with red and white\nplume, crimson silk sash and a leather belt for a sword. Of course,\nit is only on full-dress occasions that the veterans thus gaily\nbedeck themselves. Remarkably well they then look, with their kind\nold faces beaming above the rows of medals that proclaim their past\nachievements. They still mourn the discontinuance of their famous\nbanquet on St. George's Day; but presents of game from the royal\npreserves doubtless reconcile them to the loss of their annual feast.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)\n\nTHE HOSPICE OF ST CROSS, WINCHESTER.]\n\nFrom the old fortress of Windsor Castle, fit residence for veteran\nsoldiers, to the quiet Hampshire country in which the Hospice of St.\nCross lies is a change indeed. So cool and quiet does St. Cross seem\nthat it might be likened to some pleasant bower left by the side of\nthe great highway of life, along which we jostle in the heat and\ndust of a summer's day. It lies little more than a mile from sleepy\nWinchester, and the River Itchen wanders through its meadows. It\nwas in 1136 that Henry de Blois, the famous bishop and statesman,\nfounded St. Cross as a hospital for thirteen old men. So good a deed\nstood out in strong relief against the cruelty and savagery of the\ntimes. From north to south, from east to west, England was desolated\nby all the horrors of civil war. As the Saxon Chronicle tells us in\nits dying wail, \"Men openly said that Christ and His saints slept.\"\nYet Bishop Henry, in the midst of his fighting and scheming, found\ntime to ensure comparative happiness to thirteen poor traders whom\nthe raiding barons had reduced from prosperity to poverty. Faults\nthe great churchman may have had in plenty; but that he had a kind\nand generous heart he has left sufficient proof behind him. No finer\nmonument than St. Cross could man erect to keep his memory green.\n\nOn the death of its founder, St. Cross fell into evil times. It\npassed under the protection of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem,\na military order then more powerful than scrupulous. The Jerusalem\nCross which is prominent in the church of the Hospice comes from\nthat source. After a long struggle the Bishops of Winchester\ntriumphed over the knights, but abuses still prevailed, and the\nmoney that should have found its way into the pockets of the poor\nbrethren was quietly appropriated by fat ecclesiastics. At last,\nunder Henry VI., Cardinal Beaufort set to work to remedy these\nevils. So noble were his efforts that he almost deserves to be\ncoupled with Bishop Henry as joint-founder of \"The Hospital of Noble\nPoverty,\" as he renamed the institution. From his time St. Cross has\nnever been in danger of destruction.\n\nAn avenue of shady trees leads to a fine gate-house, for which\nSt. Cross is indebted to Cardinal Beaufort. Above the arch kneels\nthe effigy of the great churchman himself. Once within the doors\nwe almost feel as if we had shaken off the nineteenth century\nand dropped back into the days of the Tudors. \"Wayfarers' dole,\"\na little horn mug of beer and a slip of bread, is presented as\nrefreshment for the weary traveller. This may seem strange enough to\nus, but there was a time when the custom was by no means uncommon\nin hospitable England. Those were the days when wayfarers were\nfew, roads half-mud or half-dust, and inns far between. Passing\non, we next find ourselves in a spacious quadrangle, having for\ncentre a smooth lawn of that exquisite turf for which our country\nis deservedly famous. Round it lie the chapel, hall, cloisters,\nand brethren's houses. The chapel is a fine building in the Norman\nstyle. Perhaps the most interesting features of its interior are the\ndesigns that adorn the walls. During the \"whitewash\" period of past\ngenerations they were covered up, but now they have been restored to\nsomething like their original form and colour. In this more than one\nof the brethren, where they were able to do so, lent a helping hand.\nThe little burial ground is to the south of the chapel. It would be\ndifficult to imagine a more peaceful spot for the last resting-place\nof the veterans who have fought and lost in the great battle of life.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)\n\nA VIEW OF THE CHARTERHOUSE.]\n\n\"Have you many visitors from London itself?\" I once inquired of\nthe gate porter of the Charterhouse. \"No, sir,\" said he. \"We get a\nlot from the country, along with the Americans and foreigners; but\nprecious few Londoners ever come here.\" It is strange how absolutely\nignorant the average Londoner is concerning all that is quaint and\ninteresting in the old buildings of the great city in which he\nlives. The case of the Charterhouse offers an excellent example.\nAbout it the broad streams of traffic pour unceasingly day after\nday; yet, though the little backwater wherein the grey old houses\nlie is but a few dozen yards away, few of the busy crowds can either\nspare the time or take the trouble to visit it.\n\nThe history of the Charterhouse is a strange one. In 1348 all London\nwas trembling in the grasp of the Black Death. The grave-diggers did\nnot know what to do with the bodies, and finally buried them in any\npit or ditch that seemed convenient. Famous Sir Walter Manny, the\nfavourite of all the fighting heroes of Froissart, was horrified\nat this grave scandal. He, together with the Bishop of London,\nprocured certain lands, which were consecrated and handed over to\nthe city that the dead might at least receive decent burial. It is\nsaid that fifty thousand bodies were there interred in a few years.\nSome time later, the plague abating, the same two philanthropists\ncommenced to build a Carthusian monastery on part of the ground. For\nthree centuries the Charterhouse, under the rigour of that stern\norder, pursued its quiet path. But with Henry VIII. came evil times\nfor the monks. There were searching examinations, and finality\nexecutions. The monastery was dissolved and the building tossed from\nhand to hand. Twice it was held by Dukes of Norfolk, and for a time\nwas known as Norfolk House. Two of its ducal owners passed from\nit to the block on Tower Hill. Queen Elizabeth took refuge there\nin the reign of Mary. There were revels there while James I. was\nking, eighty gentlemen being knighted at one time after a banquet\nwhich had been to the royal satisfaction. Finally it was bought\nby a certain Thomas Sutton, and shortly afterwards we find him\npetitioning Parliament for licence to endow it as a home for aged\nmen and a school for poor children.\n\nLet us take a day in the life of one of the \"old gentlemen,\" as the\nattendants always call them. About eight o'clock a \"nurse\" comes\nbustling into his sitting-room, lights his fire, and sees that his\nbreakfast is laid ready. At nine o'clock a bell goes for chapel.\nEach of the brethren must attend one chapel a day on pain of a\nshilling fine stopped out of his allowance; but he may choose the\nmorning or evening service as he likes. The morning service is the\nmore popular, and to chapel we will now bend our steps. It is a\nvenerable old building, and now that the schoolboys have left their\nold home and retired to Godalming there is plenty of room. On the\nright of the altar is a heavy carved pulpit; on the left the tomb\nof the founder, good Thomas Sutton, with its elaborate carving and\ngold-tipped railings.\n\n[Illustration: ST. KATHARINE'S HOSPITAL, REGENT'S PARK.]\n\nAfter chapel the old gentlemen are at liberty to do what they like\nuntil dinner is served at three, an hour in itself the survival of\na custom long passed away. The hall, with its carved woodwork, is\na most interesting spot. Wearing their gowns, the brothers file in\nand take their seats at the mahogany tables. Above the fireplace the\nSutton arms are blazoned, and from his frame on the wall the picture\nof the good merchant himself smiles down upon the recipients of his\nbounty.\n\nAfter dinner, in the summer weather, the brothers usually chat or\ndoze in the pleasant shade of the buildings in the largest court.\nThere are few of them that have not something out of the common\nabout their faces, and none of them but have a hard story to tell,\nif they chose. They are of all ranks, but mainly drawn from the\nclasses described in the old regulations as \"poor gentlemen, old\nsoldiers, merchants decayed by piracy or shipwreck, and household\nservants of the sovereign.\" \"We get a lot of literary men here now,\"\nsaid an attendant, looking knowingly at me; but I did not pursue the\nconversation.\n\nEvening service is at six, and at eleven the gates are shut for the\nnight.\n\nWith the institution known as St. Katharine's Hospital the queens of\nEngland have always been closely connected. It was founded as long\nago as 1148 by Matilda, wife of King Stephen; but to Queen Eleanor\nthe hospital owed its first charter. By it the English queens were\nalways to be considered perpetual patronesses, and the institution\nwas to be part of their dower. Eleanor added further revenues \"for\nthe health of the soul of her late husband and of the souls of the\npreceding and succeeding kings and queens.\"\n\n[Illustration: WILLIAM THE FOURTH'S NAVAL ASYLUM, PENGE.\n\n(_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)]\n\nHenry VIII. seems to have intended at one time to quietly\nappropriate the revenues, but Anne Boleyn, the reigning favourite,\nprevented this iniquitous deed. From the Stuarts to 1824 there is\nlittle of importance to recount; the handful of royal pensioners\nlived in comfort, and a school for poor children was also\nmaintained. Quiet garments were the rule, though the strict order\npassed by the queen of Edward III. against \"striped clothes\" as\n\"tending to dissoluteness\" had long been abolished. In 1824,\nhowever, came the proposal to dig out a huge dock on the ground\nwhereon the hospital stood. After great debate Parliament granted\nthe necessary powers. St. Katharine's Docks were begun, and at the\nsame time the walls of a new St. Katharine's Hospital commenced to\nrise in Regent's Park. The present buildings can scarcely be called\nbeautiful, the chapel being a poor imitation of the one at King's\nCollege, Cambridge. The offices of master and brethren are now\npractically sinecures of considerable value presented by the Crown;\na large number of non-resident \"bedesmen and bedeswomen\" are also\nsupported out of the funds. The Queen Victoria Jubilee Nurses' Fund\nhas of late years been connected with the Hospital.\n\nIn the year 1847 Adelaide, Queen Dowager of England, determined to\nfound and endow an asylum for widows and orphan daughters of the\nofficers of the Royal Navy. Penge was the spot selected, and there\ntwelve pretty little houses were built and called \"King William the\nFourth's Naval Asylum.\" It was a graceful act of the queen, for far\ntoo little had been previously done for the destitute relatives\nof those to whom the country owed nine-tenths of its power and\nsecurity. From its foundation the governors and trustees have all\nbeen in some way connected with the Navy, and can be relied upon\nto appreciate the position and look after the interests of the\npensioners.\n\n[Illustration: MORDEN'S COLLEGE, BLACKHEATH.]\n\nConnected also with the sea is that old and famous institution,\nMorden's College, Blackheath. In the middle of the seventeenth\ncentury Sir John Morden was a member of the great Turkey Company,\ntrading in the Mediterranean. He had a \"fair estate,\" numerous\nships, and all things that in his day made up the prosperous trader.\nIn the City of London his name stood high. But the tenure of riches\nand prosperity was more precarious in those days than in our own.\nThe whole of his fleet perished on one voyage, either by pirates\nor storm. But honest Sir John did not relax his energy because he\nfound fortune his foe. Steadily plodding on, he again commenced to\nrise in the world, until at last, like the patriarch Job, he was\neven greater and wealthier than before. Misfortune had taught him a\nlesson in charity which he never forgot. When at the lowest depths\nof his calamity he had vowed that if ever the Almighty again crowned\nhis efforts with success he would provide a shelter for merchants\nwho, like himself, had fallen upon hard times and lost their estates\n\"by accidents, dangers, and perils of the seas.\"\n\nThe College is a spacious red-brick building, with two wings that\nform a central quadrangle, which is surrounded by piazzas. It was\nbuilt according to the designs of Sir Christopher Wren. At the\npresent day it houses within its hospitable walls forty pensioners,\nwhile one hundred out-pensioners receive sums varying in amount up\nto \u00a380 per annum. The inmates, with \u00a3120 each, are very comfortably\noff. In 1844 a fine dining-hall was added, in which hang the\nportraits of the baronet and his lady, painted by Sir Peter Lely.\nThe new library was bequeathed by the will of a son of a former\ninmate of the College. With the increasing value of property, the\nincome of Morden's College is now little short of \u00a318,000 a year.\nThe generous action of the founder well merited the praise of an\nold member of the institution, who wrote in his gratitude a poetic\neffusion thus concluding:\n\n \"What need is there of monument or bust,\n With gift so noble and a cause so just?\n It seeks no aid from meretricious art,\n It lives enshrined in every member's heart!\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)\n\nHUGGENS' COLLEGE, NORTHFLEET.]\n\nJohn Huggens, who founded the College at Northfleet which bears\nhis name, was a fine type of the business man of the early part\nof this century, a time when the commerce of England commenced to\nadvance by leaps and bounds. A letter which the Rev. M. M. Ffinch,\nChaplain of the College, has kindly lent me describes him as a tall,\nwell-made man in \"nankeen breeches, blue dress coat, with large gilt\nbuttons, and a white beaver hat with the nap fully an inch long.\"\nLike many other founders of charitable institutions, he had seen\nthat the hardest poverty of all is the poverty that will not beg\nand cannot, through age, infirmity, or misfortune, make enough to\nkeep body and soul together. A hard worker all his life, he would\nhave been the last man in the world to encourage the sloth that\ncomes by indiscriminate charity. In 1847 he opened a small building\nof sufficient size to house eight pensioners who had sunk from\ncomparative comfort into evil times through no fault of their own.\n\"Having run our little bark into the smooth and tranquil waters of\nthe summer evening of life,\" said the founder in his opening speech,\n\"may we sail on happily to the end of our voyage here below!\"\nBefore and after his death fresh houses were added, and since the\nfoundation of the home two hundred and twenty-nine residents have\nbeen received within its walls.\n\nB. FLETCHER ROBINSON.\n\n\n\n\nGREAT ANNIVERSARIES\n\n_IN NOVEMBER._\n\nBy the Rev. A. R. Buckland, M.A., Morning Preacher at the Foundling\nHospital.\n\n\nThe British calendar never lacks interest. There is not a day which\ndoes not recall for us some great name in our country's history,\nsome victory of peace or in war. Let us put ourselves in mind of\na few of these--not necessarily of the most familiar or the most\nstriking, but of some which more especially speak of movements and\nworkers in the religious and philanthropic life of the nation.\n\n[Illustration: RICHARD BAXTER.\n\n(_After a Contemporary Engraving by Robert White._)]\n\nNovember is the month in which the Long Parliament met, and William\nof Orange landed in England; it is the month of Clive's defence of\nArcot, of Hawke's battle in Quiberon Bay, and of the soldiers' fight\nat Inkerman; it is the month that saw the birth of William III., of\nLaurence Sterne and Jonathan Swift, of Sir Matthew Hale, of Richard\nBaxter, of William Cowper, William Hogarth, Henry Havelock, John\nBright, and Frederick Temple; it is the month in which Adam Smith\npublished his \"Wealth of Nations,\" and Charles Darwin his \"Origin\nof Species\"; it is the month in which Cardinal Wolsey, John Milton,\nand Admiral Benbow died; it is the month which saw the State pageant\nmany this year have called to mind, the funeral of the Duke of\nWellington.\n\n[Illustration: THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.\n\n(_After a Drawing by Count D'Orsay._)]\n\nSir Matthew Hale (born November 1st, 1609) is but one of the many\njudges who have joined to eminence in the law the example of a\ndevout mind and a life of religious zeal. He administered justice\nin the times both of the Commonwealth and of the Restoration.\nStillingfleet and Baxter were amongst his friends, and his life of\nausterity witnessed to his consistent sympathy with Puritan ideals.\nBefore him there came John Bunyan, for the then heinous crime of\nfrequenting conventicles. He wrote with equal facility upon law,\nmorals, and theology, and his MSS. are still amongst the treasures\nof Lincoln's Inn.\n\n[Illustration: DEAN SWIFT.]\n\nRichard Baxter (born November 12th, 1615) had a career of singular\nvariety. Sometimes thought of only as a pioneer of Nonconformity\nand the author of the \"Saint's Everlasting Rest,\" he shared in\nthe startling changes of his period. He had tried in early years\na courtier's life; he received holy orders from the Bishop of\nWorcester; he was for a time a chaplain to the Parliamentary forces;\nhe was on Cromwell's Committee to \"settle the fundamentals of\nreligion\"; he was, a few years after, a chaplain-in-ordinary to King\nCharles II.; he might have been Bishop of Hereford; and he lived to\nbe tried for sedition before Judge Jeffreys. He is known to many,\nwho are not familiar with his other works, by the hymn \"Lord, it\nbelongs not to my care.\" Curiously enough, this hymn is said to have\nbeen repeated, during his last illness, by the late distinguished\nphysicist, Professor James Clerk Maxwell, who also is a November\nworthy, born on the 13th of this month.\n\n[Illustration: WILLIAM COWPER.\n\n(_From the Painting by G. Romney._)]\n\nDean Swift (born November 30th, 1667) had little of the divine about\nhim, though he obtained an Irish deanery and aspired to an English\nbishopric. Politician and satirist, some of his books are still\neagerly read by those who have forgotten the circumstances which\nproduced them, as well as the defects which stained his character.\nWilliam Cowper (born November 15th, 1731) is a pleasanter memory.\nThe Christian Church is not likely soon to forget the \"Olney Hymns\"\nand their authors, although Cowper's descriptive poetry and his\nletters are less familiar than they might be. And \"John Gilpin\"--can\nhe ever be forgotten? With these authors we may reasonably join a\nmoralist who taught by another art. William Hogarth (born November\n10th, 1697) reproached the vices of a licentious age with a power of\npictorial satire which has never been excelled. He was one of the\ngroup of distinguished artists who associated themselves with the\nearly history of the Foundling Hospital.\n\n[Illustration: THE LATE SIR H. HAVELOCK, K.C.B.\n\n(_After the Portrait by F. Goodall, A.R.A._)]\n\nOf Christian soldiers, who has appealed to us more strongly than\nHenry Havelock (died November 24th, 1857)? \"So long,\" it has been\ntruly said, \"as the memory of great deeds, and high courage, and\nspotless self-devotion is cherished among his countrymen, so long\nwill Havelock's lonely grave beneath the scorching Eastern sky, hard\nby the vast city, the scene alike of his toil, his triumph, and his\ndeath, be regarded as one of the most holy of the countless spots\nwhere Britain's patriot soldiers lie.\" As with many another man,\nhis religious character owed much to the influence of his wife, a\ndaughter of that Marshman whose name will always be remembered in\nthe history of Indian missions. To Outram the dying man could say,\n\"I have for forty years so ruled my life that when death came I\nmight face it without fear.\" \"Principles alone,\" wrote Havelock,\n\"are worth living for or striving for.\" The words might stand as\na motto for the life of John Bright (born November 16th, 1811),\nChristian statesman and orator, one of the many members of the\nSociety of Friends who have left their names writ large in their\ncountry's history. The men who remember the struggle for Free Trade\nare passing away, but the part played by John Bright is not likely\nsoon to be forgotten.\n\nNovember has not been a month fruitful in the foundation of\nphilanthropic and religious organisations. But to those who have\nwatched the progress of the temperance movement in England, who\nremember the difficulties of its pioneers, and the obloquy which\noften fell upon them, November has a claim as the birth-month of one\nof the earliest and hardest of the temperance workers--Frederick\nTemple, Archbishop of Canterbury. Born in the Ionian Isles on\nNovember 30th, 1821, he has, all through his manhood been a vigorous\nexponent of the total abstinence cause. From the first he recognised\nno bounds of denomination in its support, and although he has been\na great power to the Church of England Temperance Society, he has\nalways lent his voice and influence to other agencies working in the\nsame great cause. He has an invaluable helper in his wife, in both\ntemperance and diocesan work.\n\n[Illustration: ARCHBISHOP TEMPLE.\n\n(_Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W._)]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: HOW BARNFORD CHURCH WAS SAVED.]\n\nHOW BARNFORD CHURCH WAS SAVED.\n\nA COMPLETE STORY.\n\n=By Scott Graham, Author of \"Pemberton's Piece,\" \"All Through\nPrejudice,\" Etc.=\n\n\nWhen Llewellyn Percival, the new Rector, first beheld the\ndilapidated pile called by courtesy Barnford Church, his heart\nsank. The late Rector, who had just died, aged ninety, had held the\nliving fifty years, and during his sway scarcely any repairs had\nbeen done. The parish, a remote village in the East of England,\nwas an exceedingly poor one; and the very ancient and interesting\nchurch had literally settled down--for one side was much out of the\nperpendicular--to decay.\n\nIt smelt incredibly fusty, it was disfigured by hideous high pews,\ndaubed with yellow paint, locally termed \"horse-boxes\"; the fine\nwest window was blocked by a huge gallery containing the organ--an\ninstrument so much out of order that half the notes were mute, and\nthe pipes emitted the weirdest groans, absolutely terrifying to a\nstranger. The old sexton assured Llewellyn that the roof was so\nleaky that in wet weather the rain poured down on the congregation,\nand though there was a stove, it was so ill-constructed that in\nwinter the cold was terrible. There was a fine old peal of bells,\nbut the tower at the west end had a huge crack running from top to\nbottom, and seemed so unsafe that they did not dare to ring more\nthan one.\n\nAll this was sadly disheartening; especially as the church\nwas really a fine building, with a splendid Norman doorway, a\ndilapidated but still beautiful carved screen, and many interesting\nfeatures.\n\n\"Is there really no rich family in the place who could help to\nrestore it?\" Llewellyn asked the sexton. \"What about the people at\nthe fine grey-stone Manor House, there among the trees?\"\n\n\"Oh, them's the Lancasters--they're rich enough, but you'll not get\nnothing out o' them, sir. Old Squire Lancaster and the old Rector\nquarrelled years ago about the family pew, and ever since they've\ngone to Thornton Church, in the next village. Miss never gives\nnothing to this church now.\"\n\n\"Is she an elderly lady?\"\n\n\"Bless you, no sir, she's quite young--twenty-four, maybe--and\nhandsome too. She's the only child, and since th' old Squire died\nshe's had it all her own way, for her ma's a great invaleed, and\nnever troubles about anything.\"\n\nLlewellyn sighed. It did seem unfortunate that the only rich people\nin the place should have quarrelled with the late incumbent. He\nasked an old friend, an architect, to come and stay with him in the\ncomfortable Rectory, which was such a contrast to the tumbledown\nchurch, and give his opinion about the restoration.\n\nAfter due examination, Mr. Lane announced that, unless the\nfoundations were strengthened, the tower at least partially\nrebuilt, the roof renewed, and the walls mended in weak places, the\nchurch could not last much longer. This would cost at least two\nthousand pounds, and if a new organ, new pews, and some much-needed\ninternal improvements were also effected, a thousand more would be\nnecessary. Poor Llewellyn--he was only thirty, and this was his\nfirst church--groaned aloud, as well he might. He had only a hundred\na year of his own, besides his sorely depreciated living: and the\nsmall farmers and labourers who populated the parish were powerless\nto help. He might appeal to the Bishop, but the diocese was a very\nlarge and poor one, and Barnford was only one among many churches\nurgently needing repairs.\n\n[Illustration: \"Is there no rich family in the place who could help\nto restore it?\"--_p. 37._]\n\n\"If you can find the money, I'll undertake the work without fees,\nfor absolutely out-of-pocket expenses,\" said Lane generously. \"I'd\ndo it economically too, and save you as much as possible.\"\n\nLlewellyn thanked him most heartily, but, nevertheless, the thought\nof that two thousand pounds weighed upon him like a nightmare. He\nsoon made the acquaintance of the formidable Miss Lancaster at a\nneighbouring Vicarage. The family were descended from a wealthy\nbanker who had bought Barnford Manor for a country house, and as\nsole heiress Laura had nearly five thousand a year and was a great\ncatch. She was a tall, dark, handsome girl, with a commanding air\ndue to the fact that from her childhood she had been flattered and\npetted by everybody. But she was civil to Llewellyn and invited him\nto call at the Manor; apologising for her mother as an invalid who\nnever went anywhere.\n\nMrs. Lancaster did not appear when Llewellyn went, but Laura, who\nhad been her own chaperon all her life, entertained him in the\nhandsome drawing-room with great composure. He had never seen a girl\nwith such an assured manner before.\n\nOver his cup of tea he ventured, humbly and meekly, to hint at the\nrestoration of the church.\n\n\"It's such a picturesque old place that it would be a shame to pull\nit to pieces and spoil it by injudicious restoration,\" returned\nLaura decidedly.