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FATHER DAMIEN 
 AND OTHEES 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD CLIFFORD, 
 
 Author of ^A Blue Distance,'' ^A Green Pasture,' 
 and ''Father Damien' 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 The Church Army Book Room, 
 
 14, Edgware Road, W. 
 
• • •. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 By the kindness of Messrs. Macmillan, I am enabled 
 to reprint my story of Father Damien — with a few 
 additions, and some omissions of what was only of 
 temporary interest. 
 
 It is good to find how his character and work 
 still influence the world at large. How little he 
 guessed in that distant island — almost cut off from 
 humanity — that his life there would prove a power 
 to lead numbers of people whom he had never seen 
 or heard of into paths of greater devotion and use- 
 fulness. Truly, "He that doeth the will of God 
 abideth for ever." 
 
 I have added a selection of short stories. Many 
 of them have appeared before. My hope is that 
 they may prove interesting and not wholly unprofit- 
 able to other people than those who are directly 
 connected with the Church Army. Some may judge 
 them to be a very mixed collection, but my friends 
 will not be surprised, for they know that I have 
 found it good to learn from the vision which 
 teaches us to reckon nothing which God has cared 
 for common or unclean. 
 
 E. a 
 
 862462 
 
INDEX 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Father Damien ..... 
 
 1 
 
 Quartus, a Brother .... 
 
 49 
 
 Felix and Byal . . 
 
 63 
 
 Miss Graves ..... 
 
 71 
 
 My Little London Garden .... 
 
 78 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. NichoUs .... 
 
 87 
 
 A Tale for a Mother .... 
 
 91 
 
 Edward and Oliver .... 
 
 99 
 
 Pictures ...... 
 
 106 
 
 A Talk about Art 
 
 110 
 
 A Story of Stinginess .... 
 
 139 
 
 Whose shall he be? .... 
 
 145 
 
 Emma, and others (by Mrs. Kobert Cholmeley) 
 
 150 
 
 The Lady and the Van .... 
 
 187 
 
 The Crisis of Middle Age .... 
 
 201 
 
 Untempted ..... 
 
 205 
 
 The Beast's Mark ..... 
 
 209 
 
 Saint Patrick's Invocation 
 
 243 
 
 The Issues of Death ..... 
 
 245 
 
 1. — Forgiven but Disapproved 
 
 245 
 
 2.— A Most Dreadful Surprise 
 
 249 
 
 3.— A Likely Story 
 
 254 
 
 4. — Alexander Butts .... 
 
 256 
 
 5.— The Mirror .... 
 
 258 
 
 6.— Entering Maimed .... 
 
 264 
 
 7. — The Evening Primrose 
 
 271 
 
 8.— Bad Taste ..... 
 
 272 
 
 Why not Confess ? . . . . 
 
 278 
 
 Unwelcome Autumn ..... 
 
 283 
 
 Sir Owen and Mr. Orme .... 
 
 289 
 
 My Brother's Farewell .... 
 
 296 
 
 Easton and Grant .... 
 
 298 
 
 A Snubbed One ..... 
 
 302 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 (The following accoitiit is reprinted by the kind iDerniission of 
 IMessrs. Macmillan & Co. It is selected from my book, " Father 
 ])amien," published by them in 1889.) 
 
 I MUST begin my story of Father Damien by a short 
 account of the place where he lived and worked. 
 
 The Hawaiian or Sandwich Islands lie in the Pa- 
 cific Ocean, about half-way between America and 
 Australia, and they were discovered about a hundred 
 and twenty years ago by Captain Cook. For fifty 
 years they were visited by no white people except 
 merchantmen and whalers, who often exercised a per- 
 nicious influence which it makes one's blood boil to 
 read of. The natives were a fine muscular race, with 
 brown skins and handsome countenances. They were 
 hospitable, and they welcomed the foreigners almost 
 as if they had been gods, giving them freely the best 
 of their food, their shelter, and their daughters. 
 They numbered about four hundred thousand. Their 
 visitors brought them vices — drunkenness and evil 
 diseases— and now the number of natives has shrunk 
 to forty thousand. Of these it is feared that two^ 
 B 
 
2 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 thousand are infected with leprosy. But the same 
 hospitable smiles adorn their friendly faces, and the 
 same simple manners grace their behaviour. 
 
 Happily there is a bright side as well as a dark 
 side to the incoming of the whites. 
 
 "In the year 1809 a brown boy w^as found crying 
 on the threshold of Yale College, in America. His 
 name was Obookiah, and he came from the Hawaiian 
 Islands. His father and mother had been killed in 
 battle in his presence, and as he was escaping with 
 his baby-brother on his back, the little one was slain 
 with a spear and he himself was taken prisoner. By- 
 and-by circumstances brought him to x4.merica, and at 
 last to the doorsteps of Yale College. In his ex- 
 tremity he was taken in and kindly used by Mr. 
 Dwight, a resident graduate. 
 
 Obookiah loved his people, and soon he asked that 
 he might "learn to read this Bible, and go back home 
 and tell them to pray to God up in heaven." Two 
 other lads, Tennooe and Hopu, had come to America 
 with him. They were all taken and educated by Mr. 
 Dwight, and the result of intercourse with them was 
 that in ten years a band of twelve men and women 
 started from Boston for the Hawaiian Islands, with 
 Tennooe and Hopu as guides. Obookiah had died a 
 peaceful Christian death about a year after his arrival 
 at Yale. 
 
 When the party left Boston it was said to them at 
 their farewell meeting, "Probably none of you will 
 live to witness the downfall of idolatry, but you will 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 3 
 
 SOW the good seed, and doubtless your children or 
 grand-children will reap the fruit." 
 
 But when the missionaries reached the islands the 
 downfall had already mysteriously come. 
 
 Kamehameha the First — a king as great in his way, 
 perhaps, as our King Alfred — had effected a revolu- 
 tion. He had, after long wars, united all the islands 
 in one sovereignty, and he had abolished the degrad- 
 ing laws of caste, or " tabu." By this system it was 
 death for a man to let his shadow fall upon a chief, 
 to enter his enclosure, or to stand if his name were 
 mentioned in a song. No woman might eat with her 
 husband, or eat fowl, pork, cocoanut, or bananas — 
 things offered to the idols. Death was the penalty. 
 
 " How did you lose your eye ? " said Mrs. Thurs- 
 ton, a missionary's wife, to a little girl. "I ate a 
 banana," replied the child. 
 
 'If any man made a noise when prayers were being 
 said he was killed. When the people had finished 
 building a temple some of them were offered in sac- 
 rifice. I myself saw a great quadrangular temple, on 
 the coast of Hawaii, which contained hundreds of 
 decapitated human skulls. A cord is preserved with 
 which one high priest had strangled twenty-three 
 victims. Infanticide was a common practice. Maniacs 
 were stoned to death. Old people were often buried 
 alive or left to perish. There was no written lan- 
 guage. 
 
 The missionaries reached Hawaii on the 31st of 
 March, 1820, after a long, wearisome journey round 
 
4 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 South America, and one can imagine how delightful 
 the sight of these delicious islands must have been 
 when they came in view. The whole scene is so ex- 
 actly described in the following lines from Tennyson's 
 "Lotus Eaters," that it seemed to me, when I was 
 there, as if they must have been written to describe 
 
 it— 
 
 " Courage I " he said, and pointed toward the land, 
 "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
 In the afternoon they came unto a land 
 In which it seemed always afternoon. 
 All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
 Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
 Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
 And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
 Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 
 
 A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 
 
 Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 
 
 And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 
 
 Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
 
 They saw the gleaming river seaward iiow 
 
 From the inner land : far off', three mountain-tops, 
 
 Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
 
 Stood sunset-fluehed. 
 
 The mountains and the river are there, and the 
 streams are for ever falling by scores down the green 
 precipices of Hawaii into the blue sea. How lovely 
 that sea is can scarcely be told. One puts one's hand 
 in, and all round it is like the softest and most brilli- 
 ant blue velvet ; below are growths of pure white 
 coral, and among them swim fishes as brilliant as 
 paroquets. Some are yellow like canaries, some are 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 5 
 
 gorgeous orange of bright red. I tried to paint a 
 blue fish, but no pigment could represent its inten- 
 sity. The loveliest of all was like nothing but a 
 rainbow as it sported below me. Groves of cocoanut 
 trees rise from the water's edge. The gardens are 
 rich with roses, lilies, myrtles, gardenia, heliotrope, 
 and passion-flowers. 
 
 Near by is a tropical forest, which I almost feared 
 as I entered, for there is an element of the terrible 
 in this tremendous vegetation, and in the silence of 
 it all. The trees are wreathed with humid creepers ; 
 the ferns are fourteen feet high ; even the stag's-horn 
 moss grows taller than a man. Every foot of space 
 is occupied with rank vegetation. 
 
 When the Bostonians reached the coast they sent 
 Hopu on shore to reconnoitre. He soon returned, and 
 as he came within hail he shouted, "Kamehameha 
 is dead. His son Liholiho reigns. The tabus are 
 abolished. The images are burned. The temples 
 are destroyed. There has been war. Now there is 
 peace ! " 
 
 This was news indeed. The great king had one 
 day risen up from the place where he was feasting 
 and had stalked over to his wives' table, and sat down 
 with them to eat and to drink. The high priest had 
 followed' his example. The people were aghast with 
 apprehension ; but no judgment from heaven followed, 
 and soon the tabu was broken everywhere, and a new 
 freedom spread through the islands. 
 
 Kamehameha's work was done ; he fell ill, and took 
 
6 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 to his bed. As he lay dying he asked an American 
 trader to tell him about the Americans' God. "But," 
 said the native informant, in his broken English, "he 
 no tell him anything." Alas ! alas I 
 
 The missionaries had arrived at the right moment, 
 and they were cordially welcomed. The new king, 
 with his five wives, came to call — straight out of the 
 sea, and all undressed. The missionaries hinted that 
 it would be better if they wore clothes, and the next 
 time the king came he wore a pair of silk stockings 
 and a hat. He threw himself down on the bed (the 
 first he had ever beheld), and rolled himself over and 
 over on it with extreme delight. 
 
 The Princess Kapuliholiho said to the missionary's 
 wife, "Give us your eldest son, and we will adopt 
 him." But the tempting offer was politely declined. 
 There were five dowager-queens, one of whom was 
 dressed with great state in a robe made of seventy 
 thicknesses of bark. The white ladies found favour 
 in the eyes of the brown ladies, who described their 
 visitors in the following terms : — " They are white 
 and have hats with a spout. Their faces are round 
 and far in. Their necks are long. They look well." 
 
 The royal feasts were on a large scale ; sometimes 
 as many as two hundred dogs were cooked, and it was 
 a favourite joke to put a pig's head on a roasted dog, 
 to deceive a too fastidious white visitor. 
 
 The royal personages and the chiefs claimed the 
 privilege of first learning to read, but the king's in- 
 temperate habits make him an irregular pupil. 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 7 
 
 A majestic chieftainess, six feet high, named Kapio- 
 lani, was one of the first converts to Christianity, and 
 a faithful ally of the teachers of the new faith. It 
 was she who in 1824 broke the spell which hung over 
 the great volcano, Kilauea, the supposed home of the 
 terrible goddess Pele. She marched with her retinue 
 across the plains of lava till she reached the lake of 
 tire. On the brink of the crater she had gathered a 
 quantity of the sacred red and yellow ohelo berries, 
 which ripen there every month of the year (it is 
 said), and are a delicious fruit to eat. These berries 
 (sacred to Pele) she Hung into the boiling lake of 
 fiery lava, and defied the goddess to avenge the insult. 
 
 There was a horror-stricken silence, but no calamity 
 followed, and Kapiolani calmly turned to her people 
 and told them of Jehovah and of her new-found 
 faith in Christ. It is said that a third of the popula- 
 tion became Christians in consequence of this brave 
 deed. 
 
 We who do not believe in Pele may scarcely ap- 
 preciate the heroism of Kapiolani's action, but she 
 had all the beliefs of her youth to combat, and must 
 have stifled many qualms before she performed her 
 act of desecration and defiance. 
 
 I have heard an interesting account of the first 
 Sunday school held in Hawaii. The native monitor 
 was found arranging the classes into divisions of 
 Christian and non-Christian. He asked every one the 
 question, " Do you love your enemies ? " If they 
 said " Yes," they were arranged with the Christians, if 
 
8 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 they said "No" with the heathen. I have known 
 less sensible divisions made in England ; but the Mis- 
 sionaries took a different view, and checked their 
 pupil, much to his surprise. 
 
 Only one thing was taught on this first occasion to 
 the scholars. They were asked, " Who made you ? " 
 and they were taught to answer, "the great God, who 
 made heaven and earth." 
 
 It was a simple beginning, but great results soon 
 began to appear. The most intense religious interest 
 was felt all over the islands. Thousands of converts 
 were baptized, a wonderful devotion became apparent, 
 and in a comparatively small number of years the 
 whole population became nominally Christian, and 
 has remained so ever since. 
 
 The first band of missionaries were Congregation- 
 alists, and to their zeal and godly living is due mainly 
 the praise of changing the religion of the Islands 
 from heathenism to Christianity. 
 
 The Roman Catholic religion was established there 
 in 1839, and our English Church raised its cathedral 
 later still, at Honolulu. 
 
 It was about forty or fifty years ago, I believe, that 
 the terrible scourge of leprosy made its appearance in 
 the Hawaiian Islands, and it spread with quite un- 
 paralleled rapidity. When I visited Molokai in 1888, 
 Father Damien had been working there nearly sixteen 
 years, and the leper settlement had been established 
 for about 22 years. 
 
 The following account of my visit to him was 
 written at Honolulu, in January, 1889. 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 9 
 
 I reached the Islands in November, and on the 
 17th of December (1888) I took my passage to Molo- 
 kai, and went on board the little steamer " Mokolii." 
 
 The sunset was orange, with a great purple cloutl 
 fringed with gold. It faded quickly, and by the time . 
 we reached a small pier-head outside the town, the 
 moon was casting a long greenish light across the sea. 
 From the pier came a continuous wail, rather mechan- 
 ical, but broken by real sobs. I wondered what it 
 meant, but soon I could see a little crowd of lepers 
 and lepers' friends waiting there. "0 my husband!" 
 cried a poor woman again and again. Thirteen lepers 
 got into the boat and were rowed to the steamer. 
 Then we sailed away, and gradually the wailing grew 
 fainter and fainter till we could hear it no longer. 
 
 These partings for life between the lepers and their 
 families are most tragic, but they are inevitable ; for 
 however the disease is propagated, the necessity for seg- 
 regation is certain. And the Hawaiian Government 
 has risen to the emergency — would that our Indian 
 Government, with its probable two hundred and fifty 
 thousand lepers, w^ould do likewise ! — and, sparing 
 neither labour nor expense, has sought out the cases 
 one by one, and provided a home so suitable to their 
 needs, so well ordered, and so well supplied, that, 
 strange to say, the difficulty often arises of preventing 
 healthy people from taking up their abode there. I 
 know many sadder places than Molokai, with its soft 
 breezes, its towering cliff's, and its sapphire sea. 
 
 The Hawaiians are a happy, generous people, the fit 
 
10 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 offspring of these sunny windy islands; they yield 
 themselves up readily to the emotion of the present 
 whether for grief or laughter, and smiles and play 
 follow close behind tears and sorrow. 
 
 The sleeping accommodation on the Mokolii is ne- 
 cessarily limited, but being a foreigner, and therefore 
 a passenger of distinction, a mattress was spread for 
 me on the little deck. It was very short, and, more- 
 over, it was soon invaded from the lower end by two 
 pairs of legs — Chinese and Haw^aiian. I could not be 
 so inhospitable as to complain of their vicinity, and 
 as a lady enlivened the company by continuous guitar 
 music, accompanied by her own voice and by as many 
 of the passengers as chose to chime in, I relinquished 
 my couch, and retiring to another part of the vessel, 
 gave myself up to the enjoyment of the moonlit pre- 
 cipices and ravines of Molokai, which we began to 
 coast about midnight. Very solemn they looked. 
 
 The island is long, and shaped like a willow-leaf ; 
 it lies in the form of a wedge on the Pacific, very 
 low on the south coast, and gradually rising to its 
 greatest altitude, from which the descent — 1500 feet — 
 to the northern coast is precipitous. Between the 
 base of these precipices and the sea lie the two leper 
 villages of Kalawao and Kalaupapa. Not improbably 
 half the island is sunk in the sea, and if so the 
 villages are in the actual cup of the crater of an im- 
 mense volcano, half of which is submerged. 
 
 The Hawaiian Islands are a collection of volca- 
 noes of which the fires appear to have died out in 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 11 
 
 southward order. In Hawaii, the largest and most 
 southerly island, they still rage. Out of its great lake 
 of liquid boiling lava (Kilauea) the fire-fountains toss 
 themselves high into the air, red as blood in daylight, 
 orange at twilight, and yellow as a primrose by night 
 — a fearful sight, and approached by three miles of 
 scarcely less terrible lava, black and glittering, and 
 hardened into monstrous shapes like gigantic croco- 
 diles and serpents. Sometimes the traveller sees that 
 it is red-hot only eight inches below the sole of his 
 foot. Sometimes the surface is torn by earthquakes 
 into great cracks and rents. 
 
 Even more wonderful, perhaps, is the great extinct 
 crater of Haleakala on the island of Maui. It is the 
 largest crater in the world — nine miles in diameter — 
 and it contains in its hollow fourteen great tumuli or 
 extinct volcanoes, some of them 700 feet high. As I 
 watched the scene one day at sunrise, it seemed to 
 me as if I were not only in another planet, but in 
 another dispensation. Except the crater, there was 
 nothing to be seen around or below me but miles 
 and miles of white clouds, slowly turning pink before 
 the coming sun. Above them arose two distant moun- 
 tain-tops, Mona Loa and Mona Kea, and occasionally 
 there was a gap in the tracts of cloud, and a bit of 
 blue sea appeared. 
 
 The vast crater yawned in the foreground, a deathly 
 abandoned place, but not without the beauty which 
 almost always marks Nature's works, if we have but 
 eyes to see them aright. The lights and shadows 
 
12 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 were unlike anything which I have beheld before or 
 since. The colours of the tumuli were dim but splen- 
 did, going through the rarige of dull purple, dull 
 pink, dull brown, dull yellow, dull green. The floor 
 of the crater was gray and black, composed of the 
 dust of lava accumulated through centuries, and prob- 
 ably never trodden by the foot of man. Long ago 
 it was an expanse of boiling fiery liquid similar to 
 that which is still to be seen at Kilauea, but nine 
 miles in extent. 
 
 As we approached Molokai I found that the slow 
 work of centuries had nearly covered its lava with 
 verdure. At dawn we were opposite Kalaupapa. Two 
 little spired churches, looking precisely alike, caught 
 my eye first, and around them were dotted the white 
 cottages of the lepers, who crowded the pier to meet 
 us. But the sea was too rough for us to land. The 
 coast is wild, and, as the waves dashed against the 
 rocks, the spray rose fifty feet into the air. I never 
 had seen such a splendid surf. 
 
 We steamed on to Kalawao, but were again disap- 
 pointed : it was too dangerous to disembark. Finally 
 it was decided to put off a boat for a rocky point 
 about a mile and a half distant from the town. 
 Climbing down to this point we saw about twenty 
 lepers, and "There is Father Damien ! " said our 
 purser ; and slowly moving along the hillside, I saw 
 a dark figure with a straw hat. He came rather 
 painfully down, and sat near the water-side, and we 
 exchanged friendly signals across the waves while my 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 13 
 
 baggage was being got out of the hold. The captain 
 and the purser were both much interested in my me- 
 dicinal oil, and they spared no trouble in unshipping 
 it. At last all was ready, and we went swinging 
 across the waves, and finally chose a fit moment for 
 leaping on shore. Father Damien caught me by the 
 hand, and a hearty welcome shone from his kindly 
 face as he helped me up the rock. He immediately 
 called me by my name, "Edward,'' and said it was 
 "like everything else, a providence," that he had met 
 me at that irregular landing-place, for he had ex- 
 pected the ship to stop at Kalaupapa, whither Father 
 Conradi had gone, expecting that we should come on 
 shore there. 
 
 He is now forty-nine years old — a thick-set, strongly- 
 built man, with black curly hair and short beard, 
 turning gray. His countenance must have been hand- 
 some, with a full, well-curved mouth, and a short, 
 straight nose ; but he is now a good deal disfigured 
 by leprosy, though not so badly as to make it any- 
 thing but a pleasure to look at his bright, sensible 
 face. His forehead is swollen and ridged, the eye- 
 brows are gone, the liose is somewhat sunk, and the 
 ears are greatly enlarged. His hands and face look 
 uneven with a sort of incipient boils, and his body 
 also shows many signs of the disease, but he assured 
 me that he had felt little or no pain since he had 
 tried Dr. Goto's system of hot baths and Japanese 
 medicine. The bathrooms that have been provided 
 by the Government are excellent. 
 
14 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 I think he had not much faith in my gurjun oil, 
 but to please me he began using it, and after a fort- 
 night's trial the good effects became evident to all. 
 His face looked greatly better, his sleep became very 
 good instead of very bad (he had only been able to 
 sleep with his mouth open because of an obstruction 
 behind the nose), his hands improved, and last Sun- 
 day he told me that he had been able that morning 
 to sing orisons — the first time for months. One is 
 thankful for this relief, even if it should be only 
 temporary ; but it is impossible not to fear that after 
 several years' progress the disease has already attacked 
 the lungs or some other vital organ, and that the 
 remedy comes too late. 
 
 I had brought with me a case of presents from 
 English friends, and it had been unshipped with the 
 gurjun oil. It was, however, so large that Father 
 Damien said it would be impossible for his lepers 
 either to land it from the boat or to carry it to Kala- 
 wao^ and that it must be returned to the steamer and 
 landed on some voyage when the sea was quieter. 
 But I could not give up the pleasure of his enjoy- 
 ment of its contents, so after some delay it was, at 
 my suggestion, forced open in the boat, and the things 
 were handed out safe and unspoiled one by one across 
 the waves. The lepers all came round with their 
 poor marred faces, and the presents were joyfully 
 carried home by them and by our two selves. 
 
 First came an engraving of the "Good Shepherd," 
 from Lady Mount Temple ; then a set of large 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 15 
 
 pictures of the Stations of the Cross, from the Hon. 
 Maude Stanley ; then a magic-lantern with Scriptural 
 slides, which I had used the winter beforQ during a 
 Mission tour in India, then numbers of coloured 
 prints ; and finally an ariston from Lady Caroline 
 Charteris, which would play about forty tunes by 
 simply having its handle turned. Father Damien im- 
 mediately began to play it, and before we had been 
 at the settlement half an hour he was showing his 
 boys how to use it. 
 
 There were beautiful silver presents from Lady 
 Grosvenor and Lady Airlie, and several gifts of 
 money. And, most valuable of all, there was a 
 water-colour painting of the Vision of St. Francis by 
 Burne Jones, sent by the painter. This now hangs 
 in Father Damien's little room. 
 
 I did not feel disposed to have my bag carried by 
 a leper, so the walk to Kalawao was a tiring one, 
 partly through a broad stream, and then along a 
 beach of boulders shaded by precipices. But the 
 pleasure of discovering that Father Damien was a 
 finer man than I had even expected made the walk 
 delightful. And about half-way I refreshed myself 
 by a bathe in the foam of the waves, which were too 
 big to allow of a swim, even if the sharks which in- 
 fest the place had not been a sufficient reason against 
 it. I was impressed by the quiet way in which he 
 sat down and read and prayed while I bathed, retir- 
 ing at once into that hidden life which was so real 
 to him. When I was ready to walk on with him he 
 
V 
 
 16 FATHER DA MIEN. 
 
 was all animation again, and pointed out to me all 
 the objects of interest. 
 
 The cliffs of Molokai are in many places almost 
 perpendicular, and rise to a great height from the 
 water's edge. They are generally in shadow, but the 
 sun casts long rays of light through their sundered 
 tops, and I shall always remember these rays as a dis- 
 tinguishing mark of the leper towns. The sea foam, 
 too, rises up from their bases in a great swirling mist, 
 and makes an enchanting effect in the mornings. 
 Where the slopes are not precipitous the tropical veg- 
 etation grows very rank, and not beautiful, I think, 
 to eyes that have learned to love the birch, the gorse, 
 and the heather. 
 
 The coarse wild ginger with its handsome spikes of 
 flowers grows everywhere, and quantities of the Ki- 
 tree, from the root of which can be made the intoxi- 
 cating spirit which has done such a disastrous work 
 among the natives. The ferns are magnificent. Of 
 birds, the most noticeable that I saw were an ex- 
 quisite little honey bird, with a curved beak and 
 plumage like scarlet velvet ; a big yellow owl, which 
 flies about by daylight ; a golden plover, which is very 
 plentiful and very nice to eat ; and a beautiful long- 
 tailed, snowy-white creature called the bos'un bird, 
 which wheels about the cliff heights. Besides these 
 there are plenty of imported mynahs and sparrows. 
 The curious little apteryx is almost extinct, I only 
 saw it stuffed. 
 
 As we ascended the hill on which the village is 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 17 
 
 built, Father Damien showed me on our left the 
 chicken farm. The lepers are justly proud of it, and 
 before many days I had a fine fowl sent me for 
 dinner. 
 
 On arriving at Kalawao we speedily found ourselves 
 inside the half -finished church, which is the darling 
 of his heart. How he enjoyed planning the places 
 where the pictures which I had just brought him 
 should be placed ! He had incorporated as a transept 
 of the new church the small building which had 
 hitherto been in use. By the side of it he showed 
 me the palm-tree under which he had lived for some 
 weeks when he first arrived at the settlement in 1878. 
 
 His own little four-roomed house almost joins the 
 church, and here Father Conradi, who lives on the- 
 ground-floor, and who is a man of considerable refine- 
 ment, met us, and ushered us into the tiny refectory 
 where a meal was prepared. Here we found Brother 
 James and Brother Joseph Button, who had arrived 
 as helpers not many months before. 
 
 By Father Damien's desire we sat at a separate 
 table, as a precaution against contagion. But he was 
 close by, and we were all very happy together. 
 
 After dinner we went up the little flight of steps 
 which led to Father Damien's balcony. This was- 
 shaded by a honeysuckle in blossom. A door from 
 it led into his sitting-room — a busy-looking place, with 
 a big map of the world — and inside it another door 
 opened on his bedroom. 
 
 Some of my happiest times at Molokai were spent 
 C 
 
18 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 in this little balcony, sketching him and listening to 
 what he said. The lepers often came up to watch 
 my progress, and it was pleasant to see how happy 
 and at home they were. Their poor faces were 
 often swelled and drawn and distorted, with blood- 
 shot goggle eyes ; but I felt less horror than I expected 
 at their strange aspect. There were generally several 
 of them playing in the garden below us. 
 
 I offered to give a photograph of the picture to 
 his brother in Belgium, but he said perhaps it would 
 be better not to do so, as it might pain him to see 
 how he was disfigured. 
 
 He looked mournfully at my work. "What an ugly 
 face ! " he said ; " I did not know the disease had made 
 such progress." Looking glasses are not in great re- 
 quest at Molokai ! 
 
 While I sketched him he often read his breviary. 
 At other times we talked on subjects that interested 
 us both, especially about his family, to whom after 
 24 years absence he was still deeply attached. 
 
 His mother was an earnest praying woman, and it 
 was probably from her that he had first learned his 
 habit of continued and instant prayer. 
 
 In a letter home to Belgium he writes, "My dear 
 
 parents, In the midst of the waters of the Pacific 
 
 Ocean, on this island you have a son who loves you, 
 and a priest who daily prays for you. I am in the 
 habit of daily paying you a short visit in spirit." 
 
 I much like the following story of his early life, 
 while yet a student. 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 19 
 
 When the Picpus Fathers were building the chapel 
 of their Louvain house, the younger members of the 
 college assisted the workmen when and where they 
 could. In preparing the site, a high and rickety 
 chimney had to be taken down. All the workmen 
 refused the dangerous task. Damien quietly asked 
 for a ladder, got someone to steady it, and fetched 
 down the chimney brick by brick. The men stared. 
 " Mon Dieu ! quel homme ! " they cried. 
 
 He often talked to me about the work of the Church 
 Army, and sometimes I sang hymns to him — among 
 others, "Brief life is here our portion," "Art thou 
 weary, art thou languid ? " and " Safe home in port." 
 At such times the expression of his face was particu- 
 larly sweet and tender. 
 
 One day I asked him if he would like to send a 
 message to Cardinal Manning. He said that it was 
 not for such as he to send a message to so great a 
 dignitary, but after a moment's hesitation he added, 
 " I send my humble respects and thanks." (When 
 I gave the message to the Cardinal, he smiled and 
 said, "I had rather he had sent me his love)." 
 
 I need hardly say that he gives himself no airs of 
 martyr, saint, or hero — a humbler man I never saw. 
 He smiled modestly and deprecatingly when I gave 
 him the Bishop (Magee) of Peterborough's message. 
 "He won't accept the blessing of a heretic bishop, 
 but tell him that he has my prayers, and ask him to 
 give me his." — "Does he call himself a heretic bishop ?'* 
 he questioned doubtfully. I tried to explain. 
 
20 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 One day he told me about his early history. He 
 was born on the 3rd of January, 1841, near Louvain in 
 Belgium, where his brother, a priest, still lives. His 
 mother, a deeply religious woman, died about two 
 years ago, and his father twelve years sooner. 
 
 On his nineteenth birthday his father took him to 
 see his brother Pamphile, who was then preparing for 
 the priesthood, and he left him there to dine, while 
 he himself went on to the neighbouring town. 
 
 Young Joseph (this was his baptismal name) decided 
 that here was the opportunity for taking the step 
 which he had long been desiring to take, and when 
 his father came back he told him that he wished to 
 return home no more, and that it would be better 
 thus to miss the pain of farewells. His father con- 
 sented unwillingly, but, as he was obliged to hurry to 
 the conveyance which was to take him home, there 
 was no time for demur, and they parted at the station. 
 Afterwards, when all was settled, Joseph revisited his 
 home, and received his mother's approval and blessing. 
 
 His brother was bent on going to the South Seas 
 for mission work, and all was arranged ; but at the 
 last he was laid low with fever, and, to his bitter 
 disappointment, forbidden to go. The impetuous 
 Joseph asked him if it would be a consolation for 
 his brother to go instead, and, receiving an affirma- 
 tive answer, he wrote surreptitiously, offering himself, 
 and begging that he might be sent, though his educa- 
 tion was not yet finished. The students were not 
 allowed to send out letters till they had been sub- 
 
FATHER DAMIBN. 21 
 
 mitted to the Superior, but Joseph ventured to dis- 
 obey. 
 
 One day, as he sat at his studies, the Superior came 
 in, and said, with a tender reproach, " Oh, you im- 
 patient boy ! you have written this letter, and you 
 are to go." 
 
 Joseph jumped up, and ran out, and leaped about 
 like a young colt. 
 
 " Is he crazy ? " said the other students. 
 
 He worked for some years in the island of Hawaii, 
 but it happened that he was one day in 1873 present 
 at the dedication of a chapel in another island, when 
 the bishop was lamenting that it was impossible for 
 him to send a missioner to the lepers at Molokai, and 
 still less to provide them with a pastor. He had only 
 been able to send them occasional and temporary help. 
 Some yoimg priests had just arrived in Hawaii for 
 Mission work, and Father Damien instantly spoke. 
 
 " Monseigneur," said he, " here are your new mis- 
 sioners ; one of them could take my district, and if 
 you will be kind enough to allow it, I will go to 
 Molokai and labour for the lepers, whose wretched 
 state of bodily and spiritual misfortune has often 
 made my heart bleed within me." 
 
 His offer was accepted, and that very day, without 
 any farewells, he embarked on a boat that was taking 
 some cattle to the leper settlement. He told me that 
 when he first set his foot on the island he said to 
 himself, "Now, Joseph, my boy, this is your life- 
 work." 
 
22 FATHER DAMIEK. 
 
 I did not find one person in the Sandwich Islands 
 who had the least doubt as to leprosy being com- 
 municable, though it is possible to be exposed to the 
 disease for years without contracting it, and it is said 
 to be five years in the system before it shows itself. 
 Father Damien said that he had always expected that 
 he should sooner or later become a leper, though ex- 
 actly how he caught it he does not know. But it 
 was not likely that he would escape, as he was con- 
 stantly living in a polluted atmosphere, dressing the 
 sufferers' sores, washing their bodies, visiting their 
 deathbeds, and even digging their graves. 
 