\n\n\"It isn't a question of my own particular fads, Miss Lancaster, but\nthe fabric is absolutely unsafe, owing to an extensive settlement.\nThe roof isn't watertight, and the windows are almost tumbling out\nof the walls.\"\n\n\"And how much would be needed?\"\n\n\"A friend of mine, an architect, has most kindly offered to give his\nservices without fees; but to make the place even decent would cost,\nhe says, two thousand pounds.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"You clergymen are all alike!\" she cried.]\n\n\"You will never raise such a sum here!\" was her brusque answer.\n\n\"I don't like to commence our acquaintance by begging, Miss\nLancaster; but if you could see your way to do anything for what is,\nafter all, your parish church----\"\n\n\"Yes, but we always go to Thornton. Old Mr. Short was awfully rude\nto father years ago, and we left the church. I play the organ at\nThornton and train the choir; and the Vicar and his wife are great\nfriends of ours. I couldn't leave them in the lurch by coming back\nto this church now--especially as Thornton is a very poor parish\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Even if you don't attend the services, I should be most thankful\nfor any offer of help towards the restoration,\" he patiently\nanswered, determined not to show annoyance at her abruptness.\n\"Something must be done, and very soon.\"\n\nThe heiress tapped her foot petulantly on the carpet.\n\n\"You clergymen are all alike!\" she cried. \"You undertake tasks too\ngreat for you, and then come to the laity for help! A poor parish\nlike this could never raise two thousand pounds, unless we ourselves\ngave the whole sum, which we certainly can't afford to do. There is\nnobody else here to subscribe.\"\n\n\"Believe me, I never thought of asking you for such a large sum\nas two thousand pounds, or even a quarter of it, Miss Lancaster.\nBut the smallest sum would be welcome, as the nucleus of a fund. I\nintend to use my uttermost efforts to raise the money, if it takes\nme the rest of my life!\"\n\nHis fair, good-humoured, and thoroughly English face had assumed a\nvery dogged look as he uttered the last words: and Laura, who knew a\nreal man when she saw him, noted it approvingly. In her secret heart\nshe relished a little wholesome opposition; it was an agreeable\nnovelty when most people were so subservient.\n\n\"But how can you raise it?\" she asked doubtingly.\n\n\"This is now October, and these country villages are so dull in the\nwinter evenings that any entertainment is welcome. If the Bishop\nwill consent, I propose to get a very good magic-lantern, with\nseveral sets of slides, and exhibit it in the villages and small\ntowns round, with the consent of their clergy, and paying a certain\nproportion of the proceeds to their own charities if they lend me a\nhall. I shall charge very little for seats, from a shilling down to\ntwopence or threepence; and as I shall explain the views and work\nthe apparatus myself, the expenses will be nothing.\"\n\n\"Fancy the Rector of Barnford turning showman! What a come-down!\"\nsaid disdainful Laura. \"I can't think you will make much! However,\nif you succeed, and come to me in the spring with a statement of the\nprofits, I promise I will give you as much as they amount to.\"\n\nIt was more than he expected; and he thanked her warmly, despite her\nevident conviction that the profits would be small.\n\n\"I'll give you a written promise, if you like, to that effect,\"\nadded Miss Lancaster, who was a most businesslike young woman.\n\n\"No, thank you; a lady's word is quite enough,\" he answered\nearnestly; and a genial smile stole over her handsome face as he\nspoke, for she was secretly pleased by his chivalrous trust.\n\nOn the whole, he quitted the Manor fairly well satisfied; for\nthough Laura could not be described, by any stretch of courtesy, as\nan amiable girl, he discerned fine traits of character behind her\nsomewhat repellent manner. \"A girl who wants knowing,\" he decided.\n\"She has been flattered because of her riches, and pestered by\nmercenary suitors, until she imagines all men are deceivers!\"\n\n\nII.\n\nThe Bishop, who was a liberal-minded man, and much interested in\nthe restoration of the church, entirely approved of the projected\nlantern entertainment. In addition, a drawing-room meeting was held\nat the Palace, which produced twenty-five pounds, and the Bishop\nadded another twenty. As Llewellyn had decided to set apart his own\nhundred pounds annually until the restoration was completed, he felt\njustified in immediately commencing the most necessary repairs at\nonce, trusting that the printed appeals which the Bishop caused to\nbe sent out would bring in a steady flow of subscriptions.\n\nHe inaugurated his magic-lantern entertainment at Barnford itself\nwith great success, for the Bishop came over with several friends,\nand Mrs. Lancaster sent a sovereign for five tickets. But neither\nshe nor her daughter put in an appearance, their places being\nfilled by their servants. The principal farmer lent his biggest\nbarn gratis, so that Llewellyn cleared over five pounds that night.\nAnd after that, though he encountered some good-natured ridicule,\nthe Rector and his lantern were in great request. His enterprise\nwas even commended in the London papers; and the villagers simply\ncrowded to the entertainment everywhere, glad of some amusement\nin the long winter evenings. The richer farmers and tradespeople\ngladly paid a shilling or eighteenpence for a seat, and the smaller\nsums mounted up amazingly, so that, after all deductions, Llewellyn\nseldom received less than between two and three pounds for one\nevening. Although he never gave more than four exhibitions a week,\nbeing resolute not to neglect his own parish, he made over forty\npounds a month.\n\nLittle could be done to the church before spring, as it proved\na very severe winter, and outdoor work was impeded by frost.\nTarpaulins were temporarily stretched over the cracked roof, but\nat best it was a very shivery and dreary spot, so that Llewellyn\nalways returned with renewed eagerness to his magic-lantern journeys\nafter a Sunday spent in the desolate building, where the howls of\nthe ruined organ made the singing a mockery. In his private life\nhe exercised the strictest self-denial, for the scanty income\nfrom his living left no margin for luxuries. He scarcely went\ninto any society, as his engagements left him no time; for, as\nMiss Lancaster informed everybody, he was a perfect maniac on the\nsubject of restoring the church. He met her now and then in going\nabout the roads; and sometimes she passed him with a brief nod,\nthough occasionally she would stop to ask, with some mockery in her\ntones, how the magic-lantern was getting on. She never appeared at\nhis church, though it was so much nearer than Thornton, and the\nduty-calls he paid at the Manor were few and brief.\n\nIn February the long frost broke up, whereupon Mr. Lane arrived one\nSaturday night at the Rectory with a view to commencing work in\nearnest. After the Sunday morning service Llewellyn felt impelled to\nrebuke the old sexton, who was supposed to clean the church. \"When\ndid you dust the pews last, Reed? The very air seems choked with\nit; the reading-desk and my books and the communion rails are in a\ndisgraceful state!\"\n\nThe old man began the rigmarole he always employed when criticised.\n\"I served Mr. Short, man and boy, for fifty years, and never was\ntold the church was dirty afore! I cleaned it out reg'lar, on\nSaturday, I did, and dusted everything, sir!\"\n\nThe Rector shrugged his shoulders as he looked round at the dust\nwhich he could see lying thick on every moulding and ledge, but\nsaid no more to Reed. On reaching home, however, he mentioned the\nmatter to his friend Lane, who had not been at church, having caught\na bad cold on the journey. To his intense amazement, no sooner had\nhe mentioned the amount of dust in the church than Lane started\nup, and, disregarding all remonstrances, flung on his overcoat and\nhat, and started off through the churchyard at a tremendous pace to\nexamine the tower from outside. Although carefully shored up in the\nautumn, the crack in it had widened perceptibly even to Llewellyn's\nsight, and was extending across the wall of the south aisle.\n\n[Illustration: She hastened to the churchyard.--_p. 42._]\n\n\"It's the frost,\" said the architect ruefully, after a thorough\nexamination both inside and out. \"It has assisted in disintegrating\nthe masonry, and caused a further settlement that may bring the\nold tower down with a run any minute. Being Sunday, we can't do\nanything to prevent it, even if that were possible now. The dust\nin the church is no fault of old Reed, but is simply caused by the\nstones of the tower grinding together, because every moment they are\nbecoming more displaced. To-morrow, if it stands till then, I'll try\nand get men to take it down.\"\n\nPoor Llewellyn looked very dejected. \"Oh, Lane, this is bad news! If\nthe tower falls, it will wreck half the church!\"\n\n\"It's a pity, certainly, but it's nobody's fault. You mustn't have\nservice in it again, for it really isn't safe.\"\n\nFortunately, during the dark winter months Llewellyn, at the urgent\nrequest of the inhabitants at the other end of his very large and\nstraggling parish, was accustomed to hold service on alternate\nSunday evenings in a large room at the outskirts of the village,\nand was due there that night. He decided not to say anything about\nthe tower, for fear of alarming his parishioners; but he carefully\nlocked the churchyard gate so that no one could enter it, and,\nreturning home, he took the key of the church from the nail where\nit usually hung, telling his old servant Dorcas that nobody must\ngo into the church on any pretext whatsoever, as he feared it was\nunsafe.\n\nThat afternoon he called to soothe old Reed's wounded feelings by\nsaying in confidence what had caused the dust. He strictly enjoined\nthe sexton in case any strangers came to inspect the church, as\nthey did sometimes, not to admit them on any account. Reed promised\nfaithfully; but that Sunday was a sadly anxious time for Llewellyn,\nwho expected every moment to hear a mighty crash and see the tower\nfall.\n\nEarly next day Lane set off to engage men and appliances; for\nthe old tower, to his great surprise, was still standing, though\nperceptibly more out of the perpendicular. Llewellyn departed to the\nschool, and had not been gone long, when an imperative knock sounded\nat the Rectory door. Dorcas opened it to behold Miss Lancaster and\nanother girl, Daisy Staples, an old schoolfellow, who was staying at\nthe Manor.\n\n\"I've come to borrow the key of the church, please. I want my friend\nto see it, and I'll bring back the key when we've done with it.\"\nLaura, it is needless to say, had heard no whisper of the precarious\nstate of the tower.\n\nDorcas, who, like all the villagers, stood considerably in awe\nof Miss Lancaster, was much taken aback. \"I'm very sorry, miss,\"\nstammered she, \"but you mustn't go into the church--master says it's\nnot safe; and I wasn't to give the key to anybody.\"\n\n\"Not safe!\" cried Laura incredulously. She had seen the old place\nshored up with timber so long that the spectacle had lost all its\nsignificance. \"What nonsense! I'm sure it's just as safe as it ever\nwas, and I particularly want my friend to see it. So give me the\nkey, please, and we'll go.\"\n\n\"I haven't got it, miss, indeed. Master took it away, and left word\nnobody was to go inside.\"\n\nThe spoilt heiress, unaccustomed to opposition, turned upon her\nheel in high dudgeon. \"Then I can only say your master is a most\narbitrary and disagreeable man!\" she cried angrily. \"Mr. Percival\nis just like all the rest of the clergy, Daisy!\" she grumbled to\nher friend as they went away. \"They love to show their power by\ntyrannising over the laity! I don't believe the church is really\nunsafe at all! Probably the Rector thinks that because I won't go\nto his services on Sundays I don't deserve to enter the church on\nweekdays, and so I am to be refused the key!\"\n\nAngry people are very seldom dignified; and Laura, knowing that\nDaisy was keenly interested in architecture, was determined to try\nand accomplish her project somehow. \"After all, I'm a parishioner,\nand I've a _right_ to enter the church!\" she exclaimed. \"The old\nsexton has a key, and we'll go and get his, since that cross woman\nrefused the Rector's.\"\n\nBut the sexton was out. As no answer was returned to her knocks,\nLaura, who was well acquainted with his habits, tried the door,\nwhich was unfastened, and, looking in, saw the large church key\nhanging on its accustomed nail in his little kitchen. She snatched\nat it in triumph, and hastened to the churchyard; only to find her\nprogress once more barred.\n\n\"Mr. Percival has actually gone and locked the gate!\" she exclaimed,\ndescending to slipshod English in her excitement. \"Now, I should say\nthat must be distinctly illegal! At any rate, here goes!\"\n\nThey vaulted over, with the agility of modern girls practised in\ngymnastics, and very soon were inside the church. The dust was\nthicker than ever, but in the excitement of displaying the various\npoints of interest Laura hardly noticed it; and they poked about\neverywhere, little dreaming of the appalling risk they ran.\n\nLlewellyn, on quitting the school, came round to speak to Reed; and\nfound the old man, who had just returned, standing staring stupidly\nat the bare nail on the wall. \"Did you come and fetch the church\nkey away, sir?\" he began.\n\n\"I? I've never touched it--never seen it! And yet it's gone from the\nnail! Surely it can't be that somebody has taken it to go inside the\nchurch! Lane says the tower can't possibly last out the day.\"\n\nFor an instant they gazed at each other with scared faces; and then\nLlewellyn rushed away, mad with fear, clearing first the churchyard\nfence, and then the tombstones with incredible bounds. As he went a\ncurious, dull rumble was audible, and to his horror he distinctly\nsaw the massive tower first sway slightly, and then commence to\nslip, slip with a horrible motion unlike anything he had ever seen\nbefore. The church door was ajar--there must be somebody inside!\nPray Heaven he might be in time!\n\n[Illustration: \"I couldn't rest till I saw you,\" she faltered.--_p.\n44._]\n\nMeanwhile the girls, poring over an old floor-brass, were startled\nby the rumbling; whilst the dust grew so much thicker that Laura\nexclaimed, \"Pah! What a stuffy old place! That rumble must be\nthunder--there it is again!\"\n\nStill not suspecting their danger, they leisurely retraced their\nsteps to the south door, at the bottom of the church, very near\nthe fatal tower. Laura could distinctly remember turning past the\nlast pew; but after that nothing was clear. She only knew that some\nman, unrecognisable in the cloud of dust and mortar which suddenly\nobscured everything, threw himself, as a still louder rumble\noccurred, with what then seemed absolutely brutal violence upon her\nand Daisy. Seizing her with a force which for days left bruises\non her arms, he positively hurled her and her friend before him\nthrough the open door. Then before he had himself quite crossed the\nthreshold the entire fabric of the tower fell with a terrific crash,\nwrecking the whole of that end of the church.\n\n\nIII.\n\nWhen Llewellyn Percival, after some time, recovered from the effects\nof a serious wound on his head from a falling stone, and a broken\narm, it was to find himself a popular hero. To his own mind, he had\nonly done a most ordinary thing, such as any man would naturally\ndo; and he could not understand why all the papers should publish\nglowing accounts of his bravery. The poor old sexton, who had\nfaithfully followed him on his errand of mercy, and had only been\ndeterred by his age and feebleness from arriving in time, deserved\nquite as many thanks as he did, Llewellyn maintained. But the fickle\npublic did not think so, and subscriptions for Barnford Church\nliterally poured in.\n\nIt is a fine thing to be a popular idol, even for a day; and\nLlewellyn received so much kindness during his illness that he had\nnever been happier in his life. An old aunt came to nurse him; and\non the first day he was allowed to come downstairs a humble message\nwas brought that Miss Lancaster would like to see him for a moment,\nif it would not tire him too much. She and her mother had been\nincessant in their inquiries, besides sending fruit, flowers, and\ninvalid delicacies daily.\n\n\"Show her in,\" said Llewellyn, unheeding his aunt's remonstrance;\nand in a minute she was bending over the chair from which he feebly\nstrove to rise, her dark eyes full of tears. \"I couldn't rest till\nI saw you,\" she faltered. \"But oh! if you had been killed, I should\nhave felt like a murderess! It was all my fault, for being so\nobstinate and wicked! When Dorcas told me I couldn't have the key\nof the church, I thought\"--and she hung her head--\"I said, indeed,\nthat it was a piece of spiteful tyranny on your part, just to assert\nyour arbitrary authority. Oh, how could I ever think it of you? Say\nyou forgive me--only say so!\"\n\nWith the tears of genuine repentance and humility streaming down her\nface, it was not possible for mortal man to refuse her anything.\n\"My dear Miss Lancaster, pray don't distress yourself! We are all\nliable to errors of judgment, and, believe me, I forgive you from my\nheart--if, indeed, I have anything to forgive.\"\n\n\"Besides that, I've always been horrid to you,\" she sighed\nremorsefully. \"I wouldn't help about the restoration, nor do\nanything in the parish, and I sneered at your magic-lantern. Oh,\nyes, I did--you can't deny it. But I hope now you won't worry any\nmore about raising funds. Daisy and I, as a thank-offering for the\ngreat mercy vouchsafed to us, are going to finish the restoration,\nif you'll only tell us what you'd like. No, not a word of thanks--at\nleast, not to _me_--I feel I really don't deserve it.\"\n\nAnd the dignified, self-complacent Miss Lancaster fairly bolted\nfrom the room; conscious that her face was quite unfit to be seen,\nand that it was absolutely necessary to have her cry out somewhere.\nLlewellyn leaned back in his chair, almost overwhelmed by the\nknowledge that he was about to attain his heart's desire at last.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe restored Barnford Church was such a dream of beauty that\nsometimes Llewellyn would ask himself whether it were a real\nbuilding or only a fairy vision. The light fell through beautiful\npainted windows; an excellent organ replaced the old one; and oak\npews, exquisitely carved, filled the nave. A huge gilt cock strutted\nproudly above the restored tower, and a brass tablet near the pulpit\ndeclared the restoration to be the thank-offering of two grateful\nhearts. People came from far and near to the services, eager to see\nthe beautiful church, but the largest crowd that ever assembled in\nthe building came on the occasion of the marriage of the Rector to\nLaura Lancaster.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: AS CHAPLAIN TO MR SPEAKER]\n\nEX-SPEAKER PEEL. MR. SPEAKER GULLY.\n\n(_Photo: Russell and Sons._) (_Photo: Bassano, Ltd._)\n\n\nAS CHAPLAIN TO MR SPEAKER\n\nSome Reminiscences of Parliament.\n\n\nBy F. W. Farrar, D.D., Dean of Canterbury.\n\n\nI knew something about the Houses of Legislature, and had been\npresent at not a few debates, long before I had the high honour\nof being a Chaplain to the Speaker. Many years ago, when I was a\nmaster at Harrow, I had the privilege of knowing the late Lord\nCharles Russell, whose son, Mr. G. W. E. Russell, was once in my\nform, and who always treated me with conspicuous kindness. Lord\nCharles was for a long time the highly popular Serjeant-at-Arms\nof the House of Commons. There are only two persons who enjoy the\nprivilege of having \"private galleries\" at their disposal at the\nend of the House--the Speaker and the Serjeant-at-Arms. Whenever\nthere was likely to be a very important debate, which excited keen\npublic interest, Lord Charles used to offer us two seats in his\ngallery. I availed myself of this exceptional privilege as often\nas I could, and in that way I have been present at some of those\ndeeply interesting political and oratorical displays which may\nalmost be said to have become things of the past. The speaking of\nthe most distinguished leaders in the House of Commons is still\nmanly, forcible, and lucid: but I do not think that I am only\nspeaking as a _laudator temporis acti, Me puero_, when I say that\nnever--or, at any rate, only on the rarest occasions--do we now\nhear those flashing interchanges of wit, or those utterances of\nsustained, impassioned, and lofty eloquence which were by no means\nunfrequent thirty years ago. It may be that the pressure of affairs\nis greater, owing to the immense and ever-extending interests of\nthe British Empire; or that there is not, at the present moment,\nthe intense political excitement which once prevailed; or that the\nprevalent taste in such matters is different:--but, whatever be\nthe reason, it would, I think, be generally admitted that, in nine\ncases out of ten, debates in these days are more unexciting and more\nseverely practical than once they were, so that speeches full of\n\"thoughts that breathe and words that burn\" are now rarely delivered\nbefore our assembled senators. For that reason the debates are far\nless interesting and memorable than they were in former times.\n\nThere are still many speakers in the House to whom all must listen\nwith pleasure and admiration. Sir W. Harcourt, Sir Henry Fowler, Mr.\nMorley, Mr. Goschen, Mr. Balfour, always set forth their arguments\nwith force and dignity; and it would, I think, be generally conceded\nthat few speakers could surpass Mr. Chamberlain in the skill and\nfearless forthrightness with which he enunciates his views. There\nare still a few debaters who might bear comparison with Sir Robert\nPeel in the dignified enunciation of views full of sober wisdom;\nor with Mr. Cobden in his \"unadorned eloquence\"; or with Lord\nPalmerston in his unstudied and lively geniality:--but since first\nMr. Bright, and then Mr. Gladstone, stepped out of the political\narena, anyone who could be called \"a great orator\" has become very\nuncommon in Parliamentary debates. No orator in the House has\nacquired, or perhaps even aims at, the fame for eloquence obtained\nin the political arena by men like O'Connell, Sheil, Lord Macaulay,\nSir Edward Bulwer, Mr. Disraeli, John Bright, Lord Sherbrooke when\nhe was at his best, or William Ewart Gladstone. We do not now have\nspeeches which, like that of Lord Brougham in the House of Lords on\nthe Reform Bill, occupied six hours in the delivery; or, like the\nfamous \"_Civis Romanus sum_\" speech of Lord Palmerston in the Don\nPacifico debate, are prolonged \"from the dusk of a summer evening to\nthe dawn of a summer day.\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Mendelssohn, Pembridge Cres._)\n\nMR. H. D. ERSKINE.\n\n(_The Present Serjeant-at-Arms._)]\n\n[Illustration: (_From an Engraving by Joseph Brown._)\n\nLORD CHARLES RUSSELL.\n\n(_Late Serjeant-at-Arms._)]\n\n[Illustration: PRAYERS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.\n\n(_Conducted by Canon Wilberforce, the Present Chaplain._)]\n\nThis may partly be due to the fact that we have not, for many years,\npassed through political crises in which the hearts of men have\nbeen so powerfully stirred as they were in the times of the first\nReform Bill; or in the early struggles of the Irish party; or in the\ndebates on the abolition of the corn laws; or during the thrilling\nincidents of the Crimean War. In these days speeches are shorter,\nless formal, less ornate, less impassioned. But if the passions of\nmen should again be stirred as they were by those anxious issues,\ndoubtless the same stormy eloquence might once more be evoked. In\nthose days the hearts of millions beat like the heart of one man.\nOne or two historic incidents may serve to illustrate the intensity\nof national feeling.\n\nWhile the great issues at stake in the first Reform Bill were\nfilling the thoughts of all, only one Bishop, Dr. Philpotts of\nExeter, voted (I believe) in favour of the Bill. The consequence\nwas that the whole bench of Bishops was for a time overwhelmed with\nnational hatred. The late genial and kind-hearted Duke of Buccleuch\ntold me that he had been severely hurt in an attempt to protect the\nBishops from popular insult as they came out of the House of Lords.\nThe Bishops had to sign a common protest that they were no longer\nable to carry out their legislative duties because they could not\nattend the House of Lords with safety. Even in Canterbury, when the\nkindly Archbishop Howley visited his metro-political city, he was\nassaulted by the mob in the streets, pelted with mud and dead cats,\nprevented from dining at the Guildhall, and was only saved by two or\nthree courageous gentlemen from being dragged out of his carriage\nand brutally ill-treated. Lord Macaulay's celebrated description of\nthe scene which took place in the House of Commons when the Bill was\npassed by a very small majority proves how much less inflammable is\nthe present state of the political atmosphere.\n\n[Illustration: ARCHBISHOP HOWLEY ASSAULTED BY THE MOB.]\n\nHe tells us that not only did the members who attached supreme\nimportance to the passing of the Bill clasp each other by the hand\nwith tears, but that, with unprecedented disregard of the decorous\ntraditions of Parliament, they leapt upon the benches, and stood\nthere waving their hats, and cheering themselves hoarse.\n\nTake again the scene which the House witnessed during a memorably\neloquent speech of Mr. Bright. He was addressing a House which in\nthose days all but unanimously rejected his opinions, though time\nhas since then shown how well deserving they were of consideration;\nand yet he moved many to tears who were little accustomed to give\nopen signs of their emotion. He always spoke in a style of nervous\nSaxon English, and his words on that occasion were a singular\nmixture of unconventional homeliness and profound pathos.\n\n[Illustration: JOHN BRIGHT SPEAKING IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.]\n\nHe mentioned that he had met Colonel Boyle, a well-known member\nof the House--\"at Mr. Westerton's, the bookseller's I think it\nwas, at the corner of Hyde Park\"--and had asked him whether he was\ngoing out to the Crimea. He answered that he was afraid he was.\n\"It was not fear for himself; he knew not that. 'But,' he said,\n'to go out to the war is a serious thing for a man who has a wife\nand five children.' The stormy Euxine is his grave; his wife is a\nwidow; his children are fatherless.\" And then, after alluding to\nother well-known members who had perished in the Crimean War, he\nadded, \"The Angel of Death has been among us; we may almost hear the\nbeating of his wings.\"\n\n[Illustration: BRIGHT RECITING HIS SPEECH TO HIS FRIENDS.]\n\nAs he spoke many of the assembled gentlemen of England were seen\nindignantly dashing away, or furtively wiping from their eyes,\nthe tears of which no one need have been for one moment ashamed.\nWhen Lord Palmerston arose to answer the oration, and to repeat to\nthe House its own predominant convictions, the bursts of cheering\nwith which his entirely unoratorical speech was welcomed were heard\neven in the House of Lords. But what the members cheered was not\nLord Palmerston's eloquence, for to eloquence he had scarcely the\nsmallest pretence, but the British pluck which would not succumb to\nthe intense feeling which the great orator had aroused by appeals\nthat had held his audience \"hushed as an infant at the mother's\nbreast.\"\n\n[Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC ATTITUDE OF THE LATE MR. GLADSTONE.]\n\nOn the evening before this speech Mr. Bright and Mr. Cobden had been\nthe guests of a former kind friend of mine, Mr. W. S. Lindsay, M.P.,\nin his beautiful house on the banks of the Thames. Mr. Lindsay had\nbeen the warm ally of both these great leaders in the Free Trade\nagitation, and he told me this curious anecdote. Mr. Bright, as is\nwell known, carefully studied his speeches and committed them to\nmemory word for word, delivering them in such measured, yet often\nthrilling, tones as gave to each word its utmost force. Mr. Lindsay\nsaid that the evening before--knowing the extreme importance of the\nspeech, and the fact that he would be trying to persuade a multitude\nof hearers against their will--Mr. Bright had recited to these two\nfriends in the drawing-room the arguments which he intended to\nenunciate. But he had not then brought in the allusion to the Angel\nof Death. The three members were sitting side by side during the\ndebate; and it was perhaps as a relief to his own over-burdened\nfeelings that Mr. Cobden, when the tumult of applause which followed\nthe speech had subsided, said to Mr. Bright, \"Where did you get\nhold of that passage about the angel, John? You did not say it to\nus last night.\" \"No,\" answered the orator; \"I only thought of it\nwhile I was dressing this morning.\" \"Now, if you had said 'the\n_flapping_ of his wings,' instead of 'the _beating_ of his wings,'\"\nsaid Cobden, \"everyone would have laughed.\" I have no doubt that in\nthis apparently trivial criticism Cobden was only seeking to lighten\nthe oppression of his own misgivings about the national policy of\nthat time; but, curiously enough, I several times heard Dean Stanley\nallude to the great speech, both in conversation and in sermons, and\nhe _always_ quoted the passage, \"We may almost hear the _flapping_\nof his wings.\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W_.)\n\nRICHARD COBDEN.]\n\nSeveral of Mr. Bright's best points seem to have occurred to\nhim suddenly. In the days when there was the secession from the\nLiberal party to which he gave the popular nickname of \"the Cave\nof Adullam,\" speaking of the fact that the members of the party\nseemed to be all on an equality, and to have no acknowledged leader,\nhe convulsed the House with laughter by comparing them to one of\nthose shaggy lapdogs of which it was difficult to distinguish which\nwas the head and which was the tail. One leading member of this\nparty was the late Mr. Horsman--a very forcible debater, who used\nsometimes to be spoken of as \"the wild Horsman.\" I once heard a\nlittle passage of arms between him and the late Lord Houghton. \"Ah!\"\nsaid Mr. Horsman, \"you can't boast of a Cave of Adullam in the House\nof Lords!\" \"No,\" replied Lord Houghton, with the readiness of a\nrapier thrust, \"in the House of Lords we have nothing so _hollow_!\"\n\nIt is extraordinary how much our judgment of oratory is affected\nby our opinion as to the point at issue. I once heard Mr. Bright\ndeliver a speech of great force and beauty on the second Reform\nBill; and his speeches were always eloquent and admirable so that\nhe never seemed to sink below himself. Indeed, one secret of\nhis splendid success was the care and study which he devoted to\nmaster every detail of what he intended to say; so that--to the\nastonishment of Mr. Gladstone, who had the happy art of falling\nto sleep as soon as he laid his head on the pillow--Mr. Bright's\nspeeches often caused him sleepless nights. The oration to which I\nrefer was delivered, if I remember rightly, in 1857. I was listening\nwith admiration in the Speaker's gallery, when suddenly an ardent\nConservative, who was sitting next to me, showed himself so entirely\nimpervious to the charm and power of the orator that he flung\nhimself back in his seat with the contemptuous remark, \"I thought\nthe fellow could speak!\"\n\nThis reminds me of one or two incidents in the great debate on\nthe Disestablishment of the Irish Church in the House of Lords.\nThe Earl of Tankerville, whose son was a boy in my house at\nHarrow, had very kindly given me a seat in the gallery, and I\nheard a great part of that very famous discussion. The learned and\nlovable Archbishop Trench had to plead the cause of his Church;\nbut he was old and deeply depressed, and his speech was naturally\nineffective. At the very beginning he made an unfortunate slip,\nwhich, trivial as it was--and it is by no means unfrequently the\ncase that a \"trifle light as air\" makes an impression, favourable\nor unfavourable, far beyond what might seem to be its proper\nimportance--at once marred the effect of what he was about to urge.\nFor, at the beginning of his speech, he unluckily addressed the\nassembled peers as \"My brethren!\"--or, as he pronounced it, \"My\n_brathren_\"--instead of \"My Lords\"; and, hastily as he corrected\nhimself, the scarcely suppressed titter which ran through the House\nwas alike disconcerting to the speaker and injurious to the effect\nof his words. A stranger was seated next to me, who was burning with\nenthusiasm for the Irish Church, and expected a powerful defence\nof its position from its eminent Archbishop. But the prelate's\nsomewhat lachrymose appeal seemed to him quite below the importance\nof the occasion; and, with a sigh of deep disappointment, he leaned\nback with the murmur, \"Oh dear! he's as heavy as lead and as dull as\nditch-water!\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: S. A. Walker, 230, Regent Street, W_.) LORD\nDERBY (14th EARL). (_The \"Rupert of Debate_.\")]\n\nThe greatest speech on that occasion was that of the late Archbishop\nMagee, who had then been recently appointed Bishop of Peterborough.\nI had, shortly before, heard his powerful sermon in St. Patrick's\nCathedral, Dublin, at the Church Congress, while the fate of the\nIrish Church was still trembling in the balance. He had chosen the\ntext, \"And they beckoned to their partners, who were in the other\nship, to come over and help them.\" The text was so singularly\nappropriate that Archdeacon Denison is said to have started up from\nhis seat and almost to have clapped his hands aloud! Great things\nwere expected of the speech, and the recently appointed Bishop\nfully rose to the occasion. As we went out of the House, one of the\npeers told me that the late Lord Ellenborough (the famous Viceroy\nof India) had pronounced Dr. Magee's speech to be the most eloquent\nhe had ever heard, except one (I think) of Lord Erskine's. Yet I\ncould not help fancying at the time that political circumstances\nhad tended to the undue extolment of this speech--eloquent and\npowerful as it undoubtedly was above its intrinsic merits. I\nperfectly remember the scene and all the circumstances, and even\nthe manner and accent with which it was delivered; but neither then\nnor afterwards was I at all impressed by the arguments, nor can\nI now recall them. This is far from being the case with another\nspeech delivered in the same debate by Dr. Connop Thirlwall, the\nvery able and learned Bishop of St. Davids. He was dealing with the\ncharge of \"sacrilege,\" which was freely brought against the Bill,\nand he endeavoured to show that there were acts which some might\ncharacterise by such a stigma which might, on the contrary, be deeds\nactuated by the highest justice and mercy.\n\n[Illustration: \"MY BRATHREN.\"\n\n(_Archbishop Trench addressing the House of Lords_.)]\n\n\nI witnessed a humorous little incident in the House of Lords during\nthe debate on the Public Schools Bill. The late Earl of Clarendon\nwas in charge of it, and the Earl of Derby, \"the Rupert of debate,\"\nwas opposed to it. A number of head-masters, whose methods and\ninterests would be affected by the Bill, had been permitted to stand\nby the throne in the part of the House where members of the House\nof Commons are allowed to take their place when they want to hear a\ndebate. Lord Clarendon in his speech was gently complaining that\nLord Derby, in characterising the Bill, had said of it (as Lord\nClarendon misquoted it)--\"Sunt bona; sunt qu\u00e6dam mediocria; _sunt\npl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la_.\" This quotation, as the amused head-masters\ninstantly noticed with a smile, involved two very glaring false\nquantities on the part of the statesman who was introducing the\nBill for the improvement of the education of the country. Instantly\nLord Derby started up with the words, \"Will the noble Lord repeat\nwhat he has just attributed to me?\" Innocent of the little trap\nwhich had been thus laid for him, Lord Clarendon repeated his\n\"_Sunt pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la_.\" \"I never said anything of the kind!\"\nsaid Lord Derby with humorous indignation. \"I am sure,\" said Lord\nClarendon, \"that I shall be in the recollection of all when I\nrepeat that the noble Lord, though he must have forgotten the fact,\nquoted the line which I have just repeated to the House.\" \"Nothing\nof the kind!\" said Lord Derby, with great emphasis; \"what _I_ said\nwas very different. It was\" (and the quotation was emphasised by\npointed finger and slow enunciation), \"'Sunt bona; sunt qu\u00e6dam\nmediocria; _sunt m[)a]l[)a] pl[=u]ra_.'\" Lord Clarendon laughed\ngood-humouredly, and apologised for the slip; but he was evidently a\nlittle discomfited.\n\n[Illustration: (_From the Bust by C. Moore._)\n\nRICHARD LALOR SHEIL.]\n\nTo return for a few moments to the House of Commons, a friend of\nmine once asked Mr. Gladstone who was the most eloquent speaker whom\nhe had ever heard in the House of Commons. He answered, as he has\nreplied to others, \"that he thought he had never heard anyone more\neloquent than Richard Lalor Sheil.\" Anyone who will read Mr. Sheil's\npublished volume of speeches will not be surprised at this remark.\nThe one celebrated outburst which is best remembered, thrilled all\nwho heard it, and sounded like the sudden sweep of a tornado. Lord\nLyndhurst, in a recent speech, had unwisely and unfairly spoken of\nthe Irish as \"_aliens_.\" Alluding to this, Mr. Sheil burst out with\nthe fine passage from which I will only quote a part: \"_Aliens!_\" he\nexclaimed. \"Was Arthur Duke of Wellington in the House of Lords, and\ndid he not start up and exclaim, 'Hold! I have seen the aliens do\ntheir duty!'... On the field of Waterloo the blood of Englishmen and\nScotchmen and Irishmen flowed in the same stream, and drenched the\nsame field. When the chill morning dawned their dead lay cold and\nstark together; in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited;\nthe green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled\ndust; the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave.\nPartakers in every peril, in the glory shall they not be permitted\nto participate? And shall we be told as a requital that we are\n'_aliens_' from the noble country for whose salvation our lifeblood\nwas poured out?\"\n\nThe effect of such a passage delivered as Richard Lalor Sheil\ndelivered it, can better be imagined than described. He was a man\nof short figure and somewhat insignificant appearance; and his\nvoice was high and shrill, and never well-modulated like the voices\nof such orators as Lord Chatham or Mr. Bright. But he spoke with\ngenuine feeling and enthusiasm. The impression produced by such\nearnestness can never be resisted. The tones of passion are very\npenetrating, and they vibrate in the memory. \"But did not Mr. Sheil\n_scream_ a good deal in his speeches, Mr. Gladstone?\" asked his\nfriend. \"Sir,\" was the answer, \"he was _all scream_!\" And yet few\nParliamentary debaters have ever produced a deeper impression!\n\n\n\n\nTHE INTERVENTION OF TODDLELUMS.\n\nA Complete Story. By Helen Boddington.\n\n\nBang! bang! went the fist of Toddlelums on the window-pane, as the\nlittle hand tried to capture a cunning fly which always managed\nto escape his grasp. Toddlelums was curled up on the window-seat,\nwith such big, big thoughts coursing through his little brain. Not\nunspoken thoughts. Oh, no! Toddlelums at six always did his thinking\nout loud. \"Ah! you silly, silly, little fly,\" he said in his cooing\nvoice; \"I wonder what you are made of, and where you go to when you\ndie. Ah!\" with another bang and a little chuckle. \"I nearly caught\nyou that time.\"\n\n\"Toddlelums, what are you doing?\" said his mother, from the other\nend of the room.\n\nToddlelums rolled off the window-seat, picked himself up, put his\nhands in the pockets of his knickers, and finally placed himself\nwith his back to the fire. \"I was only trying to catch one little\nfly, mammie.\"\n\n\"Ah! but, my pet, it is rather cruel to kill the poor flies.\"\n\n\"Oh! I wasn't going to kill it, only catch it and make a tiny\ncage between my two hands\"--putting the palms of his hands\ntogether--\"then I would let it fly away again, right away.\"\n\nThe mother sat there watching her boy and thinking how like his\nfather he was growing. Presently he edged up to her and leant\nagainst her knee, and then she put her arm round him, and bent her\nhead so that her cheek touched his brown curls. \"Mother's baby,\" she\nsaid softly; \"mother's little Toddlelums,\" and there was a quaver in\nher voice.\n\nToddlelums did not notice it, though, for he turned to her with a\nmerry twinkle in his great brown eyes and twined his arms lovingly\nround her neck. \"Let's play, mammie; let's play bears,\" he cried,\ntrying to drag her out of her chair with fearless hands which were\ncertain of no repulse.\n\nShe stood up, laughing. How tall and graceful she was, and how\nyoung! Soft golden hair, brown eyes like Toddlelums', only with a\nsad, sad look in them even when she smiled. Toddlelums thought his\nmother was beautiful, and Toddlelums was right. A romp was in full\nswing when a man's step sounded in the hall. In a flash the boy with\nhis rosy face and rumpled hair made a bolt for the door, as a deep\nvoice called, \"Toddlelums!\"\n\n\"It's dad, it's dad!\" he shouted, battling with the knob of the\ndoor. Then two little feet scampered down the hall, and Toddlelums\nwas raised up high into the air and smothered with kisses. The\nmother was cognisant of all this, yet she did not attempt to follow.\nShe merely gave little touches to the disordered hair, took up\nher work, and seated herself once again. Where was the smile now?\nWhere had the tender look gone? Vanished at the sound of a man's\nvoice--and that man her husband!\n\n\"Mammie and me were just playing bears,\" said the son, as he came in\nperched on his father's shoulder. \"Wasn't it fun, mammie?\" looking\nat his mother with a joyous smile.\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" she answered, without looking up; and her husband,\nglancing at her, noticed that she bit her under lip and a flush\nsuddenly dyed her cheeks.\n\nThey had been married seven years, and during that time never\none word of love had passed the lips of either. It had been a\n_mariage de convenance_, his and her fathers' estates joined,\nand, as she told him afterwards, she had seen nobody she liked\nbetter. It had seemed easy enough at first even without love, but\ngradually--neither knew exactly how--a coldness sprang up, they\ndrifted apart. There was no actual quarrel, only a few hard, bitter\nwords on both sides, but the barrier grew and grew until there\nseemed little hope of its being broken down.\n\nAt the end of the first year Toddlelums came, and then, if anything,\nmatters became worse, for all the mother's thoughts were centred\nin her baby, all her love was lavished on him--the father was left\nto his own devices. As the child grew older, instinct told him to\ndivide his love between father and mother, and then cruel pangs of\njealousy visited the mother's breast.\n\nSo the years passed, Toddlelums with his sweet baby voice making\nsunshine in the home where lurked so many shadows. Toddlelums never\nsaw the shadows, though, for mother and father vied with each other\nin keeping them out of his path.\n\n[Illustration: \"Vanished at the sound of a man's voice.\"--_p. 53_]\n\nDuring the last few months, almost unknown to herself, something\nhad been stirring in Grace Millroe's heart; some strange feeling\nhitherto quite foreign to it. Perhaps it was the constant vision of\na man's grave, patient face with the sad look on it which seemed of\nlate to have grown sadder. That may or may not be; but, in any case,\nbefore she was aware, love, which had lain dormant so long, was\nawakened. Then at last, when it came upon her with its mighty full\nforce it brought her only sorrow, for, as she cried within herself,\n\"There is so little use in loving when there is no return.\" And so\nthis day, when her husband came in after her game with Toddlelums,\nthe flush on her cheeks, which he attributed to annoyance at his\napproach, was in reality caused by the quickened beatings of her\nheart.\n\nLater, when Toddlelums was fast asleep in his tiny crib and the\nhouse was silent, she sat alone in the drawing-room and he in his\nstudy, as was invariably the case when there was no visitor before\nwhom to keep up appearances.\n\nShe wanted the second volume of the book she was reading, and\nso presently she rose from her comfortable chair near the fire,\nslowly crossed the large, old-fashioned hall, and softly opened the\nstudy door. How cosy the room looked, with its crimson curtains\ndrawn closely before the great windows, the fire and shaded lamp\ncombined filling it with ruddy light! She stood with the knob of\nthe door in her hand and with her eyes riveted on the figure at the\nwriting-table.\n\nHis arms were folded on the table, his head was buried in them, and,\nsurely, that was a low, despairing moan which came to her across the\nstillness!\n\n\"Ah!\" she thought, \"if he only loved me, I could make him happy.\"\nThen she noticed for the first time that the black hair was streaked\nwith grey. Her lips quivered, she made a step forward; then she drew\nback, passed out of the room, and softly closed the door after her.\nIn the impulse of the moment she had intended saying some comforting\nword, and then she thought of his usual cold, passionless look, and\nrefrained.\n\nHow could she know that if she had made an advance the man would\nhave gladly, most gladly, responded? A few minutes after he lifted\nhis head, and, had she been there, she would have seen that the face\nwas full of passion, and on it were deeply drawn lines of pain.\n\nIn the meanwhile she bent over her little one's cot, and, kissing\nthe tiny face, which was flushed with sleep, she whispered, \"Ah, my\nlittle Toddlelums! if daddy only loved me as he loves his boy, I\nwould be content to die this minute, even if I had to leave you, my\nbaby, behind.\"\n\n[Illustration: She stood with her eyes riveted on the figure at the\ntable.]\n\nAnd yet, after all the passionate feeling of the night, when\nmorning came they met--outwardly, at least--with the usual cool\nindifference in their bearing towards each other. At breakfast\nToddlelums was with them in his white pinafore, seated on a high\nchair which was drawn up very close to the table.\n\n\"Mammie,\" he said, \"may nurse take me down to the river to play with\nFrankie Darrel this afternoon? We want to swim our boats.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, but you must swim them in the shallow part.\"\n\n\"And don't get too near the edge, old chap. Remember, if you roll\nin, daddy won't be there to fetch you out, and you'll be gobbled up\nby the little fishes.\"\n\nToddlelums was looking at his father with great, round eyes.\n\"Gobbled up by the little fishes?\" he echoed; but his father did not\nhear, for he was saying in an undertone to his wife, \"Tell nurse to\nbe careful; the river is swollen after the rain.\"\n\nAfternoon came, and off went Toddlelums, carrying in his arms a boat\nwith big, white sails, while the young mother threw kisses to him as\nshe drove away in the carriage.\n\nAh, little Toddlelums, go your way, sail your small craft!\nUnconsciously, you will guide it through the deep waters, but the\nland will be reached at last!\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt was evening, and Grace Millroe, entering the hall on her return\nfrom her drive, found her husband standing at the foot of the stairs\napparently waiting for her, with a look on his face which she had\nnever seen there before. He made no movement, one hand clutched the\nbalustrade with a tight grip, and twice his drawn lips opened to\nsay words which refused to come. She rushed to his side--she clung\nto his arm, while the fair face, working with some wild, fearful\nemotion, looked imploringly into his. \"Edgar, what is it? What is\nthe matter?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Daddy, you do love mammie, don't you?\"]\n\n\"It is----\"\n\n\"It is Toddlelums. Oh, Edgar! for mercy's sake, don't say it is\nToddlelums!\" and her hold tightened on his arm.\n\nHe turned his head away, for he could not bear to see the agony on\nher face.\n\n\"Yes, Grace, it is Toddlelums. He fell into the water, but--ah!\ndon't look like that--he may live yet, the doctors are doing their\nbest for him.\"\n\nTogether, mother and father ascended the stairs, she faltering on\nevery step, while hard, dry sobs shook her frame. Ah! what a wan,\nwhite Toddlelums lay on his little bed, and, but for the faint\nbreathing, the mother must have known herself childless. The doctors\nwere doing their work, while the agonised parents stood watching\nand waiting. She would have clasped him in her arms--she would have\npressed his little cold body to her breast--but first the doctors\nhad their part to do; the mother must wait.\n\n\"Edgar,\" and she turned to him with great, dry eyes, \"will my baby\ndie? No, no, it cannot be!\" she moaned plaintively. \"It would kill\nme to lose my little Toddlelums.\"\n\n\"Dear,\" he said, and somehow she felt comfort in knowing that his\narms were round her; \"if I could, I would give my life for his.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she said, and then she sprang to the bedside; for the\ndoctors had moved away, and Toddlelums was calling \"Mammie.\"\n\n\"Mother's darling, mother's precious baby!\" she cried, twining her\narms round him.\n\n\"And daddy's too,\" said the weak little voice, for Toddlelums was a\nvery shadowy Toddlelums still.\n\n\"Yes, and daddy's too,\" she said, as the man bent over his son and\nheld one tiny hand.\n\n\"Daddy, you do love mammie, don't you? He said, that horrid Frankie\nsaid, that you hated each other\"--looking at the two faces. \"He said\nhe knew it was true because he heard his mother and father say so.\nAnd I told him it was a big, big story, and I fighted him hard--very\nhard--and then he gave me a push, and I went down, down into the\ncold water. It isn't true, daddy, is it?\" looking at his father with\ngreat, earnest eyes; \"you do love my mammie?\" and he stroked her\nface tenderly.\n\nThe man hesitated, looked across at the woman; then he said, \"Yes,\ndarling, I love her more than my life.\"\n\nA few seconds of silence, a sigh of content from Toddlelums. Then\nthe mother's voice saying, \"And I love my little child, but I love\nhis father more.\"\n\nEyes meet eyes, hands clasp hands, and the two hearts severed so\nlong are united at last.\n\nBlessed little Toddlelums, with your sweet baby face and your manly\nlittle heart!--gallantly you fought your first battle, and the\nvictory is yours. The deep waters encompassed you, and the Valley\nof the Shadow was very near; but the Captain of the Host has yet a\ngreater battle for you to fight, and that is the Battle of Life.\n\n\n\n\nLOVE'S DEBT.\n\n \"From every portion, from every department, of Nature comes the\n same voice. Everywhere we hear Thy name, O God; everywhere we\n see Thy love. Creation in all its length and breadth, in all\n its depth and height, is the manifestation of Thy Spirit; and\n without Thee the world were dark and dead.\"\n\n\n Through all the flowers, I love Thee,\n Through all the joys around, above me--\n Through tree and brook, and sea before me,\n Through bird-songs--I adore Thee.\n\n For these a debt I owe Thee:\n Poor words are all I have to show Thee\n How much Thy glorious work doth move me,\n And how my soul doth love Thee.\n\n LOUIS H. VICTORY.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COLOURED JEWS.\n\n_Strange Survivals of the Scattered Tribes._\n\n\n \"Amazing race! deprived of land and laws,\n A general language and a public cause;\n With a religion none can now obey,\n With a reproach that none can take away:\n A people still whose common ties are gone;\n Who, mixed with every race, are lost in none.\"\n\n --CRABBE.\n\nWhere are they? Rather, where are they not? Dispersed\nto the four corners of the earth, this nation of exiles, ever\nloyal to the Government under which they live, still look for a\nbetter country and fix their eyes on Palestine, their ancient home.