 I obtained while I was in the islands a report he 
 had written of the state of things at Molokai sixteen 
 years ago, and I think it will be interesting to give 
 a portion of it in his own words. 
 
 "By special providence of our Divine Lord, who 
 during His public life showed a particular sympathy 
 for the lepers, my way was traced towards Kalawao 
 in May, 1873. I was then thirty-three years of age, 
 enjoying a robust good health. 
 
 About eighty of the lepers were in the hospital ; 
 the others, with a very few Kokuas (helpers), had 
 taken their abode farther up towards the valley. 
 They had cut down the old pandanus or punhala 
 groves to build their houses, though a great many had 
 nothing but branches of castor-oil trees with which 
 to construct their small shelters. These frail frames 
 were covered with ki leaves or with sugar-cane leaves, 
 the best ones with pili grass. I myself was sheltered 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 23 
 
 during several weeks under the single pandanus-tree, 
 which is preserved up to the present in the church- 
 yard. Under such primitive roofs were living pell- 
 mell, without distinction of age or sex, old or new 
 cases, all more or less strangers one to another, those 
 outcasts of society. They passed their time in play- 
 ing cards, hula (native dances), drinking fermented 
 ki-root beer, home-made alcohol, and with the sequels 
 of all this. Their clothes were far from being clean 
 and decent, on account of the scarcity of water, w^hich 
 had to be brought at that time from a distance. 
 Many a time in fulfilling my priestly duty at their 
 domiciles I have been compelled to run outside to 
 breathe fresh air. To counteract the bad smell I 
 made myself accustomed to the use of tobacco, and 
 the smell of the pipe preserved me somewhat from 
 carrying in my clothes the noxious odour of the 
 lepers. At that time the progress of the disease was 
 fearful, and the rate of mortality very high. The 
 miserable condition of the settlement gave it the name 
 of a living graveyard, w^hich name, I am happy to 
 state, is to-day no longer applicable to our place." 
 
 In 1874, a "cona" (south) wind blew down most 
 of the lepers' wretched rotten abodes, and the poor 
 sufferers lay shivering in the wind and rain, with 
 clothes and blankets wet through. In a few days the 
 grass beneath their sleeping-mats began to emit a 
 very unpleasant vapour, " I at once called the at- 
 tention of our sympathising agent to the fact, and 
 very soon there arrived several schooner-loads of 
 
24 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 scantling to build solid frames with, and all lepers in 
 distress received, on application, the necessary material 
 for the erection of decent houses. Friends sent them 
 rough boards and shingles and flooring. Some of the 
 lepers had a little money, and hired carpenters. For 
 those without means the priest, with his leper boys, 
 did the work of erecting a good many small houses." 
 
 Since the accession of King Kalakaua the care and 
 generosity of the present Hawaiian Government for 
 their lepers cannot be too highly praised. The Queen 
 and the heir - apparent (Princess Liliuokilani) have 
 visited the settlement. The cottages are neat and 
 convenient, and raised on trestles so as not to be in 
 contact with the earth. There are five churches, and 
 the faces one sees are nearly always happy faces. 
 Each person receives five pounds of fresh beef every 
 week, besides milk, poi, and biscuits. There is a 
 large general shop where tinned fruits and all sorts 
 of things can be bought. The food no doubt, is some- 
 what monotonous in quality, and it pleases me to 
 remember how Father Damien enjoyed some raisins 
 which I had brought from America as he sat on my 
 balcony. 
 
 Of course I saw cases in the hospitals that were 
 terribly emaciated and disfigured, but there is no 
 doubt that the disease has taken a milder form than 
 it wore years ago. As a rule, the lepers do not suffer 
 severe pain, and the average length of life at Molokai 
 is about four years, at the end of which time the 
 disease generally attacks some vital organ. "Women 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 25 
 
 are less liable to it than men. One woman accom- 
 panied her husband to Molokai when he became a 
 leper, and at his death became the bride of another 
 leper. He died, and she married another, and another 
 after his demise. So that she has lived with four 
 leper husbands, and yet remains healthy. 
 
 The children are well cared for in the Kapiolani 
 Home at Honolulu if they show no signs of disease, 
 and those in Molokai certainly do not lead an un- 
 happy life. 
 
 They sing very nicely. One man had a full sweet 
 baritone, and there was a tiny child who made a 
 great effect with a bawling metallic voice. A refined- 
 lookiDg woman played the harmonium well, with 
 hands that looked as if they must have been disabled. 
 She had been a well-known musician in Honolulu. ' 
 
 I enjoyed the singing of the Latin Christmas hymn 
 "Adeste fideles." But the most touching thing was 
 the leper song (composed by a native poet), a kind 
 of dirge in which they bewailed the misery of their 
 lot. When I visited the boys with Father Damien 
 in the evening they were drawn up in a long narrow 
 lane, which it was rather terrible to inspect by the 
 dim light of oil lamps. 
 
 On Sunday evening I showed them the magic- 
 lantern, and Father Damien explained to them the 
 pictures from the life of Christ. It was a moving 
 sight to see the poor death-stricken crowd listening 
 to the story of His healings and then of His suffer- 
 ings. His crucifixion and His resurrection. 
 
26 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 How wonderful is the power of Christ to give joy 
 to sufferers ! I shall never forget visiting last March 
 an asylum for lepers at Agra, in India. Their faces 
 were dreadful to look at ; they were lame and maimed 
 and mutilated, and they were paupers. But they 
 were singing with husky voices the praises of Jesus 
 Christ, and as I spoke to them of Him they kept 
 repeating the last words of every sentence with the 
 greatest delight, and when I left them the cry rang 
 out again and again, "Victory to Jesus." An Ameri- 
 can Baptist missionary, Mr. Jones, had found time to 
 visit them about once a fortnight, with the good news, 
 and here was the result manifested. 
 
 In the daytime at Molokai one sees the people sit- 
 ting chatting at their cottage doors, pounding the taro 
 root, to make it into their favourite food poi, or gal- 
 loping on their little ponies — men and women alike 
 astride — between the two villages. And one always 
 receives the ready greeting and the readier smile. 
 
 It would undoubtedly be a great trial to heart and 
 nerve to live even now at Molokai, as eight noble 
 men and women have elected to do for Christ's sake. 
 I found it very distressing, to see none hut lepers, 
 and it often came with a specially painful shock to 
 find a child of ten with a face that looked as if it 
 might belong to a man of fifty. But I had gone to 
 Molokai expecting to find it scarcely less dreadful 
 than hell itself, and the cheerful people, the lovely 
 landscape, and the comparatively painless life were 
 all surprises. I was much impressed by a good old 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 27 
 
 blind man in the hospital, who told me that he was 
 thankful for the disease, because it had saved him 
 from an evil godless life. 
 
 God's care is surely over all His children, and 
 sooner or later the darkest horrors reveal Divine wis- 
 dom and love. 
 
 "I learnt by experience," said a friend of mine to 
 me once, "that in falling over precipices, in sinking 
 in swamps, in tumbling into pits, in drowning in 
 seas, I did but find God at the bottom " — 
 
 " Thus does Thy hospitable greatness lie 
 Outside us like a boundless sea ; 
 "We cannot lose ourselves where all is home, 
 Nor drift away from Thee." 
 
 "On my first arrival," says Father Damien, "I 
 found the lepers in general very destitute of warm 
 clothing. If they have suitable clothes to protect 
 themselves from the inclemency of the weather, they 
 usually resist the cold very well, but they suffer 
 greatly if, through neglect or destitution, they have 
 barely enough to cover them. They then begin to 
 feel feverish and to cough badly, swelling in the face 
 and limbs sets in, and if not speedily attended to the 
 disease generally settles on the lungs, and thus hastens 
 them on the road to an early grave. 
 
 A person afflicted with leprosy who quietly gives 
 himself up to the ravages of the disease, and does not 
 take exercise of any kind, presents a downcast appear- 
 ance, and threatens soon to become a total wreck. 
 
 I remember well that when I arrived here the poor 
 
2b . FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 people were without any medicines, with the excep- 
 tion of a few physics and their own native remedies. 
 It was a common sight to see people going around 
 with fearful ulcers, which, for the want of a few rags 
 or a piece of lint and a little salve, were left exposed. 
 Not only were their sores neglected, but anyone get- 
 ting a fever, or any of the numerous ailments that 
 lepers are heir to, was carried off for want of some 
 simple medicine 
 
 In the fulfilment of my duties as priest, being in 
 daily contact with the distressed people, I have seen 
 and closely observed the bad effect of forcible separa- 
 tion of the married companions. It gives them an 
 oppression of mind which in many instances is more 
 unbearable than the pains and agonies of the disease 
 itself. This uneasiness of the mind is in course of 
 time partly forgotten by those unfortunates only who 
 throw themselves into a reckless and immoral habit 
 of living. Whereas, if married men or women arrive 
 here in company with their lawful mates, they accept 
 at once their fate with resignation, and very soon 
 make themselves at home in their exile. Not only is 
 the contented mind of the leper secured by the com- 
 pany of his wife, but the enjoyment of good nursing 
 and the assistance so much needed 
 
 " Previous to my arrival here it was acknowledged 
 and spoken of in the public papers as well as in 
 private letters that the greatest want at Kalawao was 
 a spiritual leader. It was owing in a great measure 
 to this want that vice as a general rule existed in- 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 29 
 
 stead of virtue, and degradation of the lowest type 
 
 went ahead as a leader of the community 
 
 When once the disease prostrated them women and 
 children were often cast out. Sometimes they were 
 laid behind a stone wall, and left there to die. 
 
 "As there were so many dying people, my priestly 
 duty towards them often gave me the opportunity to 
 visit them at their domiciles, and although my ex- 
 hortations were especially addressed to the prostrated, 
 they would fall also upon the ears of public sinners, 
 who little by little became conscious of the conse- 
 quences of their wicked lives, and began to reform, 
 and thus, with the hope in a merciful Saviour, gave 
 up their bad habits. 
 
 "Kindness to all, charity to the needy, a sympa- 
 thising hand to the sufferers and the dying, in con- 
 junction with a solid religious instruction to my 
 listeners, have been my constant means to introduce 
 moral habits among the lepers. I am happy to say 
 that, assisted by the local administration, my labours 
 here, which seemed to be almost in vain at the be- 
 ginning, have, thanks to a kind Providence, been 
 greatly crowned with success." 
 
 The water supply of Molokai was a pleasant sub- 
 ject with Father Damien. When he first arrived the 
 lepers could only obtain water by carrying it from 
 the gulch on their poor shoulders ; they had also to 
 take their clothes to some distance when they re- 
 quired washing, and it was no wonder that they 
 lived in a very dirty state. 
 
30 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 He was much exercised about the matter, and one 
 day, to his great joy, he was told that at the end 
 of a valley called Waihanau there was a natural 
 reservoir. 
 
 He set out with two white men and some of his 
 boys, and travelled up the valley till he came with 
 delight to a nearly circular basin of most delicious 
 ice-cold water. Its diameter was seventy-two feet by 
 fifty-five, and not far from the bank they found, 
 on sounding, that it was eighteen feet deep. There 
 it lay at the foot of a high clifl", and he was in- 
 formed by the natives that there had never been a 
 drought in which this basin had dried up. He did 
 not rest till a supply of water-pipes had been sent 
 them, which he and all the able lepers went to work 
 and laid. Henceforth clear sweet water has been 
 available for all who desire to drink, to wash their 
 clothes, or to bathe. Lately the water arrangements 
 have been perfected under Government auspices by 
 Mr. Alexander Sproull, who was engaged in this 
 work while I Avas at Kalawao, and who was my 
 companion at the guest-house. 
 
 Father Damien was not hopeless about the dis- 
 covery of a cure for leprosy. " But, to my knowledge, 
 it has not yet been found," he said. "Perchance, in 
 the near future, through the untiring perseverence of 
 physicians, a cure may yet be found." 
 
 When newcomers arrived at Molokai there were 
 plenty of old residents ready to preach to them the 
 terrible axiom, "Aole kanawai ma keia wahi" — "In 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 31 
 
 this place there is no law." With the greatest indig- 
 nation Father Damien heard this doctrine proclaimed 
 in public and private, and with the whole force of 
 his being he set himself to combat it. 
 
 Along the face of the cliffs there grows very abun- 
 dantly a plant which the natives call "ki" (Draccena 
 terminalis)^ and from the root of which, when 
 cooked and fermented, they make a highly intoxica- 
 ting liquid. When Father Damien arrived he found 
 that the practice of distilling this horrible drink was 
 carried on largely. The natives who fell under its 
 influence forgot all decency and ran about nude, act- 
 ing as if they were stark mad. It was illegal to 
 distil spirits, and the brave man, having discovered 
 that certain members of the police were in league 
 with the evil-doers, set to work and went round the 
 settlement with " threats and persuasions," till he 
 had induced the culprits to deliver up the utensils 
 which were employed for that purpose. Some of the 
 most guilty persons were convicted, but they w^ere 
 pardoned on giving a promise that they would never 
 offend again. These reforms were of course very 
 unpopular with evil-doers, and there was fierce oppo- 
 sition to his influence. He learnt what it was to be 
 hated for righteousness' sake by the people for whom 
 he was giving his life, and the tide of angry re- 
 sistance did not entirely turn till it became apparent 
 that the disease had claimed him also as its own. 
 Then his adversaries were ashamed, and became his 
 friends and servants. 
 
32 FATHER, DAMIEN. 
 
 It was after living at the leper settlement for about 
 ten years that he begun to suspect that he was a 
 leper. The doctors assured him that this was not the 
 case. But he once scalded himself in his foot, and 
 to his horror he felt no pain, till he put his hand 
 into the pail and felt how hot the water was. xlnaes- 
 thesia had begun, and soon other fatal signs appeared. 
 One day he asked Dr. Arning, the great German 
 doctor who was then visiting Molokai, to examine 
 him carefully. 
 
 " I cannot bear to tell you," said Dr. Arning, " but 
 what you say is true." 
 
 " It is no shock to me," said Damien, " for I have 
 long felt sure of it." 
 
 I may mention here that there are three kinds of 
 lejprosy. In one kind the whole body becomes white 
 and of a scaly texture, but the general health is un- 
 affected comparatively. This is the sort repeatedly 
 mentioned in the Bible. In modern times it is some- 
 what rare, though I have seen cases of it in India. 
 
 In the anaesthetic variety the extremities become 
 insensible to pain, and gradually slough away with 
 sores. The whole body becomes weak and crippled, 
 and an easy prey to dysentery or diarrhoea. The 
 third kind of leprosy is named tubercular, and is 
 distinguished by swellings and discolourations. This 
 is the most painful kind to see. Father Damien 
 suffered (as is often the case) both from the anaes- 
 thetic and the tubercular forms of the disease. 
 
 " Whenever I preach to my people," he said, " I 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 33 
 
 do not say 'my brethren,' as you do, but 'we lepers.' 
 People pity me and think me unfortunate, but I 
 think myself the happiest of missionaries." 
 
 Henceforth he came under the law of segregation, 
 and journeys to the other parts of the islands were 
 forbidden. But he worked on with the same sturdy, 
 cheerful fortitude, accepting the will of God with 
 gladness, and undaunted by the continual reminders 
 of his coming fate which met him in the poor creatures 
 around him. 
 
 " I would not be cured," he said to me, " if the 
 price of my cure was that I must leave the island 
 and give up my work." 
 
 A lady (Miss Mary Stuart) wrote to him, "You 
 have given up all earthly things to serve God here 
 and to help others, and I believe you must have now 
 joy that nothing can take from you and a great re- 
 ward hereafter." — " Tell her," he said, with a quiet 
 smile "that it is true. I do have that joy now." 
 
 " I believe that I am the happiest Missionary in 
 the world " he said on another occasion. 
 
 He was very anxious that I should attend his church 
 services, though, as they were in Hawaiian, I could 
 not understand what was said. English was the lan- 
 guage used by educated Hawaiians. He pressed me 
 to help in his choir, and was delighted when I sang 
 " Adestes fideles " with the boys, and some of the 
 tunes that the ariston played. He had his own 
 private communion in the church on Sunday morn- 
 ing, followed by a general service, at which there 
 were about eighty lepers present. 
 
 D 
 
34 PATHEE, DAMIEN. 
 
 He seldom talked of himself except in answer to 
 questions, and he had always about him the sim- 
 plicity of a great man. He was not sentimental, and 
 I was therefore the more pleased that he gave me a 
 little card of flowers from Jerusalem, and wrote on 
 it, "To Edward Clifford, from his leper friend, J. 
 Damien." He also wrote in my Bible the words, "I 
 was sick, and ye visited me. — J. Damien de Yeuster, 
 Kalawao, Molokai, December 20th, 1888." He liked 
 looking at the pictures which were in my Bible, 
 especially at the two praying hands of Albert Diirer 
 and at a picture of Broadlands. I told him all the 
 names of the friends who had given me presents 
 for him, and he asked questions, and was evidently 
 touched and happily surprised that English Protestants 
 should love him. 
 
 I gave him on Christmas Day a copy of Faber's 
 hymns which had been sent him by Lady Grosvenor's 
 three children.* He read over the childishly written 
 words on the title-page " Blessed are the merciful, for 
 they shall obtain mercy," and said very sweetly that 
 he should read and value the book. 
 
 I wished I could have understood the sermon he 
 preached on Christmas Day. It was long and ani- 
 mated. In the afternoon he was catechising the boys, 
 and he translated for me some of his questions and 
 some of their answers, chiefly bearing on the Nativity 
 and on the nature of God. 
 
 * (Now (1904) The Duke of Westminster, Lady Shaftesbury, and 
 Lndy Beauchamp.) 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 35 
 
 In speaking to me he used English, which he said 
 was now the language most natural to him. 
 
 He told me that there had been beautiful instances 
 of true devotion among the lepers. Roman Catholics 
 were nearly as numerous as Protestants, and both 
 Churches were well filled. He gave me good accounts 
 of the Protestant native minister, who had come to 
 Molokai in charge of his leprous wife. I visited him, 
 but we could only understand each other through an 
 interpreter. The total number of lepers in the settle- 
 ment was a thousand and thirty. 
 
 Christmas Day was, of course, a feast, and in the 
 evening the lepers had an entertainment and acted 
 scenes in their biggest hall. The ariston played its 
 best between whiles. To English people it would pro- 
 bably have seemed a dreary entertainment, but the ex- 
 citement was great. Belshazzar's feast was a truly 
 wonderful representation, and not much more like 
 Belshazzar's feast than like any other scene. The 
 stage was very dark, and all the lepers seemed to 
 take their turns in walking on and off it. Belshazzar 
 had his face down on the table, buried in his arms, 
 nearly all the time, and it really seemed as if he 
 might be asleep. Nobody did anything particular, and 
 it was difficult to say who was intended for Daniel. 
 The queen-mother was a little boy. 
 
 The fathers were on very affectionate, playful terms 
 with the lepers. I found Father Conradi one morn- 
 ing making a list of the boys' names, which I think 
 are worth recording with some others that I got from 
 
36 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 Mr. SprouU and Dr. NichoUs. It must be remem- 
 bered that they are hoys' names; Jane Peter, Henry- 
 Ann, Sit-in-the-cold, The Rat-eater, The Eyes-of-the- 
 fire, A Fall-from-a-horse, Mrs. Tompkins, The Heaven- 
 has-been-talking, Susan, The Window, The wandering 
 Ghost, The first Nose, The tenth Heaven, The Dead- 
 house, The white Bird, The Bird-of-water, The River- 
 of -truth. The Emetic. 
 
 The following names were found by Dr. Nicholls 
 at Honolulu : — Mr. Scissors, Mrs. Oyster, The Fool, 
 The Man who washes his Dimples, The tired Lizard, 
 The Atlantic Ocean, The Stomach, The great Kettle, 
 Poor Pussy, The Pigsty. 
 
 Father Damien would never come inside the guest- 
 house while I was staying, but gat in the evening on 
 the steps of the verandah and talked on in his cheery, 
 pleasant, simple way. The stars shone over his head, 
 and all the valleys glimmered in golden moon-light, 
 There is often wild weather in Molokai. The cona 
 wind rushes up from the southern coast, and reaches 
 with steady force the heights of the island ; then it 
 seems staggered at finding the ground suddenly come 
 to an end, and descends through the gorges to the 
 leper villages in gusts which, though warm, are so 
 violent that one evening our roof was mainly torn off, 
 and the rain came pouring through a dozen fissures. 
 The china-roses by the balcony were ruthlessly with- 
 ered and torn to pieces, and in a ride from Kalau- 
 papa, I was driven in exactly opposite directions with- 
 in a distance of two hundred yards, while the rain in 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 37 
 
 my face felt more like gravel than water. This 
 weather sometimes lasts for days together, and the 
 wind continues, though the skies may be full of star- 
 light or sunshine. 
 
 Generally the climate is what would universally be 
 described as lovely ; but Mr. Sproull told me that the 
 heat and stillness were sometimes so exhausting that 
 every one got " as limp as a wet collar." 
 
 The ground at Molokai is strewn with great black 
 blocks of lava, round which grows a tall delicate grass 
 so closely that one has to be careful of pitfalls as 
 one walks. There are not many wild flowers in the 
 Hawaiian Islands. The lilac major convolvulus, a 
 handsome white poppy, the diverse-coloured lantana, 
 and a bright orange blossom with a milky stem are 
 among the principal. On the hills grow the crimson- 
 blossomed Lehua, and various pretty berries, white, 
 black, purple, yellow, and red — some of them (the 
 ohelo especially) excellent to eat. 
 
 Half-way between the two leper towns rises a lowish 
 hill, which is found, on ascending it, to be an ex- 
 tinct volcano with a perfect cup, and at the bottom 
 of the cup a hole 130 feet wide, which is said to be 
 unfathomable. It is nearly full of turbid green water. 
 Half skeleton trees grow on its sides, and some big 
 cactuses. The place looks like the scene of some 
 weird fairy tale. 
 
 At Kalaupapa there live and work Father Wendolen 
 and three Franciscan sisters. Mother Marianne, the 
 Superior, is a very gentle sweet woman, with con- 
 
38 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 siderable organizing powers, and a taste for art and 
 beauty, which can find little scope in that outcast 
 place. 
 
 The Roman Catholic Church in the village was built 
 partly by Father Damien's own hands. He is good 
 at carpentering and building, and is apparently able 
 and ready to work at anything as long as it is work. 
 He is scrupulous and businesslike about accounts and 
 money matters, and he was anxious that I should see 
 how carefully he had kept his books, and that I 
 should understand that the presents sent him had 
 been dispensed with impartiality among Protestants 
 and Roman Catholics. 
 
 The given time for me to remain at the leper settle- 
 ment came to an end only too soon, and one day the 
 steamer arrived which was to take me away. It 
 brought two hundred friends of lepers to spend a few 
 hours at Molokai — a treat generously provided by Mr. 
 Samuel Damon of Honolulu. The sea was unfortu- 
 nately so rough that only the men were allowed to 
 land, but the women were taken close to the shore 
 in boats, so that they could see their friends and con- 
 verse with them. One girl leaped on shore in defiance 
 of all rules. When the vessel sailed away all the 
 population seemed to have come out to say farewell, 
 and there was much wailing and waving of handker- 
 chiefs. 
 
 As our ship weighed anchor the sombre purple 
 cliffs were crowned with white clouds. Down their 
 precipices leaped the cataracts. The little village, with 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 39 
 
 its three churches and its white cottages, lay at their 
 bases. Father Damien stood with his thousand lepers 
 on the rocks till we slowly passed from their sight. 
 The sun was getting low in the heavens, beams of 
 light were slanting down the mountain sides. And 
 finally I saw the last of Molokai in a golden veil of 
 mist. 
 
 London, May, 1889. 
 
 And now the news of Father Damien's death has 
 come to us. Friends have said to me, "You must be 
 glad to think that he has passed away to his reward." 
 Yes, I feel that all that God does is best, and that 
 therefore this must be best. But I do not feel glad 
 except from that highest point of view. Looked at 
 with human eyes, it would have seemed to most of 
 us that so useful and happy a life might have been 
 prolonged with great blessing to himself and to the 
 suffering ones among whom he worked. 
 
 I think that in the last few weeks he had himself 
 begun to feel the desires for paradise quickening, as 
 the weariness of the flesh grew heavier. 
 
 The hopes of better health raised during my last 
 days at Molokai were dashed by a letter written on 
 the 21st of February. It gave a distressing account 
 of his bodily condition. "But, nevertheless, he is as 
 energetic as ever in bettering the condition of the 
 
40 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 lepers, and there have been added to our number 
 since you left about a dozen new cases ; all are com- 
 paratively happy." 
 
 The postcript to this letter is — 
 
 " My love and good wishes to good friend Edward. 
 I try to make slowly my way of the Cross, and hope 
 to be soon on the top of my Golgotha. —Yours for ever, 
 
 "J. Damibn." 
 
 The last letter from him is as follows : — 
 
 "Kalawao, 28th February, 1889. 
 
 " My dear Edward Clifford — Your sympa- 
 thising letter of 24th gives me some relief in my 
 rather distressed condition. I try my best to carry 
 without much complaining and in a practical way, 
 for my poor soul's sanctification, the long foreseen 
 miseries of the disease, which, after all, is a provi- 
 dential agent to detach the heart from all earthly 
 affection, and prompts much the desire of a Christian 
 soul to be united— the sooner the better — with Him 
 Who is her only life. 
 
 "During your long travelling road homewards please 
 
 do not forget the narrow road. "We both have to walk 
 
 carefully, so as to meet together at the home of our 
 
 common and eternal Father. My kind regards and 
 
 prayers and good wishes for all sympathising friends. 
 
 Bon voyage, mon cher ami^ et au revoir an ceil. — 
 
 Totus tuus, 
 
 "J. Damien." 
 

 Afl^ Y>^ J^ Ic^-iv^ <»4n.*Vviin?P vfl^/^ 
 
42 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 This was probably the last letter he ever wrote, 
 and soon he felt that his end was near. On the 28th 
 March he took to his bed. 
 
 "You see my hands," he said. "All my wounds 
 are healing and the crust is becoming black. Look 
 at my eyes. I have seen so many lepers die that I 
 cannot be mistaken. Death is not far off. I should 
 have liked to see the Bishop again, but le hon Dieu 
 is calling me to keep Easter with Himself. God be 
 blessed ! How good He is to have preserved me long 
 enough to have two priests by my side at my last 
 moments, and also to have the good Sisters of Charity 
 at the Leproserie. This has been my Nunc Dimittis. 
 The work of the lepers is assured, and I am no 
 longer necessary, and so will go up yonder. Bury 
 me by the Church, under the palm tree, which was 
 my roof when I first came to live here." 
 
 "And will you, like Elijah, leave me your mantle, 
 my father, in order that I may have your great 
 heart ? " said Father Wendolen. 
 
 " Why, what would you do with it ? " said Father 
 Damien ; " it is full of leprosy." 
 
 He rallied for a little while after this, and his 
 watchers even had a little hope that his days might 
 be lengthened. Father Conradi, Father Wendolen, and 
 Brother Joseph were much in his company. Brother 
 James was his constant nurse. The Sisters from 
 Kalaupapa visited him often, and it is good to think 
 that tlie sweet face and gentle voice of the Mother 
 were near him in his last days. Instead of his straw 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 43 
 
 mattress on the ground they put him comfortably to 
 bed. Everybody admired his wonderful patience. He 
 who had been so ardent, so strong, and so playful, 
 was now powerless on his couch. "And how poorly 
 off he was ; he who had spent so much money to 
 relieve the lepers had so forgotten himself that he 
 had none of the comforts and scarcely the necessaries 
 of life." Sometimes he suffered greatly ; sometimes 
 he was partly unconscious. 
 
 He said that he was continually aware of two per- 
 sons being present with him. One was at the head 
 of the bed and one at his feet. But who they were 
 he did not say. 
 
 The disease had concentrated itself in his mouth 
 and throat, and had also attacked the lungs. 
 
 The end was near, and he was at peace. The last 
 sixteen years spent among the lepers had been full 
 both of difficulties and of blessings. Enemies had 
 lurked near at hand. His motives had been impugned, 
 his character had been falsely assailed. Not much 
 praise had reached him. The tide of affection and 
 sympathy from England had cheered him, but England 
 was so far off that it seemed almost like sympathy 
 and affection from a star. Churches were built, schools 
 and hospitals were in working order, but there was 
 still much to be done. He was only forty-nine, and 
 he was dying. 
 
 "Well ! God's will be done. He knows best. My 
 work, with all its faults and failures, is in His hands, 
 and before Easter I shall see my Saviour." 
 
44 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 Again and again he received the Sacrament. 
 
 The breathing grew more laboured, the leprous eyes 
 were nearly blind, the once stalwart frame was fast 
 becoming rigid. And then the sound of the passing 
 bell was heard, and the wail of the lepers pierced the 
 air. The last flickering breath was breathed, and the 
 soul of Joseph Damien de Yeuster arose like a lark 
 to God. 
 
 All that is mortal of him lies under the palm tree 
 by the little Church, near the place where one by 
 one his flock have been laid. 
 
 The strong, active figure and the cheery voice are 
 no longer to be found at Molokai. But his work 
 abides, and brings forth fruit a hundredfold. Who 
 can measure the results of a life spent in obedience 
 to the will of God, and of actions performed from 
 love to Him and to humanity ? 
 
 "Fear no more the heat of the sun, 
 Kor the furious winter rages, 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages." 
 
 (Note, April, 1904. — My readers will like to 
 know that the work among the lepers in Molokai is 
 carried on most generously by the Hawaiian Govern- 
 ment, now amalgamated with the United States. The 
 friends of Father Damien are still living and work- 
 ing there, and I often hear of them through my 
 friend the devoted brother Joseph, who is mentioned 
 above, and who gives his whole life and energy to the 
 lepers. Some day I should like to write more fully 
 
FATHER DAMIBN. 
 
 45 
 
 about him. Father Wendolen and the Sisters are still 
 actively and nobly working there. Soon after Father 
 Damien's death we English friends of his sent out a 
 beautiful granite cross, to which was attached a white 
 marble relief with his sculptured profile. Underneath 
 are the words, "Greater love hath no man than this, 
 that a man lay down his life for his friends.") 
 
46 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 Note. — I feel that I must not close an account of 
 my dear and honoured friend, Father Damien, with- 
 out saying what my chief reasons are for standing 
 apart from the Church which he loved and to which 
 he belonged. I need scarcely say that I believe that 
 all who have the Christ life belong to the Church of 
 Christ (whether Roman Catholics, Nonconformists, or 
 belonging to the Church of England). But I have 
 five strong reasons which would prevent my ever 
 feeling even inclined to become a Roman Catholic. 
 
 They count of course much more against joining 
 a Church than against remaining in it, if born and 
 bred there and unconscious of its faults. 
 
 Firstly then it seems to me that the Church of 
 Rome is not primarily faithful to truth, or to the 
 great eternal difference between right and wrong. 
 And this is the chief reason why I stand apart from it. 
 A Roman Catholic's opinion on religious subjects is 
 not formed by the simple conviction of what is right 
 or wrong, or true or untrue, but by the authority of 
 a Church which claims infallibility. The question is 
 closed of whether the Church was or is right or 
 wrong, for there is "no possibility of error." So it 
 means slavery of thought, both for individuals and 
 nations. Slaves may be good and happy, but English 
 people do not generally wish to be slaves. For my- 
 self, the more I see of Roman Catholics, and the 
 more I love them, the less I wish to become one of 
 them. It seems almost ungracious to say this, but I 
 dare not leave it unsaid. 
 
FATHER DAMIEN. 47 
 
 Secondly, The Church of Rome, in spite of expla- 
 nations and protestations, fears the Bible, and dis- 
 courages its use. I know and thankfully admit that 
 in some places there is an improvement in this respect. 
 But the charge has again and again been proved just. 
 