\nOne of their learned men, Dr. Hertzl, has lately appealed to his\nfellow-Jews to rise and re-people the land. But nothing can be done,\nhe tells them, without the enthusiasm of the whole nation: \"The idea\nmust make its way into the most distant and miserable holes where\nthe people dwell.\"\n\n[Illustration: A CHINESE ISRAELITE.]\n\nIt was just at a time when the Philistines said, \"Behold the Hebrews\ncome forth out of their holes where they had hid themselves,\" that\nIsrael's captivity was turned to freedom. It may be that history\nwill repeat itself.\n\n[Illustration: THE HEBREW LAW OF THE CHINESE JEWS.\n\n(Facsimile of a page from Deuteronomy.)]\n\nIn many unexpected corners of India, China, Africa, and Persia\nrepresentatives of an indestructible people have been discovered.\nThey wear the dress of the natives and submit to their laws, but\ncentury after century they have remained, proof against absorption.\nNeither poverty, contempt, nor persecution shakes their belief--the\nfaith that is the heritage of their fathers--that they are the\nremnant of a chosen people.\n\nJerusalem will see an amazing sight if it calls upon all the\nremotest holes and corners to deliver up its children. Jews white,\nblack, and brown from India, dusky from Abyssinia, arrayed in the\ncostume and sporting the pigtail of China, as well as Jews rich\nand poor, high and humble, from Europe and America--all will bring\nwith them the divers ways, tongues, and customs of their adopted\ncountries, and assemble as one nation.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Society for Promoting\nChristianity amongst the Jews._)\n\nJEWISH SCHOOL CHILDREN IN PERSIA.\n\n(With Mr. Norollah and Native Teachers.)]\n\nAmongst the most remote colonies are the Jews of China, who have\naroused interesting inquiry and been the theme of many French\nwriters. Early in the seventeenth century, and shortly after the\nItalian missionaries had come to Pekin, one of them, Matthew Ricci,\nreceived a morning call. His visitor wore the gorgeous Chinese\ndress, including the queue; but the figure and face were not\nMongolian, and the smiling countenance was not in keeping with the\ndignified solemnity of a Chinaman. This gentleman's name was Ngai,\nand he had heard of the arrival of some foreigners who worshipped\none Lord of heaven and earth, and who yet were not Mohammedans; he\nbelonged to the same religion, he explained, and had called to make\ntheir acquaintance.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Zenana Bible and Medical\nMission._)\n\nA MISSION-SCHOOL GROUP OF INDIAN JEWS.]\n\nNow Master Ngai made it clear that he was an Israelite, a native of\nKae-fung-foo, the capital of Honan. He had come to Pekin to pass an\nexamination for a mandarin degree, and had been led by curiosity and\nbrotherly feeling to call at the mission house. In his native city,\nhe said, there were ten or twelve families of Israelites, and a\nsynagogue which they had recently restored at the expense of 10,000\ncrowns, and they had a roll of the law four or five hundred years\nold. The missionary's letters described this synagogue. It occupied\na space of between three and four hundred feet in length by about a\nhundred and fifty in breadth, and was divided into four courts. It\nhad borrowed some decorative splendour from China. The inscription\nin Hebrew, \"Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God is one Lord, blessed be\nthe name of the glory of His Kingdom for ever and ever,\" and the Ten\nCommandments were emblazoned in gold. Silken curtains inclosed the\n\"Bethel\" which enshrined the sacred books, and which only the Rabbi\nmight enter during the time of prayer.\n\nEvery detail of this place, with its incense, its furniture, and\nall its types of good things yet to come, is interesting. There in\nthe last century the children of Israel at Kae-fung-foo worshipped\nthe God of their fathers with the rites that pointed to the Messiah\nof whose advent, as far as it can be ascertained, they never heard\nuntil the arrival of the Italian missionaries. Learned men have\nentered into discussions as to whether these people were Jews or\nIsraelites, whether they came to China from the Assyrian captivity\nor the Roman dispersion. They themselves say that their forefathers\ncame from the West; and it is probable that the settlers arrived\nby way of Khorassan and Samerkand. They must have been numerous in\nthe ninth century, for two Mohammedan travellers of that period\ndescribe a rebel, named Bae-choo, taking Canton by storm in A.D.\n877 and slaughtering 120,000 Jews, Mohammedans, Christians, and\nParsees. More than one Jew of Kae-fung-foo is known to have gained\nthe right to wear the little round button on the top of his cap so\ndear to the ambition of a Chinaman. The Tai-ping Rebellion dispersed\nthe settlement, and the remnant who remain faithful to the memory\nof old traditions are chiefly poor and distressed. The Chinamen\ndistinguish them by the name of \"T'iao chiao\" (the sect which pulls\nout the sinew), for these \"children of Israel eat not of the sinew\nwhich shrank, which is upon the hollow of the thigh, unto this\nday.\" They are said to often repeat the words of the dying Jacob,\n\"I have waited for Thy salvation, O Lord.\" This is to them like the\ncry of an infant in the night. They have waited so long that it is\nlittle wonder if the words have lost their triumphant ring and their\nancient accompaniment of faith in future blessings.\n\n[Illustration: READING THE LAW ON THE SABBATH DAY.\n\n(_From an Original Drawing by a Persian Jew._)]\n\nThe Persian Jews, from whom the colony in China sprang, are\ninterspersed over the Shah's country. The missionaries of the London\nSociety for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews make long tours\nto seek them out and shepherd them. A convert from amongst them, the\nRev. M. Norollah, found in 1890 that of his own people in Isfahan,\nnumbering 5,000, not more than ten could read or write the language\nof the country. He started a school for the children in the very\nheart of this Mohammedan city. This school and others besides have\nflourished, and been the means of making friends with the parents.\n\nOf all the colonies in Asia, none seems to have preserved their\ntraditions more carefully and lived up to them more worthily than\nthe Jews in India. According to the last census, they number, 17,180.\n\nPrivileged travellers in the south-west have been shown a charter\nmuch older than the great English pledge of liberty. The first\nglance is not imposing. It is a copper plate, scratched with letters\nof such out-of-date character that they bear little resemblance to\nany that are now in use. But this is a priceless treasure to the\nJews of Malabar. Some authorities believe it was granted about the\nyear A.D. 500; others say that the renowned Ceram Perumal was the\ndonor, and this prince appears to have been in the zenith of his\npower in A.D. 750. All agree that the charter is at least a thousand\nyears old.\n\nAccording to the native annals of Malabar and the Jews' own\ntraditions, 10,000 emigrants arrived on the coast about A.D. 70,\nshortly after the destruction of the Second Temple and the final\ndesolation of Jerusalem. It is supposed that of these 7,000 at\nonce settled on a spot then called Mahodranpatna, but now known as\nCranganore.\n\nUnhappily, this flourishing community fell out amongst themselves.\nAfter Jewish emigrants from Spain and other countries joined them\na dispute arose, and they called an Indian king to settle it. The\nfable of the quarrel for an oyster was illustrated. The mediator\ntook possession of the place; the fat oyster became his, and death\nand captivity represented the shells which he divided amongst\nthe disputants. Some fugitives obtained an asylum from the Rajah\nof Cochin, and built a little town on a piece of ground which he\ngranted to them, close to his palace.\n\nIn this lovely native state live their descendants--two classes of\nJews, one known as the Jerusalem or White Jews, the other as the\nBlack Jews. The White trace their descent from the first settlers;\nthroughout the centuries they have preserved the fair skin, fine\nfeatures, and broad, high foreheads that usually belong to Europe,\nwhilst amongst the men blonde or reddish curly beards prevail.\nThe Black Jews are too intensely black to be akin to the Hindoos;\nthey are said to have sprung from Jewish proselytes from amongst\nthe aboriginal races of the district. The Black and White Jews\ninhabit the same quarter of the town of Cochin; they follow the same\ncustoms, join in the same forms of prayer, but never intermarry.\n\nThe Jews of Cochin seem to excel all others scattered over India\nin strict religious observances, but they are apparently quite\ndistinct from the Jews or the Beni Israel of the north and west.\nSome ladies of the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society were\nwelcomed into the houses of Jewesses in Calcutta. They recognised\nthe noticeably Jewish features, in spite of the clear brunette\ncomplexion which belonged to neither the White nor Black Jews of\nthe south. This community availed themselves of day schools and\nSunday schools started for the children, which have now become part\nof the organisation of the Old Church Hebrew Mission, and responded\nto friendly overtures. One Jewish lady spoke to her visitors of the\nreturn of her people to Jerusalem, and she said, \"We will go in your\narms.\" \"You will probably go in our railway trains,\" answered the\nEnglishwoman, and this idea satisfied both.\n\nThe Beni Israel, or Sons of Israel, of the north and west say that\ntheir first ancestors in India were persecuted refugees from Persia,\nseven men and seven women who escaped from a shipwreck near Chaul,\nabout thirty miles south-east of Bombay, and managed to save a\nHebrew copy of the Pentateuch. Some assert that this happened eight\nhundred, others one thousand six hundred years ago. Their number\nis now reckoned as upwards of 5,000. They are said to resemble the\nArabian Jews in features. They keep strictly the Mosaic fasts and\nfeasts, yet in many houses visited by the ladies of the Zenana Bible\nand Medical Mission, the New as well as the Old Testament is studied.\n\nFor nearly half a century a principal man of the community has been\nin the service of the Free Church of Scotland at Alibag, about\ntwenty-four miles to the south of the city of Bombay. For in this\nplace, at one time famous as the centre of a small pirate kingdom,\nhandsome, intelligent children, with marked Semitic features, and\nnames familiar in the Book of Genesis, delight in attending school.\n\nIn Karachi the Beni Israel are also numerous. One of the\nmissionaries of the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society, who\nwork amongst them, was invited to a wedding in the synagogue. She\nnoticed that, as a part of the ceremony, the bride received a cup,\nand after raising it to her lips threw it down and broke it. This,\nsome of the guests explained, was a sign that even in the midst of\ntheir mirth they remembered Jerusalem with sorrow.\n\nTo many, such words and symbols are very real. During the present\nyear a rich Jew of Karachi has left his adopted home to build a\nsynagogue in Jerusalem, where the Sultan has shown the Jews great\ntoleration.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Zenana Bible Mission._)\n\nINDIAN JEWISH CONVERTS AT BOMBAY.]\n\nBut though the Turkish Empire has been a refuge for them, none\ncan exceed the Mohammedans in cruelty and intolerance when they\nare roused to fanatical zeal for their Prophet. This has been\nspecially manifest in Africa. Abyssinia, perhaps, has the oldest\ncolony of Jews. They go by the name of Falashas, which means exiles\nor emigrants, and claim an ambitious origin. King Solomon, they\nbelieve, added the Queen of Sheba to his many wives, and their son\nMenelek was educated in Jerusalem. On his growing to manhood, the\nJewish nobles foresaw political disturbances, and begged the king\nto send him to his mother. King Solomon consented on condition that\neach Jew should send his first-born son with Menelek to Abyssinia.\nThere he became king of Abyssinia, and his Israelite companions\nmarried native women, so a new nation sprang into existence.\n\nTraditions of noble descent are of less value than nobility of\ncharacter in the descendants. The church amongst the Falashas has\nbeen sown in the blood of martyrs. When the followers of the Mahdi\nbecame masters of Western Abyssinia, they massacred or made captives\nall the inhabitants who had not secured safety by flight. Jews and\nChristians, whether men or women, had to choose between Mohammed\nand death. A Falasha family, converts of the London Society for\nPromoting Christianity amongst the Jews, were overtaken by the\nMahdists. They were told to say the Mohammedan creed, \"_Allah ilahu\nill Allah wa Mohammed e rasah Allah_.\" These few words would save\ntheir lives, but these words would deny their Master.\n\n\"Never will we deny Him Who died for us on the cross,\" they\nanswered. \"We are born Falashas, but have been converted to Christ.\nHe is our Saviour, and not Mohammed.\"\n\n[Illustration: ARABIAN JEWS.]\n\nThe parents were strong to endure, but could they bear to see their\nfive children put to a cruel death? They not only lived through\nthis ordeal, but the father encouraged the younger martyrs. \"It is\nonly a short suffering,\" he cried, \"and you will gain the crown of\neverlasting life.\" Then came the mother's turn. Only let her deny\nChrist and she might live. Her heart and her voice were broken, but\nshe managed to answer clearly, \"I love Him, I do not fear death.\"\nHer husband saw her butchered. His courage rose higher when his\ntormentors offered him not only life but riches--anything that he\nchose to ask--if he would become a Mohammedan. \"You may torture me,\nyou may cut me in pieces, I will not deny Him Who died for me.\" He\ntoo joined the white-robed army of martyrs--a spectacle to other\ncaptives, one of whom afterwards escaped and described the scene.\n\nSix years ago the Falashas themselves became persecutors. They\nbrought a prisoner in chains before the Governor of the province.\nThey could find no charge against this ex-Falasha priest except that\nhe had become a Christian; and therefore they declared that it would\nbe a God-pleasing work to kill him. The Governor warned the Falashas\nthat they would be punished if they attempted to take his life. Then\nhe asked his prisoner if he would again become a Falasha, or if he\nchose to risk being robbed or beheaded. \"I go to my Lord and to my\nFather,\" answered the dignified old man. \"I would rather die than\ncontinue in life as an apostate.\"\n\n[Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN JEW.]\n\nThe situation was suddenly reversed. Instead of passing sentence,\nthe Governor said, \"Honoured father, give me your blessing.\" Faith\nand meekness had gained the victory over violence.\n\n[Illustration: THE CAPTIVE MAID.\n\nBy M. L. Gow, R.I.]\n\nIn North Africa the Jews have adopted many Mohammedan customs. Child\nmarriage, for instance, has become a curse amongst them. Sometimes\nmen of forty wed little wives of eight or ten. At the same time,\nin Morocco, an independent Moslem empire, the purity of their lives\nis in noticeable contrast to their neighbours. Algeria, where the\nJews number 50,000, as well as Tunisia, is under French protection.\nIt is little wonder if the anti-Jewish feeling of the French in\nAlgiers should rouse an anti-Christian feeling in the Jews, and that\nhere their opposition should be added to the many difficulties that\nmeet Christian missions in Moslem lands. But many Jews rise superior\nto prejudices, and missionaries of the North Africa Mission find\nrefreshment in studying the Scriptures with Hebrew scholars and\nHebrew seekers after more light. In 1897, on the fast of Gedaliah, a\nmissionary attended the synagogue. His friend, the Rabbi, mentioned\nhis presence, and the worshippers, all of them pure Arabs and\ndressed accordingly, pronounced a benediction on him and commended\nhim to God's grace.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Bonfils_)\n\nJEWISH VILLAGE GIRLS OF PALESTINE.]\n\n[Illustration: AN ALGERIAN JEWISH GIRL.\n\n(_Photo supplied by the Society for Promoting Christianity amongst\nthe Jews._)]\n\nTyranny and dispersion have failed to exterminate the Jews. In the\nname of patriotism, the king of Egypt made their life a burden.\nIn the name of religion and reverence for the Holy Sepulchre, the\nCrusaders brought horrible calamities upon them. In the name of\nuniformity, but with special reference to the Jews, the machinery\nof the Inquisition was set at work in Spain. Yet the 3,000,000\nslaves who came out of Egypt have increased, as far as it can be\ncalculated, to four times the number. Their affliction has been\na refining furnace. From the day when Moses, himself a Hebrew\nfugitive, turned aside to see why an insignificant mimosa bush was\nnot consumed by a devouring fire, the history of the chosen people\nhas been a witness of the unchangeableness of God's Word: \"I am the\nLord, I change not; therefore ye sons of Jacob are not consumed.\"\n\n D. L. WOOLMER.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Henry]\n\nTHE MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER\n\n_THE STORY OF A CATHEDRAL TOWN._\n\nBy E. S. Curry, Author of \"One of the Greatest,\" \"Closely Veiled,\"\nEtc.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nA LETTER OF APOLOGY.\n\n\nThe afternoon's summer sun shone in on the chestnut head of a\ngirl, bent sedulously over a book. She was Marjorie Bethune, only\ndaughter of one of the minor canons of Norham. She was hard at work\nconstructing a sonnet, to the accompaniment of the great organ in\nthe cathedral, where her father was taking the service. The words of\nthe psalms and anthem were almost audible, as well as their music,\nthrough the open windows, stimulating the girl's reluctant fancy.\nThere were other helps, too, to her imagination--the twitter of\nbirds in the flowering trees near the further window, the hum of the\nbees in the lime-trees, the scents of syringa and lilies.\n\nThe room in which she sat had a much-lived-in air and a pleasant\nold-fashioned shabbiness of aspect. There was a large round table\ncovered with papers and books, calf-bound and large for the greater\npart--the books and litter of a scholar. Books also were heaped on\nthe quaint spindle-legged side-table with deep drawers, ornamented\nwith carving and brass Tudor roses; and wherever in the room was\nany wall-space low bookshelves of a peculiar pattern filled it. The\nwall-colouring above was a rich tan and red, the whole making a\nharmonious background to the girl's burnished head and brilliantly\nfair complexion.\n\nA sudden thought seemed to strike her. She lifted her eyes to the\nfurther end of the room, where on a sofa near the pretty window lay\na fragile-looking woman. The extreme youthfulness of her appearance\nwas not contradicted by the brilliancy of the beautiful dark eyes\nshe turned now on Marjorie.\n\n\"Mother, I wish you would tell me exactly what father said when he\nproposed to you. I suppose he did propose?\" questioningly, gazing in\ndoubtful sympathy at the colour flooding her mother's face at her\nquestion.\n\n\"You will know for yourself some day, Marjorie,\" Mrs. Bethune said\nsoftly.\n\n\"I? But I want to know now. Just the facts. You can't make up things\non nothing,\" disconsolately. \"Our literary guild next month wants\na poem--a sonnet by preference--on Love. Such a subject! I could\nimagine a lot. But I don't know.\"\n\nMrs. Bethune's eyes were full of laughter, but her face was grave as\nshe looked at her discontented young daughter.\n\n\"People's experiences vary,\" she said reminiscently.\n\n\"Do they? But yours would do, mother--just to get a fact for a\nfoundation. Love seems such a shimmery, slippery thing.\"\n\n\"It was behind the door--at a party first. He had asked me to look\nat a picture----\"\n\n\"Behind the door! Father!\" exclaimed Marjorie, breaking in on the\nreminiscence. \"Oh, mother!\"\n\nMrs. Bethune laughed. \"You'll understand some day, Marjorie. That\nwas the beginning; after that, I kept out of his way----\" She\npaused.\n\n\"Yes?\" said Marjorie interestedly. \"I don't wonder. Behind the door!\nI couldn't put that in a sonnet.\"\n\n\"It was difficult to meet alone,\" went on the mother. \"We lived\nfour miles apart, And I was afraid. I didn't want him to speak, and\nyet----\"\n\n\"Didn't you love him then? Perhaps I could put that. Or did loving\nhim make you shy?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. But he was masterful--he found a way.\"\n\n\"Masterful,\" mused Marjorie, much exercised at this new presentation\nof her scholarly father. \"Then love alters characters, if it made\nfather masterful and you shy. Well, those are at least some facts.\nThank you. What else, mother? Tell me exactly, please.\"\n\n\"One day after lunch, when he had come over, I remembered that I\nhad dropped my thimble under the table, and I went back to the\ndining-room to look for it.\"\n\n\"And he followed?\"\n\n\"Yes; he followed, and he then and there proposed.\"\n\n\"But, mother,\" with misgivings, \"do you think that was sonnet-sort\nof love?\"\n\n\"Sure of it, Margie.\"\n\n\"It sounds so ordinary. However, I wanted facts,\" in a tone of\nresigned dejection.\n\nImpatient steps sounded in the hall. Hats and books were flung\ndown outside, and two boys of seven and nine respectively came\ninto the room. Marjorie's glance fell upon her young brothers\ndispassionately, staying her reflections on love.\n\n\"You look as if you had been in mischief,\" she remarked, as a\ncertain air of agitation conveyed itself to her perception.\n\n\"Yes; and found out, too,\" said Sandy, the seven-year-old,\ndisgustedly.\n\n\"You know that new man at 'The Ridges,' mother,\" burst in the older\nboy. \"He's had the cheek to say we're not to go that way any more.\"\n\n\"But have you been, David, since the General died?\"\n\n\"Of course we have, mother; why not? I'd got the keys.\"\n\n\"As if keys mattered anyhow!\" put in Sandy. \"Anyone can climb over\nthat wanted to. It's the nearest way.\"\n\n\"But it's private ground, not a public path. Only the General was\nkind to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, and this man's a beast,\" viciously.\n\nThen he went on, with a pretty little lisp between the two lost\nteeth left on a field of battle: \"But we've had some fun all these\nweeks, mother, dodging the work-people. They couldn't find out how\nwe got in and out,\" delightedly, \"even when we forgot the keys;\nthere's always holes, somewhere. We didn't let 'em know; we just\n'peared, and walked past the house, riling them. And if they ran us,\ndidn't we just dodge 'em down the hill!\"\n\n\"And now he says,\" put in David, \"that he's written to father, and\nthat he'll have no trespassing. Trespassing, indeed!\"\n\n\"An' Dave called back that he was the trespasser, 'trudin' where he\nwasn't wanted,\" said Sandy gleefully, \"an' that he'd better go back\nto Blackton, an' not fink he could come here and be a gentleman, cos\nno one would look at him!\"\n\n\"Oh, David,\" said his mother reproachfully, \"how could you? He will\nthink we don't grow gentlemen here.\"\n\n\"Don't care for his thinks,\" muttered David. \"Heard Charity and Mrs.\nLytchett say it.\"\n\n\"No, David,\" put in Marjorie. \"Charity said anyone from Blackton\nwould feel like an intrusion, and all Mrs. Lytchett said was, that\nif he didn't like it he could always go back.\"\n\n\"That's exactly what I said, too, on'y the words came different.\"\n\n\"If he finks we're goin' all that way round twice a day, he's jolly\nw'ong,\" remarked Sandy injuredly. \"We'd have to start hours an'\nhours earlier--not us!\"\n\nAgain the door opened, and a tall man came in, whose first look of\nanxious inquiry was directed towards the table where his papers\nwere lying. Sandy's impatient elbow was dug into the middle of\nthem, as he fidgeted about on one leg. Mr. Bethune sat down in the\nthree-cornered chair before the table, and rescued his papers, at\nthe same time keeping Sandy by his side.\n\n\"So you two have been in mischief again?\" he said gently, looking\ngravely at his sons.\n\n\"I'm afraid David has been rude, too,\" put in the mother, a little\nanxiously.\n\nDavid, with a put-on air of unconcern, looked out of the window,\nwhere two more sturdy boys, younger, but made after the same pattern\nas the two inside, were now visible on the garden path. They were\ndilatorily obeying a call from Marjorie, and making for the window.\n\n\"I have had a letter,\" went on Mr. Bethune. \"It's a nice letter, and\nwhat Mr. Pelham says is reasonable.\"\n\n\"Bounder!\" muttered David, and Sandy said \"Beast!\"\n\nThe father lifted his eyes from the letter.\n\n\"You will have to apologise. Mr. Pelham is quite right. You have\nno business there. I will write a letter, and you will take it.\nMarjorie, will you see if tea is ready?\" in a fatigued tone. \"Mother\nlooks tired out.\"\n\n\"Come, boys,\" said Marjorie. And the clamour that immediately ensued\nround the tea-table in the next room showed that rebellion and\nanarchy were in the air.\n\nWhen they had gone their father laughed quietly.\n\n\"It is a nice letter. I expect they will find he will give them\nleave, if they behave themselves. But they have been playing tricks\non the workmen--and on his servants, as I gather.\"\n\n\"They are always in mischief,\" said their mother, and her tone was\nnot the tone of one who lamented. \"But they are not generally rude.\nI am afraid they have heard the things that are being said against\nthis man. Perhaps Marjorie had better go with them? He will not be\nrude to her?\"\n\n\"No. 'This man,' as you call him, is one of the Pelhams of Lente.\nYes, she can take them. Mrs. Lytchett was suggesting to me just now\nthat she was growing up, and that she ought to have some lessons----\"\n\n\"I wish Mrs. Lytchett would mind her own business!\" flashed out the\nmother. \"Marjorie is as well educated as she is, though I should be\nsorry to see her so meddlesome.\"\n\nThen her ill-temper vanished, and she smiled serenely.\n\n\"Marjorie was writing a sonnet on Love whilst you were at church.\nShe seemed quite equal to the composition, but lacked facts.