 Thirdly, The priests of the Church of Rome are 
 compulsorily celibate. The rule may be a wise one 
 as far as the attainment of worldly power goes. But 
 it is not possible to believe that out of the tens of 
 thousands of young men who, in their youth vow to 
 live celibate lives a majority preserve their purity 
 through all the conflicts of life. And when they fall 
 the soul gets crooked, and does crooked work. An 
 unmarried clergyman is a good thing, but he must 
 be free to marry if he should by and bye very 
 much wish to marry. Moreover, it is practically 
 decided when a boy is eight years old that he shall 
 go to a priest's school and be trained for a celibate 
 life. This is surely iniquitous. 
 
 Fourthly, I could not join the Church of Rome 
 because it so little recognises other Christians that a 
 Roman Catholic is actually forbidden even to pray in 
 union with a member of our Church. The spirit is 
 so intolerant that I doubt if there are many Roman 
 Catholics even now who woiild condemn the barbarous 
 destruction of Protestants in the reign of Queen Mary. 
 Fifty thousand of them were ruthlessly destroyed in 
 the Netherlands by the Duke of Alva at about the 
 same epoch. Roman Catholics are apt to say that 
 Queen Elizabeth destroyed as many people for their 
 E 
 
48 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 religion as her sister did. But this is absolutely un- 
 true. She never killed one person for his religious 
 convictions. She had many faults, but to her honour 
 be it said that in a bigoted age she was nobly tolerant. 
 
 Fifthly, the heart's devotion vrith the great body of 
 Roman Catholics is apparently given to the Virgin 
 Mary and to the Church rather than to Christ. I 
 say this unwillingly, and I know that there are many 
 exceptions to the rule ; but, alas ! it is true in the 
 main. 
 
 These are my five chief reasons for not being a 
 Roman Catholic, in spite of the love and honour in 
 which I hold many who belong to the Roman Church. 
 I believe they will forgive me for my frankness, and 
 will feel that if I write about Father Damien I am 
 bound to speak truly of my own convictions. 
 
 Js^K^ 
 
QUARTU5, A BROTHER. 
 
 "QuARTUS," said a Corinthian lady to her slave 
 one Sunday morning, "I feel rather exhausted, I am 
 yawning, and that is always a sign that I need some- 
 thing to eat. Get me ready a bowl of soup, and then 
 you can go to the general assembly." 
 
 Quartus, who was cook, at once set about prepar- 
 ing the soup, but by the time he had served it, the 
 hour was so late, that when he arrived at church, he 
 could not find a seat. This was a distress to him, 
 for besides being naturally methodical, he was devout, 
 and valued a quiet place where he could be undis- 
 tracted in his worship. He was a simple child-like 
 person. The door-keeper, who was a friend of his, 
 came up to him and whispered that there were three 
 places still vacant in front. "Go round and slip in 
 by the back way," he said. 
 
 "I don't like to sit in the front," said Quartus, 
 hesitating, " It seems too much." " Nonsense," said 
 his friend, " I'll take you round." 
 
 They went together, and he showed him the empty 
 places and pushed him in. So Quartus sat in a seat 
 of honour with eyes cast down, and with a depre- 
 cating air. 
 
 A few minutes after the service had begun, there 
 was a little commotion, and three elegant smiling 
 strangers made their way up through the aisle. 
 
50 QTJARTUS, A BROTHER. 
 
 One of the elders of the church, who sat on the 
 platform, beckoned them politely to come forward, 
 and then casting his busy eyes around to find seats 
 for them, he discovered Quartus in the front row. 
 He spoke in a low voice to Nicias, Quartus' master, 
 who was sitting near him, "Nicias, isn't your cook a 
 little out of place ? He is excellent in the kitchen I 
 know, but we don't need him to be so apparent here, 
 do we ? " Nicias smiled, and stepping softly down, 
 said not unkindly, "Try and find a seat somewhere 
 else, there's a good fellow. We want these front 
 places." 
 
 Covered with shame, and longing to explain that 
 his place was not of his own choosing, Quartus shrank 
 away further and further down the crowded church 
 seeking vainly for standing room. 
 
 About two-thirds of the way down, an old man 
 whom he had never seen before, made room for him 
 behind a pillar, where they both sat almost hidden. 
 Quartus was deeply grateful, but he could only ex- 
 press his feelings by an eloquent look at his bene- 
 factor. The old man's face was so beautiful, and his 
 slight smile was so sympathetic that he felt drawn to 
 him with quite a rush of emotion, and his eyes even 
 filled with tears. The stranger's mantle was thread- 
 bare and his shoes were worn, but he did not look 
 like a poor man. On the contrary, he had an air of 
 dignity and even of command. When the smile left 
 his face he looked extremely grave, and the deep 
 caverns of his eyes were full of mystery and of fire. 
 
QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 51 
 
 Quartus felt a little afraid of him, but more of love 
 than fear. 
 
 Meanwhile the service proceeded, and he soon heard 
 with admiration, his master beginning to speak in an 
 unknown tongue. This phenomenon, though it always 
 filled him with delight and awe, was too common to 
 excite much interest in the congregation generally. 
 The listeners soon got a little weary, and when on 
 Nicias ceasing, two others rose together and consider- 
 ably lengthened the exercise, there were even a few 
 looks of dismay. 
 
 Then some one rose and interpreted what Nicias 
 had said. Quartus thought it was beautiful, and did 
 not dream of complaining that it was very similar to 
 many of such utterances which he had heard before. 
 It was ecstatic, but tritely commonplace. Then one 
 of the three strangers rose, and preached with fine 
 oratorical power. There was a distinct sensation pro- 
 duced, and someone whispered, " What a gift ; it is 
 Demas. He speaks like an angel." Several people 
 were weeping. 
 
 Then came a hymn, and then a very mystic dis- 
 course in an almost inaudible voice from Phlegon, an 
 old citizen of considerable social position and wealth. 
 He was always listened to with a very polite show of 
 attention, for though rather a crank, he was known 
 and respected as a truly good man. And, moreover, 
 he had borne the chief burden of the expense of 
 building the church, and could always be depended 
 on for liberal giving. 
 
52 QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 
 
 Quartus felt grieved that even by straining his at- 
 tention, he could gather scarcely anything from this 
 discourse. " How I waste my opportunities ! " he 
 sighed to himself. "But what a noble old white- 
 headed saint he is. He told us to trust in the Lord. 
 How good that is ! " 
 
 Then an interesting man named Cleon spoke — a 
 man who had once been cruelly tortured for his 
 faith's sake, by the Pagans, and who had been the 
 means, years before, of converting many persons to 
 Christianity. He was not a great preacher, but Quartus 
 loved to hear him, and envied him greatly for his 
 experience. His spiritual power was somewhat waning. 
 
 A sickly looking lady had been brought in on a 
 couch, and listened to everything that was said with 
 almost unnatural eagerness and with distended strain- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 After Cleon had spoken, two brethren came for- 
 ward, and spoke and prayed with her. Then after 
 laying their hands on her, they took her by the hand 
 and lifted her up ; whereupon she walked and de- 
 clared herself cured. There was great rejoicing, and 
 a good deal of noise and excitement. Then after 
 more singing, the blessing was given, and the assem- 
 bly began to disperse. 
 
 Quartus was always too modest to go out with the 
 grand people, and to-day he felt more than usually 
 uncomfortable, and as if all the congregation would 
 mark him as a forward pushing fellow, who had been 
 told to take a lower place. 
 
QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 53 
 
 "And well they might blame me," he thought, 
 "for indeed, I am nobody. It is not only that I am 
 a slave, but I have no spiritual gifts at all as so many 
 have. Oh ! if I could heal the sick, or if I could 
 speak with unknown tongues ! Many who are no 
 better scholars than I am, can preach and convert 
 sinners. I am almost useless. I feel I am out of it 
 altogether. How happy Cleon must feel to have so 
 bravely yielded himself up to the torturers. But I 
 feel that such experiences are not for me. To the 
 end, I shall only be Quartus the cook, a fourth-rate 
 man. I am not even holy, like Junius and Alexander ; 
 surely everyone is richer than I. And I know that 
 it is entirely my own fault. 
 
 When the church was half cleared, he came for- 
 ward, and stood a little way back in the portico. 
 His companion who had sat quietly by his side, also 
 rose, and remained standing near him. 
 
 They could look out through a space between two 
 pillars, and they soon saw that as the congregation 
 streamed out, a well-known, but disgusting object met 
 everyone's eye. 
 
 A filthy, old, half -imbecile woman, named Christina, 
 who had been sitting at the bottom of the church, 
 was now standing clamouring in the way. She seemed 
 abandoned to misery and degradation, and to be with- 
 out a sign of self respect. 
 
 Nicias, who had very hospitable instincts, had in- 
 vited the three strangers to come home to dinner with 
 him, and the four gentlemen were coming down the 
 steps and talking agreeably together. 
 
54 QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 
 
 " I think you are perhaps right," Nicias was say- 
 ing. " I have always felt some degree of suspicion 
 about these healings. I am almost sure that the case 
 to-day was mere hysteria, and that to-morrow we shall 
 hear of a relapse. But the people crave for that kind 
 of excitement, and are a great deal more eager to see 
 a miracle than to listen either to preaching or un- 
 known languages. I must admit, however, that both 
 Phlegon and Cleon are rather long-winded in their 
 preaching." 
 
 At this moment, the wretched mad woman thrust 
 herself forward and cried out, "Help me, I am in 
 prison and in chains, I am a miserable wretch." And 
 then her speech became an indistinguishable gibber. 
 
 " I know her," said Nicias with some disgust ; " She 
 is drunk as usual. It is no use helping her." 
 
 " Such cases are too common, alas ! " said his com- 
 panion, and passing on they continued to speak of 
 the morning service. 
 
 " Help me ! help me ! I am sick and wretched, and 
 ill and wicked. I am in prison ; I am in chains," 
 cried Christina again as the rich and good old Phlegon 
 approached, followed by his servant. 
 
 " Do not give her money," whispered a deacon who 
 was accompanying him, and who had seen Phlegon 
 motioning to his servant to give her alms. " It is 
 better to let our association deal with such cases. 
 She is either drunk, or possessed, or both." Christina 
 either caught the words or guessed them, for she 
 cried out, " And how can I do anything but drink 1 
 
QUAHTUS, A BROTHER. «»5 
 
 I am on lire. Help me. I am in prison. Chained. 
 Help me ! " 
 
 " Who is she ? " said Phlegon, half frightened. 
 
 "She was once a member of our church," replied 
 the deacon. "But she fell into sin, and we had to 
 excommunicate her." 
 
 " Why does she sslj she is in prison ? " asked 
 Phlegon. 
 
 " She is mad, I suppose," said the deacon. 
 
 Cleon was close behind. He fixed his sad dark eyes 
 on Christina and said, " If you will turn from your 
 sin and do righteously, the Lord will pardon and re- 
 ceive you, sister. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanses 
 from all sin." 
 
 " Don't preach to me, you chattering fool ; I am in 
 prison ; help me," said the woman frantically, and 
 she caught hold of his mantle violently and tore it. 
 
 For a moment his anger rose, but he prayed that 
 he might have the grace of meekness, and disengag- 
 ing himself from her clutch, he sighed and passed on. 
 
 " Will no one help me out of prison ? " moaned 
 Christina, and sank on the ground, with her head 
 between her knees. 
 
 Quartus did not doubt that the brethren must be 
 right to refuse her appeal, but he was extremely sorry 
 each time that it failed. His heart had caught fire 
 with pity for her. His hopes rose again when the 
 men who had laid their hands on the sick lady ap- 
 proached. They were almost the last of the congre- 
 gation, and he ventured to come forward and say ; 
 
56 QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 
 
 " Sirs, can you help this poor woman ? You have 
 such a gift." 
 
 Their reply was, "My good man, I'm afraid we 
 can't do everything ! You should try and persuade 
 some of these wonderful brethren who speak with 
 tongues and prophecy to look after her; you all seem 
 to think so much of them. What a dreadful old 
 creature she is. Drunk, I suppose. Ah I it is her 
 own sin that has brought her to this state, and it is 
 no use trying to help her till she helps herself." 
 
 They passed on, and Quartus turning to his com- 
 panion who had stood quite motionless said to him, 
 " Sir, I am only a cook, but my master allows me a 
 little house, and if you are a stranger and would be 
 the guest of a slave I should feel grateful." 
 
 "Thank you, brother, I will come," said the old 
 man quietly. 
 
 Quartus hesitated, "Sir," he said timidly, "Do you 
 mind my asking this poor woman to come with us ? 
 I am almost ashamed to ask you, for I know that 
 she is no fit company for you. But I don't like to 
 go home and leave her here without any food." 
 
 " Ask her," said the stranger, with rather a peculiar 
 manner, "she is fit company for me." 
 
 So Quartus went up to Christina, and touching her 
 gently with his hand, said "I should like to help 
 you." She was mute, and he had to speak again be- 
 fore she raised her head and looked half vacantly at 
 him with her rheumy eyes. 
 
 " Come home with us and have some food," he said 
 in a kind voice. 
 
QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 57 
 
 " Who are you ? " she said dreamily. 
 
 "My name is Quartus," he replied, and he took her 
 by the hand and raised her up. She was a dreadful 
 object — her face bloated, her clothes ragged and foul. 
 
 "Come with us," said he again, and the three 
 moved together towards his little house. 
 
 Christina seemed to have spent her passion, and 
 walked quietly but feebly. She only muttered an 
 answer when she was spoken to. 
 
 The stranger questioned Quartus about the service. 
 He asked who the speakers were, and Quartus answered 
 him with enthusiasm. " The first who spoke was my 
 master Nicias, Sir. Don't you think that he speaks 
 with tongues better than almost any one ? I always 
 feel as if he were saying the best things, and that 
 none of the interpreters bring out all the beauty of 
 it. It was Demas who spoke so eloquently after- 
 wards. A very good man I believe, and one of the 
 greatest preachers living. He preaches somewhere 
 nearly every day of his life, and sometimes two or 
 three times, besides being always ready to say a few 
 words. I believe he sometimes even preaches in his 
 sleep. He is a lesson to us all. I think you would 
 enjoy Phlegon's speaking. Sir ? He is so deep — in- 
 deed, I am too stupid and ignorant to understand 
 much of what he says. But it is always good. I am 
 glad that you saw the healing of that lady. We often 
 have cures like that in our church and other miracles 
 as well." 
 
 " And do you ever take any part yourself ? " asked 
 the stranger. 
 
58 QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 
 
 Quartus' face fell. 
 
 " No Sir, I do nothing," he said very sadly, " I am 
 nobody in the church. Sometimes I am afraid that I 
 scarcely have a right to be a member. I have always 
 longed for some little gift, but it has never come. I 
 cannot preach, and I have never converted anybody. 
 I have almost given up hoping that I shall ever speak 
 with unknown tongues, or be able to heal the least 
 sickness. I would give all I have — which indeed is 
 not much — if I could do anything. And such young 
 men get the power now, some of them are almost 
 boys. I am more than forty, and I am no use at all." 
 
 " Do you do your work well for Nicias ? " said the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Yes, I think he is pleased with me," said Quartus. 
 *'But of course he does not think much of me as a 
 church member. How can he ? Only this morning 
 I overheard one of the elders say to him that they 
 had no need of me in the church. And I know that 
 it was quite true. I should never be missed there if 
 I were to die to-day." 
 
 "At least they have left you the opportunity of 
 succouring a soul in prison, and of taking into your 
 house a stranger," said the other. 
 
 " Yes, said Quartus, " but that is nothing. That is 
 a pleasure — it needs no spiritual gift." 
 
 " Do you think so ? I call it the more excellent 
 way," said the stranger. 
 
 They now reached Quartus's modest little house. 
 
 He had a stew preparing which smelt excellent, and 
 
QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 59 
 
 which was to have served him for dinner and supper. 
 He calculated that it would suffice for his guests, and 
 that very likely he would get something for himself 
 at his master's, after serving the family dinner there 
 an hour later. He waited on his guests with much 
 native grace, and felt very happy though hungry. 
 
 Before they had sat down he had said to Christina. 
 " Would you like to bathe sister ? There is warm 
 water ready." 
 
 And she had answered in a subdued voice " Nay, 
 I'd as lief stay as I am if you are willing." He was 
 not exactly willing, but he did not say so. 
 
 He now recognised that there was a certain relation- 
 ship between himself and his two guests. Christina 
 was evidently affected strongly by the stranger. She 
 looked furtivelj' at him from time to time, half 
 frightened and half attracted. 
 
 When the meal was over, Quartus asked to be ex- 
 cused as it was time for him to go and fulfil his 
 duties for Nicias. 
 
 "We will stay here till you return if we may do 
 so," said the old man. 
 
 Quartus coloured with pleasure. Then he turned to 
 Christina and said, "You will bathe this afternoon, 
 will you not sister ? I have made all ready, and by 
 the bath I have put some clothes, which were my 
 wife's. I hope you will use them." For reply 
 Christina only fixed her eyes on him, but she did 
 not refuse his offer, and he felt hopeful of her as he 
 hurried away. It was nearly two hours before he 
 
60 QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 
 
 returned, for the dinner at Nicias' was long and 
 stately. 
 
 But when at last he got back he saw a sight which 
 almost stopped the beating of his heart. 
 
 Could that woman be the wretched Christina ? 
 washed and clothed in white, and with an expression 
 of heavenly joy on her face. She sat at the stranger's 
 feet gazing up at him with tears rolling down her 
 face. She looked transfigured. 
 
 When Quartus entered she rose and bowed herself 
 to the ground before him, kissing his feet. 
 
 " My chains are broken " she said, " I am out of 
 prison. The evil spirit is cast out of me. Praised be 
 the Lord. He has sent His two servants to deliver 
 me." 
 
 " It is true " said the stranger, " the devil is gone 
 out of her, and shall return no more into her. 
 Brother Quartus, God has given you this seal in His 
 service. Be thankful and henceforth be content." 
 
 Quartus was bewildered with delight. " But it is 
 you Sir, not I, who have done this," he said. "God 
 did it," said the stranger, "and He used us both in 
 the matter, but He used you chiefly. In the Church 
 He has placed not only Apostles and Prophets, but 
 also ' helps.' There are many members in the body, 
 and one member cannot say to another, ' I have no 
 need of thee.' And the hidden members are often 
 the most vital. It is your love that has won the 
 .victory." And again the stranger's beautiful smile 
 broke out all over his face. "And Sir, who are 
 you ? " said Quartus. 
 
QUABTUS, A BROTHER. 61 
 
 " I am John," said the old man. " And now the 
 work I came here to do is done. Farewell Christina — 
 Farewell Quartus. We shall all meet again. Peace 
 and joy be with you my children," and with a beckon 
 
 of the hand he was gone. 
 
 # # * # * 
 
 Never had Quartus enjoyed a service so much as 
 on that evening. He was overflowing with gladness. 
 The same speakers who had spoken in the morning 
 spoke again, but all they said seemed to Quartus so 
 beautiful that many times he could not restrain his 
 tears. 
 
 Christina sat behind him. She had drawn a veil 
 over her face, and no one recognized her. But at 
 the close of the service she rose and threw back her 
 veil, and her voice tremulous with emotion was heard 
 all over the church. 
 
 " I thank God," she said in a voice of deep feeling. 
 
 Every one turned and saw her as she stood with a 
 rapt and beautiful face. Her hands were clasped. 
 
 " I thank God, she said again, " I have been de- 
 livered from prison and from the hands of my enemy." 
 
 "It is a miracle," was whispered all through the 
 church, and Nicias said to Demas in a low voice, "I 
 noticed a change come over her while I was speak- 
 ing. Thank God." 
 
 "Nay," said Christina, whose ears had been quick- 
 ened to hear his whisper, " your unknown tongue was 
 to me no more than a tinkling cymbal. It failed." 
 
 " Was it something which I said that helped you ? " 
 said Demas kindly. 
 
62 QUARTUS, A BROTHER. 
 
 "Sir, your preaching was to me only like sounding 
 brass," said Christina without looking at him. 
 
 Nicias was a little abashed, but recovering himself 
 said, "Then it was Phlegon's doing — Phlegon, who, 
 all his life has been so generous to the poor ? Or 
 was it Cleon who helped you, he who once gave his 
 body to be burned " 
 
 "They profited me nothing," said Christina, "They 
 showed no love to me, hungry and thirsty and bound 
 by Satan. Nor did your healers. They may have 
 faith enough to remove mountains, but for me they 
 were nothing. All of you refused to help me, all of 
 you passed me by, except this cook. He laid his 
 hand on me, not for a miracle but for love. He saved 
 me. He fed me. He gave me water to wash with, 
 and clothes to wear. He brought me to one who 
 cast out of me the evil spirit. He alone of you has 
 the charity which never fails. I was naked and he 
 clothed me, I was hungry and he fed me, I was in 
 prison and he delivered me. The Lord bless him." 
 
 There was an awestruck silence while Christina was 
 speaking. She seemed unconscious of herself, as if 
 she were not speaking her own words. 
 
 Suddenly, with a start and a deep blush she re- 
 covered herself, and hastily covering her face with 
 her veil she sank down on her seat. Her pain and 
 her work were accomplished. She was dead. 
 
FELIX AND BYAL. 
 " REJOICE." 
 
 This was the pre-eminent command which the four 
 children received from their father, and in it were 
 shehered nearly all his other commands. 
 
 Unhappily, it was generally disobeyed. But when- 
 ever it was kept, there followed splendid results. 
 The reason of its being made so imperative, was that 
 it was largely a fashion in that country to be un- 
 happy. People claimed misery as a possession and a 
 right. Even if they possessed all manner of good and 
 lovely things, they still chose to suppose that they 
 were miserable, and stared with incredulous smiles 
 at the few who declared themselves happy. In fact 
 they regarded them as insincere, or almost monstrous. 
 
 Misery was, as I have said, the fashion, and was 
 felt to be the right and correct thing. If no suffi- 
 cient cause for it could be adduced, then a hidden 
 reason had to be imagined and treasured, so that the 
 conventional sighs and groans might be justified. But 
 there were generally vexations and evils of some sort 
 going about, and it was not hard to detain one and 
 magnify it for personal use. 
 
64 FELIX AND BYAL. 
 
 It was not, however, considered necessary to abstain 
 from pleasure. On the contrary, people habitually 
 followed it with great industry and success. They 
 considered that they might enjoy themselves as much 
 as they chose, provided that they kept groaning. 
 Luxury, work, comfort, recreation, idleness, friend- 
 ship, honours, children, food, raiment, health, the 
 beauty of nature, and general prosperity, might all 
 be sedulously possessed, provided that the sesame of 
 " I am wretched " was duly pronounced. It was this 
 custom of the country which the father above-men- 
 tioned desired to have broken. 
 
 Felix and Gladys, the two youngest of his four 
 children, early decided that they were happy, and 
 persisted in the avowal of it. They were, therefore, 
 considered by their elders as very extraordinary and 
 almost objectionable children. Happiness seemed to 
 come naturally to them, just as grumbling seemed 
 to come naturally to their elder brother and sister, 
 who became gloomier every year, as they dwelt on 
 the miseries of their lives, and also of other people's 
 lives, for it often happened in that country that 
 people were so obviously prosperous that they were 
 obliged to take up the supposed sorrows of others as 
 their own special affliction. And as they were seldom 
 very active in relieving these afflictions, except on an 
 exceedingly small scale, they naturally lasted them 
 out, and gave them an excuse for being so intensely 
 miserable that it did not seem unlikely that their 
 woes would finally unsettle their intellects. 
 
FELIX AND BYAL. 65 
 
 But Felix and Gladys held sturdily to their birth- 
 right of happiness. When they were happy (which 
 was generally the case), they did not scruple to admit 
 it. They thought their food delicious, they like^ 
 their lessons, they liked their play, they liked being 
 kind to other people, and they liked other people be- 
 ing kind to them, and they naturally spent a good 
 deal of time in these two last exercises. 
 
 Byal and Dolores groaned even in the midst of a 
 particularly agreeable picnic, and complained bitterly 
 that as they were there they could not be helping 
 the needy, as they wished to do. 
 
 Felix and Gladys did not go to the picnic because 
 they particularly wanted to attend to some crippled 
 children who had a country excursion on the same 
 day. With them they had an extra good time, for 
 the day was lovely, and there were flowers to gather, 
 buns to distribute, and songs to sing. When they 
 got back they were dreadfully hungry, but they felt 
 so jolly that they laughed all through supper. Byal 
 and Dolores had both eaten a little too freely of pate 
 de fois gras, and were consequently not in good 
 spirits when they reached home, and they said what 
 a weariness life was, and they quite scored a point 
 in wretchedness because they had each met a beggar, 
 and Byal had given his beggar 6d., and was sure he 
 had done wrong and encouraged vagrancy. Dolores 
 had, for conscientious reasons, refused alms to her 
 beggar, and blamed Byal for his munificence. But 
 she still felt that it was dreadful that people should 
 
66 FELIX AND BYAL. 
 
 be hungry, and that she should be unable, for philan- 
 thi'opic reasons, to relieve them. 
 
 After they were all grown up, Byal wedded a de- 
 lightful wife, and lived prosperously with her for 
 half a century, but all through it he tormented him- 
 self with the possibility of his wife dying, and so he 
 never admitted that he was the least happy. They 
 lived on till they were old and tottering people. And 
 as one of them naturally died before the other, there 
 was ample excuse for the survivor to be even more 
 exceptionally wretched than before. 
 
 Dolores remained a spinster, and some people en- 
 vied her, for she was uncommonly well off, and could 
 have married suitably a dozen times, if she had 
 chosen. One would have expected that she would be 
 fairly happy, but as life advanced she revelled in two 
 sad theories. First, that she had been crossed in love, 
 and secondly that she had made an irretrievable mis- 
 take in not marrying, and that now it was too late 
 to remedy it. 
 
 Felix and Gladys both married at the normal age, 
 and had a splendid time, notwithstanding that they 
 had to bear the usual amount of troubles. Felix had 
 no children, but he used to say that he was glad of 
 it, for it left him free to work for his generation, 
 which he liked doing better than anything else. And 
 he declared that other people's children suited him a 
 great deal better than his own might have done. 
 
 Gladys had lots of children, and rejoiced in them, 
 and they all turned out averagely (though not brilli- 
 
FELIX AND BYAL. 67 
 
 antly) well. After a while, Felix became an ex- 
 tremely happy and contented widower, and Gladys, 
 while still middle-aged, became a cheery, sympa- 
 thetic widow. And they so much cherished the 
 memory of husband and wife, that they neither of 
 them ever married again, but lived together and 
 shared their joys and sorrows. 
 
 The four brothers and sisters had the usual amount 
 of sickness, trouble, and loss, which they accepted 
 according to their dispositions. 
 
 Byal looked crosser and gloomier as time went on, 
 though he was by no means a bad fellow — indeed ^he 
 might be justly called a good and useful man. 
 
 Dolores kept an album in which were collected 
 hundreds of beautiful memorial cards, with urns and 
 willows. She found that even the entry there of a 
 slight acquaintance's demise, was useful as an excuse 
 for sighs. I never saw her out of mourning. Still, 
 she was really kind, and rather hospitable to bereaved 
 people, though they did not much like staying with 
 her for long, because she expected them to be in 
 such overwhelming grief that they could scarcely 
 live up to it, and felt guilty if they ate and drank, 
 and behaved like ordinary people. 
 
 She had some excuse for discontent all the year 
 round. When it was spring she either said "What 
 wretched weather, how cheery the fires, and the long 
 evenings of winter were," or else "How fast this 
 lovely season is fading ! " 
 
 When it was mid-summer, she observed that the 
 
68 FELIX AND BYAL. 
 
 days would soon be drawing in, and said how sweet 
 the time of spring's promise had been, and how^ much 
 better she loved primroses than roses. 
 
 When it was autumn she said, "Everything is 
 dying ! Winter is coming fast ; would that we could 
 have kept the glow of summer ! " 
 
 When it was winter she tried to shiver under her 
 furs, and said, " This cold kills me ! And these leaf- 
 less trees fill me with dismay. Oh for the glorious 
 autumn back again. No, I wonH go to the Riviera." 
 
 As for Felix and Gladys, they liked almost every 
 single day of the year, and gave thanks and praise 
 accordingly. The birds of the air, the beasts of the 
 field, and the fishes of the sea (or even on their 
 tables), were all excellent. When misfortune came 
 they believed it was certainly going somehow to turn 
 to good, and that — after all — they had had but a small 
 share of it. When they grew old they suffiered some- 
 thing from the infirmities of age, from a measure of 
 blindness, or deafness, or lameness, but in all they 
 found compensations, and reasons for giving thanks. 
 "Even gold must be tried in the furnace, and every 
 sacrifice must be salted with fire. We will accept 
 such adversities and be thankful." 
 
 Byal became too stout, and Dolores had a rather 
 red nose — both annoying experiences — but the only 
 way they ever attempted to comfort themselves was 
 by remembering that many other people were still 
 worse off. And this did not comfort them enough 
 to make them really cheerful. 
 
FELIX AND BYAL. 69 
 
 I need scarcely say that Felix and Gladys were 
 both exceedingly popular. Happy people are not 
 generally selfish, and their friends liked their com- 
 pany, though they were no more rich, or beautiful, 
 or clever, than other folks. 
 
 On the other hand it cannot be denied that the 
 hospitality extended to Byal and Dolores was of a some- 
 what laboured and perfunctory description. People 
 said they were glad to see them, but they were 
 gladder still when they were gone. 
 
 Of course all four sometimes suffered coldness or 
 injuries from their friends. "These people have cer- 
 tainly treated us badly," said Felix to Gladys. "But 
 they have given us an opportunity for showing a 
 right spirit, and I think we both feel the stronger 
 and more useful for the trial." 
 
 "Oh the cruelty of the world," cried Byal and 
 Dolores. " Sharper than a serpent's tooth is ingrati- 
 tude. I can never recover from this overwhelming 
 disappointment, coming from people whom I had so 
 trusted." 
 
 " Life is indeed a vale of tears," they testified, as 
 its close drew near. (But yet they by no means 
 wished to die). 
 
 " To us life has been full of joys," said the younger 
 brother and sister, "And we are going soon to lie 
 down and rest. And we know that as goodness and 
 mercy have followed us all the days of our life, so 
 we shall dwell for ever in the house of our Father." 
 
 At last they all four died. On Byal's grave the 
 
70 FELIX AND BYAL. 
 
 words are inscribed : " Man is born to trouble as the 
 sparks fly upwards." 
 
 On the tombstone of Dolores (which is of white 
 marble, and very expensive), there is engraved the 
 single touching word : " Alas ! " 
 
 On Felix's grave are the words : " He believed in 
 the Lord, and He counted it to him for righteous- 
 ness." 
 
 On Gladys's is just the one word, in letters of gold : 
 " Rejoice." 
 
 Which of these lives would we rather live ? 
 
 Is it strange that God is glad when we are glad, 
 and that He rejoices if we laugh for joy, and thank 
 Him for all He has prepared for us ? Does it please 
 God to be reckoned niggardly, or careless, or cruel ? 
 Are grumbling, crying children a credit and happi- 
 ness to their parents .^ Or is it better to see them 
 happy, and good ? Does anyone gain anything by 
 choosing to grumble ? 
 
 This word " Rejoice " is a kind of talisman. It 
 brings prosperity to soul and body. One could al- 
 most believe that since God has been so much abused 
 and misrepresented, and so often charged with our 
 own ignorances and vileness. He is in a way grateful 
 to those who love Him and His sway, and who show 
 and say that they rejoice in it and in Him. At any 
 rate it seems impossible to praise Him sincerely with- 
 out reaping some corresponding happiness and benefit. 
 
MISS GRAVES 
 
 -: o :- 
 
 This is the story of the change which the fact of be- 
 ing loved made to a woman. I record it because it 
 is a parable of Divine Love. Beauty, grace and pur- 
 pose come into the life when a soul finds that it is 
 loved by God or man. 
 
 My friend Francis Merrick was once paying a few 
 days' visit with me to some good-natured friends in 
 the south of England. He is a worthy middle-aged 
 man, and withal pleasant and wealthy. 
 
 Living with the family as a kind of general utility 
 person, was a poor relation, whom I will call Miss 
 Graves. She interested me chiefly because one morn- 
 ing, in a conversation with another person, I heard 
 her say, with deep sadness in her voice, " You know, 
 a time comes when one has given tip expecting that 
 anybody will ever love one."" No comment was made 
 on the remark, and the conversation glanced off. 
 
 She was above forty years old, quiet, useful, dowdy, 
 not unattractive, but rather bitter, as one would ex- 
 pect a woman to be who had little hope that anyone 
 would ever take any interest in her. The family 
 were kind, but certainly held her cheap. 
 
 b 
 
72 MISS GRAVES. 
 
 How it came to pass I do not know, but either 
 from pity or admiration, or from some other cause, 
 Francis Merrick fell deeply in love with Miss Graves. 
 He was very shy and self-distrustful, and he did not 
 expect that he should be able to win her affection. 
 She never dreamt that he was thinking of her, and 
 behaved to him in the same frosty, indifferent sort 
 of way which she used with other people. 
 
 After his visit had lasted a week he was unexpec- 
 tedly called away on business. The night before he 
 left he told me what his feeling was, and said, " I 
 wish you would help me in this matter, Phillips. 
 You know how shy I am. I would give the world 
 to win her, but I fear I shall never succeed. If you 
 can possibly get an opportunity, do find out if I may 
 give myself any hope." 
 
 He left the next morning before breakfast. Miss 
 Graves was just as usual, and evidently did not think 
 or care about his absence. It happened that during 
 the morning I found her alone sewing some em- 
 broidery on the drawing-room curtains. I thought 
 that this would be my opportunity, and I sat in the 
 window seat, and said, " Mr. Merrick was very sorry 
 to have to leave us, but he hopes to return next 
 week." 
 
 " I am sure my cousins will be glad to have him 
 back," said Miss Graves calmly. 
 
 " He is one of my oldest friends," I continued, 
 "and I don't think I know a better man." 
 
 " I liked the kind way he talked about his old 
 
MISS GRAVES. 73 
 
 coachman," said she. " I wonder if he will be away 
 for a week, if so we could give his room to Mr. 
 Willison, who is coming to stay till next "Wednesday." 
 
 " Miss Graves," said I, " have you guessed that Mr, 
 Merrick has fallen in love with you ? " 
 
 " Fallen in love with me ! Good gracious, no I 
 You must be out of your mind, Mr. Phillips. Fallen 
 in love with me ! What perfect nonsense ! " 
 
 Miss Graves looked positively angry in her astonish- 
 ment and repudiation of the idea. 
 
 " I assure you, however, that it is true." 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it. He never said so. 
 Mr. Phillips, it is very bad taste of you to joke about 
 such a subject, let me tell you." 
 
 She had dropped her silk tassels and risen to her 
 feet. 
 
 "I assure you that he told me so last night, and it 
 is by his wish that I am now speaking to you." 
 
 There was a pause of some moments, and then she 
 said, " Mr. Phillips, forgive my hasty words. I did 
 not mean to be rude, but I am sure that there is 
 some mistake. You do not seriously mean to tell me 
 that Mr. Merrick asked you to tell me that he — that 
 he had — had any feeling of attachment to me ? " 
 
 " Indeed, that is just what I do mean. He is earn- 
 estly desirous to marry you." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Phillips, but I really cannot be- 
 lieve it. Surely either he or you is trifling with me, 
 or there is some mistake. Nobody has ever been at- 
 tached to me in that way. I am poor and plain. It 
 is impossible that your friend should mean it seriously." 
 
 k 
 
74 MISS GRAVES. 
 
 " Indeed he does mean it, Miss Graves. He loves 
 you most deeply." 
 
 Miss Graves sat down again as if she were in a 
 dream, and a beautiful change came over her face. 
 It flushed and softened, a slight smile which I had 
 never seen before played about her mouth, and her 
 rather cold, clear eyes had a soft expression. I saw 
 that she believed what I told her, though her words 
 still belied her looks. 
 
 She said, in a tremulous tone of extreme delight, 
 "Mr. Phillips, I cannot believe it. I must be dreami- 
 ing. But you would not, I am sure, deceive me. 
 Such news bewilders me. It changes everything. I 
 never expected to do anything but get more and more 
 like a dry old stick till I die. But will you write to 
 your friend, or ought I to write ? May I write ? 
 Do you think it would be proper for me to do so ? 
 I am so ignorant about— about such things. Good 
 God, what am I saying ? " Here she covered her 
 burning face with her hands and burst into tears. 
 "I never expected to be loved by anyone," she said 
 with extreme agitation. "Excuse me if I go to my 
 room for half-an-hour. And, thank youy 
 
 Presently my hostess, Mrs. Stevenson, came in and 
 said : " Where is Miss Graves ? I wish she would get 
 on with her work, and not leave the room in such 
 confusion. These curtains must be finished and put 
 up before lunch." 
 
 "What a valuable person she seems," said I. 
 
 " Capital, poor old thing ! So dowdy and useful. 
 
MISS GEAVES. 75 
 
 I believe old maids are the best people living, always 
 willing to help, and never expecting any pleasure. 
 And often living on such a pittance. I must call her. 
 Miss Graves ! Miss Graves ! Where are you ? Miss 
 Graves ! " 
 
 " Here I am, Mrs. Stevenson. Coming directly,'* 
 said a voice from the top of the house. 
 
 " Do make haste, there's a good soul. I can't bear 
 to see the drawing-room in such a mess. Leave every- 
 thing for the curtains this morning. Why, what is 
 the matter ? Has anything happened ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, nothing. Nothing. I'll get on with them 
 at once. Excuse me. I only just — nothing, nothing 
 whatever." And she sat down, and with trembling 
 hands began again at the curtains. 
 
 Mrs. Stevenson stared, looked puzzled, and left the 
 room. 
 
 I suppose Miss Graves wrote to Merrick that day, 
 at any rate she received a letter by post two days 
 after, at breakfast, which she put unopened into her 
 pocket, leaving the room very shortly afterwards. 
 
 The difference in her demeanour was most beauti- 
 ful, and all wondered what had come to her, except 
 myself, who knew the secret. 
 
 She was a different woman, and seemed to move 
 on air ; all her hardness and angularity were gone. 
 Her manner was often absent, and she had repeatedly 
 to apologise for a strange forgetfulness. A delicious 
 horizon seemed to fill her mind's vision. On the day 
 of Merrick's return, I noticed how prettily she was 
 
76 MISS GRAVES. 
 
 dressed in a soft grey gown, with some ornaments that 
 I had not seen before. When he arrived, I observed 
 her deep flush, and how she bent determinedly over 
 her work. He came in eagerly, like a lover, and I 
 should think Mrs. Stevenson must have guessed some- 
 thing from the shyness of their greeting. 
 
 The next day the engagement was announced, and 
 everybody was kind and rather amused. 
 
 Miss Graves adored her lover in a very delightful 
 way. She never thought of her own pleasure, but 
 lived to please him. Her dress, her reading, her 
 music (she had a most rarely beautiful contralto voice), 
 and her opinions were all at his command. A quiet, 
 happy power seemed to come into her character. She 
 was intensely happy, and seemed to blossom out in 
 a number of unexpected ways. In six weeks they 
 were married, and a happier couple was never seen. 
 
 My story is told. You call it very simple, but it 
 is a great mystery, for " I speak concerning Christ 
 and the Church." We are loved by an unseen Bride- 
 groom, who has loved us and sought us for years. 
 He is generous, watchful, beautiful, heroic. He de- 
 sires to be united to us in eternal bonds. He is in- 
 visible to our mortal eyes, but it is not impossible 
 to love one who is unseen. One of our English 
 Queens loved her Spanish bridegroom most passion- 
 ately, long before she saw him. 
 
 And the presence of our Lover may be felt and 
 proved day by day. The Divine and mysterious gift 
 of loving, and being loved, may be enjoyed by any- 
 
MISS GRAVES. 
 
 77 
 
 one, and the romance of a life made sacred to Him 
 may be ours. 
 
 "My bride, 
 My wife, my life. 0, we will walk this world 
 
 Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
 And so through those dark gates across the wild 
 That no man knows. Indeed, I love thee. 
 Come, 
 Yield thyself up, my hopes and thine are one. 
 Accomplish thou my manhood and myself. 
 Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.' 
 
 k 
 
MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 
 
 : o : 
 
 Any people who have ever so small a garden can 
 learn from it a great many lessons, useful to the 
 spiritual life, if only they have, in some measure, got 
 their eyes open (as our Lord's eyes were open), to read 
 the lessons of trees, and herbs, and flowers. 
 
 My garden is only as wide as my house, and about 
 twice as long, but it teaches me a great deal. It is 
 in London, and I find it is of no use to try and gi'ow 
 roses there, any more than I can now grow in my 
 character certain beautiful qualities which I see in 
 other people's characters, and which I should like to 
 possess myself. We all have to learn our limitations 
 as we get older. 
 
 But there are many flowers which do admirably in 
 my little garden, if the soil is kept in order, and if 
 they are duly planted and sometimes watered. There 
 is a delightful little flower called Virginia stock, 
 which it is easy to grow wherever I put it. It 
 flowers beautifully, and always reminds me of the 
 happy grace of cheerfulness, for it blossoms freely, 
 and makes no complaints as to soil or sun, and is al- 
 ways a delight to look at. I commend it to every- 
 body. 
 
 Notice that it is a cruciform flower, and so it wit- 
 
MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 71> 
 
 nesses of the cross, though it is thought cheaply of 
 by most people because it grows low and flourishes 
 easily. It has no scent — or scarcely any — and there- 
 fore people do not value it as they value the violet 
 and the mignonette. But I like it just as much. (I 
 do not want to speak against violets and mignonette^ 
 but it is a fact that their delicious scent is only avail- 
 able for a short time ; it soon gets exhausted). Its 
 thousands of blossoms vary in colour — chiefly in 
 shades of lilac, but sometimes they are white. 
 
 I planted a mulberry tree when I came into the 
 house, seven years ago, and this year it has had some 
 fruit on it, and will have more still next year, I hope. 
 There has been long waiting for it, but now that it 
 has come it is excellent. So also there are graces in 
 the Christian character which seem to depend on time 
 and experience, and which it is no use to expect at 
 the very beginning of things. There are special sorts 
 of wisdom and kindness which belong to middle life 
 and old age, more than they belong to youth. But 
 while we are young let us do all that we can to pre- 
 pare the way for their development by-and-by. Strive 
 to have kindness and wisdom, and you are sure even- 
 tually to be kind and wise. 
 
 Youth has so much to recommend it that I like to 
 remember that some things are at their best when 
 they are old. For instance, a young olive tree is a 
 poor thing, but when it gets old it is one of the 
 loveliest sights in creation, especially when it is seen 
 with pink or red roses growing up into its midst, or 
 
 G 
 
80 MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 
 
 with purple and yellow grapes hanging among its 
 branches. 
 
 Of course, there are many enemies to a garden, as 
 there are many enemies to the soul. First of all 
 there are the weeds, which are numerous and per- 
 sistent, and different to each other in character. But 
 I find that some of them have, at last, almost entirely 
 ceased, after seven years' attention to them. For in- 
 stance, I used to have hundreds of impudent thistles 
 springing up. I found that it was easy to pull them 
 up while the soil was soft after rain, and while they 
 were young, but if they got old, and the soil was 
 hard, then they broke off and sprung up again. 
 
 Anyone can see that thistles are like temper, which 
 needs a great deal of care and watchfulness while our 
 character is forming. A month's neglect of them 
 means giving them a tremendous advantage, but by 
 God's grace each indication of temper can be dealt 
 with summarily, especially if we get our daily water- 
 ing from the Holy Spirit during the morning hour 
 of prayer, confession and communion. It is worth 
 while to take special pains to pull up such thistles, 
 for what dreadful pain to others and to ourselves a 
 bad prickly temper gives. And how much time it 
 takes up and wastes if the fault is neglected and 
 grows strong and rebellious ! 
 
 I had also a great number of stinging-nettles, which 
 are, of course, a disgrace to any garden. They, too, 
 can be easily pulled up when they are young, just as 
 spitefulness can be dealt with and annihilated in the 
 
MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 81 
 
 power of God's Holy Spirit, if we attend to its first 
 beginnings and treat it with repentance, confession 
 and amendment. I am glad to say that thistles and 
 nettles have practically disappeared from the garden. 
 
 The beautiful bindweed has been a great trouble to 
 me, for it gets deep into the soil, and has long 
 branching roots, deep down like the roots of a tree. 
 To eradicate them would need demolishment of every- 
 thing that grows near. What I found w^as that small 
 plants and roots can be pulled up, and green leaves 
 not allowed above the surface. This discourages it 
 till it begins to die out. Perhaps many of us have 
 some besetting sin of the flesh, or the world, which 
 is harder to eradicate from our hearts than even the 
 bindweed in our gardens. Why cannot the weed 
 grow unaggressively and in its place, like its near 
 relation, the lovely convolvulus major ? The bind- 
 weed itself is a beautiful flower, and it might be al- 
 lowed a place somewhere under discipline. And just 
 in the same way qualities, w^hich are ready to become 
 servants of the world and the flesh, have often a good 
 side if they are controlled and kept in their place. 
 For God has made our bodies and our minds, as w^ell 
 as our souls and spirits, and all ought to be good and 
 useful in His Kingdom. 
 
 If you fight against your besetting sins you will 
 find that they get slow^ly weaker, and you will by- 
 and-bye get a sweet sort of Indiah summer towards 
 the end of your life when they will have almost 
 ceased to worry you. 
 
82 MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 
 
 Quantities of grass used to grow in my garden beds 
 whenever there was a chance. Grass can be pulled 
 up like other w^eeds, when the soil is soft, but it has 
 such spreading roots that often good things are pulled 
 up with it or disturbed. It is a beautiful thing in 
 its place. Let it teach us that rest and recreation, 
 though good and important, are not to be allowed to 
 grow into laziness. After we have been in Christian 
 work a little while there often comes a real tempta- 
 tion to laziness. We want to lie in bed in the morn- 
 ing, and not to endure hardness as we did at first. 
 Let us be very watchful in this matter and keep care- 
 fully to our rule. 
 
 Dogs, cats, snails, slugs, are all enemies, but in my 
 garden slugs and snails are very much reduced through 
 hunting them early in the morning. Cats were a 
 special trouble, for they raked up the ground, besides 
 making horrible, fiendish noises at night. I have 
 never been able quite to get rid of them, but I have 
 had rabbit wire put along the wall and in front of 
 my railings, and since that I have only had trouble 
 occasionally, with a very bold adventurous cat. Satan 
 prowls near us and is always a ready enemy if we 
 cease to watch and pray. But make it difficult for an 
 enemy to enter, and you have done a great deal to 
 prevent his appearing, except very rarely. And by 
 no means let anything lie about which the enemy 
 could feed on. The worst of the cat trouble is that 
 we harbour them within, and so we must expect to 
 suffer from them sometimes ! 
 
MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 83 
 
 How I value the flowers which come out in dark 
 and almost flowerless times ! The beautiful Christ- 
 mas roses (or hellebores) choose the gloomy months, 
 November and December, for showing their exquisite 
 white blossoms, with the yellow centre, and the deli- 
 cate pink at their backs. They do not seem to mind 
 the hard biting weather, but are always pure, and 
 white, and cheerful, and happy through all the cold 
 and wind and distress of the winter. They are like 
 peace of soul. They remind me of Miss S 1. 
 
 I am very fond of the hibiscus flower, and I have 
 five plants of it. Every spring I wonder if it is dead, 
 for all the stems are brown and withered looking, 
 but quite late the small green buds appear, which 
 change to leaves, and in the cool, windy, bleak 
 Autumn the beautiful white and pink flowers are in 
 full beauty, when the glory of nearly every other 
 flower has departed. How good it is to have beauty 
 and grace in the latter part of life, when the fresh- 
 ness of spring has departed. The hibiscus reminds 
 me of Jiojje^ and its long delayed triumph. 
 
 I think that my greatest pleasure this year (in 
 flowers) has been a beautiful passion flower, which 
 has grown half over the front of my house, and has 
 had hundreds of beautiful blossoms. The passion 
 flower, of course, means sufi'ering, and takes us back 
 to Calvary, with its crown of thorns, its thirteen 
 petals (suggesting the thirteen Apostles), its five sta- 
 mens (like the five wounds of our Lord), and its 
 dark Cross in the centre. Manv of us have learned 
 
84 MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 
 
 to be as thankful for the suffering which God sends, 
 as we are for His pleasures. Both are needed, and 
 both are treasures if we are to be like Christ. 
 
 There is a slanting roof all along the bottom of my 
 garden, which belongs to a neighbour, and the slates 
 have a very tiresome way of coming down in con- 
 siderable numbers, to the danger both of plants and 
 people. But, after all, no serious damage has come 
 from them. And I do not believe that mischief from 
 outsiders can really hurt, if we take it in the right 
 way, as coming in God's providence and unable to 
 really wound us. 
 
 How much training and supporting even the best 
 plants need, lest they break off, or go wrong, or are 
 hurt by wire-worms, and slugs, and snails ! Like a 
 good gardener, God watches over us day by day with 
 continual care. 
 
 The greatest trouble with my garden is, that it is 
 to a considerable extent poisoned by the evil sulphur- 
 ous powers of London air, which often prevent plants 
 from bringing forth to perfection, just as there are 
 hellish powers always waiting to do our souls a mis- 
 chief. But, wonderful to say, there are a few flowers 
 which get sustenance out of even London fogs and 
 smoke, and I do believe there are certain insect blights 
 which the London air actually keeps away, and which 
 only attack plants that are in happier surroundings. 
 
 On the whole, my garden does as well as most of 
 my neighbours' gardens. 
 
 But that is not saying much, and there is one 
 
MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 85 
 
 garden a good deal better than mine in almost every- 
 way. And another has a large, beautiful pear tree, 
 which in its season is covered with snowy blossoms. 
 And next door but one to me there are some sisters 
 who have a lovely jessamine, which shows thousands 
 of fragrant starry blossoms when its time comes. 
 
 I find that many of my plants produce only very 
 small blossoms, and come to an end after a year or 
 two. It is because the earth gets impregnated Avith 
 sooty blacks, and half poisons the flowers. My kind, 
 indulgent friends profess to admire my garden, but I 
 am sure that they know perfectly well how different 
 it is from their nice clean country gardens. Still, I 
 am thankful for my irises, which are as good as 
 possible, and for my vine, which (after being pruned 
 and manured) always bears some bunches of purple 
 grapes. It is something to be glad of that the poor 
 little garden struggles on without being a complete 
 failure. Alas for the beautiful things that wither or 
 refuse to grow in it ! 
 
 I have some nice plants, given me from beautiful 
 gardens in Staffordshire, Kent, Hertfordshire, and 
 Sutherland, which flourish uncomplainingly. And I 
 believe there are certain qualities which we may all 
 grow if we choose in the garden of our soul, even if 
 we are not highly gifted people — gratitude, kindness, 
 industry, humility, hope, charity, faith and cheerful- 
 ness ! And there is no garden so poor and worthless 
 that Christ will not visit it, and care for it, and by- 
 and-bye — after much patience — bring it to perfection. 
 
S6 MY LITTLE LONDON GARDEN. 
 
 If our heart cries, ''Let my Beloved come into His 
 garden," we shall soon hear His voice replying, " I 
 am come into My garden." 
 
 And the dark days will pass away when their work 
 is done, and then we shall find that 
 
 '• Winter rains and ruins are over, 
 
 And all the season of snows and sins, 
 
 And days dividing Lover and lover, 
 
 The light that loses, the night that wins. 
 
 And time remembered is grief forgotten, 
 
 And frosts are slain, and flowers begotten, 
 
 And in g'reen underwood and cover, 
 
 Blossom by blossom the spring begins." 
 
 That will be heaven indeed ! 
 
MR. AND MRS. NICHOLLS. 
 
 Mk. and Mrs. Nicholls were known as particularly 
 good people, but they had one unfortunate failing, of 
 which they were perfectly unconscious. As not im- 
 probably you and I are also sometimes beset with 
 this failing, it is worth while to describe it. For 
 though I am afraid that with Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls 
 it is so deeply rooted that thej' have come to regard 
 it as almost a virtue, and that no words would induce 
 them even to wish to get rid of it, yet with others 
 it may not be too late to show a danger signal. 
 
 The failing I speak of was this. In every sermon 
 they heard and every book they read, they invariably 
 received them only in so far as they thought the 
 message would be useful to other people. It w^as with 
 them not a question of whether they were themselves 
 henefited^ but of whether they approved of what had 
 been said and written. Consequently, they were never 
 tired of hearing and reading things which had been 
 useful to them many years ago, and which they hoped 
 would help somebody as they had once been helped. 
 
 It was a kind instinct, but it may easily be be- 
 lieved that their own spiritual life became very much 
 shrivelled, for, as a matter of fact, they had received 
 
88 MR. AND MRS. NICHOLLS. 
 
 scarcely any fresh food for many years, They had 
 believed that nothing could be so good for them as 
 to listen to statements and illustrations which had 
 long ago done everything for them which they could 
 do. And they only read books to see if they would 
 be useful to somebody else. When they had meet- 
 ings or Bible readings at their London house, they 
 never allowed anything to be said or any question to 
 be asked which they thought might be unsafe for 
 anyone present. Consequently their meetings were 
 seldom willingly attended more than once by any- 
 body who was not of their way of thinking, and the 
 audience generally consisted of a room full of people 
 who had no personal interest in what they said, and 
 of two or three young people who had been induced 
 to come, and who found the whole thing either 
 repugnant or uninteresting. Any question as to 
 Biblical difficulties was always answered in so stale 
 and conventional a way, that the questioner resolved 
 never to hazard another query. Indeed, there was 
 generally some slight hint of anger if a question was 
 asked which seemed to imply a real difficulty. 
 
 It was a very great pity, for Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls 
 were in the way of many sermons, many books, and 
 many articles, which, if they had received them 
 simply, quietly, and for their own benefit, would 
 have made them stronger, better, and more useful 
 people. It would have been good if they had taken 
 such food, first as a message to themselves, and had 
 then read it a second time for the benefit of others. 
 
MR. AND MRS. NICHOLLS. 89 
 
 But this they did not do. The moment they began 
 to read or listen, their minds started criticism for the 
 sake of others, and they put out a danger flag, not 
 only for every supposed error, but also for every sup- 
 posed omission. It was surprising what uninteresting 
 people they gradually became, and how they were 
 avoided by all the young life and vitality that was 
 around them. For 
 
 "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
 And God fulfils Himself in many ways 
 Lest one good custom should corrupt the world." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls were jealous and restless and 
 unhappy about any new thought or fresh idea, which 
 they thought might depreciate the value of what had 
 long ago brought them comfort and peace. So they 
 became dried up, second-rate, useless people, and no- 
 body really wanted to listen to their views, though 
 they were certainly good and earnest. I shall not tell 
 you whether they were High Church, Broad Church, 
 or Evangelical. We will suppose that they belonged 
 to the same party that you belong to, and that they 
 refused to believe that God had any message worth 
 receiving from other kinds of Christians. If they 
 were High Church they refused to believe that the 
 Gospel message, whether preached by Low Church 
 people or Dissenters, was of any avail, and they shut 
 themselves up in stiff views about Churchmanship 
 and the Sacraments. 
 
 If they were Broad Church, they looked on High 
 and Low with good-natured contempt, and considered 
 
90 MR. AND MRS. NICHOLLS. 
 
 them almost devoid of intellect, and unjustly attri- 
 buted to them exaggerated and impossible doctrines. 
 
 If they were Evangelical, they refused to believe 
 that reverence and beautiful services were pleasing to 
 God, and were jealous of all preaching of goodness 
 or morals lest the doctrine of substitution should be 
 imperilled. 
 
 The real truth is that stagnation and routine are 
 great evils, and that, as the world goes on, God is 
 continually stirring the great Universal Church in 
 order to bring fresh life and strength into it. Let us 
 try to keep the balance between shiftiness and stag- 
 nation. We need never fear for truth. Its basis is 
 divinely fixed. Let us get the benefit of the life 
 which comes to us through communication with all 
 the joints and bands in the great Body of Christ. 
 
 €«-^ 
 
A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 
 
 : o :- 
 
 Mrs. Burgon had succeeded. 
 
 For a wonder she had an hour's leisure before dress- 
 ing for dinner. Her last necessary letter had been 
 written, and she leant back and considered. 
 
 Her gaze travelled from the darkening beauty of 
 her boudoir to the loveliness of the sky beyond it — 
 dusky red near the horizon, and above it a sweet 
 change from orange to lemon and green, and from 
 green to purple and azure. Against it, in the near 
 distance were the elms. The restful cawing of the 
 rooks was just perceptible, and the evening star shone. 
 
 She had succeeded. That is to say, she had par- 
 tially succeeded, and complete success was probable. 
 But, nevertheless, her handsome, brave face wore a 
 somewhat anxious, troubled aspect. 
 
 If the thought must be told that was passing 
 through her mind, and had passed through it num- 
 berless times before, it was this : " But nowadays girls 
 do not marry very young." It was her great con- 
 solation. 
 
 With abilitv and determination she had won an 
 
92 A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 
 
 honourable place in society, and in the particular set 
 which, above all others, she desired. 
 
 Her father had been a dignitary in the Church, and 
 she had always recoiled — at one time she had very 
 strongly recoiled — from the fast bad set where the 
 ten Commandments are not considered binding. 
 She still avoided associating with immoral people 
 when it was possible ; but the complications of life 
 obliged her to do so more than she liked. 
 
 "Why should I be more particular than the Lord 
 Chamberlain H " she had replied to a friend, who had 
 remonstrated with her on this point, and who main- 
 tained that private people of social influence were 
 bound, for the sake of pure manners, to decline to 
 receive persons whose characters were undeniably bad. 
 Her friend had replied that the Lord Chamberlain 
 could only deal with facts that were legally proved, 
 but that the standard of private people should be 
 different if they wished to help the tone of English 
 society. 
 
 Mrs. Burgon had been on the point of answering 
 to this, that her social power amounted to very little, 
 and that he ought to go and preach to the great 
 leaders of society, of whom she did not reckon herself 
 one. But she was an honest woman, and so she 
 abstained from giving what she immediately perceived 
 would be a dishonest answer. She knew that, like 
 everyone else, she had some power, and that she had 
 habitually come to use it for worldly success. She 
 reflected, with satisfaction however, that there were 
 
A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 93 
 
 many things which others did, which she was too 
 high principled to do. 
 
 The set that she lived in consisted mostly of men 
 and women who had a high moral and philanthropic 
 tone. Nearly all her men friends gave alms hand- 
 somely, and took a certain amount of trouble about 
 philanthropic and religious matters. Most of her 
 women friends had certain institutions, or certain 
 parishes, under their special patronage, and gave time, 
 thought, and money to their well-being. 
 
 The set was exclusive. Almost everyone was dis- 
 tinguished by good looks, high birth, literary and 
 artistic tastes and powers of conversation. It was a 
 difficult set to get into, and outsiders, who pretended 
 to sneer at it, nevertheless eagerly welcomed an oppor- 
 tunity of becoming acquainted with it. 
 
 Unfortunately it was not quite so high-toned as it 
 had once. been. Advance in life brings an unwelcome 
 sense of decay with it, and the leaders had felt it 
 advisable, in order to keep their power and position, 
 to somewhat slacken their unwritten rules, and to 
 admit a few brilliant people who could not quite be 
 approved of. New blood is a necessity, and times 
 and manners change. 
 
 The set's general religious tone was pathetic agnos- 
 ticism. Its members had heavenward aspirations, but 
 the misery of the world generally prevented anything 
 like an old-fashioned faith in God and the Bible. 
 There were a few orthodox men and women in it 
 who went to Church and held by Bishops ; but the 
 
94 A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 
 
 more interesting and powerful spirits had grave doubts 
 about religious matters, and secretly considered them- 
 selves the aristocracy of a coming religion of a very 
 superior description. 
 
 Mrs. Burgon, herself, belonged to the orthodox sec- 
 tion, and considered that she made a decided sacrifice 
 by standing up for religion. She loved her father's 
 memory ; he had been an extremely unworldly, holy 
 man. 
 
 In bringing uj) her children she gave religion an 
 important place, while she carefully guarded them 
 from any influence which might be fanatical, and 
 blight their prospects. 
 
 Her husband was rich, and had let her have her 
 way in most things, and she was a successful woman. 
 
 Beauty, wealth, tact, and propriety had won her all 
 the honour she could desire, and her only trouble 
 was that she had three delightful daughters out who 
 were still not engaged to be married. This was cer- 
 tainly annoying, and it was the remembrance of it 
 which caused the anxious look on her face. She was 
 not sure whether she had been wise in rejecting cer- 
 tain suitors who had been very nearly good enough, 
 but not quite. It is difficult and almost impossible 
 for a mother to feel quite certain as to such matters. 
 
 Her eldest girl, Dorothea, was now twenty-three, 
 and was all that a mother could desire, except that 
 she was not engaged, and had never seemed particu- 
 larly anxious to be engaged. Perhaps this peculiarity 
 added to her charm, but it made her mother's work 
 
A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 95 
 
 harder. Sometimes Mrs. Burgon felt slightly irritated 
 with Dorothea on this point, and counted her a little 
 inconsiderate, or even a little selfish. And as she 
 thought it all over for the hundredth time, her beau- 
 tiful face was clouded. 
 
 God sometimes uses what look like very little 
 things to turn the current of our life. 
 
 As Mrs. Burgon sat thinking, a distant peal of bells 
 began to ring, rising and falling as it came across 
 the landscape. The sound seemed to belong to some 
 heavenly region beyond the sweet fading sky. It 
 arrested her, and she felt as if it reproached her 
 tenderly, and bore witness of a holier state which she 
 might have entered had she chosen. God's voice was 
 surely in it. And it seemed to her as if her father's 
 blessed spirit were beholding her afar off with sad 
 eyes. The impression grew stronger and stronger, and 
 soon she actually blushed at her fretful, worldly 
 thoughts, and ceased to justify her life, or to rejoice 
 at her attainments. Such thoughts were not new to 
 her, but they had never been so compelling as at this 
 moment. 
 
 Old aspirations rushed back upon her. Vividly she 
 remembered how, on an evening just like this, thirty 
 years ago, she had sat in the old Deanery garden and 
 had longed after Divine things, and had solemnly 
 consecrated her life to God. How sadly had her soul 
 retrograded since that day. 
 
 As she thought of it her eyes filled, and w^hat she 
 had striven for and won seemed as hollow^ as hollow 
 could be. 
 
 H 
 
96 A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 
 
 "What have I gained in my middle age after 
 all ? " she thought bitterly. " Do I really want my 
 children to grow up like me 1 Who am I to train 
 their almost unsoiled souls, when mine is so stained 
 with worldliness ? Rather should they teach me, for 
 they are better than I am ! How false is my attitude 
 towards them of warning and hope ? God forgive 
 me ! My spring is gone ! My summer is going ! 
 Earthly things, so earnestly worked for, will soon 
 lose their importance. Ah^eady I have ceased to be 
 in love with them, though I still serve them. But 
 heavenly things are far fainter and less real to me 
 than they were thirty years ago." 
 
 So she pondered, and then there came vividly into 
 her memory the great picture of " The worship of 
 the Lamb in heaven," which she had seen at Ghent 
 a few months before, and it preached anew to her of 
 the ideal of Christian middle age.- For Van Eyck 
 has filled his picture with people who have won a hard 
 fight, and who show the scars of it. They are no 
 girls or boys, but stately men and women. They have 
 gained a healthful, wholesome maturity, which has 
 brought them wisdom, experience, kindness, dignity, 
 power, humility, a deep trust in God, and a clear 
 vision of His heavenly kingdom. 
 
 She remembered these noble personages and felt 
 that she herself would be like a thin and meaningless 
 ghost in their midst. It has been said above that 
 such thoughts were not new to her, for God's Spirit 
 had never left her, and there was a green bit in the 
 
A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 97 
 
 garden of her soul in which the Lord could still de- 
 light. But now she felt that the Spirit of God was 
 indeed overpowering her. She buried her face in her 
 hands and wept. And then came the whispered 
 prayer, " God be merciful to me a sinner. Cleanse 
 me and I shall be clean. Take me, Lord, and take 
 my children, and all that I have and am. Only for- 
 give me, and use me." 
 
 From the bottom of her heart she meant it. There 
 was still enough of the Divine element in her soul 
 to enable her to make a solemn renunciation and a 
 choice. 
 
 She silently made it. 
 
 And then the door opened, and her eldest daughter 
 Dorothea, and her younger son Hugh, came in to- 
 gether rather hesitatingly and slowly into the room. 
 What strange answer to her prayer was close to her ? 
 