\"\n\n\"Marjorie's lack of facts doesn't often curb her imagination,\" her\nfather said. \"I do not think it was her education that Mrs. Lytchett\nthought wanted improving--though it does--but her deportment,\nwhatever that is, and--and manners.\"\n\n\"She carries herself like a queen,\" asserted her mother, \"even\nthough she is thin and awkward yet. And her manners--should you wish\nthem altered, father?\"\n\n\"She is ours, my dear,\" he said tenderly; \"and I think her\nsimplicity natural and charming. But perhaps she has said\nsomething--she does sometimes--to Mrs. Lytchett.\"\n\n\"She does often. Mrs. Lytchett was here yesterday. I know she is\ngood, but she is irritating, John. She condoled with me about your\nlitter, and wondered if I couldn't arrange a room for you up in the\nattics. And she said she was sure all the boys were behaving badly\nin church on Sunday afternoon--and why didn't Marjorie sit between\nthem, instead of at the end of the pew, where the corner was a\ntemptation to her to lounge? And then she made a set at the stocking\nbasket, and criticised the darning, and pitied us dreadfully for so\nmany boys, all with knees, as well as red heads. And then Marjorie\nbroke out. She thought the heads were beautiful, also the knees,\nand that the boys behaved in church like saints; and that you'd be\nmiserable in the attics without me--though she could understand that\nwith a nagging woman always about a man must have somewhere to hide\nhimself.\"\n\n\"I hope Marjorie won't turn into a virago,\" her father said\nanxiously, after a pause. \"That was rude, even if it were true. She\nis cramped here--it is a cramping place; and we are to blame--we put\ntoo much upon her.\"\n\nHe sighed, and rose to take his wife's cup, and then stretched\nhimself before the fireless grate. \"She has a dangerous gift of\nimagination. Will she ever be satisfied with Warde? I have told him\nhe may speak now. But she is a child still, she has no idea----\" he\npaused.\n\nAn inroad of boys, come to be inspected by their mother before\nstarting on their errand, brought their father back to the table and\nthe letter they were to take. Sandy, balancing on the arm of his\nchair, superintended its composition.\n\n\"Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'\" he announced\naloud to the others. They were standing round the table; the\nsmallest of them, aged three, could just rest his chin upon it, and\nwas listening in solemn admiration of Sandy's sentiments.\n\n\"Are you going to take all this horde with you, Marjorie?\" her\nmother asked, her observant eyes glancing from collar to collar and\nfrom boot to boot.\n\n\"Yes, mother; I thought it would economise matters. They're all\nmischievous, and will need apologising for some time; it is such a\nconvenient way to school.\"\n\n\"'My little sons will, I hope, make their 'pologies in person for\ntheir rudeness. I am extwemely sorry----'\" sang out Sandy, raising\nhimself on his elbows, dug into the table, the better to see what\nhis father was writing.\n\n\"Don't put 'little,' father,\" he pleaded; \"he'll think it's Ross or\nOrme, 'stead of us.\"\n\n\"I suppose you know what an apology is, Sandy?\" Mr. Bethune\nbethought himself to inquire as he finished writing, and looked down\nat the curly head bobbing across his arm.\n\n\"Ought to,\" grunted Sandy, panting in his efforts to plant his toes\nbetween the spokes of his father's chair. \"Never do so no more--till\nnext time.\"\n\n\"If it is that, I shall be sorry, Sandy, in this case, because this\ngentleman's a stranger.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Sandy, dropping to the floor and glancing up into the\ngrave blue eyes, of which his own were an exact reproduction,\nwithout the gravity.\n\n[Illustration: \"You look as if you had been in mischief,\" she\nremarked.--_p. 67._]\n\n\"'Pologies is funny things,\" he said, pensively. \"Mrs. Lytchett said\nwe ought to be whipped when we made the peacocks scream, an' we\n'pologises; and Charity boxed Dave's ears for treadin' on her fine\nnew frock, an' he 'pologised--an' the Dean 'pologised back for\nher crossness. An' now, seems as if 'pologies did 'stead of leavin'\noff doin' what you want. Them peacocks screamed again to-day at\ndinner-time, an' to-morrer we----\"\n\nA quick frown from his elder brother stopped the admission that was\ncoming.\n\n\"Your morality, your deductions, and your grammar are equally\nmatched, Sandy,\" said his father. \"Who is going to carry this\nletter?\"\n\n\"Me, me!\" implored the baby, advancing a chubby hand, plucked from\nhis mouth for the purpose. He looked like one of Sir Joshua's\ncherubs--nothing visible of him over the edge of the table but a\nround moon face of exquisite fairness, with a large background of\nsoft white hat instead of cloud.\n\n\"You'll see that the boys behave and apologise properly, Marjorie,\"\nher father said, sinking back into his chair with such an expression\nof peace on his face as quite compensated his young daughter for\nthe annoyance of the errand on which she was conducting her young\nbrothers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nANTONY PELHAM.\n\n\nThe surroundings of Norham Cathedral were the great attraction\nof the little town to Antony Pelham. Large, airy houses, set in\ngardens to match, with here and there a field running down to the\nstreet, formed one side of the main thoroughfare of the town. It\nwas wide and shady, bounded on its other side by the Canons' Walk,\na gravelled terrace, extending the whole length of the cathedral\ngraveyard, over-arched by \"immemorial elms,\" where the rooks, year\nafter year, cawed their noisy affairs into the ears of those below.\nAt the eastern end of the cathedral the Canons' Court terminated the\nWalk, and provided residences for the minor canons almost under the\ncathedral walls. The Deanery stood at one end of the Court, and the\ngardens of all the houses extended southwards to enclosed fields\ncalled the Parks, on which also the grounds of the old palace, on\nthe southern side of the cathedral, abutted.\n\nBeyond the boundaries of the Cathedral Precincts the town developed\ninto a small, compact area of shops, and then sprawled on into\nsuburbs. These, called respectively Easton and Weston, had little to\ndo with each other, and less with the exclusive Precincts. They had\na church and parish apiece, served by two of the minor canons.\n\nThe spacious houses round the cathedral had been built originally to\nserve as town houses for the county families. They were now often\nused as dower houses, or pleasant homes to retire to from the active\nwork of life. Their owners formed a sufficiently large circle to\nmake society pleasant, but they admitted no one into their midst who\nwas not \"one of them.\"\n\nWhen old General Orme died, he left no one to occupy the fine old\nhouse on the hill called \"The Ridges,\" beyond which the \"Green,\"\nwith its complement of houses--also old, but filling the more useful\n_r\u00f4les_ of Grammar School, Sessions House, and such like--descended\ninto the valley. Here, as far off as possible, the necessary lock-up\nand railway station hid their commonness out of sight.\n\nIt was with amazement, and incredulity at his audacity, that the\nnews gradually was received of the purchase of \"The Ridges,\" by\nAntony Pelham, a lawyer from the big town of Blackton, eight miles\naway. This manufacturing town had superseded Norham as the county\ntown--since which it was scarcely ever mentioned, much less visited,\nby the Norhamites. Not only had he bought \"The Ridges\" but, with\nan extraordinary fatuity, he meant to go on with his business and\ntravel backwards and forwards.\n\nAfter hearing this, nobody troubled to make any further inquiries\nabout him--he was beneath notice. It was stated by the neighbours\nwhose grounds adjoined his that an army of workmen had been sent\nfrom somewhere, and were, of course, making a wreck of the beautiful\nold house. But no interest was taken in their proceedings, except by\nDavid and Sandy Bethune, who rapturously availed themselves of the\nkindly circumstances attending his advent. The short cut to school\non the Green, up a gravelled path on the edge of the field, which\nthe old General had put at the service of his friends who wished\nto visit the Green, had become lately to the Bethune boys a way to\nbliss. Marjorie and her brothers now slowly ascended the hill to\n\"The Ridges\" by this path.\n\nAs they walked along, more like owners than suppliants for\nforgiveness, David pointed out to his sister the hiding-places\nthey had found convenient. Marjorie's own conscience was asleep on\nthe matter, and she did not put herself out to rebuke him. The man\nwas angry. Her father had written that his boys would apologise.\nShe supposed they would. They were generally able to do so when\nnecessary, without in the least considering themselves bound thereby\nas to future action.\n\nMarjorie looked with interest at the places pointed out to her on\nthe way up. She even enlarged a hole in the undergrowth to admit\nSandy's plump body. But a vague irresolution and faint sense of\ndiscomfort came into her mind as the old red-brick house came in\nsight, and a blaze of colour from the flower-beds before the windows\nstruck upon her vision.\n\n\"Boys,\" she said, softly, \"David, you will be nice, even if this\nman is a cad. Do you hear, Sandy?\" she said more sternly, as Sandy\npanted to her side, returning from some exploration.\n\n\"All right,\" said Sandy; \"there he is!\"\n\nThey had emerged from the shrubbery path and had reached the\nedge of the lawn, which was divided from the long field by some\nwhite palings. Steadying herself by these, and an occasional grip\nat her father's trousers, as he walked beside her, was a little\ntwo-year-old girl. Her nurse was visible at some distance, sitting\nat needlework under the trees.\n\n[Illustration: \"Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'\"\nhe announced.--_p. 68._]\n\nUndecided whether to advance on to the lawn, or to go further and\nring at the front-door bell, Marjorie paused. The man's back was\ntowards her. It did not present the appearance she had somehow\nexpected. Why her imagination should have invested the new-comer\nwith the attributes of a vulgar old man she could not afterwards\nrecollect. But she had expected this. Instead, the back was young,\nand slim, and well-coated; and the finely poised head above it was\nadorned with a crop of short dark curls. Seeing him thus, Marjorie\nwas conscious of a little embarrassment. A filtering doubt, creeping\nthrough her mind, made her give a hasty glance round at her young\nbrothers.\n\nDavid's eyes were glaring at the figure of his enemy, his face\nwearing an expression of deep disgust. Sandy had put on the air of\njaunty unconcern with which he always met a difficulty. Ross, aged\nfour, was looking distrustfully at the baby, whilst only on little\nOrme's cherubic face was there any appreciation of the situation. He\ngave an exclamation of delight, unloosed his hand from the relaxing\ngrasp of Marjorie, and hurried over the grass, head foremost, as was\nhis wont when in a hurry. This youngest Bethune, like his brothers\nbefore him, had a sociable disposition; and was apt at making\nfriends of every person, especially every infant person, he came\nnear. From the private study of the Bishop--whereto his way was by\na friendly window--to the cottage hearths he occasionally visited\nthrough convenient open doors when on his rambles--Orme Bethune was\na welcome guest. To him girl-babies were a special fascination. He\nmade advances to this one immediately.\n\nSitting down on the grass, to accommodate his three years to her\ntwo, he essayed to draw her nearer. She responded femininely. First\nshe hid her face behind her father's legs. Then she unloosed his\ntrousers and steadied her approach by the big brim of Orme's hat.\nWith the other hand she rained blows upon his face. Bashing her\ndolls' heads was, with this baby, a preliminary to loving them.\nFinding this one to be flesh and blood, she crowed with glee, and\nsat down suddenly beside him.\n\nMr. Pelham had advanced a step or two on beholding Marjorie, her\nface an unexpected marvel of youth and fairness, against the dark\nbackground of the trees. Then his eyes fell on David's scowling\ncountenance; he stopped, and his face flushed.\n\n\"Father has sent you a letter,\" Marjorie began. \"Which of you has\ngot it?\" turning to the boys.\n\n\"Not me,\" said David sullenly, his manner conveying that no power on\nearth could have induced him to touch it.\n\n\"Nor me,\" said Sandy cheerfully.\n\n\"Surely you brought it?\" Marjorie asked, a certain severity in her\ntone. \"You, Ross?\" hopefully.\n\nRoss's face had just lighted up with the intention of making a trio\nof the charming duet on the lawn. He was slower than his more agile\nbrothers--but sure, and none the less mischievous, for that his\nmischief was better matured beforehand. He opened his hands to show\nhis innocence, and, murmuring \"Me go find it!\" he joined Orme.\n\nMarjorie's eyes were lifted in an appealing fashion, the prettiness\nof which she would have been the last to believe, to the dark eyes\nsomewhat haughtily questioning hers.\n\n\"My father wrote,\" she was beginning, when a skirmish and a squeal\nmade her stop. Ross was rifling his little brother's pockets with an\nair of business. Orme was wriggling and fighting, and the baby was\nkicking and screaming in his defence, a vivid little vixen.\n\n\"Here,\" said Ross proudly, as having overturned Orme and left him\nprostrate, he held up Mr. Bethune's letter.\n\nMarjorie's colour rose at the aspect of the dishevelled note. Its\nappearance, indeed, was not that of a missive calculated to appease\nthe anger of an offended man. She watched a little amusedly the\nexpression of the long fingers which daintily received and opened\nthe crumpled paper. Then it struck her that in the character of\nsuppliants they were not behaving properly.\n\nShe looked at David. His face now wore an expression of absolute\nvacuity. She wondered if by any possibility it would be taken for\npenitence. She hoped it might, as it certainly expressed nothing\nelse. Laying her hand on his shoulder--after all, he was only nine,\nand could not have done much mischief, even if he had behaved\nbadly--Marjorie gave him a gentle push forward.\n\n\"My little brother is sorry,\" she began, as the dark eyes, smiling\nnow, were uplifted from the note.\n\nBut David, beating off her hand, said fiercely, \"I'm not!\"\n\n\"Oh, David!\" said Marjorie, helplessly. \"Then, if you aren't, why\ndid we--you come?\" a sudden passion in her tone.\n\n\"Margie! Margie!\" called the cheerful voice of Sandy. And Marjorie\nturned her eyes hopefully to the speaker. He, at least, would not\nfail her in this emergency--he was always ready to say something\nnice.\n\nSandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby. His cap had\nfallen off, and she was alternately thumping his tight curls and\nlaying her face down upon them in gurgling delight. This living\nhead, with its silky adornments, was quite a new sort of toy in her\nhitherto child-solitary life.\n\nMr. Pelham made an alarmed step forward. He expected nothing less\nthan the sudden destruction of his baby. But Sandy, grasping her\ntightly with both sturdy arms, eluded his outstretched hand and went\non to Marjorie.\n\n\"Ain't she a nice baby, Margie? She's a girl. Don't you wish\nwe'd got a girl 'stead of on'y boys? Can I take this'n home?\" he\ndemanded, suddenly fixing brilliant blue eyes on the baby's owner.\n\n\"Oh, Sandy, Sandy! are you as artless as you seem?\" thought\nMarjorie, watching with sympathy the magnetic change on the father's\nface as he looked down at his child.\n\n\"I am sorry. I can't spare her,\" he said gently, looking kindly at\nthe eager beggar.\n\n\"Can't you?\" disappointedly; \"I should like her ever so.\"\n\n\"Me, too,\" cried Orme, standing by with straddled legs and wide-open\neyes fixed on Mr. Pelham.\n\n\"Me yike her ever so,\" chimed in Ross, ambling up and joining the\ngroup, murmuring, as no one attended to him, that he would carry her\nin his two arms.\n\n[Illustration: Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the\nbaby.]\n\nIn her dark, flashing beauty this baby, with her vivid face, her\nquick movements, her vitality, her curious coquetry of advance and\nwithdrawal, was a revelation to the little boys. Only David--silent\nand superior--still held aloof, till the baby suddenly saw him and\nclaimed him for another slave.\n\n\"Up!--up!\" she called, in the imperious monosyllables by which she\ndeclared her will, holding out her arms to David and beating an\nimpatient tattoo on Sandy with her toes. No boy could have resisted\nthe flattery--least of all David, whom his mother often set to\n\"mind\" the babes because he was so good to them. And David--a sudden\nflush and smile illumining his face--took her from Sandy's unwilling\nclasp.\n\n * * * * *\n\nNo apologies were made that day. In David's arms the baby\naccompanied her new friends--all clamouring, all seeking to\namuse--down the hill to the gate.\n\nMarjorie and Mr. Pelham followed slowly. If the man found the young\ngirl interesting, he was to her equally so. She had come across no\none like him before. He had come out of a world of which she knew\nnothing--of which, until to-day, she had never thought. Not many\nworking people had hitherto come under her notice.\n\n\"Have you pictures?\" she had asked, in surprise at a remark.\n\n\"A few--I wish I had shown them to you, as you care for them.\"\n\n\"But you have altered the old house?\" There was a world of reproach\nin her tone.\n\n\"Not for the worse, I hope. It has been most carefully restored.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes--restored!\" said Marjorie slightingly. The word was an\nabomination, savouring of destruction, in Norham.\n\nMr. Pelham smiled. \"Come and see some day,\" he said. \"I should like\nMr. Bethune's opinion. My friend, the architect, wondered that I had\nnot claimed his counsel.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you? People do.\"\n\n\"I realised my--presumption,\" he answered, pausing a moment for a\nword.\n\nMarjorie turned to look at him.\n\n\"My father----\" she began; \"you are laughing at us. I know what you\nmean. We are old-fashioned, behind the times, prejudiced, narrow--I\nwonder you came.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"It was just for that I came. I wanted my little one to\nhave, a beautiful home, and all beside that you have said.\"\n\n\"But you, of course, despise old things! Do you?\" she asked--\"even\nthat!\"\n\nThey had reached in their descent of the hill an opening in the\ntrees whence across the field stood out blackly against the luminous\nwestern sky the stately cathedral. Fore-shortened against the sky,\nthe great length of the building was not perceptible. But the twin\nspires, the great central tower, the dome of the chapter-house, and\nthe length of the northern transept, suggested a building raised for\nall time, if not for eternity.\n\n\"That is old,\" said Marjorie, a world of possessive delight in her\nvoice.\n\n\"You share your father's love for it?\" he said, turning to look at\nthe face beside him, its fairness accentuated by the evening glow.\n\n\"How do you know? You know my father?\" And a man less acute than\nthis one would have seen the way straight before him into the girl's\nheart.\n\n\"Don't you think you can know a man in his books?\" he asked. \"Even\nif I had not heard him read the paper, I think I should have\nunderstood by that little book how he loved the cathedral.\"\n\n\"I did not know you were that sort,\" she said slowly, as into her\neyes there crept a friendliness, which the man, recognising, found\nvery pleasant to meet.\n\n\"But I am afraid I am not that sort,\" he said. \"I am ignorant and\nhe is learned. But I can feel the fascination of it. And I want my\nbaby to grow up amongst it all--amongst you all,\" he corrected.\n\"You remember what Ruskin says about homes? That passage after\nhe has described what houses, homes, should not be, 'tottering,\nfoundationless shells of splintered wood and mutilated stone,\ncomfortless, unhonoured dwellings which men build in the hope of\nleaving.' Instead, I would have our homes like temples, built to\nlast, and to be lovely, something God has lent to us for our life,\nand that our children will love.\" He paused. \"That is the sort of\nhome I want to make for my little one.\"\n\nThey had reached the iron gate leading into the road. Sandy, with\nan air of possession, drew forth his key and threw it open, and the\naction brought recollection back to Marjorie.\n\n\"Oh!\" with a sudden start, \"we came to apologise, and I forgot.\nSandy, give Mr. Pelham his key, and remember----\"\n\nSandy came forward, holding out the key with a twinkle in his merry\neyes. \"I 'pologise,\" he said.\n\nMr. Pelham laughed. \"Keep the key, and come in and see my baby as\nyou go backwards and forwards; she has no playfellows.\"\n\n[Illustration: The baby flashed her smiles and kissed her hands.]\n\nThe baby from her father's arms flashed her smiles and kissed her\nhands, as the two stood watching through the gate the receding\nfigures of the Bethunes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE BEGINNINGS OF LOVE.\n\n\n\"Marjorie, I've met the new man.\"\n\n\"What man?\" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the\npolishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age,\nthe Dean's only child.\n\n\"The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father\nask him in the train. Oh--don't think I did it out of charity,\" she\nsaid, laughing. \"He was staying at Oldstead--you know we've been\nthere. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!\" and she caught up\nthe three-year-old and kissed him.\n\n\"He'll spoil your grand frock,\" cautioned Marjorie. \"They've been\nmaking mud-pies in their hovel.\"\n\n\"Pies,\" said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging\nat her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him.\n\nMarjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by\nall the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of\nnine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her\nthoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in\nher busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could.\n\n\"Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'\" she murmured; \"but\nit is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd--I gathered that from\nmother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?\" as the other girl ran\nback and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast\nas their fat legs would allow.\n\n\"My sonnet? Not I! I've been basking in the Duchess's smiles and\nwearing my new frocks. She asked after you; she didn't know you'd\ngot back. I put on this new one to show you, Marjorie.\"\n\n\"You look very silvery and cloudy,\" Marjorie said. \"It suits you,\nbut it wouldn't stand much work.\"\n\n\"Neither should I. Oh, Marjorie--hateful word! Don't distil Mrs.\nLytchett. I was forgetting Mr. Pelham. He sings divinely--a sort of\nbaritony tenor, that floats, and melts--I can't describe it. What\nstupids we've all been about him!\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Thinking him so deep down in Blackton smoke. He knew all the people\nat Oldstead. Blackton seems the fashion there, like an East-End. It\nwas too silly having to be introduced, when he lives on the other\nside of the road. He seemed to know you, Marjorie.\"\n\n\"Yes--I went there.\"\n\n\"You went there? To call?\"\n\n\"To apologise, as usual,\" laughing; \"the boys had been in mischief.\"\n\n\"Why, he said what jolly boys they were, and that his baby was quite\nhappy with them; and he was so glad she should have some companions.\nI thought he little knew.'\n\n\"Yes--he forgave them.\"\n\nHer visitor laughed. \"Now, Marjorie, don't be so hoity-toity. Why\ndid you go if you didn't want to be forgiven?\"\n\n\"Why? To save father bother.\" Unconsciously, the young voice took\na pathetic tone. \"Do you think we would have demeaned ourselves\notherwise?\"\n\nThere was the sound of the clatter of voices. Marjorie sprang up to\ntry and stop an excursion into the drawing-room. Her friend leant\nback in her chair, and looked after her.\n\n\"If Marjorie were well-dressed,\" she thought, \"she'd be a beauty.\nThat girl they were fussing after isn't in with her--only she's got\nclothes; clothes mean so much. Why, Sandy, what have you got there?\"\n\nSandy panted to her side, both his arms laden with a baby. She did\nnot appear to mind her uncomfortable position; but when deposited\nupon Charity's lap, bent her brows in a scowl, as she studied Miss\nFrancklin's dainty finery.\n\n\"It's the baby from 'The Ridges'--she's got a name a mile long; we\ncall her Barbe. We found her, so we brought her. We wanted a girl\ndown here.\"\n\n\"You don't mean,\" said Marjorie, overhearing, and turning to David,\n\"that you've brought her without leave? Oh, David!\"\n\n\"She was sittin' in her carriage, all silks and satins, and we saw\nthe nurse's petticoats whisk in; so we just ran the pram down the\nhill, and left it inside the gate. That nurse finks a deal too much\nof herself,\" explained Sandy.\n\n\"You'll have to go this very minute and say where she is,\" said\nMarjorie. \"Go, David, both of you--run!\" she urged, remembrance\ncoming of the father's face as he looked at his child.\n\n\"I'll go with you,\" Charity exclaimed good-naturedly, springing up.\n\"Come, boys--hadn't we better take her back with us, Marjorie?\"\n\n\"Perhaps you had,\" said Marjorie. \"But why should you trouble?\"\n\n\"It's no trouble. I wanted to go to the Green, and I am ready.\"\n\nThe four disappeared, chattering and laughing, and Marjorie once\nmore applied herself to her poem. Her eyes rested vaguely on the\nflowers before her. Her thoughts would not come. Instead, came\nothers--on dress, and the inequalities of life. Charity looked\nvery fluffy and soft--very different her dress was from Marjorie's\ngreen linen. Marjorie looked down on her skirts disparagingly, not\nexactly envying the soft summer dress of her friend, but seeing the\ncontrast. Charity could have everything she wanted. Money was never\nlacking, and she had an indulgent father. Marjorie's father--here\nthe girl's face took on a tender look--had no money to spare. The\ntwo boys at Winchester cost so much, and there were the others to\nfollow. But not for a moment would Marjorie have parted with one of\nthem--pervasive, noisy, unsettling, costly, too, though they were.