 She started, and looked at them with half -frightened 
 eyes. 
 
 " Dearest mother," said Hugh, " we want to tell 
 you what has been in our minds for a long time, 
 only we are afraid you will be angry. For more than 
 a year Dorothea has wanted to go and live at Uncle 
 Fraser's parish at Hackney, and to work for Christ 
 among the poor. She says she does not want to 
 marry, and she has lost her interest in going out. 
 Will you let her go ? 
 
 "And, mother, ever since Christmas I have made 
 up my mind that I shall not be really happy unless 
 I give my life to definite religious work, either at 
 
98 A TALE FOR A MOTHER. 
 
 home, or abroad. Will you say yes ? I believe you 
 will. It is not a sudden wish. I am sure my father 
 will consent if you do. Are you surprised, mother ? 
 Why do you not speak ? Are you glad r " 
 
 Mrs. Burgon trembled from head to foot, and her 
 face was quite white, but she answered, " Yes, my 
 children. I am glad. God is good ; serve Him, and 
 pray for me. My desires for you have failed, but 
 God gives you better things than ever your mother 
 thought of." 
 
EDWARD AND OLIVER 
 
 : o : 
 
 "I WISH people were always unselfish." 
 
 " That is too much to expect Quentin," said my 
 great-grandmother, laughing gently. " And, besides, I 
 am not sure that it is wrong to be moderately selfish. 
 The world is worked that way, and I believe it is 
 not such a bad way as people sometimes try to make 
 out. Still, when we do find a man or woman who 
 is really unselfish, we find a treasure. Every genera- 
 tion has a few of them, and only a few." 
 
 It was April. She sat at her auriol window look- 
 ing out at the meadows, which stretched wide be- 
 yond the garden. They were shining with butter- 
 cups and daisies, and the birds were making a joyful 
 tumult of singing. One heard the contralto of the 
 blackbird, the plaintive treble of the redbreast, the 
 hurried chatter of the wren, the triumphant song of 
 the thrush, and the sweet recurring strain of the 
 chaffinch High overhead hung the skylarks, en- 
 tranced with ecstasy. The sky was never without 
 their singing, for before one left off another had be- 
 gun. And of course there was the welcome cuckoo. 
 Every April this delightfulness comes to the world. 
 
 It is a wonder that gratitude to God for such 
 delights should not be an oftener practised virtue. 
 
 My great-grandmother was silent for a little, and 
 then began to speak again. She liked to talk, though 
 nobody ever called her a great talker. 
 
100 EDWARD AND OLIVER. 
 
 "Perhaps," said she, "the world would scarcely 
 move forward without selfishness. It is like the 
 steam which works the engine. People almost must 
 struggle against each other for their living. Let us 
 begin by wishing to be unselfish as often as we can. 
 It is something even to wish for that. A good many 
 of us seem to be always selfish, even when we are 
 good and religious. * * * I am an old woman, 
 Quentin, and I can count up more than a hundred 
 descendants. Many of them have been good and use- 
 ful, thank God, and many of them religious. But I 
 can only think of two — Oliver and Anne — who seemed 
 to their grandmother to be always unselfish. It is 
 not a common quality. I think God gave these two 
 more of it by nature than most other people, and as 
 life went on they became almost perfect in unsel- 
 fishness. 
 
 I will tell you about them if you like, and also 
 about Edward and Louisa, their brother and sister. 
 Their parents both died abroad, and the four little 
 ones came to me for their bringing up. They were 
 good children, and they all became valuable men 
 and women, as you shall hear. 
 
 They soon settled down very happily with me, and 
 made th.e home full of gladness. 
 
 Every day after their morning walk, they used to 
 come into my room and tell me their adventures, 
 and of course we got to be great friends. 
 
 The incident I am going to tell you showed the 
 diflCerences of disposition which kept appearing as 
 time went on. 
 
EDWARD AND OLIVER. 101 
 
 They had gone out one day for a longer expedition 
 than usual, and had been allowed to take their 
 luncheon with them. 
 
 When they came back there was a great rush to 
 my room, and Edward, who was first, began at once." 
 
 "0 grandmother, we have found such a dear little 
 girl, called Susan, and she was so poor and hungry, 
 and we have given her our lunch. At least we gave 
 her nearly all the sandwiches and all the biscuits and 
 bread, and we only used just the cake and the pud- 
 ding ourselves." 
 
 "Her father had broken his leg in the quarry, said 
 Anne breathlessly, "and they had nothing to eat. 
 And Oliver would give her every single bit of his 
 lunch to take home with her. He would'nt keep 
 one thing for himself." 
 
 "And that was wrong of him grandmama, was'nt 
 it ? " said Edward, " for we ought not to starve our- 
 selves any more than to let Susan starve. And you 
 would be angry if we gave away everything, would'nt 
 you ? Anne wanted to be just as silly as Oliver, but 
 Louisa and I would not let her give all her lunch 
 away. So she cried." 
 
 " But Susan had had no breakfast like us," said 
 Anne mournfully. Do you think she might have 
 one of my frocks, grandmama ? " 
 
 "It was I who found her, granny," said Louisa. 
 "I found her, and talked to her before the others 
 came up. Do you think she will be a jewel in my 
 crown, grandmama ? " 
 
 And at the same moment Edward asked. "May 
 
102 EDWARD AND OLIVER. 
 
 we have some more lunch, grandmother, as we gave 
 our's away ? May we have some more cition cake ? '» 
 
 To both of these last questions I answered "No my 
 dear," and Edward then said — "Grandmother, I gave 
 her my sixpence. Was that right ? The Bible says 
 that if we even give a cup of cold water we shall 
 have a reward. And sixpence is much better than a 
 glass of water, is'nt it ? What reward do you think 
 that I shall get ? " 
 
 "I am sure I do not know, Edward," I replied. 
 " But where is Oliver all this time ? " 
 
 " Oh, he would carry Susan's pail of water home 
 for her, so he is late," said Louisa. "He thought it 
 was too big for her, and that she would spill the 
 water." 
 
 This story gives true samples of the four children's 
 way of behaving. They all did good things, but two 
 of them did them mainly for their own sikes, be- 
 cause it was their duty, or for the sake of a reward. 
 The other two did things entirely for the sake of the 
 persons benefited. 
 
 Edward's first religious impressions came from his 
 being intensely anxious not to go to hell, and he 
 never rested till he felt sure that he w^as quite safe. 
 Nor do I blame him. His anxieties lasted more or 
 less for two years, but as soon as they were allayed, 
 he began to give his life very earnestly to the work 
 of saving as many other souls as possible. After he 
 was ordained, I thought he collected cases for con- 
 firmation almost as systematically as if they had been 
 blackberries. 
 
EDWARD AND OLIVER. 103 
 
 But it was a life of hard work, and of good work, 
 and I feel sure that he has had a reward. He at- 
 tained early in life a great position in the Church, 
 and everyone felt that his Canonry first, and his 
 Bishopric afterwards were no more than he deserved. 
 '' But," said his wife to me, " these honours are not 
 what Edward cares most for. What he really values 
 is the knowledge that he has won so many souls to 
 God. These are his real honours, and it is for these 
 that he will win his crown." 
 
 He was an exceptionally conscientious and religious 
 man, and he was rightly honoured and praised. But 
 I always felt that he did everything from his own 
 standpoint. I do not mean that he was wrong. But 
 there was a difference between him and Oliver and 
 Anne, who never did things because it was their 
 duty, but only in order that the things might be done. 
 They were habitually oblivious and indifferent about 
 what affected themselves, but keenly interested about 
 the needs of other people. Perhaps heedlessness is a 
 kind of fault, but there was something beautiful about 
 the way they were heedless about their own concerns. 
 They were not cautious. They were not self centred. 
 They seemed to have lost their lives for some One 
 else's sake, and to have found them outside them- 
 selves. 
 
 Oliver made up his mind early to be a medical 
 missionary. He went to north India, and spent his 
 life there, in a way as much like the four Gospels as 
 I can imagine. 
 
 He travelled over large districts, healing diseases, 
 
104 EDWARD AND OLIVER. 
 
 performing operations for blindness and lameness, and 
 preaching by his life and his words the Divine mes- 
 sage he had to give. 
 
 Anne was generally said to have bad luck. She 
 was poor, and the last part of her life was spent 
 almost as a companion to her sister Louisa, who gave 
 her a home, and made her, I think, a small allowance. 
 But wherever she lived she was like a thread of gold 
 woven into the web of life. People longed for her, 
 and loved her. 
 
 Louisa, as you know, married a man of wealth and 
 position, and soon became a very important philan- 
 thropic widow. Undoubtedly she did well for her- 
 self, but she always desired that other people should 
 have a good time too, and she habitually gave away 
 of her superfluity. I think she made an unconscious 
 rule never to give away what she might want her- 
 self ; but her means were ample, and she was justly 
 known as a prominent Lady Bountiful in the neigh- 
 bourhood of her country seat. A pic-nic in her park 
 was a pretty sight, for after she and her friends had 
 feasted, there was always quite a crowd of poor people 
 to whom she would distribute her broken meats. 
 None went away empty. Perhaps she made rather 
 large claims on people's gratitude. But she really did 
 give away more than most people, and who can say 
 that she was not justified in expecting to receive a 
 very superior crown by-and-bye ? 
 
 I cannot deny that she was a selfish person, but 
 she was both useful and (in a second rate style), good. 
 And she was naturally very much admired and praised. 
 
EDWARD AND OLIVER. 105 
 
 Her religion was in some ways peculiar. I think 
 she felt that there was a great virtue in the par- 
 ticular kind of faith that she practised. She firmly 
 believed not only that her numerous sins were for- 
 given her because she had accepted the doctrine of 
 substitution, but also that after her death she would 
 attain, through her belief, a very good place in heaven, 
 which would not be attained by persons who were 
 not equally clear as to the solid advantages of what 
 she called the "gospel plan." 
 
 About this who can tell ? God will do better than 
 our poor hearts can imagine. It may be that what 
 some of us desire for ourselves as the best and most 
 glorious rewards may turn out not to be the best 
 experiences for us, or at any rate not for a long time. 
 God knows ! 
 
 But we come back, Quentin, to where we started 
 from. Let us be as unselfish as we can. Christ 
 never pleased Himself or worked for Himself, but 
 always for men and for God. 
 
 Let us not, however, despise any good results that 
 come from being faithful to a sense of duty. It is 
 a fine motive. And the love of reward is a good 
 motive too, and is largely used in the Bible as an 
 incentive. 
 
 But the most Divine and beautiful work is done 
 for love of the work itself, and for desire that men, 
 women, and children should be happy and good. 
 Those motives carry heaven's loveliest colour. May 
 God inspire us with them ! 
 
PICTURES 
 
 Among the many good things which most people for- 
 get to thank God for, surely pictures rank high. 
 
 I, myself, used to underrate their religious value, 
 and I do not believe that one person in a thousand 
 knows how great it is. I can scarcely conceive the loss 
 there would be to religion if there were no pictures. 
 Yet many religious people only goodnaturedly recog- 
 nise them as rather useful, or at any rate harmless. 
 
 I do not want to overstate the case, and I am not 
 forgetting that Quakers and Puritans have made shift 
 to get along without them, and also that art has not 
 had a prominent place in heathen mission fields. 
 
 But for my present pui-pose it will be enough to 
 review their advantage in our own lives in England. 
 
 As children we none of us did without pictures, 
 and most of us loved them dearly When I was a 
 child there were the prints in " Peep of Day " and 
 '• Line upon Line," the coloured Sunday picture books, 
 and the large books of steel engravings from the old 
 masters. We loved and honoured them all — Adam 
 and Eve with their animals, David and Goliath, Moses 
 striking the rock, Jonah and the whale, and all the 
 whole series. I am sorry for people whose memories 
 are not stored with Old Testament pictures, and still 
 
PICTURES. 107 
 
 more with pictures from the four Gospels. The sweet 
 story of the manger at Bethlehem became ours chiefly 
 through pictures (and Christmas hymns, like " Hark 
 the herald," and " While shepherds watched)." The 
 star, the angels, the shepherds, the three kings, the 
 mother and the Holy Babe, there they all were to be 
 loved and honoured, and what a loss there is to 
 people whose souls are not blessed by pictures of the 
 Nativity. I remember Burne Jones saying to me (not 
 long before he died), that as he grew older he cared 
 more and more to paint Nativities. 
 
 Then followed the baptism of Christ, with the 
 hovering Dove. And of all symbols is there any one 
 more helpful than the Dove? For years I have thank- 
 fully lived with a copy of the peerless Dove (in the 
 National Gallery) by Piero Delia Francisca. May it 
 ever be dominant in my house. How true it is 
 that we still recognize the sons of God by the rest- 
 ing on them of the heavenly Dove. May we — each 
 one of us — be thus known. 
 
 Then we children turned over our books and came 
 to the marriage feast, to Jairus' daughter, the feeding 
 of the 5000, the blessing little children, the prodigal 
 son, the Pharisee and the Publican, the draught of 
 fishes. And th^n to the Crucifixion, the Resurrection 
 and the Ascension. God be thanked for them all. 
 Pictures are as valuable as books I think. 
 
 When we go abroad we find that the men of old 
 knew this, and adorned their Cathedrals and Churches, 
 inside and outside, with frescoes, mosaics, sculptures, 
 
108 PICTUEES. 
 
 and pictures able to raise the minds and souls of the 
 people to what was high, and holy, and beautiful. 
 
 " Whatsoever things are lovely, think on these 
 things." For beauty is as truly an attribute of God 
 as goodness. "All great art is praise," said Ruskin, 
 and he never said a truer word. For all great art 
 calls us to admire and worship God for the beauty 
 and power which have come forth from Him. Art 
 may be degraded and misapplied, but even then all 
 that is beautiful in it comes from God Himself. 
 
 Our first debt to pictures is for the knowledge of the 
 facts which they so delightfully bring us, and for the 
 beauty to which they open our eyes. But they have 
 also their mission of sternness and threatening, wit- 
 nessed by works like Orcagna's frescoes at Pisa, 
 Michael Angelo's Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel, 
 and such great and terrible sculptures as those on the 
 front of the Cathedral at Orvieto, and at many other 
 places. I myself received, when I was scarcely past 
 childhood, deep and lasting impressions from John 
 Martin's painting of the Last Judgment. It frightened 
 me almost out of my wits, but with purely salutary 
 results. After long years I have seen the picture 
 again, and I am thankful that I knew it first as a 
 boy, before forty years had invested me with fatal 
 powers of criticism. For now it is impossible to dis- 
 regard those less noble qualities in it which some- 
 what discount its really awful power. 
 
 What is so delightful about art is that it generally 
 takes possession of us^ and enriches our hearts and 
 
PICTUBES. 109 
 
 minds and characters, in so kind and easy a way. 
 "We do not have to learn it with an effort. It is there 
 only as a delight, and if it is sometimes too hard for 
 us, we have but to let it alone till we are older. 
 
 Give it a grateful thought when you have realized 
 how much it has done for you, and that it has come 
 straight from God, your Father and Creator. 
 
 I thank Him specially for the Praying Hands and 
 the victorious St. George of Albert Durer, for the 
 kneeling knight of Pinturricchio, for the peerless 
 last supper of Leonardo, and for the naive and gentle 
 frescoes of Giotto and of Fra Angelico. For the superb 
 and deep-toned jpaintings by Tintoretto in S. Rocco, 
 and the mighty and uplifting " Worship of the Lamb " 
 by Van Eyck at Ghent. And how much we owe to 
 the works of such men of our own time as Watts, 
 Holman Hunt, and Tissot. 
 
 Who can say that Religion and Art are not closely 
 and vitally united ? And besides the direct teaching — 
 historical, poetical, and doctrinal, of such pictures as 
 I have mentioned above, what immeasurable though 
 unconscious benefits we receive from those ideas of 
 nobility, grace, beauty, and goodness, which are im- 
 pressed on our minds and hearts by pictures. 
 
 " It is a good thing to give thanks." And when we 
 have thanked, such possessions become doubly ours. 
 
 I want to talk a little more about pictures, and I 
 am, therefore, reprinting a paper (never published) 
 written of Broadlands, in 1889, and called — 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 : O :- 
 
 It was a summer evening, but rather cold, and we 
 were sitting round a fire in the green room, where 
 hung the Sir Joshua Reynolds pictures. There was 
 a faint perfume of Avhite lilies discernible, for they 
 were in tall vases all through the drawing-rooms. 
 
 Dinner was over, and I think some of the guests 
 were a little sleepy, but our hostess. Lady Mount 
 Temple, who was dressed in soft grey velvet, was full 
 of the kind of vivacity which stimulates talk in other 
 people. 
 
 Two ladies sat on a distant sofa talking intimately 
 in a low voice. Lady Watchikaula Thynge, Mrs. 
 Button, and Mr. Harris (an artist) were chatting about 
 acquaintances. Miss Thynge was on a low chair by 
 Lady Mount Temple. 
 
 Some of the talk seemed inclined to get desultory 
 Lady Watchikaula was saying, " I must say I always 
 thought her the rudest woman I ever knew. She 
 enjoyed being rude just as I enjoy music. I met her 
 last year at Milford House, and spoke to her in the 
 ordinary way. Of course she knew me perfectly well, 
 but she stared and said, ' It is very good of you to 
 address me, but I don't know you.' I felt myself 
 getting red, and said, ' I beg your pardon, but we 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. Ill 
 
 have met at least a dozen times.' ' Where ? ' said she. 
 I got quite angry, for nobody ever forgets me and 
 my queer Muscovite name, and I said, 'Well I met 
 you first at Marlborough House many years ago, when 
 you were still middle-aged.' And then I turned round 
 and left her. And, do you know, only about ten days 
 afterwards she had an apoplectic fit and died. It 
 really was very remarkable." 
 
 " Vengeance does not always overtake people so 
 quickly as that," said Mr. Harris. "If it had been a 
 less severe punishment one might have hoped she 
 would have taken warning, and not been rude to you 
 again." 
 
 "No. I don't believe that anything except being 
 killed would cure her rudeness. I often wonder how 
 she gets on where she is now. It seems as if it must 
 make her so angry to find herself of no account — 
 socially, you know. I daresay she is quite the dregs 
 of society, wherever she is." 
 
 " Well, we all have our faults, mamma," said Miss 
 Thynge. 
 
 "Certainly we have, Selina," said her mother. "But 
 nobody can ever say that rudeness is a fault of mine. 
 Your dear grandmamma always used to say, * Girls, 
 never be rude, it is setting such a bad example.'" 
 
 I had noticed that Miss Thynge always received 
 her grandmother's maxims in a hostile spirit, and she 
 now said, 
 
 "I think one soon gets tired of doing things for 
 the sake of setting an example." 
 ] 
 
112 A TALK ABOUT AKT. 
 
 " Mr. Harris," said Lady Mount Temple, " 1 wish 
 you would talk to us about pictures. As life goes on 
 we get so rich in memories — not only of friends, but 
 of places, and books, and music, and paintings. You 
 have seen nearly all the greatest art in the world. 
 Tell us what pictures you most care to remember. 
 Do you place the Sistine Madonna first of all ? " 
 
 "I think, perhaps, it is the most absolutely beauti- 
 ful,'' said Mr. Harris. "It has a charm that no other 
 picture has. The lines and the composition are fault- 
 less, and the expression must be inspired I think. 
 The colour is dignified, but without the passion or 
 the quality which subdue us in masterpieces by 
 Titian and Tintoretto. 
 
 "It is evidently with intention that Eaphael has 
 made St. Barbara so gracefully trivial in motive. He 
 does not intend that our emotions should be excited, 
 for the picture does not depict an incident, but a 
 heavenly state. But as an example of an entirely 
 glorious picture, I think I would cite Raphael's 
 * Heliodorus ' in the Stanze at the Vatican." 
 
 "Do describe it to us, so that we can see it as we 
 sit here by the fire." 
 
 "It is large and roomy. In the centre, but with- 
 <irawn some way back, so that there is a great bare 
 space in the front of the picture, the Pope kneels at 
 the altar. He is in sapphire-coloured robes, and there 
 is great sanctity about him. His prayers are the key 
 to the discovery and punishment of the sacrilege of 
 Heliodorus, depicted in the foreground on the right. 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 113 
 
 "Here we see that three destroying angels have 
 suddenly appeared, and have dashed to the ground 
 Heliodorus. The coins are scattering in all directions. 
 
 "This group is characteristic of the peculiar perfec- 
 tion of Eaphael. That beauty of line in which he 
 excelled every other painter, and which is felt in all 
 his best work long before it is understood, is here 
 pre-eminent. Sa, too, is his almost unrivalled draw- 
 ing of the figure. Many painters have drawn correctly 
 and beautifully, but in Raphael there is a supreme 
 delight in sweeping to victory over apparent impossi- 
 bilities, and leaving for all generations a surpassingly 
 lovely result. The angels are terrible in their ven- 
 geance, and in their power to smite and exterminate. 
 One of them rides a great horse ; the other two are 
 bounding to their prey, and scarcely touch the ground 
 with their beautiful feet. Heliodorus is already almost 
 expiring under their blows. 
 
 "The other part of the picture — that on the left 
 hand side — is occupied with a stately assemblage, com- 
 prising Pope Julius the Second surrounded by his 
 guards and other personages. Here there is much 
 beauty of women and children. The principal woman 
 is a more graceful edition of an important figure in 
 the Transfiguration. This group of people is, of 
 course, an anacronism, but it is quite justifiable. 
 They are spectators of the tragedy, but being of 
 another generation, they are interested rather than 
 excited — as by a story that is told." 
 
 " Thank you so much, Mr. Harris. Do tell us about 
 
114 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 Home more pictures. Do not m.ind dear Lady Kaula 
 having gone to sleep. She has had such a long drive 
 to-day. Only she will be so sorrj' to miss what you 
 are saying." 
 
 Lady Watchikaula Thynge here awoke and said, 
 "I was not asleep. I can always listen better with 
 my eyes shut. Please go on Mr. Harris. It specially 
 interests me, because, though I have lived in Rome 
 so many years, and though I am perfectly devoted to 
 pictures, yet, do you know, I never once had time to 
 go to the Vatican and see those glorious Raphaels and 
 Michael Angelos ? " 
 
 Mr. Harris had rather expressive nostrils, and if he 
 replied, it was only by their involuntary motion. 
 But at Lady Mount Temple's command he continued 
 his discourse. 
 
 " I very often find myself thinking of Tintoretto's 
 ' Annunciation ' at Venice in San Rocco. The frescoes 
 there are too much in the dark, and I am afraid that 
 people often get little from them, except a general 
 impression of blackishness. 
 
 "Tintoretto loved to limit himself to tones of um- 
 ber, white, and azure, and to prove that he could 
 produce as superb colour with them as with crimson 
 and gold. 
 
 " In the Annunciation the Virgin seems to be living 
 among the ruined architecture of a past dispensation, 
 and there is a wide and depressing outlook beyond 
 her abode. She herself is scarcely young and beauti- 
 ful, but these great painters were careful in their best 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 115 
 
 work to make us think of something other than a 
 pretty face. For instance, except our dear St. Helena 
 in the National Gallery, and the Queen of Sheba at 
 Turin, I can scarcely think of a very beautiful 
 woman's face in any of Paul Veronese's pictures. 
 
 The Virgin here, however, has sustained her part 
 in her gloomy surroundings, and now a heaven of 
 light and beauty comes to her. Through the door, 
 like a bird, glides Gabriel, and through the little 
 window just above the door comes a bevy of cherubs. 
 It seems as if none of them could get in fast enough. 
 They have evidently come straight down the very 
 instant that the waiting time was over, and they have 
 all descended on the house, and have not thought of 
 alighting, but with a sudden wheel they rush in 
 through the door and window horizontally. This 
 bright, heavenly vision makes the pictm'e one of the 
 most charming I have ever seen. 
 
 " I need scarcely remind you of Tintoretto's best 
 known and most beautiful picture — the ' Bacchus and 
 Ariadne.' He has painted two or three pictures, 
 which are the only ones of their sort, and this is the 
 loveliest of them. Nobody has ever dared even to 
 imitate the disposition of those three transporting 
 figures, or to hope that such poetry of light and shade 
 could be attempted again. 
 
 "The girl sits queenlike on the rocks, unconscious 
 of her fairness. Drenched, but beautiful, the boy 
 Bacchus rises from the sea, his head wreathed with 
 vine leaves. Humbly he proffers her the ring. His 
 
116 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 face glows. The kisses of the sun have bronzed his 
 golden skin — and in the air floats Venus herself, un- 
 clothed, to crown Ariadne. 
 
 "The three are for ever one — united by the su- 
 preme genius of the greatest poet among painters." 
 
 " What a lovely tableau it would make ! " said Lady 
 Watchikaula, but no one else spoke, and Mr. Harris 
 continued. 
 
 "You know these pictures as well as I do, Lady 
 Mount Temple, but if you go to Milan do spend some 
 time at the Brera over Tintoretto's 'Miracle of St. 
 Mark,' which has only found its way there in the 
 last few years. It stands alone almost as much as 
 the ' Bacchus and Ariadne.' 
 
 " It is a dark and splendid picture, full of solemn, 
 rich colour — browns and greys and dull pink. 
 
 "It presents an immense succession of arches, be- 
 neath which one traces the long perspective of tes- 
 selated pavement ending in a mysterious exit, where 
 two weird figures are strangely occupied. 
 
 " We are in the vaults of some great burying place, 
 and there is something almost ghoul-like in the way 
 the cof&ns are being ransacked. There are no such 
 terror-stricken figures anywhere as those which form 
 the front group on the right. They seem to be 
 actually losing their reason with sheer fright. 
 
 "The Doge kneels in the middle, and the appari- 
 tion of St. Mark stands tall and commanding on the; 
 left. 
 
 "All the disturbance has arisen from the fact that 
 another body had been substituted for his as a relic." 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 117 
 
 I think that Lady Kaula had again dozed, and was 
 beset with the fatal anxiety (so common to ns all) ta 
 prove that she had not been asleep by making some 
 particularly apropos remark. She now said eagerly, 
 " Mr. Harris, I wonder if you can tell me of any 
 artist who would give my daughter Selina some 
 lessons, and who would not be perfectly ruinous. 
 She gets on all right with her water colours, but she 
 wants just to learn the use of oils. Now, do you 
 think that six or eight lessons would be enough ? " 
 
 "That depends. Lady Watchikaula, on the style that 
 you wish her to learn. I have a friend who could 
 easily teach her the Tintoretto or Giorgione style in 
 six lessons, but she would want at least twelve if she 
 is to be perfect in the manner of Rembrandt or 
 Velasquez." 
 
 "Well, I shall be guided by you, Mr. Harris," said 
 the lady so humbly that I think Mr. Harris was a 
 little ashamed of himself, especially as Miss Thynge 
 was present, and had quite wit enough to under- 
 stand the points of the dialogue. 
 
 She laughed rather uncomfortably, and said, "Mam- 
 ma, I can't bear Tintoretto or Giorgione, or Rem- 
 brandt or Velasquez, and nothing shall induce me to 
 paint like them." 
 
 There was a little pause, and then Mrs. Button 
 said, "I particularly want to hear Durer's 'Melencolia' 
 talked about. I have it, and I feel its beauty, but I 
 should like to know for certain what it means." 
 
 " Mrs. Button," said Mr. Harris, " I believe you 
 
118 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 know as much about it as any of us. Tell us your- 
 self what it means. Here is a photograph of it in 
 this book to refresh your memory with." 
 
 "Well, I am not an expert, you know, and that is 
 why I should prefer to hear you talk about it. But 
 it seems to me that she is a noble person, and has a 
 right to her crown. She has thought, and she has 
 worked too. And she has accomplished a great deal 
 both in science and in manual labour. The instru- 
 ments of toil about her are witnesses to this. She 
 has wealth, but she holds her bags of money in sub- 
 jection. I think that book on her lap is a Bible, 
 and she has wings. There is a church bell behind 
 her, and there is an hour glass of which the sand 
 runs continuously and normally as it should, for 
 why should we mind getting old when the proper 
 time has come for us to be old ? There is a ladder, 
 you see, and there is 'Love' sitting on a grindstone. 
 
 " The light of the sun is imperfect, almost as if 
 there were a partial eclipse — a parable, I suppose, of 
 the eclipse of faith, which some of us seem to be 
 groaning under now. But there is a rainbow. I 
 don't see why she should be so dreadfully sad. But 
 you see there is a devil. A little wicked devil, who 
 brings melancholy, born of ignorance and distrust, 
 and half spoils everything. That is all I can make 
 of it, and I dare say I am quite wrong." 
 
 There was considerable applause, and Mr. Harris, 
 to make amends for his late rudeness, said, " Melen- 
 colia has a chatelaine of keys. Lady Watchikaula, but 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 119 
 
 it is not nearly so pretty as your chatelaine, which 
 is the prettiest I ever saw." 
 
 " It is pretty, isn't it ? I got it at Munich, and 
 you'll think it was dreadfully extravagant of me to 
 buy it, for it cost a mint of money, but I got it for 
 my poor cousin, Mrs. Langdale, who has so few pretty 
 things, and cares so much about them." 
 
 " How kind of you, Lady Watchikaula. And didn't 
 she like it after all — what a shame I " 
 
 " Well, after I got to England, I liked it so much 
 that I thought I would keep it, you know." 
 
 There was rather an embarrassed silence, and then 
 she continued, " Dear Mrs. Dutton, how clever you 
 are to be able to say all that. I do so wish I could 
 do it ; I'd give anything if you'd lend your beautiful 
 * Melencolia ' to Selina to copy. We would take the 
 greatest care of it. Selina, do you remember how 
 often grandmamma said that she liked to see us as 
 careful of a thing that was lent us as if it were our 
 own ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dutton did not, I think, much wish to lend 
 her etching, but she said politely, " You must come 
 over and see it, Selina, and then you can judge if 
 you would like to copy it." 
 
 Lady Mount Temple then said, "Do talk to us a 
 little about Michael Angelo, Mr. Harris. I think we 
 must all of us be better for the ceiling of the Sistine 
 Chapel and for the Chapel of the Medici in San 
 Lorenzo. And isn't it delightful that the autotypes 
 are so good that anybody who has a few shillings 
 
120 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 can live with the greatest company in the world, 
 with prophets and sybils and superhumanly beautiful 
 personages. I always have with me that gigantic 
 weather-beaten Cumoean sybil with the deep lines of 
 wisdom in her grim face and the muscular arms. 
 And even more closely I cherish the Persian sybil. 
 She is more than human, and has learnt secrets from 
 her little book that are far beyond mortal ken. That 
 old small face ! That noble draped form with the 
 veiled head and the bent shoulders ! We grant you 
 the glory of Eaphael's angels, but at least let us 
 crown Michael Angelo for the sake of his old 
 women." 
 
 "And for the sake of his young men, too," said 
 Mr. Harris. "Think of the array of youths on that 
 ceiling, every one of them divinely strong and chaste. 
 I suppose we all have for our favourite the one who 
 wears a white bandage round his head. I think it 
 is the noblest picture that the world contains of a 
 young man in repose. What limbs and what hands ! 
 What a neck and chest ! And what a profile— keen, 
 wise, restrained, heroic ! When I look at him I seem 
 to understand what is meant by God creating man 
 in His own image. The beauty of the Lord God is 
 upon him. Strength and honour are his habitation. 
 Who among the mighty can be compared unto him ? 
 For ever the dew of youth is upon him. 
 
 " But his comrades are worthy comrades. I like 
 him who holds fast one end of the girdle between 
 his feet, and lifts the other above his head. I like 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 121 
 
 the terrified boy, who stares back at us with dis- 
 tended eyes, and the graceful creature who is so like 
 Mrs. Wyndham. And how fine the lad is with the 
 curly hair and dark, beautiful side face, and the wild 
 fellow who only shows us his great eyes above the 
 line of his straining limbs." 
 
 " You care for these things so much, Mr. Harris," 
 said Mrs. Dutton, "that of course we want to hear 
 you talk about Burne Jones, as we know that you 
 are such an enthusiast about him." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Harris, " I don't expect you to 
 think that his pictures are in the category of those 
 that I have been talking about. But they belong to 
 our own time, and touch different nerves. It was 
 about 1863 that I first saw three pictures of his at 
 the Old Water Colour Society's exhibition, and I 
 certainly did not like them. They were odd, and 
 one of them, I thought, was even irreverent and 
 painful. ' Cinderella ' and * Fair Rosamond ' (the last 
 was bought for Mr. Ruskin by his father), were pen- 
 dants at one end of the room, and opposite was 'The 
 Merciful Knight.' How differently I feel about them 
 now ! 
 
 " Cinderella is in a long straight gown, mossy green, 
 with a large patch, and she leans back against rows 
 of blue willow-pattern plates. Her face is tired, and 
 she has rather pathetic, grey eyes, and pretty waving 
 hair, parted across a low forehead. With one hand 
 she holds up the corner of her white apron, with the 
 other she touches her hair. She looks almost as if 
 
122 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 she might be stretching herself — at any rate she is 
 weary after her late hours the night before. On the 
 shelf, in front of the plates, there is a finger glass 
 with a large pink rose in it, given her doubtless by 
 the Prince. 
 
 '' She has one foot bare, and on the other is the 
 glass slipper, made in joints, so that it will bend in 
 the dance as required. There are nice mugs around, 
 and a lemon and some wine glasses, and there is a 
 pumpkin, with an untmnsformed rat crawling into it. 
 All this is not of much account you will say, and I 
 really don't know how to describe the charm of these 
 pictures beyond claiming for them that they are the 
 most beautiful colour that can ever be produced. Not 
 Giorgoine himself dealt in greater subtilities. Please 
 imagine the green and blue in the Cinderella picture 
 as splendid as you can. But it is not the colour 
 only, for the things that first made me his captive 
 were some little pencil studies of a model's head 
 (Augusta Jones), which were the only work of his 
 that appeared in the next winter exhibition. Some- 
 times I think his people must have relation to a 
 previous existence of mine, and that that is the reason 
 why thej" stir me to such a passion of admiration. 
 He got his living at this time chiefly by designs for 
 stained glass, and his water colours have that kind 
 of quality about them. He almost always uses the 
 whole scale of tone, from gleams of the brightest 
 white to blacks, Avhich he knows how to make as 
 gorgeous as the Roman purple. Do you know the 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 123 
 
 ineffably beautiful windows of his in the Chapel of 
 Jesus College, Cambridge ? 
 
 "There is a little picture of Fair Rosamond and 
 Queen Eleanor which is overpowering in its force of 
 colour, but it consists almost entirely of this luminous 
 black, with a taste of crimson in the Queen's robe, 
 the white of poor scared Eosamond's dress, and hints 
 of subdued green in the inner room, whither she 
 vainly tries to escape. Vainly, for she finds herself 
 caught round her body with the clue, which the 
 Queen grasps as hard as she grasps her dagger. There 
 is a round mirror, composed of several little mirrors, 
 in which Eleanor's face is reflected again and again 
 and again, so that the place teems with her. The 
 Queen does not look wicked. I think she looks good. 
 She is Fate, I suppose. 
 
 " Mr. Ruskin's picture of Rosamond is quite different. 
 She is a fair, sorrowful lady, clad in white and dull 
 red. She is in her bower of trellis work, grown all 
 over with pink roses, that are the very souls of the 
 sweet flower. She bends forward and fixes to the 
 end of the clue one large milk white rose. Her face 
 — but its no use trying to describe it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mr. Harris, please go on — " 
 
 -' If I could only make you see the quality of his 
 workmanship — the texture of it ! No one else has 
 ever approached him in the use of body colour. 
 Sometimes it is scumbled like an inpalpable mist, 
 sometimes it is dragged on thick, sometimes it lies 
 like a fine powder. And the paper itself reveals new 
 
124 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 qualities when it is stained with his adorable pig- 
 ments. Some of his finest effects are got by scraping. 
 But I really must stop." 
 
 " Please don't stop, Mr. Harris," said Lady "Watchi- 
 kaula "I begin to think that after all Selina need 
 not learn oils, but just go on with her water colours. 
 Do tell us a great deal more. Only don't tell us 
 about daggers, and please don't praise Queen Eleanor. 
 I always had such a dislike to murders, even when I 
 was quite young. My dear mother used to teach us 
 to hate every murder — even the murder of a child 
 she detested. But go on, and please no murders." 
 
 " I am not quite sure whether I can thread be- 
 tween what you call murders. Lady Kaula. They 
 recur so often in all fine art. But I will try. 
 
 "I think it was in 1864 that he exhibited five 
 pictures, which showed his full power. Perhaps I 
 ought not to say his full power, for by his wonderful 
 capacity for work, he has since added to his natural 
 gifts a wonderful facility in drawing and composition 
 — so that he has now, comparatively early in life, 
 won the suffrages of even the less intelligent of his 
 contemporaries. In his early career he had only the 
 praise of a small set, and a storm of execration from 
 the public, and from the press, which accused him 
 of incapacity and eccentricity. 
 
 "The charge of eccentricity was a natural charge 
 for Philistines to make against him, but it was a be- 
 wildering one to the victim, who always painted 
 things as they appeared to him. He once told me 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 125 
 
 that he began simply with the Avish to put figures 
 down on paper, and make them look as if they were 
 doing what the story said they did. Then he wanted 
 to colour them, and he painted them with simple, 
 bright colours. 
 
 " To this period belong nearly all the water colours 
 that I am talking about. Then he began to spread his 
 wings, and his genius roved everywhere — especially 
 through Greek and Tuscan art — to perfect itself in 
 all the science of design and form." 
 
 " Oh, I do so wish I could do it," exclaimed Lady 
 Watchikaula. " I used to di-aw when I was a . girl, 
 but I neglected it dreadfully after I married. Go on, 
 Mr. Harris." 
 
 "Well, to return to the five pictures of 1864. The 
 largest was ' Merlin and Nimue.' * The story is that 
 Merlin, the enchanter, has fallen in love with Nimue, 
 the fairy Lady of the Lake, and 'he is assotted and 
 doats on her.' But she 'cannot abide him because he 
 is a devil's son,' and for other reasons. He con- 
 tinually pursues her and importunes her, but she is 
 ' passing weary of him.' And it comes to pass that 
 one day he shows her a great enchantment, how by 
 a spell a man might be compelled to go under a 
 certain stone, which would lift itself up, and close 
 down on him for ever. And she reads the spell and 
 annihilates Merlin. 
 
 " In the picture Nimue is pale and haughty. Her 
 light eyes slant back at Merlin with sinister glances. 
 * This picture is now at the South Kensington Museum. 
 
126 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 The hair is parted on her forehead, and frames her 
 face with its hay-coloured masses. She wears a strait 
 gown of red, and a great cloak of golden yellow, 
 lined with scarlet. 
 
 '' In her white hands she holds the book, from 
 which she reads the curse with awful curved lips 
 that scarcely part. 
 
 " xlbove is a whitish sky, flecked with yellowish 
 clouds. Against it is the harsh, deep blue line of 
 rugged hills, and in front of the hills the autumn 
 trees rise round the dark pool or tank which duly re- 
 flects the landscape, and shows in the middle distance 
 its ripples and its reeds. 
 
 ''The spell is working for the gravestone has lifted 
 itself up, and shows a faint, bluish light beneath it. 
 Inside hang two keys, and an adder crawls there. 
 Merlin is drawn forward, and has little power of re- 
 sistance. One hand presses his beating heart, the 
 other clutches his drapery with a gesture of despair. 
 His dark face is full of mystery. A little dog drags 
 at his wine-coloured robe, and vainly tries to prevent 
 his master's destruction. But the weary Nimue is 
 inexorable. 
 
 " I was greatly impressed by this picture when I 
 was only a student, but when I saw it three or four 
 years ago in the collection of Mr. Leathart, at Gates- 
 head, I found it so beautiful that I almost lost com- 
 mand of myself. The subject and the dramatic 
 treatment of it are fine, but the greatest virtue of the 
 picture lies in its overwhelmingly lovely colour. 
 Have I tired you out ? " 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 127 
 
 " No ; at least — " 
 
 " Then I will go on. There was another water- 
 colour picture there which I loved and still love 
 even better than ' Merlin and Nimue.' It is called 
 ' Green Summer ' (the artist afterwards repainted it 
 in oils on a much larger scale). 
 
 " It is of seven girls sitting in a flowery meadow. 
 They are all dressed in green gowns, except one in 
 black, who is a little attendant, and reads a story to 
 them out of a book. All round them is the green 
 summer, and they themselves are the flower and 
 quintessence of it. Their faces glow in the warmth 
 of it as Giorgione made faces glow. The long grass 
 where they sit has its flowers and its summery globes 
 of dandelion seed. Not far behind them there is still 
 water reflecting the depths of a wood. A flight of 
 birds shows half dark and half light against it. 
 Above the trees is a nearly white sky. 
 
 "The picture has the efl'ect of being all green, but 
 it is cunningly diversified by a red sleeve here and 
 there or a wreath of forget-me-nots. One of the 
 damsels has a lamb. They sit in a circle, half dream- 
 ing and half listening. It is just summer, summer, 
 summer ! 
 
 "On the opposite side of the room hung a picture 
 called ' Astrologia.' She is in profile ; her face is 
 bent down, and her searching grey eyes gaze stead- 
 fastly into the crystal globe which she holds close to 
 them with both her hands. It is a red picture, and 
 it haunted me for years, and haunts me still. 
 
 K 
 
128 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 " To this period belongs a picture of Queen Morgan 
 le Fay, the wicked sister of King Arthur. 
 
 " Surely nothing weirder was ever imagined than 
 this tall swift woman who moves bent on evil through 
 the dark landscape. Her gaunt face is dim, like a 
 ghost's face ; under her left arm she carries a vessel 
 full of vipers ; with her right hand she raises to her 
 mouth a poisonous herb. Her dusky hair is wreathed 
 with serpents. The colour of this picture is like 
 Tintoretto's finest work. Her robe is dull pink, with 
 a cloak of dull azure, and a scarf of golden brown. 
 
 "By the way I am quite tired of hearing people 
 complain that Burne Jones paints more or less the 
 same face again and again. Of course he does, and 
 did not Eaphael, Perugino, Tintoretto, and Michael 
 Angelo do so also ? 
 
 " He naturally felt drawn to paint sorceresses. 
 Twice he painted the cruel ' Sidonia von Bork ' (avoid 
 her history), delighting in laboriously investing her 
 with a gorgeous gown covered with a snake-pattern, 
 which was suggested to him by a picture at Hampton 
 Court. She is in a dire passion and vents it by tear- 
 ing at her necklace and shooting furious looks at her 
 intended mother-in-law. And once, as we all know, 
 he painted 'The Wine of Circe.' No one who has 
 seen this picture can by any possibility ever forget 
 the beautiful woman in her golden robes, moving as 
 stealthily as the black panthers which attend her on 
 her malevolent errand. She crouches as she drops 
 the dark fluid from her philtre into the wine. She 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 129 
 
 crouches low, lest some Greek catch sight of her 
 from the white sailed ships which lie in the harbonr. 
 The line of her face is clear cut and perfect, grand 
 in its cunning. But I shall weary you with my 
 raptures, and I will not describe 'The Merciful 
 Knight,' though I love him, and the bed of mari- 
 golds which shine beneath the crucifix, and the glade 
 by which his forgiven enemy departs. 
 
 " Nor will I linger over Mr. Coltart's ' Annunciation,' 
 where the tenderest, sweetest, purest, most lamb-like 
 young Virgin kneels by her bedside, and receives 
 with praying hands uplifted the message of the angel. 
 Her little shoes of blue lie beside her, and she has 
 on her night-gowii. The scarlet and crimson bed 
 recalls the bed of Carpaccio's ' St. Ursula ' at Venice. 
 She is in a ray of sunlight. It is called ' The flower 
 of God.' An almond tree flowers outside." 
 
 " I wonder if these water-colours will fade, Mr. 
 Harris?" said Lady Watchikaula, who had outslept 
 her sleepiness by several pleasant little naps, and was 
 now playing at "Pigs in clover," so as not to waste 
 her time while she listened. "I painted a picture of 
 moss-roses when I was at school, and all the red has 
 turned to a disagreeable inky colour. I was dread- 
 fully vexed, for it was considered a great success, and 
 now Selina wont even let it hang in the breakfast 
 room." 
 
 " I fear you must have used crimson lake when you 
 painted your moss roses. Lady Watchikaula. That 
 soon begins to change, and so do several other colours. 
 
130 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 But if water-colours are painted with jproper pig- 
 ments, and taken care of, I think they retain their 
 freshness and beauty longer than oil paintings. I am 
 surprised to see how soon certain oil pictures become 
 blackish and stale, though, on the other hand, many 
 of them improve with age. We now have a Parlia- 
 mentary Blue Book about the permanence of water 
 colours. But, Lady Watchikaula, I thought you 
 could'nt listen unless you shut your eye ? " 
 
 ••'Oh, playing at Pigs in clover does just as well. 
 I wonder, Mr. Harris, if you would ever spare half- 
 an-hour and just step round to Baker Street and touch 
 up my moss roses with some colour that won't fade ? 
 I do so wish you would — if it isn't asking too much, 
 aiid I shall ask you to accept a copy of the little 
 memoir of my mother, which I compiled, and you 
 will see your own charming book on my table." 
 
 Mr. Harris had dabbled in authorship a little, and 
 had produced a novel which had not been very suc- 
 cessful, so he was accessible to flattery regarding it. 
 He politely said he would come and touch up the 
 roses with madder carmine, and added, " I think you 
 spoil me. Lady Kaula." 
 
 "No indeed," said i\iQ lady, "but (thoughtfully) I 
 daresay one does g^i spoilt without knowing it, doesn't 
 •one ? " 
 
 This was so difficult a question to reply to that Mr. 
 Harris ignored it, and only glanced at Lady Mount 
 Temple for permission to continue, for he probably 
 felt that he had talked too much. But like all people 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 131 
 
 who effect a good deal, Lady Mount Temple was 
 never hurried or in a fidget, but gave an unreluctant 
 and undivided attention to the matter in hand. She 
 was really interested in what he had said, and often 
 helped him by some murmured word of sympathy. 
 And now she asked him to tell them as much as he 
 l^ossibly could. 
 
 ''Of course I cannot tell you about all his water- 
 colours, or even about all that I have seen," said he. 
 For, thank God, there are many. 
 
 " The picture which perhaps is most perfect in the 
 technique which resembles painting in oils is the 
 *Love in Ruins.' When I saw it at Manchester two 
 years ago, I was for a long time unable to make up 
 my mind whether it was an oil painting or not. 
 
 "I know nothing finer than the steadfast out-gazing 
 face of the woman. 'Love never faileth' even if 
 ruins are all round it. Her blue drapery is as fine 
 as the blue drapery of the Madonna in Titian's * As- 
 sumption ' at Venice. The architecture is extremely 
 beautiful, especially the little pink balcony which re- 
 peats the colour of the wild roses, which roses have 
 never as far as I know been duly painted by any 
 one else. 
 
 " I think you saw the vision of St. Francis which 
 he sent to Father Damien at Molokai ? 
 
 " It is painted with umber and with real gold, so 
 that its lights change and change as you look at it 
 from different points. St. Francis kneels in front, 
 and as he gazes, with his rapt but pain-stricken face, 
 
132 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 at the winged vision of our Lord, he receives the 
 stigmata in hands and feet. 
 
 "I will only describe three more pictm-es to you, 
 and then I will really and truly end. You have all 
 been so patient. 
 
 "Mr. Street has the picture of 'The Martyrdom of 
 St. Dorothea. She was a Christian, and as she was 
 going to martyrdom one snowy wintry day, her 
 Pagan lover, Theophilus, asked her in mockery to 
 send him some flowers and fruit from the place she 
 was going to. 
 
 "After her execution he returned home, and just 
 inside his door an angel met him with apples and 
 roses from Dorothea. He believed and became a 
 Christian martyr himself, and so did her two sisters. 
 
 "A great deal of the centre of the picture is occu- 
 pied with the bare courtyard, which is paved with 
 little rounded pebbles. Against it stands up in front 
 a heathenish statue in bronze of the great god Pan, 
 and this is the first thing that catches the eye. We 
 look next at the profiles of Dorothea's two fair sisters, 
 who are quite in the foreground, and are di'essed, one 
 in red, and the other in delicate purple, spotted with 
 white. They are filling their jars with water from a 
 reservoir, where they have just broken the ice, and 
 they are both looking up at the bearers who are 
 carrying the body of Dorothea to its tomb. They 
 take it past the statue of Venus, whom the martyr 
 had refused to worship. The executioner still stands 
 by the block, and behind it are the gay canopies 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 133 
 
 where ladies and gentlemen have been viewing the 
 spectacle. 
 
 "The trees are leafless against the winter sky, and 
 a light snow has fallen on everything. 
 
 " Theophilus is in the left-hand corner of the fore- 
 ground, and he wears a student's red gown, and has 
 a book under his arm. 
 
 " He has gone up his doorstep, and is looking back 
 as the two girls are looking at the sad little procession. 
 
 "In a moment he will turn round to go into his 
 house, and will see a lovely little angel in pink 
 straight from heaven, who carries a basket that con- 
 tains three red apples and three red roses from 
 Dorothea." 
 
 "You make us see it all so vividly, Mr. Harris," 
 said Lady Wat<;hikaula. " Some of us have been por- 
 ing over his large oil pictures lately, and so it is easy 
 for us to imagine these that you are telling us about. 
 Do you remember, Selina, that almost the last thing 
 your dear Grandmamma went to see was the Burne 
 Jones Gallery in Bond Street ? How she enjoyed 
 *The Dream of Pilate's Wife,' and especially * The 
 Vale of Tears ! " 
 
 " Are you not thinking of the pictures by Dore, 
 Lady Watchikaula ? said Mr. Harris. They are in 
 Bond Street, at the Dore Gallery." 
 
 "No, I am quite sure that the pictures / mean are 
 by Burne Jones," said the lady in rather a vexed 
 tone. "Quite sure. And they are considered his 
 finest works." 
 
134 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 Mr. Harris was silent for half a minute, and then 
 continued. " A man that I know possesses a triptych 
 which Burne Jones painted 27 years ago for Mr. 
 Edward Dalzell, and I do not know any piece of 
 work that is more spontaneous and delightful. 
 
 "' The upper part of the first picture shows us the 
 Virgin in white standing by a well. She involun- 
 tarily holds her hands to her face, for she is tremb- 
 ling and almost scared by the appearance of the angel. 
 It is sunshine and spring time, and the fruit trees 
 and the red anemones are in blossom. 
 
 "Steps lead us down from this scene to another, 
 where we see the Virgin again, but no longer slight 
 and girlish. She has grown full of dignity and quiet 
 gravity. She is almost completely draped in blue, and 
 stands very upright on the little bridge which leads 
 to St. Elizabeth's portico. Elizabeth has come out to 
 greet her. Her hands are clasped and her old figure 
 is slightly bent as she listens. 
 
 " In the middle picture it is Christmas time. Christ 
 is born and the mysteries of the manger are disclosed 
 to us. Down upon it the Star blazes. And in front 
 of it St. Joseph has lighted a wood fire which burns 
 upwards. The babe lies at rest, and his mother 
 kneels in adoration before him. The cows are not 
 turned out. We can just see their noses in the dark- 
 ness. At the door of the manger are two kindly 
 women gossiping about the event. The snow is 
 shovelled up outside, and icicles hang from the roof, 
 which is covered with snow. Two angels are decorat- 
 ing it with holly. 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 135 
 
 " In the left hand corner at the top, the shepherds, 
 half frightened and half delighted, are listening to 
 the song of choirs of angels, who have brought an 
 open heaven with them. The trees and the meadows 
 are frosty. 
 
 " In the other corner we see the three kings, who 
 have come across a sapphire sea, with a deep star-lit 
 sky above their heads. We see the white sail of 
 their yacht, which lies safely at anchor. Their robes 
 are rich, and in their hands they bear the crowns 
 which they are going to cast down at the feet of the 
 babe. The last part of the picture shows the flight 
 into Egypt. The stars are studding the sky, and 
 lights gleam through the windows in the walls of 
 Jerusalem. Through its gates come battalions of 
 Herod's soldiers — horsemen and footmen, with spears 
 and lances. They are seeking the child to destroy 
 him, but they will never find him, for in front we 
 see the Holy Family guided by an angel, who takes 
 them through paths where the soldiers will not come. 
 He and St. Joseph both lead the gentle ass which is 
 ridden by the Virgin. Nothing could be lovelier 
 than her face and the tenderness with which she 
 holds the child so close to her. 
 
 "And now I will end by describing to you the 
 * Chant d' Amour,' which belongs to one of the best 
 and most gracious gentlemen in the world — Mr. 
 Martin Brimmer, of Boston, U.S.A. 
 
 " Louisa, Lady Ashburton has a copy of it. It was 
 exhibited first in 1866, I think, and the artist has 
 since repainted it in oils on a much larger scale. 
 
136 A TALK ABOUT ART. 
 
 "But there is always a charm of its own about the 
 first essay, and for my part I think this water-colour 
 is perhaps the most beautiful picture that has been 
 painted in my time. • 
 
 " Underneath it are inscribed the words : — 
 
 ' Helas ! je sais un Chant d' Amour, 
 Triste ou gai tour a tour.' 
 
 " It contains three figures. A girl kneels at a little 
 organ in an old garden, and sings the song to her 
 knight, who sits beside her on the ground and gazes 
 up at her. Eros, with scarlet robe and azure wings, 
 has descended from heaven, and, blowing the bellows 
 of the organ, supplies breath for the music. His eyes 
 are blindfolded. Small red flames rise from the 
 ground around him, and in front are flowers, such as 
 only Burne Jones can paint. Tulips, yellow, red and 
 white, and striped with purple, and plenty of wall 
 flowers. Behind the lovers are deep green meadows 
 with sheep, and then a sheet of dark water, and then 
 a grey town with houses and churches, and belfries 
 and palaces. The lights are red in the windows, for 
 twilight is beginning. 
 
 " The knight has coal black hair and a noble 
 bronzed face ; his tunic is the colour of mulberries, 
 and his armour, well worn, shines with subdued 
 splendour. King Arthur is reigning. 
 
 " But how shall we speak of the girl ? I may tell 
 you that her gown is ivory white, with warm tones 
 about it, and her hands strike the keys firmly and 
 
A TALK ABOUT ART. 137 
 
 wisely, and that the breeze plays lovingly with her 
 auburn hair. But, alas, I can never make you see the 
 beauty of her sweet fair face, flushed no more than 
 a white rose is flushed, or of her steady grey eyes 
 and her exquisite parted lips as she sings the 'Chant 
 d' Amour.' " 
 
 As it was getting late the little company now rose, 
 and all of them thanked Mr. Harris for his discourse. 
 Then they took their candles and went to bed. 
 
A STORY OF STINGINESS. 
 
 : o :- 
 
 I AM an old lady, long past sixty, and I am will- 
 ing to confess a fault of mine, because I think it 
 may make somebody else think, and avoid it. If I 
 were to put my name, I could not bring myself to 
 tell you. But my besetting sin is stinginess. 
 
 I think I have always been anxious to help others 
 in little ways, and I know that I am a child of God. 
 But it has generally been a pain to me to give things 
 away, especially money. 
 
 For a long time I thought I was a generous per- 
 son, or at any rate, that I should be very generous if 
 my means had not been straitened. I often used 
 to tell our Vicar how liberal I should be if I were 
 rich, and how it pained me not to be able to give 
 when there was so much need. 
 
 I remember one day he came and called on me, 
 and told me the following story, which I think he 
 said he knew to be true. 
 
 A Curate's wife was one day visited in her little 
 lodgings by one of the Baring family. He was a 
 distant connection of hers, and after a short talk he 
 said to her, "You have two pretty vases on your 
 mantel-piece." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "They were left me by my old 
 aunt." 
 
A STORY OF STINGINESS. 139 
 
 " If yon do not specially want to keep them," he 
 said, " I will give you £500 for them." 
 
 " You must be joking," she replied, " they cannot 
 be worth more than £2 or £3." 
 
 "Well, I will give you a cheque for £500, if you 
 like to sell them," said the gentleman. 
 
 " Of course I should be very happy, if I did not 
 think I was cheating you," said the lady. " It would 
 make all the difference to us, for, as you know, we 
 are poor." 
 
 So he gave her the cheque for £500, and took away 
 the vases. 
 
 Three months later he happened to call on Lord 
 
 R , a great collector of china, and he said, "I 
 
 have seen a pair of Rose du Barri vases, which are 
 better than yours." 
 
 "That is impossible," said Lord R . 
 
 " It is a fact, however, and you can come and see 
 them at my house, if you will." 
 
 When he saw them, the nobleman said, " It is true, 
 they are better than mine, and / must have them.'''' 
 
 " I shall want £3,000 for them," said the possessor, 
 " and I will not take less." 
 
 And the nobleman paid him the money there and 
 then. 
 
 Then Mr. Baring called on the Curate's wife. And 
 she immediately said, " I know what you are come 
 for ; you are come to ask for that cheque back, and 
 I cannot give it you, for we have already spent £40 
 of it in furniture." 
 
140 A STORY OF STINGINESS. 
 
 "Never mind," said the gentleman, "I will give 
 you a cheque for the balance." And he paid her 
 £2,000. 
 
 I was charmed with the story, and, without think- 
 ing, I said, " How delightful ! Now that is just what 
 I should have done, only I do think I should have 
 added the three months' interest." 
 
 When I said this I saw a slight smile on the Vicar's 
 face which I did not quite like, and after a pause 
 he said, "You have such generous impulses. Miss 
 Trevor. I wonder if you could find an old gown 
 for poor Mary James. She could get work if she 
 had not such shockingly bad clothes." 
 
 "I certainly will look, dear Yicar, and will do it 
 if I can," I replied cautiously. 
 
 And when he was gone I went up to my bedroom 
 and had a long hunt, but everything was too good 
 for giving away. I felt quite sorry, for I should 
 have really liked to help the poor woman, but my 
 second best serge gown was, unfortunately, not half 
 worn out, and I did not think my merino was suit- 
 able for such a poor woman. I had one old gown, 
 but I always used that for doing things in the house 
 in the early morning, and if I had given that away, 
 I must have used my serge gown instead. 
 
 I rather hesitated about a cloak which I had had 
 for some years, but I felt that I should really need 
 it for rough weather in the coming winter, when my 
 new one would be spoilt if I used it much in the 
 rain. 
 
A STORY OF STINGINESS. 141 
 
 So I wrote a little note to the Vicar, and in order 
 to save postage I took it myself to the Vicarage. As 
 I came back I slipped on a piece of orange peel, 
 which some careless boy had left on the pavement. 
 
 It was a bad fall, and I quite lost consciousness. 
 It turned out that I had broken my leg in two places, 
 and had bruised myself badly. It took me a long 
 time— several months— to get well, and the Spring 
 had come before I was able to be up and about. 
 As I lay in bed, I thought to myself, " Dear me, 
 now I have not used those clothes after all, and I do 
 believe I ought to have given them to Mary James. 
 I wonder if it is too late now, and if she has got a 
 place." 
 
 As soon as I could get up, I went to my chest of 
 drawers and pulled open the large bottom drawer. I 
 was almost stifled, when I moved the things, with 
 dust, and there flew out I should think more than a 
 hundred moths. My heart sank within me as I 
 took out the articles one after another. All of them 
 were completely spoilt; not one of them was fit for 
 giving away, even to poor Mary James. 
 
 I sat down and cried bitterly, partly with sorrow, 
 and partly with mortification. It was so clear to me 
 that God had punished my sin. I did not feel happy 
 till I had written to the Vicar, and told him how 
 ashamed of myself I felt, and asked him to pray 
 that I might never do it any more, and I begged 
 him if he ever saw the fault in me again, to tell me 
 faithfully of it. 
 
142 A STORY OF STINGINESS. 
 
 I now began really to fight, and watch, and pray 
 against the sin, but I was astonished to find what a 
 hold it had upon me. 
 
 One day I got a letter from a lawyer, telling me 
 that an old relation had left me a fortune of £500 
 a year. You may guess how I felt, for till this time 
 I had only had £100 a year. 
 
 You will scarcely believe it, but one of the first 
 thoughts that came to my mind w^as — "Now I shall 
 be able to save something. I will not increase my 
 way of living, but I will try and put by. It will 
 really be worth while now to save, for I shall be 
 quite a rich woman, and, with a little economy, I 
 can be very rich indeed." 
 
 Then I thought to myself, that I would give my 
 old servant Martha a handsome black silk dress. 
 How pleased she would be, and how surprised. On 
 second thoughts, however, I decided that perhaps it 
 would make her too fond of dress, and that after all, 
 she would be able to wear it very seldom. Also that 
 it would be a waste of money, and that a nice stuff 
 dress would be a great deal more suitable, and much 
 cheaper. So I gave her a stuff' dress. But it struck 
 me that she did not thank me for it in a very 
 cheerful way. 
 
 It was very odd, but though I had been saying all 
 my life that I should be generous if I were rich, yet 
 I think now it was rather a burden and anxiety to 
 me to feel that I might be generous. When it be- 
 came known that I had come into this money, all 
 
A STORY OF STINOINESS. 143 
 
 sorts of people called on me to ask for subscriptions. 
 It really seemed as if they thought I was made of 
 money. 
 
 I had always been accustomed to give very small 
 subscriptions, and when the Vicar's wife asked me 
 to subscribe to the schools, and I put down two half- 
 crowns, I thought she would be very much pleased 
 indeed. But instead of that her manner became 
 colder than usual, and she soon got up and went 
 away. " I wonder what she could possibly have ex- 
 pected," I said to myself afterwards. " People are 
 certainly very unreasonable." And then I remem- 
 bered what a large sum I had had to pay for legacy 
 duty, and what an expense I had been put to for 
 lawyers. 
 
 I did not feel happy, and the next morning when 
 I was sitting mending some clothes, I was glad to see 
 the Vicar come in, for his visits always cheered me. 
 
 " Dear Miss Trevor," he said to me, " do you re- 
 member that after your illness, you asked me to tell 
 you if I thought you were in any danger of not 
 being generous again ? You are a dear old friend 
 of mine, whom I truly value, and I do hope I am 
 not risking your friendship, when I ask you to pray 
 specially for guidance as to how much of your in- 
 come you should set aside for giving away." 
 
 " Set aside for giving away," I said in rather a 
 bewildered way. 
 
 " Yes," he replied. " The scriptural rule seems to 
 be that we should not give away less than a tenth of 
 
144 A STORY OF STINGINESS. 
 
 our income, but God has blessed a few people like 
 yourself with a good deal more money than they 
 require. You have no near relations who have a 
 right to expect you to leave your money to them. 
 How happy you would be, if you felt every week, 
 and every month, that you were making the world 
 better and happier, by using the talent that God has 
 given you." 
 
 "And how much do you think I ought to give 
 away. Vicar ? " I said, rather stiffly, though I confess 
 I was trembling. 
 
 " I do not know, dear Miss Trevor, but I believe 
 that our Lord Himself will teach you this by His 
 Spirit. I think I should give away half of my income, 
 if I were you, and I should keep an exact account 
 of all that I gave. You will then feel yourself just 
 a steward of money that has already been given to 
 God, and I believe you will find great happiness in 
 dispensing it. How many there are who will arise 
 and call you blessed. I believe you will do it. God 
 bless you." 
 
 He shook hands with me, and the tears stood in 
 his eyes, as well as mine. I knelt down and asked 
 the Lord, Who has given me so much, and Who had 
 suffered so much for me, to guide me in the 
 matter. I will not tell you what I decided to do. 
 
 Stinginess is still a fault of mine, but a great deal 
 of sunshine has come into my life. I do not wear 
 such old clothes as I used to wear, for I give them 
 away before they are worn out, and I do not give 
 any more five shilling subscriptions. 
 
WHOSE SHALL HE BE? 
 
 ■; o :- 
 
 Some people met together at a tea-meeting in a 
 Mission Hall the other day, and as they talked one 
 to another it so happened that seven different people 
 told the same story in seven different ways. 
 
 " I have been wonderfully blessed here," said the 
 evangelist. " Large numbers of souls have been 
 brought in during the few days I have been preach- 
 ing here. Last Tuesday there was a most interesting 
 case of a young man — a drunkard— who was com- 
 pletely broken down. I was preaching my address 
 on the 'Prodigal Son,' and the words went right 
 home, and he was converted then and there, before 
 he left the hall. His name is Samuel Jones. I 
 should like you to see him and talk to him." 
 