\nHer thoughts ran on, finishing at last with: \"You've got to face\nfacts. Charity is Charity, by herself. And I am I, one of seven. I\nhad better brush my frock.\"\n\n[Illustration: The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie.]\n\nThe Precincts, as they gradually thawed to the new-comer, reprobated\nhis choice of companions for his little daughter.\n\n\"The Bethune boys are the last you should encourage,\" said Mrs.\nLytchett to him, the night he first dined at the Palace. \"They've\nhad no bringing up. Their father doesn't look after them, and their\nmother can't, poor thing. Marjorie is a spitfire, and has only just\nleft off mischief herself--if she has. There's nothing they're not\ncapable of--nothing!\"\n\n\"Your little girl is a delight to the Bethune boys,\" the Bishop said\nin his kind tones, later. \"They brought her to see me this morning.\nOh! they won't do her any harm, just the contrary,\" in reply to an\nanxious question, \"if they aren't led away by their adventurous\nspirits. They are honest, plucky boys, and chivalric in a peculiar\nmanner. And their sister--ah! there she is!\"\n\nThe Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie, without the meed of praise\nhe was on the point of bestowing; but Mr. Pelham, watching them,\ngathered that Marjorie was a favourite. She was looking well,\ndistinguished, in her youthful, immature way, in a graceful,\nsoft dress, whose clinging folds suited her height and slimness.\nCharity's pink prettiness, aided by every careful detail of dress\nand ornament, faded to nothing beside her. Marjorie had not been\ndining, but had come in through the conservatory, her wrap over her\narm. There was a look of grave purity and freshness about her, that\nsort of expectancy on a young face which gives a beholder a pang,\nknowing how soon it will be disturbed by the wisdom and cares of\nthe world. But the beholder to-night thought it beautiful. It drew\nhim to her, more than any mere beauty would have done. \"Just like\nthat\"--the unspoken wish arose in his heart--\"may my little one grow\nup!\" Another thought followed, stabbing him for a moment with a pang.\n\nHe was roused by Charity's soft blandishments.\n\n\"Will you come and sing with me, Mr. Pelham? Mrs. Lytchett wants\nsome music. It is such a comfort to have another good tenor, instead\nof only Mr. Warde. That is he,\" she said softly, directing his\nglance to a man who had just joined the Bishop and Marjorie.\n\n\"Who is he?\" he asked, something in the manner of the lingering\nhandshake, some air of possession, striking coldly on Mr. Pelham.\n\n\"One of the minor canons. He is very well off and, as you see,\ngood-looking, and fancies himself a little.\" Charity laughed\nlightly. \"Also,\" lowering her voice, \"he is said to fancy Marjorie.\nI believe it is an understood thing. He wanted her a year ago, but\nshe was only seventeen. She is a year younger than I am, but you\nwouldn't think it, would you?\"\n\nMr. Pelham, as he turned with Charity to the piano, felt a sudden\nwrath at the man--a man much older than himself--who had the\ninsolence to pretend to claim that slim girl.\n\nA little later he made his way to the sofa, where Marjorie was\nsitting with Mrs. Lytchett. That lady, full of kindliness to\nMarjorie, fully intending to chaperon her during the winter to all\nthe festivities, yet liked to remind her pretty frequently of her,\nas yet, unintroduced and unimportant condition. The skirmishes\nbetween them were hot; and Marjorie had just flashed out, \"After\nall, mother has her wits, even if she has to lie on her sofa,\" when\nMr. Pelham said:\n\n\"The Bishop has asked me to persuade Miss Bethune to play to us.\"\n\n\"Yes, Marjorie, go and play one of your little pieces,\" Mrs.\nLytchett said, dismissing Marjorie and her flash of temper as she\nwould have sent off a child.\n\nMarjorie got up immediately.\n\n\"No, thank you,\" she said, sitting down before the piano, and\nsmiling up at Mr. Pelham standing beside her. \"My little pieces are\nhere,\" lifting slightly the slender hands resting on her knee.\n\nWondering what this girl could have to say in such a language,\nunwilling to hear anything crude or jarring that should spoil the\nperfection of simplicity he was beginning to see in her, Mr. Pelham\nmoved aside, his eyes resting disappointedly on her bent head. She\nraised her hands, and struck the opening notes.\n\nThe Bishop sank down into a large chair near, with a soft sigh. The\nbuzz of conversation slowly died away. A delicate melody, in some\nunaccustomed minor mode, stole through the vaulted room, and Mr.\nPelham drew a breath of relief. He need not have feared. There was\nnothing crude or jarring here.\n\nAfter a few minutes her hands fell, with the lingering soft\nrepetition of an unfinished phrase, and Marjorie lifted her eyes,\nliquid and dreamy with the thoughts that filled her mind. They\nmet a look from dark unfamiliar eyes, never again through all her\nlife to seem to her as the eyes of a stranger. They held her own,\nfascinated, arrested, almost like a voice speaking through the\nsilence.\n\nHer lips parted, as with a soft little sigh, her eyes fell.\n\n[Illustration: Remembering she had stood there with him.]\n\n\"Is that all?\" the Bishop asked, disappointedly.\n\n\"Yes, that is all.\"\n\nAntony Pelham's heart, as he walked up the hill in the moonlight,\nwas full. He was only twenty-eight, and desperately lonely, after\nthe year of brightness and delight he had shared with his young\nwife. Marjorie reminded him of her in some strangely familiar\nway--in her simplicity, her immaturity, her withdrawals. He\nturned to look at the cathedral, shining white in the moonlight,\nremembering that she had stood there with him, and that their talk\nhad been about a home.\n\n\"I will win her,\" he said, as he turned, and set his face to climb\nthe hill.\n\nEND OF CHAPTER THREE.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A NEW CREATION]\n\nA NEW CREATION\n\nBy\n\nThe Rev W.W. Tulloch, D.D.\n\n \"In Christ--a new creature.\"--2 CORINTHIANS V. 17.\n\n\nI fancy that we have all felt the need of a change of air, of life,\nof our physical surroundings, our mental and moral environment; and\nwe have experienced the good that such a change has done us. We have\ntoiled on through the bad weather, the hard work, the much worry\nof a long winter; or we have been kept at our post and laboured\nlistlessly through a hot and oppressive summer. The wheels of life\nhave dragged slowly. We have felt below par. Everything has been\nmore or less a trouble to us. The routine of daily duty has become\ndismally monotonous. The zest has departed. Our very sleep is not\nrefreshing. We lie down with our weariness and trouble about us and\nin us, and when we awaken we are still surrounded and dominated by\nit. The burden seems no lighter for our repose. No new strength\nseems to have been gained to face the calls of the new day--a day\nwhich it is a trouble even to think about.\n\nWell, we are ordered a change, or, driven by our instincts, we seek\none, or the blessed holiday season comes round at last. We go away,\nand in fresh air, in a change of occupation, amid new interests and\nassociations, we begin to feel quite different. The old lassitude\nand weariness have passed away. We have not been long in our changed\nplace of abode, when we begin to say to ourselves and to write home\nthat we feel quite new persons--a different man, a different woman.\nAnd when we return our very appearance, our talk, the whole attitude\nin which we regard life, the eagerness with which we take up the\nold task, tell to all who are interested in us how much improved we\nare, how much healthier and better we look. More to the purpose, we\nourselves feel better in every way. The change has done us ever so\nmuch good. In it we have found our old self and yet a new self, and\nwe rejoice and are glad.\n\nA somewhat similar experience often comes to us after reading some\nbook which has influenced us strongly. It has opened to us a longer\nvista and a higher reach of life. It has given to us new views, new\nideas, new aspirations, and made us live with a higher ideal before\nus. \"It has made a new man of me,\" we say. Old things have passed\naway. Or we have come under the influence of some pure love, some\nself-sacrificing devotion, such as made the late Professor Tyndall\nsay in writing of his wife to a friend that she had given him quite\na new idea as to the possibilities of human nature. Or in daily\nassociation with some active brain, some large-hearted companion, we\nhave formed at once new motives and new interests. All things have\nbecome new.\n\nOr, again, we have found a new vocation. The consciousness of the\npossession of higher powers, of perhaps our real powers, has come to\nus. We have discovered that we have been endowed with the possession\nof some gift of which we were not aware. Some power has been lying\ndormant. It has now been awakened, and upon the very threshold of\nwhat we feel must now be a better and a higher life, we realise that\nwe are new creatures.\n\nI was lately reading the life of a famous singer, Jenny Lind, \"the\nSwedish Nightingale,\" as she was called. She had been singing in\npublic for some time, but she had only been feeling her wings, as\nthe saying goes. But on a certain day there came the moment of\nmoments. \"I got up that morning one creature,\" she herself often\nsaid; \"I went to bed another creature. I had found my power.\" And\nall through her life she kept that day with a religious solemnity.\nShe would ask to have herself remembered on it with prayers. She\ntreated it as a second birthday. And rightly, for on that day she\nawoke to herself. She became artistically alive. She felt the\ninspiration and won the sway she now knew she was given to hold.\nAnd this consciousness was not merely the recognition that she was\nsinging better than ever. It was more of the nature of a new fact\nin her life, a disclosure, a revelation. \"It was a step,\" says\nher biographer, \"into a new world of dominion. She knew at last\nwhere it was that she stood and what she was to do upon the earth.\nShe learned something of her mission. For to her religious mind\nthe discovery of a gift was the discovery of a mission. She saw\nthe responsibility with which she was charged, through the mere\npossession of such a power over men.\" The singer with the gift of\nGod--that was what she became on that evening. She became a new\ncreature.\n\nWell, all these are only illustrations of the greatest truth in\nthe world--that in Christ we may all become new creatures or a new\ncreation.\n\nWe are prone by nature to do what is wrong rather than what is\nright; we are born with passions wild and strong, and early give the\nreins to evil desires. By the strength of our animal propensities\nwe are often carried to ruin unless we are arrested in our headlong\nand miserable career. Sometimes--nay, thank God, often--we are thus\narrested. For a time, the voice of conscience may have been hushed.\nOur heart is cold and dead, and there is no spring of life in it at\nall. But something happens. We are led to think. We come to see the\nevil of our ways, the ruin that we are bringing on others as well\nas ourselves--on the wife whom we swore to love and cherish, the\nchildren whom we are neglecting, perhaps starving.\n\nAnd then, all at once, it is borne in upon us that we must change\nour life's course. A bolt from heaven descends on us in the shape\nof some punishment or affliction. Our darkness and distress are\nrevealed to us.\n\nWe seek the only refuge for the sinner. We flee to Christ, as the\nbelated and weary traveller would flee to a hiding-place from the\nwind, a refuge from the storm, a covert from the tempest, the shadow\nof a great rock in a weary land. We become converted. In Christ we\nbecome a new creation. Oh, happy is it when we do so! Appalling and\nterrible it is when we do not. How sad and awful is the fate of one\ngiven over to the slavery, the bondage, the tyranny of some wicked\nhabit! Unless such an one is visited by the grace of God, unless the\nheinousness of his guilt is brought home to him, unless divine light\nstrikes in upon his darkened life, he will sink deeper and deeper\ninto degradation, until, perhaps, he is driven to self-destruction\nlike one of whom I lately read, and who left these terribly touching\nwords behind him. \"I am now about to finish a revolting, cruel, and\nwretched existence by an act of my own. I have broken every law of\nGod and man, and can only hope that my memory will rot in the minds\nof all who knew me. Drink has brought me to this fearful end. I am\ndying hopeless, friendless, penniless and an outcast.\" And it might\nhave been so different! Oh, that all who are giving way to any sin\nwould listen to these terrible words of warning, that they would\nclose at once with Christ's offer to make their lives different, to\nmake them new creatures--once more fresh and fair creatures of God,\nthat the old man with his corrupt affections and desires, be put\noff, and the new man in Christ Jesus be put on, that they would be\nin Christ!\n\nTo be in Christ--you know what is meant by that. You are in Christ\nif you are living in and by His Spirit; if you are breathing it\ninto your life; giving it forth again, if your life is engrafted on\nHis life as a branch is engrafted upon a tree. He is the Vine; we\nought to be as the branches which thus derive their vitality, their\nbeauty, their power of bearing leaf and fruit from the tree. The\nsame soil nourishes it; the same dews feed it; the same breezes fan\nit. So we ought to have our life fed through Christ from God. If\nwe are in Christ, we shall have the same hatred of sin as He had.\nWe shall be removing ourselves further from evil; we shall ever\nbe getting more like Christ, ever increasing in personal holiness\nand helpfulness to others, ever also willing to accept whatever\nHe sends us, subordinating our weak, wayward wills to His holy\nand perfect will. If we let these words of charm, \"In Christ,\" be\nwritten over our lives, we shall feel the old fetters fall off, the\nold unhappiness disappear, the old insubordination cease to assert\nitself.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: J. Moffat, Edinburgh._)\n\nTHE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.]\n\nWe shall hardly know ourselves, the joy of the new life is so great.\nIt is a joy, too, which we cannot keep to ourselves; we wish others\nto share our happy experience. We are constrained to wish this by\nthe new and imperial impulse by which we are dominated. Because we\ncarry heaven in our hearts we wish that others should do so, too.\nWe look upon the sinner as upon some streamlet of water which is\ndwindling away day by day and will soon be dried up and the rocky\nchannel left bare. Why? Because it is cut off from the fountain\nhead, from the source away up in the hills near God's sky. And what\nwe wish to do is to open the connection between the two, so that\nthe stream may be fed and do what it is intended to do--flow along\nin full volume, making melody as it goes and fertilising the region\nthrough which it passes. In Christ, we are like the stream connected\nwith its source: like it, we live melodious days and carry music\nto others. Or look at that branch separated from its parent stem;\nit is withering, it is dying. Again, a planet cut off from the\ncentral force and power--the sun--rushes through the dark night and\nis lost. So--if we be not in Christ, if we be separated from the\ntrue fountain, the living root, the centrifugal force--we shrivel\nup, we wither, we go to ruin here and hereafter, we die to all that\nmakes existence tolerable and of value; and it might have been so\ndifferent!\n\nShall we for the future, if need be, try to make life different to\nourselves and others?\n\nThen, if any of us become new creatures, the fact is at once\nrecognised. People ask--What has come to So-and-so? His very\nappearance is changed; his gait, everything about him is altered\nfor the better. He is regularly at his work and in his place in\nchurch. He has a pleasant smile and a kind word for everybody. His\nwife, who used often to look dull and unhappy, is now bright and\ncheerful. His children are better dressed than they were; they are\nmore frank and free with him; they take his hand; they go to meet\nhim when he comes home; they consult him about their little joys\nand sorrows. He is altogether quite different. What has come over\nhim? Oh, the explanation is a very simple one: he has ceased to do\nevil, he has learned to do well. He has left some course of sin;\nhe is following after a life of holiness. He has left the service\nof a bad master--the worst of all masters; he is now serving a new\nmaster--the best of masters. He has made the friendship of the best\nof friends; Christ is his master, his friend, his example. He is\nin Christ. That is the reason of the change, of the new creation.\nThat is the reason of the sunshine he carries about with him, and\nwhich he scatters on others. He is like Christ Himself, for all\ntrue Christians carry Christ with them, wherever they go; just as\nevery leaf we take off some plants, put into soil, will become a\nplant exactly like the parent stem from which it is taken, so the\nChrist-life in a man, if it be genuine, will reproduce its source\nand origin. The least tiny speck of musk, carry it where you may,\ndiffuses the same kind of fragrance as the plant from which it came.\nSo lives thus hid in Christ with God will be redolent of Him in all\nplaces and at all times.\n\nLet us, then, if we would be happy in our present lives--happy in\nthe memories we leave behind us--happy in the great Hereafter--see\nthat we are now in Christ, that we now know the glory and joy of\nfeeling a new creature. It is a great joy to think that old things\nhave passed away, that all things have become new. Then the very\nearth upon which we live will have a new beauty for us. We shall\nlook upon it as the creation of our Heavenly Father, as the place\nin which we are to work for Him, making our little corner of it\nbetter, happier, more blessed than we found it. Then, too, we shall\nregard our fellow-men and women quite differently. We find that they\nare related to us in new ways and with holier, more sacred ties;\nthey are our veritable brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus. We can\ndo them no harm, injure them in no way; rather shall we find it\nto be our highest duty and privilege to be helpful to them. Then,\ntoo, will pain and sorrow assume a different and new aspect. They\ncease to be altogether evils; they are seen to be blessings in\ndisguise--crosses, indeed, but only sent to bring us nearer to God\nand to Christ; bitter medicine, indeed, but needed for our spiritual\nhealth.\n\nLastly, death itself, the old foe of the human race, as he is\nsupposed by many to be, takes a new form. The awful and awesome\nshroud in which he seems to be enveloped falls off, and what we\nrecognise is not the spectral skeleton with the hollow eyes coming\nto consign us to darkness and to death, but a radiant angel, a\nsweet, blessed messenger from the Father, bidding us come with him\nto our happy and eternal Home to meet our loved and lost, to be in\nChrist and with Christ for ever, with no chance any more of breaking\noff from Him or losing Him. And, recognising this, we shall go with\nhim with the eagerness of a child to begin a new life, to enter upon\na higher existence, to do nobler work with a more untiring zeal and\nenergy, to love with a greater love; and as we stand for a moment\nto look back upon our earthly life, in the freshness of the Eternal\nMorning, in the beauty of our new Home, we shall realise that in\nChrist's Heaven, which through His great mercy and sacrifice we have\nreached, we are to be new creatures for evermore.\n\n[Illustration: W. W. Tulloch (handwritten signature)]\n\n[Illustration: decorative]\n\n\n\n\n_Told in Sunshine Room._]\n\n[Illustration: Donkey Boy to the Queen]\n\nDonkey Boy to the Queen.\n\nA True Incident. By Alfred T. Story.\n\n\nOne dull though calm afternoon, when the century was younger by\nnearly half its years than it is to-day, two bright-faced, handsome\nboys, dressed in Highland costume, were quietly fishing in a\nmountain stream, when they were disturbed in their contemplative\npastime by the piteous cries of a dog. Barely had they time to look\nround before a poor, miserable little cur ran past them, followed\nby an irate youth brandishing a stout cudgel. As the dog turned and\ncowered behind their creel, and seemed to crave their protection,\nthe elder of the brothers--for such they were--stepped between the\npoor brute and its tormentor, asking the latter what the dog had\ndone that it should be so ill-treated.\n\nSaid the lad gruffly, resenting the boys' interference:\n\n\"What's it to ye? She's ma dug, an' I'll do what I like wi' her.\"\n\n\"You shan't hit her with that stick,\" replied the sturdy youth, who,\nthough tall for his age, was not so thick-set as his opponent, and\nwas evidently a couple of years his junior.\n\n\"Mebbe I will, mebbe I willna,\" returned the lad, who, though not\nill-looking, was poorly clad, and, for the time being, ugly with\npassion. \"But I'll hae th' dug,\" and with the word he tried to push\npast the obstructer. A scuffle ensued, in which the younger boy\nwrested the cudgel from the dog's tormentor, but, as his share,\nreceived a blow on the nose which brought blood.\n\n\"Gie me ta stick,\" said the owner of the dog, surprised that he had\nso far underrated his antagonist.\n\nThe latter's answer was to cast it into the stream.\n\nThis still more astonished the peasant lad, who seemed as though\nhe would again fall upon his antagonist. But there was something\nabout the youth's straight, well-knit figure, his handsome face,\nand flashing eye that caused him to reflect; whereupon he lowered\nhis fists, which had risen to the bravado of attack, and, in a less\ndefiant tone, said:\n\n\"Weel, let me hae Meg, an' I'll say naethin' aboot ta stick.\"\n\n\"Promise me not to beat her then.\"\n\nThe young callant gave the required undertaking, and the next minute\nhe had the shrinking little animal in his arms and was walking away\nwith it the way he had come. But, turning round when he had gone a\nfew rods, he saw the youth who had withstood him bending over the\nstream, laving his face in the cool water.\n\nNow, for the first time, Tam, as he was called, noticed something\nabout the boys which in his anger he had failed to mark. It was\nnot their dress--though that betokened rank above the common; it\nwas something more intimate than that; something in the air, in the\nmanner, of them which made him uneasy in his mind, and caused him to\nsteal home with lagging gait and eyes that sought the ground.\n\nHis home was a little bracken-thatched one-storey cottage, or hut,\nwith stone walls, planted in a green oasis of a few yards square,\namid a wilderness of rock and shingle, overgrown with moss and\nheather and other rough vegetation, from which a few stray sheep\nand stunted cattle gathered a scanty subsistence. These were Tam's\ncharge. For not far from the little two-roomed cot which he called\nhis home were other huts like it, inhabited by poor, hard-working\npeople like his grandparents, each having a few sheep, or a cow or\ntwo, and one or another a donkey or wild-looking Highland pony; and\nhe, having to look after his grandfather's little stock, was paid a\ntrifle by the others to tend theirs too.\n\nTam Jamison had done this since he was five, at which age he was\nleft an orphan by the death of his mother, who died broken-hearted\nat the loss of her husband, fighting in a distant land against\nBritain's foes.\n\nHe was now twelve; and though he loved the braes and the mountain\nstreams, he was beginning to chafe at his narrow life, wanting to\nbe off now with the drovers, now with the sportsmen and gillies,\nor the coachmen who drove their teams daily in the season past his\ngrandfather's croft. It was a hard task for the old folks, Donal\nand Yetta Jamison, to retain him at home, impossible to make him\ncontent. They did their best to keep him under control; but it was\nchiefly done by coaxing, a good deal by petting. This in the end\ndid not lighten their task. Every day Tam became more wayward and\ndifficult; every other day there were complaints of his negligence\non the one hand, of his mischief on the other; and then, to cap all,\nit came to the old people's ears that their Tam--it could be no\nother--had dared to raise his fist against one of the princes of the\nblood, no less than the Prince of Wales.\n\nThat very evening the news was all over the country-side. The next\nmorning there was such a hubbub as never was heard. Everybody said\nTam would certainly be sent to jail, if no worse thing befell him.\nTam, braving the thing out, said he \"didna mind\"; but the old\nfolks, greatly caring, put on their Sunday best, and set out to\nwalk to Braemar to see and intercede with the Queen on the boy's\nbehalf. They found her not at home, and so had their long trudge for\nnothing. However, one of the domestics drew from them what their\nbusiness was; and the next day a little lady, very plainly dressed,\nriding on a wee, shaggy pony, stopped at the door, and, being helped\nto dismount by a man who was with her, entered the hut and asked for\nTam's grandparents.\n\n[Illustration: A little lady on a shaggy pony stopped at the door.]\n\nThey were not afraid of the little lady, because she looked so\ngood and kind, and spoke so gently, but when they discovered that\nshe was from Braemar, and that it was to learn all about Tam that\nshe had come, they were almost tremblingly anxious. Thinking that\nthe Queen had sent her, they apologised very humbly for the boy's\nmisbehaviour, saying it did not arise from any badness in him so\nmuch as from wilfulness and daring. They hoped the Queen wouldna be\nsevere on the laddie; he was little more than a child, and though\nmasterful and not to be said, he had not a bad heart. It was partly\ntheir fault, no doubt, as Tam, having no parents, had been left to\nthem very young, and they, perhaps, had spoiled him just a little.