 " I am so thankful," said a gentleman to his wife, 
 "that I was the means of this hall being built. 
 Humanly speaking, it would never have been done 
 if I had not given the money for it. What a bless- 
 ing it is to get the Gospel brought home so faithfully 
 and continually ! It does cheer me to think that I 
 am the instrument of it all. I have just been hearing 
 of one such delightful case — a young man named 
 Samuel Jones, a drunkard, who was brought in, 
 
146 WHOSE SHALL HE BE ? 
 
 actually from a public-house, and was converted 
 there in the hall at the after-meeting. It ought to 
 humble me deeply in the midst of my rejoicings at 
 having been so used." 
 
 "My prayers have been answered at last for my 
 poor grandson," said a dear old woman. " How many 
 years have I cried to God for Samuel's soul ! And 
 how often have I been discouraged, and have almost 
 been ready to give up praying for him when he 
 went back again and again to that cursed drink. He 
 was a dear lad always, and now I believe he is a 
 true Christian. Thank God that he gave me grace 
 to go on praying, else that boy's soul might have 
 been lost for ever." 
 
 " If you want to get at the real roughs you must 
 go and find them out," said one of the workers to a 
 visitor. " You can't expect them to come in and hear 
 the Gospel unless you go down into their dens and 
 take them by the hand and bring them in. But it 
 is a glorious work. I had such a battle with a young 
 fellow outside a public-house the other day, before 
 I could get him to come. He had promised me two 
 or three times before, but had always been laughed 
 out of it by his mates. But at last he turned to 
 another man, who was also a little touched, and said, 
 'Well, Bill, I'll go if you will;' and Bill said, 'Well, 
 I'll go if Jim will,' and then I got them by the arm 
 and dragged them along, poor fellows, and they came 
 into the hall looking very sheepish. But, thank God, 
 two of the three were, I believe and trust, converted. 
 
WHOSE SHALL HE BE ? 147 
 
 One of them— Samuel Jones his name was — I think 
 I can speak confidently of. If people only knew the 
 joy of winning a soul in that way they would work 
 harder." 
 
 " I do feel rather overdone and needing rest," said 
 the superintendent of the work, " but I cannot bear to 
 go away while we are being blessed so markedly. I 
 little thought when I got this place built and set the 
 work going what hundreds of spiritual children the 
 Lord was going to give me. I call them all mine, 
 you see, and love them just as much as if they were 
 my children after the flesh. Did you notice that 
 fine young fellow sitting in the front bench.? His 
 name is Samuel Jones, and he is one of my youngest 
 born. A week ago he was sunk in vice and drunken- 
 ness. 'Blessed is the man that hath his quiver full 
 of them.' " 
 
 " I had such a splendid case at the after-meeting 
 last Tuesday," said a young worker. " I had noticed 
 a poor fellow during the address who was evidently 
 new to this sort of thing. I felt sure the Lord would 
 give me a word for him, and so I got round to the 
 door before the end of the meeting, and just as he 
 was slipping out, I got hold of him, and made him 
 sit down quietly with me in a corner. It was so 
 interesting. He had had Christian parents, but he 
 had fallen away into drink and bad company, and 
 had got utterly sunk. It seemed quite a new light 
 to him that there was hope for him as he waa then — 
 that Christ loved him tJien and had died for his sins. 
 
148 WHOSE SHALL HE BE ? 
 
 He quite broke down when I told him this, and 
 cried out to God to have mercy on him, and I believe 
 he was really won before he left the hall. His name 
 was Samuel Jones. I couldn't help singing for joy 
 as I went home. How unworthy I am to have such 
 jewels in my crown." 
 
 "The great want in a work like this," said a lady, 
 " is that the cases are not followed up. I fear it too 
 often happens that people come in and hear the 
 Gospel, and receive it with joy, and yet have no root 
 in themselves, and so they fall away directly they 
 are exposed to temptation and have nobody to help 
 them. There was a case last week of a young man, 
 named Samuel Jones, who was brought in here, and 
 appeared to be — and perhaps was — truly converted ; 
 at any rate, he went away rejoicing. But I found, 
 when I went my visiting rounds, three days after, 
 that he had broken out again that very morning — 
 poor fellow ! — and was drinking at that moment. My 
 heart did sink within me, for I had such good hope 
 of him. However, I asked the Lord for strength, 
 and went right after him into the public-house. 
 There he was, sitting in the taproom with two or 
 three others, drinking, and looking very miserable. 
 I went up to the publican and said, 'Will you let 
 me stay a few minutes ? I want to speak to Samuel 
 Jones.' He gave a sort of sulky permission, but it 
 was quite enough for me. So I went in and sat 
 down by the poor fellow, and took him by the hand, 
 and poured out my heart to him, and he wept like 
 
WHOSE SHALL HE BE ? 149 
 
 a child. And the end of it was that he came away 
 with me, and I got him work at a distance from his 
 old companions, and he is living with some Christian 
 people who will help him on heavenward. What a 
 blessing it was I found him ! Such jewels for one's 
 crown are worth hunting for, are they not ? " 
 
 Reader, you have read my seven stories, and I do 
 not think they need much moral. 
 
 I do not think it is a good thing to be claiming 
 souls as jewels and spiritual children. I think it 
 gets us into a mess, and, after all, it will not make 
 any difference in the ^umber of jewels we have in 
 our crowns whether we claim them on earth or not. 
 It is better to rejoice chiefly, that they are jewels in 
 the crown of our Lord. I daresay that fifty people 
 have generally had a hand in each soul's salvation. 
 
 -1^ 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS, 
 
 By C. M. C. 
 
 (The following Church Army Sketches — of course absolutely- 
 true — are so vivid that I have induced Mrs. Chohiieley to let me 
 print them. Emma and others need no introduction. They are 
 just "poor people," cared for by God. E. C). 
 
 Enter Emma, on a sunny morning last July, decorated 
 with a brilliant scarlet necktie, very cheerful and full 
 of news, though her greeting was " Yes, it's me — 
 weary in well-doin\" 
 
 After enjoying a leisurely breakfast, she said, re- 
 proachfully : " You've never said one word about my 
 millinery." "Dear me, Emma, do you mean your 
 Coronation hat ? " " Yes, I do mean my Coronation 
 hat, that's it ! Could I be so unfeelin' to the King, 
 poor gentleman, as to wear my Coronation 'at when 
 he couldn't be crowned ? No, indeed, I've too great 
 a regard for him to do any such thing — onfeeling I 
 calls it. So, you see, I took the scarlet off the 'at, 
 and put on this brown ribbin (neat^ ain't it ?), and 
 the scarlet (it's good^ that is — real silk) I wears round 
 my neck (robbin' Peter to pay Paul, as you may say). 
 When 'e's crowned, I'll put it back on the 'at, but 
 not before. It's a good report of the King this morn- 
 in', I see on them big posters — been out he 'as. 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 151 
 
 Them butlers and coachmen what takes invalid gentle- 
 men out in chairs 'as a bin takin' 'im out, and 'e's 
 goin' in the country soon, same as me. But he ain't 
 goin' fruit-pickin' — poor dear, 'e ain't got the strength 
 to stoop for it, not for strawberry pickin', 'e ain't — 
 well, not at present, any'ow. I wish he 'ad ; but 
 them doctors 'as bin too many for 'im — I know all 
 about it, through my operation leg. It's the times we 
 lives in does it, and the speriments them doctors 
 try." 
 
 A dull September day. Enter Emma, rather shy, 
 and not sure of her reception. 
 
 "Well, my dear Mrs. Cholmeley, here's your pro- 
 digal lamb returned. I'm goin' to tell you the truth 
 — it's better than a parcel of lies, anyhow — the fact 
 is, I've bin pinched. Now, don't look so sorry, and 
 I'll tell you about it. Give me Lewes — though I don't 
 deny I was prejudiced, for I'd heard things against 
 it ; but I can tell you it's a deal better than 'Olloway ; 
 the matron 'as a 'eart and knows a good worker when 
 she sees one. When I gets out of 'Black Maria' (at 
 Lewes Gaol, you know), I says to the warder : ' It's 
 the poor as keeps you so neat and clean ; the rich 
 can pay fines, and ain't a bit of good to all of you.' 
 ' Oh ! ' he says, ' you're a sharp one.' ' Yes,' I says, 
 * I was always noted for brains.' The officers at 
 Lewes was a good sort; but the gru'l was cru'l— if 
 you put yer spoon in, it 'ud sink down and you'd 
 never find it again. But after the first week, the 
 soup ain't bad — the only fault is there ain't enough 
 
152 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 of it. No, I never see the Chaplain. There's a visit- 
 ing lady — she says : ' I'm sure you have not always 
 been in this position, my poor woman ; you have 
 seen better days.' ' Yes,' I says, ' I was a lady by 
 birth, but have sunk through no fault of my own.' 
 (Well, it wasn't all my fault, anyhow, though some 
 of it may have been). 'And have you no home, or 
 friends ? ' ' No,' I says, ' not a friend in the w^orld.' 
 My dear Mrs. Cholmeley, I was thinking all the time 
 of you, and saying to myself, inwardly : ' Thank God, 
 I've got une dear friend ! ' But I wasn't going to tell 
 her so, and have her hurtin' your feelins by writing 
 to tell you she seen me in such a place as that. 
 ' No,' I says to myself, ' I'll tell Mrs. Cholmeley my- 
 self, she shan't.' So I says over again (seeing her 
 look at ihe so earnest) : ' Not a friend in the wide 
 world.' ' Poor thing,' she says, ' and how do you 
 support yourself ? ' ' Well,' I says, ' principally by 
 honesty and hard work.' (I'm very honest, you know 
 — you said so yourself when I left Gratton Road : 
 'honest, and a good washer.') 'And have you been 
 confirmed .^ ' she says. ' Yes,' I says (for I was mix- 
 ing up baptism with confirmation, but of course I've 
 not been confirmed ; but by the time I'd thought of 
 it, the conversation had drifted off, and besides, you 
 see, I'm quite ready and willin' to be confirmed — it's 
 you that ain't willin' to do it, as I've often told you 
 before — and, of course, I can't help that). But, how- 
 ever, when we left, the matron gave me Is., and they 
 sent us all back where we come from. I nearly got 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 153 
 
 out at Brighton, for I like Brighton, and thought I 
 might get some work ; but it was nigh on two months 
 since I see you, and I wanted to see you. Now I 
 come to the sad part : — There was a woman in the 
 train says, just as we got out : ' Come in the pub and 
 have 'arf-a-pint. it'll do you good.' ' No,' I says, 
 * I don't want to, though I don't deny I feels a 
 cravin ! ' " 
 
 Emma here broke off suddenly, and gazed at me 
 with delight, clapping her hands ecstatically. Then 
 she resumed : — " I KNEW you'd look just like that — 
 you've got it so deeply rooted in you, the 'atred to 
 them 'arf-pints. But you needn't look like it — you 
 can cheer right up, for I says to the woman : ' It's 
 tea and bread-and-butter I has the craving for now,* 
 I says, and with that I stepped away from 'er and 
 went to Lockhart's and enjoyed myself." 
 
 Emma is away hop-picking just now, but a few days 
 before she left she came to see me, and expressed 
 great pleasure at finding me at home. 
 
 " I was that bad with the lumbagur last night," she 
 said, " that as soon as I had got myself up this morn- 
 ing, and 'ad my cup of tea, I says to myself, *I 
 must go and see her, even if I don't get anything 
 at all out of her ; it'll be a comfort to tell 'er about 
 it, 'cause she'll look sorry for me.' There's a differ- 
 ence in ladies ; I dunno what makes it I'm sure, but 
 some of 'em looks at you so's if they was only a- 
 thinkin', ' Well, what a Ohjick to be sure ! ' You'd 
 
154 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 never think now that it'd make any matter to me 
 what they said nor how they looked, but IT DO. I 
 goes 'ome, and sets, and thinks, and talks to myself, 
 
 as mis'rable as if Oh ! (with a sudden change of 
 
 tone, and quite a merry twinkle) I feels as if I'd go 
 off my nut, all becos my feelins was 'urt. Silly, 
 ain't it ? Now that just reminds me that it seems 
 a pity I shouldn't never have been confirmed. Why 
 shouldn't you confirm me now ? " 
 
 "My dear Emma," I gasped, my breath quite 
 knocked out of me, " / can't confirm you : it takes a 
 Bishop to confirm you. Don't you know it does ? " 
 
 "Oh, well (rather huf&ly), I may be very ignorant, 
 but as you baptized me you know " 
 
 "I didn't^ Emma (quite indignantly). What are 
 you talking about ? " 
 
 "Well, you got me done — it's all the same thing. 
 Don't you think you'd better see me through now 
 you've started on the job ? It seems a pity to stop 
 half-way. Now, I'll tell you what — when I comes 
 back from the 'op-picking you shall explain to me as 
 much as ever you like, and I'll sing 'ymns to you, 
 and then I'll be confirmed, and so we'll *kill two 
 birds with one bush.' " 
 
 Emma looked so disconsolate and discouraged last 
 Saturday. I felt sure there was something amiss. 
 She had on a rather smart cape, trimmed round with 
 black beads, but it had none of that quaint, well-set- 
 up air which generally characterises even her pinned- 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 155 
 
 up-the-front rough jacket, and the skirt which is still 
 waiting for my funeral. 
 
 "I told your servant that I'd bin away for a rest," 
 she said, in a very low whisper, " but I've got had 
 news, 'eart breaking news — I've been put away for 
 singing, and I've just come straight from 'Olloway. 
 What do you think of that ? Ain't it awful ? The 
 magistrate asked the pleeceman if there was anything 
 else against me, and he said, * She's quite a stranger 
 to me.' And then the magistrate said, '' Fve often 
 heard her sing,' he said, ' but we must call it begging.' 
 Think of that^ my dear Mrs. Cholmeley ! Why, I 
 wouldn't beg not for anything. And the magistrate 
 'ad 'eard me ! And he MUST have thought it was 
 beautiful singing, and yet he had the 'eart to put me 
 away. I was only exercising God's gift what He gave 
 me, and I'm sure He watched over me, or else the 
 ladies wouldn't shower the half-pennies down from 
 their winders like they do, nor this cape the little 
 girl said 'er ma had kept for me this ever-so-long. 
 I've bin thinkin' it all over. I know I can't sing 
 again yet, not till I've got over the rekileckshun of 
 that gruel (ugh !), but you might put me in a Church 
 Army Home. Yes ! " (suddenly brightening into 
 eagerness as I lent a willing ear) " I'D do up their 
 work for 'em. That's what we'll do, the very thing." 
 
 " Stop, stop ! Emma, we can't settle it up in that 
 hurry. I will ask Miss Prentice, but the Homes may 
 be all full ; and then you know you would have to 
 be a Strict Teetotaller, and never say one wry word 
 
156 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 to one single Nurse or woman in the Home, how- 
 ever aggravating you thought them." 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Cholmeley" (voice and air quite 
 brisk arid cheerful again), " I'll PROMISE you both of 
 that. Why, I'll tie my tongue in a knot to oblige 
 you, because I wouldn't 'urt your feelins for the 
 world." 
 
 And into the Home she went I 
 
 " That dress is wearing out, Emma ; the hopping has 
 been too much for it; it looks grey instead of black." 
 
 " Ohy no, ma'am, iVs lovely.'' 
 
 "Well, you don't take it into any public houses, I 
 hope." 
 
 "Oh, no (extreme emphasis). Do you think I'd 
 take this dress in there— the dress that I'm going to 
 bury you in .? No, indeed, my dear Mrs. Cholmeley, 
 I wouldn't do such a thing. Is Mrs. Hilary still 
 alive ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Emma, thank God. Why should she not 
 be?" 
 
 "Dear me, now, I thought she must be dead, for I 
 sung * Beautiful Star in 'eaven so bright' so many 
 times outside her 'ouse, and she's never come out. I 
 sings according to the streets. When the people are 
 at dinner I sing * Beautiful Star ' — that's a lovely 
 song — ' Star of the Twilight, Beautiful Star ' — so cut- 
 ting, goes 'ome to the very 'eart. In the grand streets 
 like you live in (Nutford Place !) I sings ' What a 
 Friend we have in Jesus ' (you've heard me sing that), 
 and I always finish with ' Abide with me.' " 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 157 
 
 " Yes ; but my dear Emma, do you always remem- 
 ber that it is our Lord you are singing of, saying 
 what a Friend He is, and asking Him to abide with 
 you ? " 
 
 Emma regarded me with a tender look of indulgent 
 affection. 
 
 "Ah ! yes. You're so anxious about that always, 
 ain't you ; and about me going to church, and all 
 that ? I don't mind confessing to you that I have 
 got a bit behindhand with my religion ; but now I 
 put it to you — mustn't I earn something for my lodg- 
 ing and a cup of tea ? I must earn an honest living, 
 you know. I must work as well as pray. What's 
 the good of praying if I do nothing ? God has given 
 me a beautiful gift, I'll allow, because you know I 
 have a splendid voice. I sing like a nightingale — 
 don't I ? — and says all the words so clear and plain. 
 It's that fetches the people. In the middling streets 
 I sings " The Old Folks at Home.' That touches 'em 
 up — makes 'em think of the old country 'ome." 
 
 " And what do you sing in the very poor streets ? " 
 
 " * Wait till the clouds roll by ! ' or else ' Cheer up, 
 my own true love ! ' My songs are all very nice 
 songs, you know, and I sing them lovely. It takes 
 a good singer to sing that 'Own true love.' Yes, some 
 of the poor things sings like a mouse in a trap." 
 
 Emma laughed quite merrily at her own wit, and 
 then said, " I feel better now. That's the first good 
 laugh I've had to-day. It does you good for me to 
 come and see you, don't it ? Well, now, I'll come 
 
158 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 again Sunday and sing you a little hymn, if you'll 
 be at home. And I'll think about the sense of the 
 hymn to oblige you, my dear Mrs. Cholmeley — I will, 
 indeed." — Exit Emma. 
 
 "Now, Emma, this is a very nice skirt, so don't 
 pawn it." 
 
 " Ah ! " (admiringly) " what a lot you do know to 
 be sure, for a lidy." 
 
 Emma on Religion, 
 
 She came to-day looking ill with a very bad cold, 
 but with a very smart hat. 
 
 I said to her, "why, Emma, where did you get 
 those bows, I never saw such fine ribbon in my life, 
 all the colours of the rainbow." Her eyes shone im- 
 mediately, and she looked delighted. She then ex- 
 plained — one of the women 'ad a lot, so she says to 
 me, "Look 'ere, you bein a Court Milliner might 
 like some of these bits to put in your 'at." So o' 
 course I took the best, and there they are. Yes, I've 
 got a shocking cold, it's through listening to that 
 Matron, I told you 'ow she goes on. They gives us 
 a cup o' tea first, and you know I'd run all over 
 London for a cup o' tea, so I goes and a lot more, 
 and then she sets and preaches. 2'wo hours she went 
 on, and first I set and wished you was there to talk 
 'er down. Oh, yes, my dear Mrs. Cholmeley, you DO 
 talk religion sometimes, you can't deny you do. But 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 159 
 
 then it's short and sweet. But she keeps on and on, 
 and besides I know quite as much about religion as 
 she do. Now what are you looking enquiring about ? 
 You want me to tell you all about religion ? Well, 
 / ivill. You know about the country ? I've often 
 told you that when it's fine and the sun shines, I 
 feel like singin 'ymns, and I do sometimes, and if 
 there's no ladies to throw you out a penny, at all 
 events there's no copper (policeman) to stop you, and 
 at them times I believes what all you say about God 
 is true. Then in London, when I feel religious, I do 
 say to God that I try 'ard to get a honest living, and 
 I work and don't mind my poor leg, and I'm very 
 contented, and — well, what are you looking enquiring 
 about now ? You say if you was me you should tell 
 God the bad things you'd done, and the 'arf -pints and 
 that, not all them good things. / wouldn't then, for 
 I like to put the best face on, and if you don't speak 
 good of yerself, who's a goin' to do it for yer ? But, 
 never mind about that now, I'm a goin' to tell you 
 about the Matron. There she sets and talks, and there 
 they sets (all them people), thinkin' where they shall 
 get their 3d. for the night's lodging. She says you 
 must trust God — that's true I allow, and God is good, 
 but then time is time, and you ought to be doin' 
 somethin with it better'n settin wonderin when she's 
 goin to stop. Look at the waste of it ! Why you 
 might be gettin 2d. for scrubbin a door step, or you 
 might even go and set in church, it'd be better than 
 to set there while she's talkin ; a deal quieter and 
 not so distractin to the 'ead. 
 M 
 
160 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 Emma before the Magistrate. 
 
 Does the prisoner wish to say anything to the officer ? 
 " Yes, your worship, / do^ he said. I was drunk and 
 used language. Now, young man, I wish to say to 
 you that if this is the first lie you ever told, / hope 
 it will be the last." 
 
 After the Census in 1901. 
 
 "What questions them gentlemen do ask. Why one 
 says to me when he come to the lodgin 'ouse to git 
 our names and ages, 'Where was you born my good 
 woman ? ' I says to 'im — ' Well, really Sir, you must 
 excuse me not bein able to tell you, for I was but 
 a infant at the time." 
 
 Enter Emma, looking tidier than usual, bedecked 
 with a red, white, and blue bow ("Must make my- 
 self a bit smart," she says), and a most smiling 
 countenance. 
 
 "Well, now, my dear Mrs. Cholmeley, I am de- 
 lighted to see you. I thought for sure I was never 
 going to see you again. Well, if I'd been sure you 
 was here, I'd have sung to you ; it's a wonder, really, 
 you didn't 'ear me sing ' God save the Queen ' in the 
 street outside. I was just goin' to, but it flashed in 
 my mind, * See what a many birthdays I've had, and 
 the Queen never come round to sing God save Emma, 
 nor nothing of the kind, though no doubt she does 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 161 
 
 it for the rich, but not for the poor, nor for poor 
 Emma, so why should I do it for 'er ? " 
 
 "But, my dear Emma, what nonsense that is. I 
 am sure the Queen wouldn't sing in the street, out- 
 side the house of the greatest lady in the land, a bit 
 more than she would outside your house. She's so 
 very kind and thoughtful to the poor ; think of all 
 the chocolate boxes she sent the soldiers, and how 
 she goes to see people in hospitals when they are ill ; 
 besides, she is 81 — she cannot go round singing now. 
 You mustn't expect impossibilities, must you ? " 
 
 " No, that's true ; and I don't suppose " (confi- 
 dentially) "that the Queen ever had such a voice as 
 mine, neither. Why, there was a lady come out of 
 'er house when I was singing ' Beautiful Star,' up 
 'Ampstead way, only yesterday, and she says : ' Why, 
 my poor woman, how well you sing, and what a fine 
 voice you have.'" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," I says, "no fault to find with my 
 voice^ but I've got no friends, nor nobody belonging 
 to me." (No more I haven't, 'cause it's uo use men- 
 tioning you, for when you ain't in Africa you're in 
 America, and though I'd tramp Yan Demon's Land 
 to find you, it ain't in reason to expect that every- 
 body would do that, especially a lady that only wants 
 a reference for honesty and industriousness). 
 
 " And do you prefer singing to work ? " she says. 
 
 " No, ma'am," I says ; " my 'eart's in the laundry " 
 (it is, y' know), " and I'd stand at the washtub with 
 anybody, and there ain't many can beat Emma at 
 scrubbin." 
 
162 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 " Will you scrub down some steps for me ? " she 
 says. 
 
 "That I will," I says, "but I must be properly 
 harnessed, you know." 
 
 " So I went to the housekeeper and got a coarse 
 apron and cleaned 'em down, and when she come to 
 look she said they looked lovely ; but I do feel my 
 leg — this one that was bad so long in the infirmary" 
 (here she stuck her left leg stiffly out, much swathed, 
 evidently in bandages). " I says to my operation leg, 
 ' If you're good, and keeps quiet to-night, I'll give 
 yer an egg and some toast, and a good large cup of 
 tea to your breakfast to-morrer ; ' that does it good, 
 y' know, pore thing— gives it strength. Why, all the 
 food I can get, that leg wants it all, the doctor told 
 me so at the 'orspital. 'If you don't want to be a 
 cripple,' he says, ' you must give that leg good food.' " 
 
 "But no drink, Emma." 
 
 "Well, he didn't say nothing about drink at all ; 
 and you've never asked me whether I've been to 
 church." 
 
 " Have you been to-day ? It's Ascension Day — the 
 right day to go." 
 
 " Is it Ascension Day, reelly ? And I never knew 
 it. How ignorant I am. But there's my lodgin' 
 money to be earned. What's the good of my sittin' 
 in a church all the whole day long, trustin' in Pro- 
 vidence to get the lodgin' money for me ? I'd better 
 by far run round and sing ' God aave the Queen ' to 
 please the company.'? 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 163 
 
 A disapproving look made her add hurriedly : " And 
 besides, St. Giles' is a Low Church, and I never will 
 go to them Low Churches. I likes 'igh Churches, 
 where the music goes 'igh, right up in the roof, so 
 as I can join in and help them lift the roof off. I 
 can't sing them low 'ymns, * Art thou weary ? ' and 
 that. Why that ymn seems to ketch 'old of my bad 
 leg and give it a pull downwards, 'stead of ' Crown 
 Him ' and them 'igh 'ymns. That's like the pair of 
 wings you used to tell about." 
 
 "But, Emma ." 
 
 I was interrupted by a quaint deprecatory nod, 
 and an imploring '* Don't stop the clock, my dear 
 Mrs. Cholmeley. You have told me before y' know 
 that its doctrine and not 'ymns makes churches 'igh 
 or low, but ." 
 
 I interrupted in my turn, " And I won't trouble 
 you with any more explanations, dear. Let us only 
 agree to serve and praise our Lord Who is so good, 
 and Who loves us so much — high and low, rich and 
 poor, one with another." 
 
 Emma's expression softened, and she said, very 
 gently, " Does He love me, I wonder ? I'm going 
 into the country fruit-picking soon ; and then, when 
 it's fine, and the sun shines, and the trees and 
 flowers look all green and pretty colours, then I some- 
 times think He does. Well " (with renewed vivacity) 
 "I'll read that little book you've just give me, and 
 now I'll go. I would sing ' God save the Queen,' but 
 the people are at prayers in the church opposite, and 
 
164 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 I might drownd 'em. Good-bye ! I don't want to 
 lose you till I find you, so take care of yerself, do. 
 In these Boers' times, it's dreadful ; you never know 
 what you may have next, so I'll come again soon, for 
 I know it does you good to see me. Cheers you up 
 like, don't it ? " 
 
 Off she went, smiling, and limped briskly down 
 the street. 
 
 They were a most respectable old couple. He was 
 a costermonger and she made the rent of the house 
 by " charing," and letting rooms, but misfortune had 
 overtaken them. I found her alone in the First Floor 
 Back, which was almost bare of furniture. 
 
 "You must excuse it, m'm," she said, "for I've 
 sent the rest of my furniture to where that dead 
 person lives, he died yesterday, but he's very honest, 
 and his wife, poor thing, will see to it. You see, 
 m'm, everything's against us. The man downstairs 
 owes us £4 10s. and the other one owes two weeks 
 at 5s. a week, and I've got behind. And my hus- 
 band is ill and the road's up so's he can't stand in 
 the gutter, or else he could have got a few heads of 
 cel'ry and earned a few ha'pence, and then next 
 door is empty and the Landlord he wants to make 
 one job of the two houses, you see, m'm, and so he 
 sent the Brokerman with an injectment notice. I 
 thought I should have dropped, for I was just coming 
 along the street with the loaf of bread in my hand 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 165 
 
 when I see the Brokerman going in front of me and 
 he stopped at my door. Tliat was Monday, and next 
 Monday the Brokerman '11 come again and serve us 
 another injectment. and / am told (I never had 
 nothing to do with Brokermen nor such-like before, 
 but I am told) that they'll stuff up the chimblies, 
 and take out the winders, and p'rhaps have us off 
 to prison for being on the premises. 
 
 "Oh, yes, m'm, we shall have to go. But I've 
 lived in this house five-and-forty year. I buried 
 my Mother out of the Front Parlour, and I buried 
 my Father out of the Back Parlour, and I buried my 
 oldest son (he was just 29) out of the Top Floor 
 Back, and my sister was stopping with me and sleep- 
 ing in the Top Floor Front, and I went to wake her 
 in the morning, and there she lay dead in the bed ; 
 so you may guess I clings to the house. My hus- 
 band '11 have to go the Infirmary, and I s'pose I 
 must go to my niece's, but it don't answer, that 
 mixing up families don't, and I wish I could get 
 ever such a little room to ourselves. It do seem 
 hard." 
 
 I think a little bit of pink did come in after all, 
 for I was able to say with entire conviction that it 
 did seem hard ; and then to tell her how the Yicar 
 and the ladies she had worked for respected her 
 and thought so much of her and her husband, and 
 that when he came out of the Infirmary they 
 would pay the rent of a room for a while and start 
 him with stock. And then I think she was ready to 
 
166 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 be reminded of her Divine Lord Who may be trusted 
 to bring good out of our worst troubles, and of the 
 Home in Paradise, where our living dear ones are, 
 and whence no landlord will ever eject us. For here 
 we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come. 
 
 It is one of the primary principles of Church Army 
 work, that we do not give away money, it has to be 
 earned, but we interpret " earning " in a wide sense. 
 
 Still, I fear even that wide sense does not, strictly 
 speaking, justify me in the sixpences I make over 
 *' otherwhile," to an old Sussex friend of mine (you 
 would doubtless call him a tramp) simply on account 
 of the pleasure I take in his conversation. It is, I 
 fear, impossible to give any idea of the rare quality 
 of this conversation, because our old Sussex labourers 
 have such amazingly eloquent gestures and tones that 
 they convey great depths and delicate shades of mean- 
 ing without using more than two or three of the 200 
 words allocated to them by Professor Max Muller. 
 
 One day my friend had brought his wife to see 
 me, a little, thin, weasel-faced old woman, who duly 
 walks six yards behind her husband, according to 
 the strict etiquette of her class. "We had been con- 
 versing on various subjects, and I had asked her 
 some questions about Church-going and prayers. He 
 never likes any question addressed to her except 
 through himself, so he hurriedly replied for her : 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 167 
 
 " Yes mum ; yes, she says her perayers, but she 
 didn't use when I married 'er, but I says to 'er, 
 Amelier Blantyres, I says, you say your perayers, I 
 says, or if yer don't Fll knock yer downy 
 
 " You shouldn't scold her so much, Mr. Blantyres, 
 you should be kind to her, she doesn't look well, 
 and her hair is ever so much greyer than last time." 
 
 " Ow, that ain't it, mum ; she understands me ; it 
 ain't my scolding of 'er turns 'er hair gray. I was 
 a-telling of 'er only last week. 'Amelier,' I says, 
 ' look at yom- hair,' I says, ' that's all gone grey 'cause 
 yon 'ont do as I tells yer and put on some of this 
 yer Bear's Grease on to it mornin's. Bear's Grease is 
 what you oughter put on, Amelier.' That what I 
 tells 'er, mum, but, bless yer, she's that obstinate, is 
 my woife, she will keep on wettin' 'er 'ed with this 
 yer plain cold water. 'You look at me,' I says, 'you 
 don't see me a-doin' that ; look at my 'air, I ain't all 
 turnin' grey-'aired afore my time,' I says. 'Let that 
 water alone,' I says, 'and use Bear's Grease.' But, 
 there, you mought justswell talk to that 'ere post as 
 talk to my woife ; she's the 'oodeneadedest 'ooman 
 ever I see." 
 
 There was a workman attending to the gas in the 
 hall, whose gravity was completely overset by my 
 old friend's oration, illustrated as it was by the 
 sphynxlike calm of the oodeneaded wife, standing in- 
 side on the mat, while her husband fulminated on 
 the doorstep. His hand shook so that the gas lamp 
 rang again. Old Blantyres looked at him gravely 
 
168 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 and enquiringly, but made no remark ; he did not 
 consider it manners to enter into conversation with a 
 man who was "tendin' to his bisness what e'd got to 
 do," This brought him back to the thought of his 
 own business. 
 