\n\nSo the old folks went on, the tears often in their eyes.\n\nIn a few minutes the good lady from Braemar had made herself\nacquainted with all the circumstances of Tam's birth and rearing,\nhad heard the catalogue of his faults and shortcomings, and been\nposted as to his restlessness and discontent. It was a long and\ninteresting human inventory, wound up with the declaration,\ntearfully attested by both Donal and Yetta, that \"he wasna sae bad\nas wilfu'\"; albeit they confessed to being greatly afraid, if he\nwent away from them, as he wished, lest his masterfulness should\nlead him into evil ways.\n\n\"And where is this masterful one, this Tam?\" asked the Lady of\nBraemar. \"One would like to see him.\"\n\nTam, however, could nowhere be found. The old man looked up and down\nfor him, neighbours joined in the search; but it was only too plain\nthat Tam had hidden himself away somewhere.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Lady, at length, \"I cannot tarry any longer.\nBut the boy cannot be far away; so when he is found bring him to\nBraemar, and we will see what can be done.\"\n\nDonal and Yetta promised that such should be their care, and, as\na last word, ere the Lady rode away, they begged that she would\nintercede on Tarn's behalf \"wi' the gude and gracious Queen.\"\n\nThe Lady promised to do her utmost, and so departed.\n\nThe next day, the \"sodger's laddie,\" as Tam was called, having in\nthe meanwhile been found, the grey-headed old crofter and his wife,\nboth of them bent with toil and drooping with care, once more made\ntheir way over the hills to Braemar; Tam, downhearted, demure, and\nin his Sabbath claes, padding the turf by their side.\n\nArrived at their destination, Tam hung a low head; for in front\nof the house was congregated a little party, chiefly of children,\npreparing to set out for a ride; among the number being the two\nyoung gentlemen whom he knew.\n\nThe elder of them, the Prince of Wales, at once recognising his\nantagonist of three days ago, stepped up to him and said, with a\nfrank and kindly smile:\n\n\"Good-morning, Tam! You haven't forgotten me, have you?\"\n\nTam uttered a barely audible \"Nae.\"\n\n\"And you hold no grudge against me for throwing your stick in the\nriver, do you?\"\n\nAnother demure \"Nae\" found its way between Tam's half-closed teeth;\nbut this time he allowed his blue eyes to meet the young Prince's in\na surprised gaze.\n\n\"Then let us shake hands and be friends,\" said the Prince.\n\nTam extended his brown paw, and they clasped in token of mutual\ngoodwill.\n\nThe little scene transacted itself almost as quickly as it can\nbe read--so quickly, indeed, that Tam's grandparents witnessed\nit in mute astonishment; and before they had recovered their\nself-possession, the Lady who had called at the hut on Tam's account\nissued from the house, looking much as she had done the previous\nday, with the exception that a broad-brimmed straw hat covered her\nhead in place of a sun-bonnet.\n\n\"So you found the little runagate, did you?\" said she, addressing\nthe old folks.\n\n\"Yes, madam,\" replied Donal. \"Mister Fargus found him at night in a\ncave in the birch-wood above the burn.\"\n\n\"What made you run away, Tam?\" said the Lady, turning to the youth.\n\nTam was silent.\n\n\"Tell me. You need not be afraid.\"\n\n\"I thought mebbe I had hurt him\"--with a nod in the direction of the\nPrince.\n\n\"Oh, you didn't hurt me! You only brought a little of the red juice\nout of my nose, and that can hurt nobody,\" said the Heir-Apparent.\n\nPrince Alfred, who was standing by, smiled at his brother's sally,\nas did also the Lady in the straw hat.\n\nTam laughed outright. He had never heard or known of a bleeding nose\nbeing treated so lightly, and at the same time so funnily. His poor\ngrandparents, however, were shocked at his levity, and Yetta gave\nhim a vigorous nudge to recall him to a due sense of his position.\n\n\"If you like,\" said the Prince, \"I'll give you one of my sticks in\nplace of the one I threw away,\" adding, with nice diplomacy, \"but I\ncan tell you it's too proud a stick to hit a dog.\"\n\nTam smiled, and said he would not use it in that way.\n\n\"And I think we must ask you to promise not to think of ever\nrunning away from your grandparents,\" said the Lady.\n\nThat seemed to strike Tam as a large order.\n\n\"I wouldna like to bide on the croft when I get bigger.\"\n\n\"Why, what do you wish to be when you grow bigger?\"\n\n\"I want to be a soldier, like my father.\"\n\nYetta drew a pained breath; Donal's lips twitched.\n\n\"You would not like him to go for a soldier?\" queried the Lady.\n\n\"Baith my sons focht and deed for their kintra,\" said Donal.\n\n\"And you would like to keep your grandson to comfort you in your old\nage?\"\n\nThe old folks bowed; their trembling lips could hardly frame an\naudible \"Yes.\"\n\n\"It is quite natural. You hear that, Tam? You would not like to go\naway to the wars, as your father and your uncle did, and be killed,\nand so grieve your poor grandparents.\"\n\n\"I dinna want to grieve 'em,\" replied Tam. \"But I'd like to be a\nsoldier and fight for the Queen.\"\n\nAt this answer there was more than one moistened eyelid in the\nlittle group, whereof Tam, for the time being, constituted the\ncentral figure.\n\nAfter a brief pause, his interlocutor continued:\n\n\"But, my boy, there are other ways of serving the Queen than by\nbecoming a soldier--many other ways.\"\n\nThat was a new aspect of things to the boy, and his eyes, when he\nlifted them up to meet the Lady's, contained each a large note of\ninterrogation.\n\n\"For instance,\" she continued, \"the Queen wants a donkey-boy now,\nto attend her or the children when they drive about in their little\nphaeton.\" The boy's eyes brightened, then fell.\n\n\"You think the care of a donkey beneath you?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Then let us shake hands,\" said the Prince.]\n\n\"Nae, but I doubt that the Queen wouldna hae me to be her\ndonkey-boy.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"'Cos I hae nae bin a donkey-boy, an' I might do things wrang.\"\n\n\"But you could learn--everybody has to learn. And if you did your\nbest there could not be much fault-finding.\"\n\n\"I'd do my best.\"\n\n\"Nobody could say better than that,\" replied the Lady.\n\n\"Ah, if your leddyship,\" faltered Yetta, \"could get her Majesty to\nmek' him her donkey-boy, or to 'point him to any sic position, he\nwould still be near to us, an' a comfort in our old age.\"\n\n\"Ay, an' he would think nae mair o' running away,\" added Donal.\n\n\"You may be sure the matter will be taken into her earnest\nconsideration,\" said the Lady. \"And now, after you have had some\nrefreshment, which I will ask them to give you, you had better\ngo home, and in the course of a few days you will doubtless hear\nfurther.\"\n\nTO BE CONCLUDED.\n\n\n\n\nThe Jeshurun[1] of Christ.\n\n [1] \"All the tribes are here summed up in one name, derived from\n _jasher_, righteous. All the blessings of the Israel of God are\n concentrated here in Him, through Whom alone we are justified before\n God, Christ Who is the Lord our Righteousness.\"--_Bishop Wordsworth\n on Deut. xxviii. 26._\n\n \"There is none like unto the God of Jeshurun.\"--DEUT. xxxiii.\n 26. \"Peace--upon the Israel of God.\"--GAL. vi. 16.\n\n\n_AN ORIGINAL HYMN_\n\n_By the_ REV. S. J. STONE, _Author of_ \"_Lays of Iona_,\" \"_The\nChurch's One Foundation_,\" _&c._\n\n _Music specially composed by_ SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D.\n (_Organist of St. Paul's Cathedral._)\n\n_mf moderato_\n\n 1. On, o'er the waste, Jeshurun! Thy Help rides on the sky;\n On, when thy hope seems farthest, Sure that thy LORD is nigh.\n Sure of the sacred fountain, The mystic corn and vine;\n On through thy \"days,\" Jeshurun, There is no GOD like thine.\n\n 2. All things the sun makes precious! All fulness 'neath the moon;\n The buds and blooms of morning, The fair fruits of the noon;\n All chief things of the mountains, All wealth of shade or shine;\n These are for thee, Jeshurun, There is no GOD like thine.\n\n 3. He is the shrine about thee,\n His arms beneath thee spread;\n His Excellence and Glory\n The shield above thine head;\n What tempests rave around thee,\n What foes and fears combine--\n Still thou art safe, Jeshurun,\n There is no GOD like thine.\n\n 4. Bethink thee how from Sinai\n His Law was seen as flame;\n How, as He shone from Paran,\n His saints in thousands came:\n How these are thine ensample,[2]\n Of fear and love the sign--\n On then, in love, Jeshurun,\n There is no GOD like thine.\n\n 5. Thine is sweet Hope made perfect;\n On thee her ends have come;\n Of all her silvern shinings\n Thine is the golden sum;\n The Church the vesture human\n Wears now the robe Divine!\n On through the years, Jeshurun,\n There is no GOD like thine.\n\n 6. O Israel of JESUS,\n O happy in thy King!\n His Righteousness thy surety,\n His Peace thy covering,\n His Grace thy Fount of cleansing,\n Thy food, His Bread and Wine--\n On to the end, Jeshurun,\n There is no GOD but thine. Amen.\n\n [2] Cf. I Cor. x. 1-12. From this passage it is clear that a\n warning, as well as an encouragement, is part of the admonition to\n the Israel of God.\n\n\n\n\nTEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.\n\nBy a Leading Temperance Advocate.\n\n\nNo apology is needed for opening a temperance department in THE\nQUIVER, for in the story of the temperance reformation the name\nof John Cassell will assuredly always hold an honoured place. At\nthe time when he was enlisted in the ranks--1835--as a youth of\nseventeen, the movement had few friends and many opponents. Having\nonce signed the \"teetotal pledge,\" Cassell never deserted, but, on\nthe contrary, became one of the most persuasive advocates the cause\nhas ever had. He itinerated through the length and breadth of the\nland, and, under the name of \"The Manchester Carpenter,\" gained\na large number of adherents, some of whom subsequently achieved\ngreat reputations as temperance leaders. Even before Cassell had\nsettled down in London as a publisher, he had learnt to value the\nprinting press as an aid to temperance work, and not a few of the\npamphlets, tracts, and broadsheets which played such an important\npart in the early days of the propaganda, owed their origin to\nhis enterprising initiative. By-and-by he was in a position to\ncommand his own printing machines, and as early as March, 1846, he\nlaunched the _Teetotal Times and Monthly Temperance Messenger_,\nwhich was followed in July, 1848, by the _Standard of Freedom_, of\nwhich a temperance column was a leading feature. Anyone who takes\nthe trouble to look over these early publications cannot fail to\nbe struck by the comprehensive and statesmanlike grip of the drink\ndifficulty which they present. It was to John Cassell that Richard\nCobden wrote in 1849:--\"I don't know how it is that I have never\nmade the plunge and joined the teetotallers. Nobody has more faith\nthan I in the truth of your doctrine, both from a physical and moral\npoint of view, for the more work I have had to do the more I have\nresorted to the pump and the teapot. As for the moral bearings of\nthe question, it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that all other\nreforms together would fail to confer as great blessings upon the\nmasses as that of weaning them from intoxicating drinks.\" Cassell\npassed away at the early age of forty-eight, on April 2nd, 1865, on\nthe same day as Cobden himself, whose friendship he had enjoyed for\nnearly twenty years.\n\n[Illustration: JOHN CASSELL.\n\n(_Temperance Leader and Founder of \"The Quiver.\"_)]\n\n\nCOMING EVENTS.\n\nAmong the important events fixed for this month may be named two\nmeetings convened by the National Temperance League for November\n2nd, in Oxford, to be addressed by His Grace the Archbishop of\nCanterbury and Professor Victor Horsley, F.R.S., the distinguished\nsurgeon. One meeting is specially intended for undergraduates,\nwhile the other will be open to the townsfolk. On November 4th by\npermission of the Lord Mayor of London, the Mansion House will\nextend its hospitality to the Police Court Mission of the C.E.T.S.,\nand Bishops, Members of Parliament, and Police Court Magistrates\nwill plead the cause of this deserving charity. On November 27th the\nNonconformist Churches will observe their annual Temperance Sunday,\nand on November 30th a function anticipated with keen interest, the\nfirst Lees-Raper Memorial Lecture will take place in the Church\nHouse, Westminster.\n\n[Illustration: MR. A. F. HILLS.\n\n(_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W._)]\n\n\nSUNDAY CLOSING.\n\nThanks to the munificent generosity of Mr. Arnold F. Hills, who has\npromised a donation of \u00a35,000, conditional upon temperance friends\nmaking up another \u00a35,000, a determined effort is to be made to press\nforward the Sunday Closing question in view of the reassembling\nof Parliament early in the new year. The whole-hearted ardour and\nenthusiasm which have marked Mr. Hills' temperance labours during\nthe past ten years have made his name a household word. He started\nout with the settled conviction that the greatest need of the\ntime was the union of the temperance forces; and in the face of\ndifficulties and obstacles which would have disheartened ninety-nine\nmen out of a hundred, he has ceaselessly concentrated his energies\nto this end. The United Temperance Council, with its network\nof county councils and district councils throughout the United\nKingdom, is the creation of his active brain; while the Temperance\nParliament, which has given an opportunity to all the friends of\ntemperance legislation to discuss their various projects, is another\nchild of Mr. Hills' parentage.\n\n\nAN IRISH EXAMPLE.\n\nVisitors to Belfast cannot pass along the streets of this\nthriving, go-ahead city without being brought face to face with\nthe practical efforts of the Irish Temperance League to counteract\nthe public-houses. The League has set up nearly twenty attractive\ncoffee stands in various parts of the town, and these do a very\nlarge business and are extremely popular. The movement was commenced\nin 1874, the first stand being opened on a site granted by the\nHarbour Commissioners, for a nominal rent, near to the berths\nof the cross-Channel steamers. As many as 10,000 persons have\npatronised the stands in one day. The hours of opening and closing\nare regulated according to the locality. No intoxicating liquors\nare allowed to be consumed on the premises; the best of food is\nprovided; the most scrupulous cleanliness is observed; and no\nbills of any kind are exhibited, or anything likely to jar on the\nreligious or political feelings of the customers.\n\n[Illustration: STREET COFFEE STAND, BELFAST.]\n\n\nTHE LEES-RAPER MEMORIAL.\n\nIt will be a long time before temperance folk will forget the shock\nwhich was occasioned in May, 1897, by the sudden deaths within ten\ndays of each other, of Dr. Lees and Mr. J. H. Raper. These two\ndevoted workers were known in both hemispheres, and it would be\nimpossible in such limited space to give an adequate appreciation\nof their marvellous gifts. Dr. F. R. Lees was ever a fighter. From\nhis boyhood up to his honoured old age he was always eager for the\nfray. As a keen controversialist he was literally without a rival.\nThe winning personality of James Hayes Raper carried all before\nit. He was unquestionably a platform king. Nothing could be more\ncharming than the extraordinary facility with which he rapidly\nplaced himself in touch with an audience; and he possessed in a rare\ndegree the gift of being able to make an acceptable \"last speech\" in\na programme. The Committee charged with the promotion of a memorial\nto these temperance worthies is to be congratulated upon having\nraised nearly \u00a31,700. Of this amount, \u00a31,500 has been invested in\na terminable annuity for a period of twenty years. A Lees-Raper\nlectureship has been founded, and, as already stated, the inaugural\nlecture will be given by Dean Farrar, of Canterbury, at the Church\nHouse, Westminster, on November 30th. The Archbishop of Canterbury\nwill preside, and the Dean has chosen as his theme \"Temperance\nReform as Required by Righteousness and Patriotism.\"\n\n[Illustration: J. H. Raper.\n\n(_Photo: Lambert, Weston and Son, Folkestone._)]\n\n[Illustration: DR. F. R. LEES.\n\n(_Photo: William Coles, Watford._)]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The House Beautiful]\n\nThe HOUSE BEAUTIFUL\n\nBy Lina Orman Cooper, Author of \"We Wives,\" Etc.\n\n\n\"In the fields of taste it is always much easier to point out paths\nwhich should be avoided than to indicate the road which leads to\nexcellence.\"\n\nSuch are the words of a well-known artist of the present day. I\nfeel them to be true as I begin this paper on the House Beautiful.\nTaste differs so widely that it would be futile to try to set up a\npositive standard of beauty. Furniture has its fashions, too, though\nthey change but slowly. So we can only lay down broad general rules\nwith regard to the plenishment of our homes. We cannot insist on\ndetail.\n\nThere is no single point on which a gentlewoman is more jealous of\ndisparagement than the question of taste. Yet it is a lamentable\nfact that this very quality is often--I may say generally--deficient\neven amongst the most cultured classes. The bubble of fashion is\nblown in our drawing-rooms just as surely and even more foolishly\nthan elsewhere. Individuality is seldom seen.\n\nIn order to have lovely homes inside four commonplace walls we\nmust remember that _simplicity_ is one true element of beauty. The\nbest and most picturesque furniture of all ages has been simple in\ngeneral form. Next, good design is always compatible with sturdy\nservice, and can accommodate itself to the most fastidious notions\nof convenience. Thirdly, every article of manufacture to be really\nbeautiful should indicate by its general design the purpose to which\nit will be applied. In other words, shams and make-believes must be\nutterly tabooed.\n\nTaking these three principles as the basis of our plans for our\nown particular House Beautiful, let us consider how best we may\nsecure such. Our halls and kitchens are perhaps the best instances\nof simplicity of design. In them we seldom have more utensils or\narticles than we need. Parquetry, or inlaying with various-coloured\nwood, is an ideal floor covering, even for our modern narrow hall.\nNext to it ranks tiling, and a plain linoleum is admissible. All\nthese secure cleanliness. Warmth must next be suggested. To obtain\nthis, we lay down rugs of various colours and hang heavy curtains.\nAn oak chair, solid to look at (N.B.--Curves in furniture should\nsuggest repose, which is out of place in a passage), a chest to hold\nrugs and cloaks, a small, narrow mirror to lighten up the gloom, and\nyou have all that is necessary. A few brass dishes on the wall, a\ntall palm by one curtain, elks' antlers, etc., are permissible where\nspace is obtainable. Do not, however, ever be tempted to hang muslin\nin the alcove or to drape with flimsy materials. Leave plenty of\nroom for visitors to pass in and out, without finding entrance or\nexit blocked with exasperating detail. Colour is what really redeems\na hall from monotony. This the wall-paper and curtains and rugs\nshould give without help from trivial ornamentation.\n\nOur kitchens are perhaps the most really beautiful spots in our\nhomes, if we take true beauty to consist of absolute fitness for the\nwork to be done therein. The severe wooden dresser, with its wide\nundershelf and commodious cupboards, is as picturesque an object as\ncan be found. From time immemorial its shape has been unaltered, and\nits beauty consists in its suggestions of utility. Traditional work\nis mostly beautiful, as evidenced by the fact that the lines of a\nplough have always been the admiration of artists. Plainness is not\nugliness, and the dresser, glorified, is now one of the necessary\nbeauty spots even in our drawing-rooms. Then those Windsor chairs,\nwith their slightly sloping backs and hollowed seats, are restful\nto both eye and body. The bright steel or copper range fitted with\nnecessary knobs and useful doors is another example of the beauty\nof fitness. In fact, both stove and dresser are forms of truth and\nrealism.\n\nThe two great faults to be avoided in the dining-room of our\nHouse Beautiful are dreariness and overcrowding. The French\n_salle-\u00e0-manger_ is really an ideal to work towards. Unfortunately,\nfew of us can consecrate the parlour to meals alone; this\nliving-room has to serve many purposes. We should have it as\nspacious, thou, and airy as possible. Round tables have gone out\nof fashion, unfortunately; yet the claw-leg pedestal table is the\nmost convenient, and consequently the most decorative, of its kind.\nIt economises space, and is easily beautified. I have in memory a\ndining-room I should like to see reproduced in many a home. Just\nan ordinary square chamber, with two straight windows looking out\non a lawn; a round table, its centre encircled with flowers; a\nplain sideboard, guiltless of plate-glass, but enlivened by old\nsilver wine coolers, napkin rings, and goblets; a wide brass-bound\nfireplace with hobs; a high mantelpiece, surrounded with a brazen\ngrating; a screen, and a few fine chairs. The beauty of it--and it\nwas very beautiful--consisted in fitness for the end for which it\nwas designed. The walls were covered with a light-tinted background\nfor pictures (not with ornamental garden stuff in perspective). Its\nheavy, rich curtains hung by visible rings from a real pole; its\ncoal-scoop was of copper, not papier-mach\u00e9 tinware; its cupboards\nfull of glass that might be wanted, and silver often called for;\nits napery and napkins fine and fair; its thick carpet guiltless of\ngrating greens and crude crimsons; its windows made to open, and\nits iron-flanged door made to shut. There was no meaningless or\ncharacterless ornamental work about this old room; no inappropriate\ndecoration spoiled its well-designed and well-constructed _tout\nensemble_.\n\nAs I have sketched an ideal parlour, so would I limn a bedroom I\nhave seen. It was a queer-shaped room, with rather high windows set\nover some panelling in a little, crooked, dome-shaped alcove, a tiny\ndressing-room opened off it. The paper was yellow; the paint all\nwhite. A bed with plain brass spindles and rails stood away from\ndraught and light, headed with creamy chintz sprinkled with Scotch\nrosebuds and lined with gold. The curtains of shiny chintz hung\nfrom half-inch brass rods only to the window-sill. A wide box couch\nunder them formed a restful seat. Crossways stood a dressing-table,\nits toilet glass flanked with brass candle-holders, and its jewel\ndrawers fitted with old beaten drop handles; it, as well as the\nwardrobe, was enamelled white. A frame screen of the same purity,\nits yellow silk curtains dependent by tiny rings from tiny rods,\nstood before the dressing-room door, and effectually shut away all\nwashing apparatus. The floor of this room was polished all over\n(kept in order by weekly applications of beeswax and turpentine). On\nit lay white Kurd and Scinde rugs. The mantelpiece was wooden, and\nthe chimney corner decorated with shelves painted like wainscotting\nand doors. These little shelves supplied vantage-grounds for lots\nof blue-and-white china, and though the colour-scheme may sound\nmonotonous, infinite variety was introduced by the etceteras of the\ntoilette. Of course, blue or terra-cotta, carried out as faithfully,\nwould give an equally satisfactory symphony of tint. However we may\ndecorate our bedrooms, we must not forget that space and head-room\nare the two requisites for health therein. Simplicity, careful\nkeeping, and radiant cleanliness should be the keynotes of every\nbedroom in the House Beautiful.\n\nIn approaching the drawing-room, I feel I am treading on difficult\nground--in fact, an impossible one. Abundantly diverse in everything\nare some of the reception-rooms I should call beautiful. Wide-mouth\npickle jars swathed in art muslin are positively wrong. So are\npainted rolling-pins or banjos. As to cardboard plaques representing\nchina, and paper frills cut out to look like lace--away with them!\nA plain brown jug full of real daisies is far more beautiful than a\nglass bottle covered with varnished pictures and filled with paper\nor silk imitations. One bit of quaint crackle or Venetian ware on\nour chimney-piece is restful to the eye; highly coloured shams\nare distressful. \"Although we may tolerate insipid prettiness in\nperishable confectionery, we ought not to do so in objects which\nbecome associated with our daily life.\" Power of design and power of\nimitation are the two widely divergent qualities of mind required\nto produce a beautiful drawing-room. Ostentation of money should be\navoided here.\n\nIn concluding this paper, I should like to remind my readers that\nall yearnings after the beautiful are legitimate and right. God has\nplaced a love for the lovely in every human heart. He Himself--in\nall reverence be it spoken--has led the way. When designing\nfurniture for the Tabernacle built for glory and for beauty in the\nfar-away desert, He made it in the most artistic, most serviceable,\nand most simple of forms. Look at the description of those golden\ncandlesticks, with their golden almond-shaped knops and elegant\nbranches. Think of the curtains of scarlet and blue and purple, and\nfine twined linen. Think of the snuffers and spoons and ouches, and\nbolts and rings and staves, all of pure gold. Truth and grace were\nevermore wedded together in these patterns of the heavenly things.\n\"Go, and do thou likewise.\"\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Scripture Lessons]\n\nSCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL AND HOME\n\nINTERNATIONAL SERIES\n\nWith Illustrative Anecdotes and References.\n\n\nNOVEMBER 20TH.--Manasseh's Sin and Repentance.\n\n_To read--2 Chron. xxxiii. 9-16. Golden Text--1 St. John i. 9._\n\nManasseh, son of good King Hezekiah, yet for many years very wicked.\nMust have been taught to do right by his father; good seed sown, but\nchoked by tares of sin and worldliness; a long time before bore good\nfruit--not till tares pulled out.\n\nI. =Manasseh's Sin= (9-11). Only a boy of twelve when began reign.\nMany would flatter and spoil. Just an age to need good advice and\nguidance. But many to lead him wrong, as other kings had been led\nbefore him (xxiv. 17, 18). So he chose wrong.\n\n_Idolatry._ Undid all Hezekiah's work by building up again altars\nfor Baal (ver. 3); even set up idol in house of God itself (ver. 7),\nbesides seeking counsel from witches, etc. (ver. 6), instead of God.\nSinned worse than heathen, for he knew right, which they did not.\n\n_Punishment._ God tried remonstrances, probably by prophets, but in\nvain. His heart and his people's hardened against God by sin; so God\nsent captains of King of Assyria, who took him prisoner, and carried\nhim bound in chains to Babylon, capital of Assyria.\n\nII. =Manasseh's Repentance= (12-16). _The captive._ The King,\nfar from home, in strange land; what does he think about? His\n_father_--how little he has copied his example; his _home_--how\nhe has forfeited it; his _life_--how wicked it has been; his\n_companions_--how they have led him astray; his _God_--he has sinned\ntoo deeply--can he possibly be forgiven?\n\n_The repentance._ What does he do? He humbles himself--first step in\ntrue repentance, he confesses his sin as David did (Ps. xxxii. 5);\nhe asks forgiveness; he promises amendment. Was such prayer ever in\nvain? (Golden Text).\n\n_The restoration._ Sent back to his throne; became prosperous;\nfortified the cities. Best of all, put away idols, repaired Temple,\noffered sacrifices; did all in his power to undo effects of his\nformer sin. Commanded the people to serve God.\n\n=Lesson.= How to repent. Ask for true sorrow. Confess to God all\nsin. Seek grace to change life.\n\n Repentance.\n\n A man of the world, who had spent the greater part of his\n life in dissipation, was converted to God. He gave up all his\n property, and went to live with a well-known clergyman in\n Cornwall. There he devoted himself entirely to the service of\n Christ. One day he met a miner whom he had long been trying to\n bring to repentance. He persuaded him to enter the church; and\n there, kneeling side by side, they prayed for a long time, not\n ceasing till the miner felt a sense of the greatness of his sin\n and of the pardoning love of God. Many other souls was he the\n means of bringing back to God. There was joy in heaven over that\n repentant sinner as there was over Manasseh.\n\n\nNOVEMBER 27TH.--A Temperance Lesson.\n\n_To read--Prov. iv. 10-19. Golden Text--Ver. 10._\n\nThis book, written by Solomon, contains a selection of his numerous\n\"proverbs\" or wise sayings. The early chapters are especially\nintended for the young, and are in praise of \"wisdom,\" the practical\ncarrying out of knowledge.\n\nI. =The Blessing of Wisdom= (10-13). _Long life_ often promised\nas the result of a godly life, _e.g._ to those who honour parents\n(fifth commandment); also to those who obey God (Deut. xxx. 20).\n\n_Right paths_, _i.e._ right dealing with men, _e.g._ Abraham paying\nfor burying-place (Gen. xxiii. 13); David in all his life (2 Sam.\nxxii. 21).\n\n_No stumbling._ Life like a narrow path. A man burdened by sin\nwalks, as it were, with shackles on legs. A Christian is held up by\nGod's arms (Deut. xxxiii. 27); kept from stumbling to his ruin.\n\n_Eternal life._ Wisdom (i. 20) personified as Christ, the Divine\nWord, in Whom is all knowledge (Col. ii. 3). To know Him is\neverlasting life (St. John xvii. 3).\n\nII. =The Folly of Wickedness= (14-17). _Sin to be avoided._ Remind\nof Eve: of Lot choosing to live in wicked Sodom. The disastrous\nresults: Eve turned out of Paradise--Lot losing home and wife.\n\n_Sin grows._ Evil takes such hold that some prefer it to good--day\nand night plan evil, _e.g._ thieves, drunkards, etc., and take\npleasure in leading others wrong.\n\nIII. =Results.= _The just._ A Christian's course like the light,\nincreasing from early dawn till full light of noon. Perfection, not\nall at once. Good seed brings forth fruit \"with patience,\" _i.e._\ngradually (St. Luke viii. 15). Christ increased in wisdom as He grew\ntaller and older (St. Luke ii. 52). So we must \"grow in grace and\nknowledge.\" The more a Christian knows of God, the more clearly does\nGod's light show itself in him.\n\n_The wicked._ Are in darkness, and so stumble. Sin blinds their eyes\n(St. John xii. 35); they confuse right and wrong. Example: Saul,\nblinded by prejudice against Jesus of Nazareth, thought he did God\nservice when he persecuted the Christians.\n\n=Lessons.= 1. Awake, thou that sleepest, arise from the dead, and\nChrist shall give thee light!\n\n2. Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy\nlaw.\n\n The Toil and Folly of Sin.\n\n There was a man in a certain town who used, till he was caught,\n to steal all his firewood. He would get up on cold nights and\n prowl around, helping himself from the well-stacked piles. A\n calculation was made, and it was found that he had worked harder\n and spent more time to get fuel in this way than if he had\n earned it honestly by hard work. One day he was caught in the\n act of theft, and was sentenced to three months' imprisonment.\n \"The way of transgressors is hard.\"\n\n\nDECEMBER 4TH.--The Book of the Law Found.\n\n_To read--2 Kings xxii. 8--20. Golden Text--Ps. cxix. 2._\n\nJOSIAH, grandson of Manasseh, like him, began to reign very young\n(eight years), but, unlike him, began well. Now about eighteen years\nold. Already been two reformations since his succession (2 Chron.\nxxxiv. 3--7). Now Temple being repaired.\n\nI. =The Book Found= (8--14). _The place._ Temple found in great\ndisorder. Amon, the last King, in two years had done much\nevil--idolatry again. Now Temple cleansed under superintendence of\nHilkiah, high priest. Rubbish turned over; large \"roll of a book\"\ndiscovered. What can it be? The authentic copy of Law of God, _i.e._\nbooks of Moses, kept near the Ark in the Holy of Holies. What a find!\n\n_The scribes._ Two scribes, readers and keepers of the Law, with\nHilkiah when the roll was found. They read it themselves; one of\nthem, Shaphan, takes it to the King; reports the collection made for\nthe repairs, how the work is going on, and the discovery. He reads\nthe book aloud. The King much moved by the words of the Law and\nGod's wrath against sinners (Deut. xxix. 27). Sends to Huldah the\nprophetess to inquire further of the Lord. He sees how little the\nwords of the book have been obeyed.\n\n=Lesson.= The Word of God is quick and powerful.\n\nII. =God's Message to Josiah= (15--20). As in time of Judges, when\nDeborah was prophetess (Judges iv. 4), God speaks by a woman; double\nmessage.\n\n_To the people._ A terrible punishment, as foretold in the Law,\nbecause of their sin. Had forsaken God--turned aside to other gods.\nHad not repented, therefore His wrath kindled against them.\n\n_To Josiah._ His heart was humble; attended to God's message; he did\nweep for the people's sin. God has heard him--he shall be spared.\nThe judgment shall not come in his time; his end shall be peace.\n\n=Lessons.= 1. God ever the same. He _must_ punish sin. He _will_\ndeliver the just.\n\n2. As then, so now, He sends warning by His Book, His ministers, and\nteachers.\n\n3. Why will ye die? Return unto the Lord.\n\n The Bible a Delight.\n\n One day, when walking through Wales, Mr. Hone, the author,\n stopped at a cottage door and found a little girl reading the\n Bible. He asked for a glass of water, which was quickly brought\n to him. Getting into conversation with the girl, he asked her\n how she liked learning her task out of the Bible. \"Oh,\" she\n said, \"it is not a task to read it; I love it.\" Seeing his\n surprise, she added, \"I thought everybody loved the Bible.\" The\n arrow went home. Hone pondered over her remark and began to read\n the Bible for himself, and from that time read the sacred book\n constantly. Before long, instead of being an opponent of the\n Bible, he became one of its strongest defenders, for he, like\n the child, had learned to love it.\n\n\nDECEMBER 11TH.--Trying to Destroy God's Word.\n\n_To read--Jer. xxxvi. 20-32. Golden Text--Isaiah xl. 8._\n\nJOSIAH the last godly King. At his death Jerusalem fell back\ninto corruption. Jeremiah the prophet warns in vain of coming\ndestruction--is hated by nobles--imprisoned by King; bids Baruch\nwrite God's words in a roll of a book (ver. 6).\n\nI. =The Roll Read= (ver. 20). Hitherto Jeremiah spoke his\nprophecies. Why written now? To be read in various places while he\nwas shut up (ver. 5), and kept for our instruction. Great excitement\nthis day in Jerusalem. Large assembly of people heard--princes heard\nand were afraid (ver. 16); King Jehoiachim is told of it. Courtiers\nround the King tell him what they recollect of the warnings; he\nis interested--perhaps alarmed. Sends for the roll, hidden in the\ncouncil chamber.\n\nII. =The Roll Burned= (21-26). Picture the King sitting in his\nstudy; bright wood fire on the hearth in the winter-house. Jehudi\nsent to fetch roll. Nobles and other courtiers stand around; the\nroll is read. The King is angry; after hearing three or four columns\nhe stops the reader, cuts the roll into pieces with penknife, flings\nthem on the fire. Some of princes approve; three try to stop him.\nThe parchment crackles, roll is destroyed. Baruch the scribe and\nJeremiah ordered to be imprisoned. Is all over? King could destroy\nroll, but not God's Word.\n\nIII. =The Roll Re-written= (26-32). King's efforts all in vain. Man\nfights in vain against God. King despises the prophecy. Another\nroll written; more severe judgments. God laughs him to scorn. This\nis his punishment:--The King shall have no heir to succeed him. He\nshall have a dishonoured death--no burial. The whole nation shall be\nseverely punished. King of Babylon shall take the people captive.\n\n=Lessons.= 1. God's Word shall not return void.\n\n2. The folly of trying to resist God.\n\n3. The certainty of coming judgment for sin.\n\n God's Word True.\n\n A man and his wife became possessed of a Bible, which they had\n never read before. The man began to read it, and, one night, as\n he sat by the fire with the open book, he said, \"Wife, if this\n book is right, we are wrong.\" He continued reading, and a few\n days afterwards he said, \"Wife, if this book is right, we are\n lost!\" More eager than ever to see what the Word of the Lord\n was, he continued to study the book, until one night he joyfully\n exclaimed, \"Wife, if this book is true, we are saved!\" This is\n the glory of God's Word; it tells of sin and punishment, but it\n tells also of salvation. King Jehoiachim, hearing God's Word,\n tried to destroy it and was lost; but King Josiah, hearing it,\n turned to God and was saved.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Short Arrows]\n\nShort Arrows\n\nNotes of Christian Life & Work.\n\n\nTwo County Medallists.\n\nWe have pleasure in presenting our readers with the portraits of two\nrecent Silver Medallists in connection with our Roll of Honour for\nSunday-school Teachers. Miss Susan Hammond is the veteran of the\ncounty of Essex, having completed fifty-four years' service at the\nWesleyan Sunday-school, Bradfield; whilst to Mr. William Fletcher\nbelongs the honour of being the doyen of the Sunday-school Teachers\nof Lincolnshire, he having to his credit the magnificent record of\nseventy years' service at the Scamblesby Sunday-school.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: W. Gill, Colchester_).\n\nMISS HAMMOND.\n\n(_The Essex County Medallist._)]\n\n\nThe Real Winners.\n\nA hurried and unceremonious burial is often all that can be given to\nthe dead after a great battle. They are the harvest of war; but the\ndead, though in comparison to the living victors they may be said\nto be at least unhonoured, have often been the real winners of the\nbattle. It was over their dead bodies or over the way they made that\nthe survivors rushed to victory. So it is that when we allow self to\ndie we accomplish most Christian work and win the fight of faith.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Carlton and Sons, Horncastle._)\n\nMR. WILLIAM FLETCHER.\n\n(_Who holds the Lincolnshire Record for Seventy Years' Sunday-school\nService._)]\n\n\nFor Prizes or Presents.\n\nThere are already many indications that the Christmas festival is\nslowly but surely drawing near, and not the least significant is\nthe deluge of new stories suitable for presents and prizes which\nhas already commenced. To many a boy and girl Christmas would lose\nhalf its charms if it did not bring with it a new story from old\nfavourites, such as Gordon Stables, Emma Marshall, or G. A. Henty,\nand the young people will not be disappointed this year. Messrs.\nNisbet have just issued Dr. Stables's latest story, which he has\nentitled \"Off to Klondyke.\" Its very title is suggestive of exciting\nexperiences at the fascinating goldfields of the Yukon, and many\nboys--both young and old--will follow with breathless interest the\nnumerous wonderful adventures which are related therein. From the\nsame publishers comes an equally interesting story of an English\nboy's adventures in the great French War under the expressive title\n\"Face to Face with Napoleon.\" There is plenty of romantic incident\nin this story, and as the author, Mr. O. V. Caine, has carefully\nverified the historical portions of the work, it will serve the\ndouble purpose of entertaining and instructing. Our old friend,\nMrs. Emma Marshall, is to the fore with an excellent story for\ngirls, entitled \"Under the Laburnum Tree\" (Nisbet and Co.), which\nwill be eagerly welcomed in many a home and school.--The last\nvolume before us is entitled \"Yule Logs,\" and is edited for Messrs.\nLongmans by Mr. G. A. Henty. Unlike the books previously mentioned,\nthis does not contain a single long story, but is made up of a\nseries of short stories by such well-known writers as Henry Frith,\nManville Fenn, John Bloundelle-Burton, and, of course, the editor\nhimself. The stories deal with extraordinary adventures on land and\nsea, in both ancient and modern times, and are of such variety as to\nsatisfy the most exacting reader.\n\n\n\"Mousie.\"\n\nA poor little lad died a few weeks ago in a narrow and crowded\nstreet of Central London after four years of terrible suffering\nfrom hip disease. His sweet and uncomplaining nature endeared him\nin a particular way to the friends who visited him, and one of them\nhas taken a picture of him, as he sat up in bed, surrounded by his\nflowers and small comforts, not long before his death. \"Mousie\" got\nhis pet name from the doctors at a big hospital, who were so struck\nby his gentleness, and by the quiet courage with which he endured\nhis painful operations. He had been originally knocked down by a\ncab, and his feeble constitution never recovered from the accident.\nOnce, to his great delight, he was well enough to attend a meeting\nof the Ministering Children's League, of which he was a member. He\nwas supported on a table, and helped to make a cushion for a sick\nold woman. But he was soon obliged to keep to his room and his couch\naltogether. Even then \"Mousie\" was often thinking of others. \"Can't\nI do a toy for some poor child who has none?\" he would say, and with\nthe wool that was given him he would make balls for babies. \"It is\nnot Jesus who sends me this pain,\" he once explained to the friend\nwho pens this brief memory of him; \"He is far too kind: it was my\nown fault for getting in the way of the cab.\" Poor \"Mousie\"! he was\nonly ten years old, but he had his own solution of the mystery of\npain. He loved to hear hymns. Someone sang \"There is a Happy Land\"\nto him the night before he died, and a little later those who were\nwatching him were surprised to hear him croon the first verse all\nthrough in quite a strong clear, voice. Then he sighed pitifully,\n\"Lord Jesus, do take me!\" and said to his mother, \"I shan't have a\nbit of pain _there_, you know!\" And after a few unconscious hours\n\"Mousie\" knew why God had permitted his pain.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Mr. W. T. Piper._)\n\n\"MOUSIE.\"]\n\n\nAlways Rejoicing.\n\nWhen, in 1849, the American author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, was\ndismissed from being a surveyor, his wife thus writes of the\nsupposed calamity in a letter to her mother: \"It has come in the\nway of an inevitable providence to us (whatever knavery some people\nmay have to answer for who have been the agents in the removal),\nand I never receive inevitable providences with resignation merely,\nbut with _joy_, as certainly, undoubtedly, the best possible events\nthat can happen for me.\" Surely this is the right way to regard the\nchanges and so-called chances of this mortal life, if we believe\nthat our Heavenly Father orders the lives of each one of us with\nindividual care.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n (1) THOMAS BROWN.\n (_Gordon Boys' Home._)\n\n (2) HARRY CASTLEDINE.\n (_Orphan Working School._)\n\n (3) CLARA A. LANGDON.\n (_Orphan Working School._)\n\n (4) FLORENCE ANDERSON.\n (_National Refuges._)\n\n (5) EDWARD M. NYE.\n (_Reedham Orphanage._)\n\n (6) CHARLES E. SMITH.\n (_Reedham Orphanage._)\n\nTHE QUIVER GOOD CONDUCT PRIZE WINNERS, 1898.]\n\n\nAn Interesting Group.\n\nThe Quiver Prize has long since become an annual institution in\nseveral representative orphanages, and as our object is to encourage\nhonesty, industry, and general good conduct, it is awarded each\nyear to those inmates who have shown greatest progress in these\nrespects during the preceding twelve months. We publish a group of\nthe winners for 1898, who represent respectively the Orphan Working\nSchool, the Reedham Orphanage, The Gordon Boys' Home, and the\nNational Refuges.\n\n\nTHE QUIVER FUNDS.\n\nThe following is a list of contributions received from September 1st\nup to and including September 30th, 1898. Subscriptions received\nafter this date will be acknowledged next month:--\n\n For _\"The Quiver\" Waifs' Fund_: J. J. E., Govan (130th\n donation), 5s.; A Glasgow Mother (100th donation), 1s.; M. G.,\n Leeds, 1s.; Oxford, 5s.\n\n For _Dr. Barnardo's Homes_: An Irish Girl, 12s. 6d.; N. L. E.,\n 10s. We are also asked to acknowledge the following donations\n sent direct:--J. E. D., 10s.; Inasmuch, 4s.; H. M. H., 5s.\n\n For _The British and Foreign Bible Society_: A Thank-Offering,\n 1s.\n\n\nROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL WORKERS.\n\nThe =Special Silver Medal= and =Presentation Bible= offered\nfor the longest known Sunday-school service in the county of\n=Northumberland= (for which applications were invited up to\nSeptember 30th) have been gained by\n\n MR. THOMAS C. HINTON,\n Fame Bank,\n Gosforth, Newcastle,\n\nwho has distinguished himself by =fifty= years' service in the John\nKnox Church Sunday-school, Newcastle.\n\nAs already announced, the next territorial county for which claims\nare invited for the Silver Medal is\n\n =LEICESTER=,\n\nand applications, on the special form, must be received on or before\nOctober 31st, 1898. We may add that =Sussex= is the following\ncounty selected, the date-limit for claims in that case being\nNovember 30th, 1898. This county, in its turn, will be followed\nby =Wiltshire=, for which the date will be one month later--viz.\nDecember 31st, 1898.\n\nThe names of members recently enrolled will be found in our\nadvertisement pages.\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUIVER SANTA CLAUS.\n\n\nThe children's festival--as the Christmas season is rightly\ncalled--is already within the horizon of preparation. A\nfew weeks more, and our young people will be enjoying the\ndelights of Yule-tide, not the least of which is the perennial\nChristmas Stocking. Most of us remember the eager--almost\nfeverish--anticipation with which we tied up our little stocking at\nthe head of our small bed, in the full faith that the mysterious but\nkindly visitant of Christmas Eve would cram into it all sorts of\nlovely things; and how when morning dawned, our first thought was\nto reach it down to our pillow and explore its wonderful recesses.\nBut there are thousands of little children to whom these raptures\nare unknown. They do not appear to have been put upon Santa Claus's\nvisiting list; and it seems hard that this venerable gentleman\nshould pass them over. These poor and friendless little ones, to be\nfound in every town and in many of our villages, want a kind-hearted\nneighbour who will mention their names and addresses to that\ngenial but omniscient saint, and then, presto! there's joy for a\nforlorn little chap or maiden \"on Christmas Day in the morning.\" We\ntherefore earnestly invite all fathers and mothers, and uncles and\naunts, and all who love to see the children glad on the Saviour's\nbirthday, to co-operate with us in providing Christmas stockings\nfor those forlorn youngsters, into whose life scarcely a ray of\nbrightness ever enters. Not much is needed to give them this boon\nby way of the Christmas stocking. A few wholesome goodies and a\nsimple toy will amply suffice to supply them with a fund of innocent\nexcitement and enjoyment. A sum of one shilling will furnish a\nstocking and pay the postage, when combined in a large contract. We\nhave the happiness to announce that the proprietors of THE QUIVER\nhave kindly consented to head our subscription list with a sum\nsufficient to provide the contents of\n\n =FIVE HUNDRED CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS FOR POOR\n AND FRIENDLESS CHILDREN.=\n\nThis is a good start, but this number will be quite inadequate\nto the innumerable demands which are sure to be made upon us.\nWe therefore earnestly ask for further contributions from all\nchild-lovers who would sorely regret to see any tiny mite left\ndisappointed on Christmas Day.\n\nWe shall also be glad to receive recommendations from our readers\n(as before in the case of our Christmas Hamper Fund) of suitable\ncases for the supply of stockings. The special forms for this\npurpose will be supplied in our Extra Christmas Number, and if\nfilled up in accordance with the directions there given will be\ndealt with in the order in which they reach the Editor, as far as\nthe funds will permit. All contributions to the Christmas Stocking\nFund should be sent to the Editor of THE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage,\nLondon, E.C., and all amounts of one shilling and upwards will be\nthankfully acknowledged in our pages.\n\n\nSpecial Presentation Plate.\n\nA separate large-size reproduction, printed in colours, of Mr. W.\nHolman Hunt's great picture, \"The Finding of the Saviour in the\nTemple,\" is presented with this part; and, should there be any\ndifficulty in obtaining it, our readers are requested to communicate\nat once with the publishers, giving the name and address of the\nbookseller or other agent from whom they purchased the number.\n\n\n\n\n\"THE QUIVER\" BIBLE CLASS.\n\n(BASED ON THE INTERNATIONAL SCRIPTURE LESSONS.)\n\n\nQUESTIONS.\n\n1. What action of Manasseh, king of Judah, shows how terribly the\npeople had sunk into idolatry?\n\n2. In what way did Manasseh seek to protect his country from\ninvasion?\n\n3. What is remarkable in the latter part of Manasseh's life?\n\n4. Quote a proverb which warns us of the danger of evil companions.\n\n5. In what way does the wise man express the beauty of a holy life?\n\n6. In whose reign do we find the king sending to a woman for advice?\n\n7. What great discovery was made while the Temple was being repaired\nin the reign of Josiah?\n\n8. What proof have we that at one time the Jews were\nfire-worshippers?\n\n9. In whose reign did God carry out the judgment which He pronounced\nagainst the altar at Bethel which Jeroboam had made?\n\n10. Of what gross act of contempt against God was Jehoiakim, king of\nJudah, guilty?\n\n11. What acts of cruelty are recorded against King Jehoiakim?\n\n12. In what way did God punish Jehoiakim for his iniquity?\n\n\nANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 1147.\n\n133. A tax of half a shekel of silver for every male of twenty years\nold and upward (Exod. xxx. 12-14).\n\n134. Joash, king of Judah, in order to obtain money for the\nrestoration of the Temple (2 Chron. xxiv. 6-9).\n\n135. 2 Chron. xxiv. 8.\n\n136. Isaiah is generally considered to have been the grandson of\nKing Joash, and thus has sometimes been called the royal prophet\n(Isa. i. 1).\n\n137. The altar seen by Isaiah in his vision was the altar of\nburnt offering, on which the fire which came down from heaven was\nperpetually burning (Isa. vi. 6; Lev. vi. 13; 2 Chron. vii. 1).\n\n138. The effect of the teaching of the Gospel is to bring peace on\nearth (Isa. xi. 6-10).\n\n139. Isa. xi. 9.\n\n140. In the reign of Hezekiah (2 Chron. xxx. 2; Numbers ix. 10, 11).\n\n141. Because the Temple was not cleansed until the sixteenth day of\nthe first month (2 Chron. xxix. 3, 16-18).\n\n142. It was the first Passover after the separation of Israel and\nJudah at which any of the children of Israel were present (2 Chron.\nxxx. 1).\n\n143. By Sennacherib, whose army was destroyed by God in one night (2\nKings xviii. 17 and xix. 34, 35).\n\n144. In the reign of Hezekiah (2 Kings xviii. 4).\n\n\n * * * * *\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\nText enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).\n\nSmall capital text has been replaced with all capitals.\n\nText enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).\n\nMinor typographical errors have been corrected without note.\nIrregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as\nprinted.\n\nMissing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the\noriginal text.\n\nThe illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up\nparagraphs.\n\nMismatched quotes are not fixed if it\u2019s not sufficiently clear where\nthe missing quote should be placed.\n\nThe cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the\ntranscriber and is placed in the public domain.\n\nIndex page iii \"NEGRO CAMP-MEETINGS IN THE STATES By\nELIZABETH L. BANKS 867\"--The number 867 is unclear.\n\nPage 67: Letters in [)] refer to a breve over the letter. Letters\nin [=] refer to macron over the letter. \"Sunt pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la\"\nand \"sunt m[)a]l[)a] pl[=u]ra\".","title":"The Quiver, Annual Volume 10/1899","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":52255}