 " Whoy, she 'aven't got any sense at all, 'aven't my 
 woife ; see 'ow she goes on a-workin' for this 'ere 
 Johnnie Whatsisname, sixpence a day 'e says 'e gives 
 'ev—sixpefice a day (in a voice of concentrated scorn) 
 for doin' all that scrabbin' ! / don't see none of 
 them sixpences, I don't, ow, no. Eightpence a night 
 I has to pay for our room — eightpence every night. 
 I must airn that a sellin' a few ornges, or water- 
 creeses, or theseyer laaces. 
 
 "'Ain't you got the money for the lodgin', 'Arry,' 
 she says. 
 
 " ' Money for the lodgin',' I says, ' where's all them 
 sixpences,' I says (he then bj' an excellent grimace 
 shows that there is no reply). Oaw, no ! not a bit 
 of it, them sixpences has all gone to 'er tay. ' I don't 
 begritch you yer tay, Amelier,' I says, ' but you 
 makes it too strong, you shovels it in too permiscus. 
 It ain't good for yer,' I says, 'all that strong tay 
 ain't, you look at it in the dish when it's stud a bit, 
 and on the top there's all sorts o' colours come over 
 like on the top of a pond that ain't been stirred ; 
 that's what makes yer inside ser w^eak, Amelier,' I 
 says. Ow (with an indignant shrug) what's the use 
 o' talkin', she's a 'ooman as ain't got no sense, so 
 you sees, mum (coaxingly) what I wants is just a 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 169 
 
 shilling' or two to buy a stock of them whatisits, 
 ornges I manes, I gits 'em at Mrs. Jones, yer know, 
 up 'Ammersmith Broadway. 
 
 " Then I'd git the money to go down in the country, 
 Sussex way, Arndel and Chichester (that's my native, 
 yer know, mum, up Chichester ways is), and I might 
 git down Findon ways and see Mr. Whatisit — 'Ampton, 
 that's 'im, see if he'd got a bit of 'oein' 'e could gimme, 
 'e's been a gentlemen to me, so's poor Mr. Higgs, 
 he's dead now, but I know'd 'im, and 'is father 
 before 'im " (and so off into many and mazelike 
 reminiscences not to be reproduced here). 
 
 "Plase, ma'am I want to go to St. Leonards again," 
 said four year old Freddie just now, "'cause then I 
 shall see my sister Amy too, and I want my sister 
 Amy." 
 
 Freddie's mother is a young widow working hard 
 in service, and the Church Army Fresh Air Home 
 was the only place we could find last summer where 
 she could have her two little children together with 
 her for one blissful fortnight's break in the long 
 year of separation. 
 
 "Tell me what you did there, Freddie," I said, 
 and the blue eyes looked fearlessly up, and the little 
 square figure in its sailor suit, with the small hands 
 thrust deep down in the pockets, stood gravely at my 
 side as the child searched among his happy memories 
 of eight months ago. " I didn't catched the little 
 
170 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 crab, it ran too fast, but the other Fred catched one, 
 — but I put shells in my pail, and stones ; — and I 
 dugged holes in the sand with my spade ! And I 
 slept in a cradle side of my mother's bed 'cause Amy 
 sleeped in with mother,— and I had a nice cake on 
 Sunday ; one day I couldn't walk so far as the 
 others, so I swinged in the garden, and I fell off and 
 cut my head right open, it was a dang'rous swing, 
 but Nurse bathed it and made it quite well again. I 
 want to go again, and my sister Amy wants to come 
 too ; — next time I'm going to catched that little crab 
 and some little fishes ; I'm going to let them die first 
 so as they shouldn't mind, and then take them out 
 of the water with my spade and hold them in my 
 hand. My sister Amy wants to go to Sunlennards 
 too, it is a nice place." 
 
 Amy is a dear and loving child, and almost broke 
 her mother's heart and her own a year ago by her 
 piteous distress when the parting time came and she 
 had to go to school, poor mite of four as she was 
 
 then! 
 
 4» » « « 
 
 "It's Jem and Maggie you see. Miss, that's the 
 difficulty, because the doctor he says that after me 
 having the double pewmonia the only chance is to 
 go away. But there, wot's the good of talking be- 
 cause Maggie is that owdacious though she is but 
 four years old and will do everything Jem does though 
 he's five. They're fishing in the drain outside now 
 and pretty quiet, but if I was to leave 'em I shouldn't 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 171 
 
 have a bit of peace through, knowing they might be 
 over the road and under them tram 'orses every 
 minute of the day and nobody but their m.other 
 could stop 'em. It's through being with their grand- 
 mother, Mrs. Jakin, made 'em like it (though she's 
 dead and gone now, poor dear) as was my husband's 
 mother. But Bob, that's my husband. Miss, thinks 
 such a lot of Maggie. He says to me, 'You must 
 take 'em with you,' 'e says. 'What with Jem being 
 such a owdacious young limb a-drorin' his sister along 
 with 'im, why ' my husband says to me, ' you must 
 go to the Church Army which they tell me is not 
 afraid of mixing up mothers and their children in 
 one 'ome and arsk 'em from me to name their terms 
 and I will meet 'em if its anyways possible.' Yes, 
 Miss, Bob and me 'ave saved 15/- towards it and 'e 
 will do more, but times is 'ard and in course while 
 we're away 'e must Uvey 
 
 i,^ «= # * 
 
 " Could you possibly take Mrs. Macdonald and her 
 baby. Miss Prentice," said our Dispensary Nurse last 
 week. "Her husband is at the front, and though she 
 gets a little money regularly, she is so anxious over 
 the long clothes baby that I think it would be every- 
 thing for her to have a real change. She has a 
 conviction on her mind that either he will die or 
 baby will die before his return, she juSt needs 
 cheerful society and to be taken out of herself and 
 to be reminded of the Heavenly care. She is a good 
 woman, but is getting morbid, and its such a sweet 
 babe, you would love it, I am sure." 
 
172 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 * =;s= ■:^ # 
 
 "Now, Prissy, when you gets to St. Leonards you'll 
 mind little Willy, and Lucy will mind Ethel, and 
 Jackie must be a good boy and mind you. Prissy, 
 for you see mother must stop and mind father for 
 it's been a bad accident ; perhaps by-and-by the 
 District Lady will get him a Convalescent Letter and 
 mother must try and clean the rooms against you all 
 come back. The District Lady said she should think 
 it was better for mothers not to go into the country 
 with their children (tiresome little bothers, she says), 
 but to get a bit of rest and pleasure ; but I don't 
 know what sort of mothers those was, Im sure 
 I always find it a pleasure to be with my children, 
 it ain't much pleasure I gets when they're away, 
 though there's no denying but that when there's ill- 
 ness in the house it's bad for the children too, so 
 I'm glad you're going, for I know Nurse will take 
 the best of cares of you ; and father he says the 
 little uns wouldn't never live through another summer 
 here 'thout a breath of fresh air, father 'e says it's 
 through him and his family being country people so 
 fur back, the children sort of pines and can't fetch 
 their breath proper 'ere in Lisson Grove, though 'e 
 says that's an autocratic sounding name and no doubt 
 ivas a Grove eventually." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The women do their very best to save up towards 
 the expense of their holiday. By the end of Feb- 
 ruary some twenty mothers had already begun to pay 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 173 
 
 in, laying up for a sunshiny instead of a rainy day. 
 Last year when we reckoned up our receipts we 
 found they had just paid their fares and a little 
 over, and their kind and better-off friends had paid 
 for their keep. How much daily self-denial this 
 saving up means. 
 
 Since our little Home was opened in June we have 
 taken in 161 women and children who have enjoyed 
 a delightful fortnight of rest and fresh air. Besides 
 this we have also received for varying periods 24 
 of our own Mission Nurses and Sisters, who have 
 greatly benefited by a stay in the Home. Many 
 grateful letters came from the visitors. 
 
 " Dear Nurse, — Just a line to tell you we arrived 
 home quite safe and feeling better — mother said we 
 look much better for our holiday. Father and mother 
 thanks you very much for taking care of us." 
 
 "London seems so smoky after the beautiful air of 
 St. Leonards. I must thank you for your kindness 
 to me and my children, as I did not expect such a 
 happy time— I saw Nurse E., and had such a grand 
 account to give her of my holiday." 
 
 "Dear Nurse, — I shall be looking forward of see- 
 ing you again soon, as I was very happy." 
 
 " Dear Nurse, — I feel I must write these few lines 
 to w^ish you a pleasant time and a nice rest, which 
 I aiii sure will do you good, you must accept the 
 same in this short note. I cannot wish you warm 
 weather as we had the best of that, but do hope you 
 will have it dry and fine, so that you will enjoy 
 
174 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 your holiday, as you made ours such a pleasant one — 
 it is only a duty to wish you the same." 
 
 Our Mothers' Meeting was over, and one of my old 
 friends waited to speak to me, and this is what she 
 said :— 
 
 "Oh, I did have a time of it on Saturday night, 
 ma'am. My eldest son had been on the drink, and 
 I was settin' up for him because he had lost his 
 key. He came home at 2 o'clock, and when I opened 
 the door he fetched me such a blow across the head, 
 it sent me staggering against the wall, and when I 
 screamed he said, 'I'll do for you,' and I ran to 
 the doorway, and there — just dropped from Heaven 
 — was two great stout policemen ! They must have 
 dropped from Heaven, for I had looked out the 
 minute before my son came, and the street was clear. 
 So my son rushed out after me, and one of them 
 caught him by the collar at the back of his neck, 
 and gave him such a shaking ! Just then his father 
 came downstairs, and 'You let him come in,' he says 
 to them, and took and shut him in the settin' room. 
 
 "I was still lookin' out at the door, and my son 
 wouldn't stop in the settin' room ; he comes rushin' out 
 and ^ rU do for her!'' he says again, and the police- 
 man says, 'Will you, my man,' he says, 'then you'd 
 best come along of me,' and with that they both 
 grips his arm, one each side, and walks him off to the 
 Station House, with me walkin' behind all the way. 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 175 
 
 crying, and when the door shut upon him my heart 
 gave a great thump, and I thought I should have 
 sunk into the pavement, for I kept thinking, ' Me to 
 have taken all the trouble in rearing him, and for it 
 to come to this.' But just then it flashed in my 
 mind what a good thing it was I did set up for him,, 
 for if not I should have been in my nightgown, and 
 I should have caught my death of cold, so perhaps 
 it was all for the best." 
 
 Mrs. Farringdon is as remarkable a talker as Emma, 
 and I think our readers may be interested in some of 
 her views. 
 
 The introductory scene is outside a " Home " (not 
 C.A.), where I had been summoned by a peremptory 
 wire : " Come at once and fetch your patient away.''' 
 She had discharged herself from the inside of tlie 
 Home, but was walking about outside much "on the 
 war-path," a tall, stout woman, with scarlet flowers 
 in her bonnet, a scarlet tomato in one hand, and a 
 large stone in the other, ready to hurl at a window 
 by way of giving point to her very loud and obju- 
 gatory remarks. 
 
 I went up quietly behind and said how fortunate 
 I was to have come across her, as I travelled down 
 on purpose, and we might have missed — &c. 
 
 "My dear, she said affectionately, with an instan- 
 taneous change of voice and expression, " I'm truly 
 delighted to see you, and as you say, it would have 
 N 
 
176 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 been most unfortunate had we missed. I'll come 
 back and take care of you up to town, for it isn't fit 
 you should be travelling about alone. But there's 
 one thing to consider, for it's wicked to waste, and 
 I've just given a woman a shilling to buy some 
 whisky. I'll just run and drink it up, it won't take 
 a minute, and then we'll start. Do I hear you say, 
 * Never mind the whisky ? ' Now how can a re- 
 ligious lady, like you, say that, when ' Waste not, 
 want not ' is in the Bible. Now, could I have kept 
 a Boarding House for fifteen years and made it answer 
 on such principles as never mind wasting a shilling ? 
 'Economy, my dears,' was my poor mother's in- 
 structions from the time I was able to run alone. 
 You say you'll give me a better shilling's worth in 
 London .? Yes, very likely, but that won't be any 
 economy, that's what I look at." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "I can't drink the whisky and catch the train you 
 say. Well, that's very likely too, for ever since I 
 fell with my head on the curb, and that young 
 doctor was so careless that he caught in my jugular 
 vein with the bandages, I've found a difficulty in 
 catching trains." 
 
 # # * * 
 
 " Do you say you don't keep your jugular vein at 
 the back of your head, but we can discuss the subject 
 as we walk along ? That's where I blame you dear, 
 you are not economical, and you don't understand 
 logic ; what difference does it make to me where 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 177 
 
 2/9wr jugular vein is, when mine was caught in once 
 for all, and it's too late to extricate it. 
 
 "And another thing I blame you for, is you're so 
 obstinate, for you see, you've walked me half-way 
 to the station, just while I've been talking, and 
 there's that woman waiting with the whisky, and 
 she will say that I don't know manners and am a 
 wasteful person. 
 
 " You say she may as well drink it all herself ! 
 But how bad for her. Fancy you with your prin- 
 ciples wishing her to do it ! Oh, you say you don't 
 wish her to do it ? Well, aint that a self-deception 
 to say so when you won't let me go back and see 
 that she don't ? " 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " My box you are asking about ? Oh, that's at the 
 railway station — yes, it's got my beautiful black satin 
 gown in it that you always admire on me, but I've 
 done with all that. Mr. Farringdon don't care, so 
 why should I ? " 
 
 * * » * 
 
 " Close to the station now, are we ? Very well, 
 then, I shall just go back and drink that whisky. 
 Well, I'll come and see you off first if you make 
 such a point of it." 
 
 * # * * 
 
 " Oh, the train is off is it, and me in the carriage ? 
 Well, that must have been because I didn't mean to 
 come ; we should never have caught it if I'd meant 
 to. See that woman in the end compartment with a 
 
178 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 lot of children ? Let me ask her if they're all in 
 a Band of Hope as they should be." 
 
 Here Mrs. Farringdon began giving advice gratis 
 in a loud voice to our fellow travellers by turns, so 
 that I was naturally much relieved when we reached 
 King's Cross. "While I went to secure her box, which 
 took some time, she went to the refreshment bar to 
 advise the young lady there to be a total abstainer. 
 Directly she caught sight of the porter, the box and 
 me, she hurried towards us (her bonnet much on 
 one side) and said, " This is a very pleasant meeting. 
 Porter, this is my friend, Mrs. Cholmelly. She is a 
 perfect lady.'' 
 
 "Yes, mum," said the porter, labelling the box, 
 and as the train happily came up at the moment, he 
 shunted her in and we went on to Edgware Road. 
 
 Of course the difficulty was to know where to put 
 her for the night, as it was Saturday, and so no 
 C.A. Home was available. I left her in the waiting- 
 room, and went to Nutford Place to get the help of 
 a C.A. Nurse. When I returned she was asleep, and 
 wished to remain so. "Let me alone," she said, 
 angrily. "I promised Mrs. Cholmelly, a lady-friend 
 of mine, not to leave this place till she came to fetch 
 me, and I musn't break my promise. Now you say 
 you are Mrs. Cholmelly, but she was alone, and you 
 have a young person with you, and if I go away 
 
 with you what shall I answer if the right Mrs. C 
 
 comes and tells me I oughtn't to have done it ? If 
 you can satisfy me about that I'll come. What do 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 179 
 
 you say ? Say it again — you will leave your card 
 
 ■with the attendant, and then if the right Mrs. C - 
 
 comes and finds me gone she and I will be satisfied ? 
 My dear, there is nothing in that argument, for I 
 shall never be satisfied till I go back and have that 
 whisky I paid the woman a shilling for. ' Drunk it 
 it all herself by this time ? ' Oh, what a low opinion 
 you have of your fellow creatures ; now I'm quite 
 different, I always hope the best of everybody, I 
 speak as I find them — but till I find them dishonest 
 I would scorn to lay it to their charge." 
 * * * * 
 
 "Well, you've got me upstairs between you, and 
 this is Lisson Grove, you say. A poor sort of a 
 Grove, mean little streets I call them. Oh, here's 
 *The Shaftesbury,' now let's hear what the Matron 
 has to say. I don't think much of her looks, no 
 style about her, what does she say ? She won't 
 let me have a bed. The worse for drink, am I ? 
 What a shocking untruth I Where does she expect 
 to go ? But that's just the way, they take the 
 public money, and then when a respectable married 
 woman like me comes for a bed to lie down upon 
 they make any excuse rather than let me have it. 
 Its a perfect scandal and disgrace. Not talk so loud, 
 do you say ? Oh, yes, she's shut the door, but look 
 at all these men and boys standing round, what do 
 they want ? I'll teach them to interfere. If they 
 was all the forty thieves (and I daresay most of 'em 
 are thieves), they shan't mix in my family jars." 
 
180 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 Mrs. Farringdon was really very angry, and was 
 fumbling after the pin of her shawl, so that she 
 might be free to fight the derisive crowd of men and 
 boys, who had collected at the sound of her loud 
 remarks. 
 
 I begged the Church Army Nurse to get her aw^ay 
 round the corner, and then I put it to the crowd 
 that it would really be very kind of them to go, as 
 I could not get her away while they stayed. With 
 the kindness I have always met with from London 
 men and boys, they agreed at once, the crowd dis- 
 persed as quickly as it had come together, and we 
 pursued our way undistracted. After several efforts 
 we succeeded in getting her a room, and the last I 
 heard of her that day was a very sleepy voice saying 
 to the Nnrse who was undressing and putting her to 
 bed : " Now be careful, because you know Mrs. 
 Cholmelly is a lady, and besides, modesty becomes 
 everybody." 
 
 " If you please, m'm, I w^ant to come into the Church 
 Army Labour Home for a bit, where I was three 
 years ago. I'm sick and tired with living in these 
 low lodging-houses, and I must have a rest from Mr. 
 Danby. I'm completely wore out with his ways, and 
 with keeping him, for he's had no work this ever so 
 long, and there's been such upsets in the next room 
 to us ; and Mr. Danby's eldest daughter is home. 
 No, m'm, she don't live with us, but she thinks she 
 
EMxMA AND OTHERS. 181 
 
 has a right to come in and out as she pleases ; and 
 yesterday she brought a woman in, and gave her tea 
 in my room. She brought her own tea and cakes, 
 but she used my butter, and my teapot and cups, and 
 she left me to wash up ; and the woman is one I 
 have no acquaintance with, nor don't wish to, and 
 she didn't ought to do it." 
 
 " I quite agree with you, Mrs. Danby. But can Mr. 
 Danby help it ? Does he encourage her ? 
 
 "I can't say he encourages her, m'm, but he ought 
 to see she don't do it, instead of saying I am his 
 wife, and she is his daughter, and he don't want no 
 disagreeables — as though we didn't know that; it's 
 foolishness to talk so. And another thing ; he don't 
 treat me properly, for though we have been married 
 two years, I only accidentally found out last week that 
 he has another daughter, and when I taxed him with 
 it, he said it didn't matter to me, as he supposes she 
 will be something like ten years old now, with her 
 mother's relations in the country. And I'm sure I 
 told him the first time we ever walked out together 
 about my little Jane that is with Dr. Barnardo, and 
 doing so well ; and why should he make mysteries 
 of his daughter any more than I did of mine ? " 
 
 "Why, indeed ! I don't wonder you felt hurt, but 
 still perhaps he meant no harm. He is not unkind 
 to you often, is he ? " 
 
 "Well, he says things that's very hurtful to my 
 feelings. If I do happen to have a little drink he 
 misscalls me everything he can lay his tongue to. 
 
182 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 Poor Mr. Blenkinsop was quite different to that ; he 
 always kep' hisself quiet, and never hurt my feelings 
 if it was ever so. And then Mr. Blenkinsop used to 
 go to sea — he was a sailor, you know, m'm — but Mr. 
 Danby, he's there all ^ the time, and I don't seem 
 never to get the place to myself. No, I don't want to 
 leave him, m'm, I'll promise you that I'll go back to 
 him right enough." 
 
 Then suddenly bursting into a tempest of sobs, 
 " I'm getting to be such a wicked woman, and I do 
 want to be good, I do want to be good. I did think 
 I'd given myself to Jesus, and I've gone all back — 
 right back into the Devil's ways." 
 
 Then as I soothed her, and she grew quieter, she 
 said, softly, " I do love Church Army ways, and the 
 hymns and all, and I want to hear about the Lord 
 Jesus again. I thinks about it often and often, nights. 
 I could be good if I went to the Home again, but 
 there is dreadful wicked places in London ; I can't 
 be good there. Mr. Danby was in a Labour Home 
 too before we was married. He liked it well enough, 
 but he don't hanker after it like I do." 
 
 "What an excellent plan it would be if he could 
 go to one of the Men's Homes while you go to the 
 Women's Home, and then both start fresh." 
 
 "Yes, m'm, but I don't know as he would. But, 
 oh, do make him let me go." 
 
 "Well, then, you go and ask him to come and see 
 me to-night. We must talk over what can be done." 
 
 The loyal little woman went away without having 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 183 
 
 said a word of complaint about the many days when 
 her husband had lain idly in bed till late in the 
 afternoon, while she slaved at the ironing board ; or 
 of the arguments, harder than words, by which he 
 had lately begun to testify his disapproval of her 
 " happening to have a little drink.' 
 
 Her bright brown eyes were growing dim, and her 
 cheeks which used to be so rosy and pretty looked 
 puffed and swelled from drink and overwork. It 
 was high time something should be done, and one 
 could but hope and pray that the C. A. Home would 
 prove to her all she expected — a House Beautiful, 
 where Piety, Prudence and Charity could feed and 
 rest and clothe her, and set her forth in the right 
 way, with Greatheart as her guide, a joyful pilgrim 
 to the Celestial City. For do we not all of us, what- 
 ever our advantages, need often the comfort of being 
 reminded that " new beginnings are the soul of per- 
 severance." 
 
 In the evening Mr. Danby arrived, very much 
 tidied up, but rather on the defensive. 
 
 " I suppose my wife's been complaining, and saying 
 that I knock her about ? " 
 
 "No, there you are quite mistaken," I answered, 
 warmly, " She said nothing of the kind ; but there 
 seem to have bean a few upsets lately of one kind 
 and another." 
 
 "What, in the next room to us, you mean, m'm .^ 
 Yes, well they are a bad lot, and it certainly did up- 
 set her a goodish bit. You see, m'm, the man and 
 
184 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 his missis got drinking and quarrelling (same as me 
 and my missis might), and there was a row, and she 
 rushed into our room screaming, and would I go in 
 directly and cut him down, as he had hung hisself 
 up with a rope to the head of the bed. Well, I 
 really didn't hardly like to interfere, as we were not 
 anyways to say acquainted, only through living next 
 door. But, however, she kep' on a beggin' of me, 
 wouldn't I please go, so I did, and there he was ; so 
 I cut him down ; so then he said he would go to 
 Edgwer Boad Station and thi-ow hisself on the line. 
 So I told him he must please hisself about that. 
 'I've done my best for you this time,' I says, * me 
 and my missis being given to the drink at one time 
 I know what it is ; but I aren't going to f oiler you 
 about all over London, so don't you think it,' I says. 
 My wife didn't much like my doing anything for 
 him, and I didn't know but what he might turn on 
 me, as there was a hammer laying handy, but still 
 I'm glad I done it. It's a cowardly trick, that trying 
 to kill yourself." 
 
 " I quite agree with you, Mr. Danby, but, however, 
 your wife did not mention the incident, she seemed 
 most concerned with some misunderstandings about 
 your daughters." 
 
 "Oh, well there's no pleasing of her about them, 
 you see, m'm. One of my daughters comes and that 
 ain't right, and the other stops away and that ain't 
 right neither, so what's a man to do ? " 
 
 I knew that the grievance of his daughter's invit- 
 
EMMA AND OTHERS. 185 
 
 ing some one to tea in his wife's room, without her 
 leave, would elude the grasp of the masculine in- 
 tellect, so I left that point and took up the other. 
 But the existence of his younger daughter appeared 
 to him so entirely a matter of detail that he was at 
 a loss to understand why any sensible woman should 
 put herself out about his not having mentioned it ; 
 and although I took some pains to make him see the 
 matter from his wife's standpoint, and he listened with 
 great attention, he merely remarked at the end, with 
 a resigned air, that he "wished he had mentioned it, 
 and no doubt he might have done so if he had ever 
 gave it a thought." 
 
 What a revelation that remark seemed of the miss- 
 ing elements of happiness in the lives of some of the 
 very poor— a father who could go on for years with- 
 out giving " a thought " to the existence of his little 
 daughter ! 
 
 To those of us who look back on a home where 
 the wise and tender presence of the father gave our 
 early life its savour and its sunshine, there is some- 
 thing almost overwhelmingly sad and terrible in such 
 absolute lack of love. Facts such as these, set us, 
 women of the Church Army, longing to throw em- 
 bracing arms of dauntless love round those poor girls 
 who have never had a home, never known anything 
 of the strength of a father's tenderness, or the depth 
 of a m.other's compassion. 
 
 It was clearly useless to talk to Mr. Danby about 
 his child, but we talked long about his wife and him- 
 
186 EMMA AND OTHERS. 
 
 self, the miseries and temptations of their present 
 life, and of God's great offer of salvation which we 
 'must close with not v. 
 
 At last he said, *• Well, if my wife wants to go to 
 the C. A. Home for a bit, and thinks it will help her 
 to give up the drink, I won't make no objections. I 
 don't want to drink, I'm sure, and I'm sick and tired 
 of things as they are. But she must wait till I get 
 some work I'm expecting down Seven Dials way, for 
 of course, while I don't have no work she must go 
 to the laundry, or else how am I to live ? " 
 
 Alas ! the delay w^hile that work down Seven Dials 
 way was waited for led to sorrowful experiences, and 
 to more than one sojourn in Wormwood Scrubbs ; 
 but we are looking for a better time now, and be- 
 lieving that our poor friend's longing will be granted, 
 and that in the C. A. Home she will again hear about 
 her Divine Redeemer and will return to Him. 
 
 Shall not we, who have bright homes, and "a 
 place to ourselves," say a prayer for her, and help to 
 provide a House Beautiful of Peace, Praise and Prayer, 
 where those, whose life is passed in stifling rooms 
 and flaring public-houses, with drink, dulness, dis- 
 comfort and despair, may come and revive and re- 
 joice ? 
 
THE LADY AND THE VAN. 
 
 : O :- 
 
 Miss Estcott was not given to weeping, but to- 
 day her eyelashes were wet with tears, her mouth 
 trembled, and her hand even clenched a little. 
 
 Her mother had just refused what was for the 
 moment the great desire of her heart, and she was 
 so bitterly disappointed that she felt that life was 
 almost intolerable. Collisions between mothers and 
 daughters are not so uncommon as might be sup- 
 posed, and they often reveal a want of sympathy and 
 mutual understanding which surprises both parties, 
 and is most wounding. 
 
 Miss Estcott was eight-and-twenty years old, and 
 was an extremely charming person in a quiet, grave 
 style. Her beauty had already begun to fade, but 
 she had gained rather than lost in attractiveness. She 
 was tall and tragic-looking, with a dull swarthy com- 
 plexion. Her hair parted low over her forehead. 
 Her eyebrows were straight and dark, and her hazel 
 eyes often lighted up with the fires of enthusiasm. 
 But they soon dropped nervously lest they should 
 betray more emotion than she wished. 
 
 About five years before she had had a love affair, 
 and she looked as if she had never really got over 
 
188 THE LADY AND THE VAN. 
 
 it. Her friends reckoned lier to be sad and dis- 
 appointed, and she certainly belonged to the class of 
 women who, whether willing or unwilling to marry, 
 find it difficult to know how to spend their lives. 
 There are many such. It was admitted by all people, 
 however, that she had a fascination of her own. She 
 was generous and impulsive — easily elated and easily 
 depressed. 
 
 For five years religion had been the motive of her 
 life, but for all that she did not quite know what to 
 do with her religion. It did not make her happy, 
 though it comforted and sustained her. She had 
 begun to care for the poor and to visit them, and 
 the problems of their lives had become her burden. 
 She felt that little was effected by her casual, amateur 
 visits, and gradually the desire had taken possession 
 of her to become a regular trained nurse. Her father's 
 place was near a small manufacturing town, and 
 already Miss Estcott gave more time than her mother 
 liked to its dull, monotonous little streets. Her 
 desire to become a nurse was never to be fulfilled, 
 but we shall find that God's way for her was better 
 than her own way. 
 
 It was on the point of the nursing that the collision 
 with her mother had just occurred. Lady Estcott 
 was shy, rather indolent and very conventional. 
 When her daughter expressed her wish in the rather 
 jerky, grating voice, which was all she could summon 
 on such an occasion, Lady Estcott had said in a low 
 freezing way : — 
 
THE LADY AND THE VAN. 189 
 
 " Oh your father and I should not think of 
 
 it for a moment. Pray do not allude to the subject 
 again." 
 
 " Why should I not do something, Mamma ? " said 
 Miss Estcott impatiently. " Mary and Evelyn are 
 both out, and I hate going out, as you know. Surely 
 I am old enough to have my wish considered in the 
 matter. Why need I live this aimless life when 
 nurses are so needed and I have nothing else to 
 do ? " 
 
 " It is very wrong and ungrateful of you to talk 
 like this, Adelaide," said her mother ; " you have 
 everjiihing to make you happy. Why can you not 
 be satisfied with your home duties ? " 
 
 " I have no home duties," said Miss Estcott, angrily, 
 and already conscious that she was putting herself in 
 the wrong. 
 
 " I should have thought that to please your father 
 and me and to make yourself pleasant were home 
 duties," said Lady Estcott ; and then, after a pause, 
 she added, " Surely your pride ought to make you 
 unwilling to have it said that you are disappointed 
 in love, which certainly will be said if you become 
 a nurse. Why do you not marry Mr. Lippington if 
 you are dissatisfied at home. He has asked j'ou 
 twice ? " 
 
 " Because I don't choose to marry him, as I have 
 told you fifty times," said Miss Estcott. 
 
 " If you cannot keep your temper you are certainly 
 not fit to be a nurse, Adelaide," remarked her mother. 
 
190 THE LADY AND THE VAN. 
 
 " I never said I was fit," replied Miss Estcott, 
 bitterly, "but I wish to learn to be fit. If religion 
 means anything, surely it is worth while to take 
 some trouble about it." 
 
 Lady Estcott had not much religion herself, beyond 
 conventionality, and what she had entirely consisted 
 in an occasional half intention to become a Roman 
 Catholic. She liked the dignity and antiquity of the 
 Koman Church, and wh'^ni^ier conscience pricked 
 her about anything, sh^, usually proposed to herself 
 a plan of bye-and-bye becoming a Eoman Catholic, 
 which course appeared to her an act of religious 
 heroism, because she knew it would annoy her hus- 
 band and family a good deal. Probably she estimated 
 unduly the amount of distress it would give her to 
 grieve her friends. It will be seen, therefore, that 
 her aspirations had not much in common with her 
 daughter's. She rose to leave the room, and as she 
 went out she said : 
 
 " It is no use discussing the matter, Adelaide ; you 
 had better consider it settled." 
 
 Miss Estcott's cheeks were hot, and for once tears 
 trickled down them — tears of mortification, of disap- 
 pointment, of anger, and self-accusation. She glanced 
 round her pretty sitting-room, and, for the moment, 
 she almost hated the signs of her usual occupations, 
 her pretty water-colours, her piano and her harp. 
 She even looked with distaste at the beautiful bank 
 of flowers arranged on her side table. 
 
 "What is the use of this portfolio of sketches, all 
 
THE LADY AND THE VAN. 191 
 
 third-rate ? " she said to herself. " Why need the 
 world have any more of them ? Who cares to hear 
 me play ? Even flowers lose their significance in 
 this luxurious room. The white hyacinths in old 
 Granny Lovelock's cottage give me more pleasure 
 than these orchids arranged by the gardener." 
 
 She passed through the door into her bedroom, 
 which was adjoining. Phe knelt down by her bed- 
 side and actually sobbeu. Then the words came, 
 "Oh God! Oh God! Oh G i! show me the path 
 of life." 
 
 The bitterest part was that she felt that she was 
 to blame. She had lost her temper and been un- 
 dutiful. She accused herself of selfish motives, even 
 in her desire to consecrate herself to Christ's service. 
 
 " I wonder how much I really do care for the 
 poor after all," she said to herself, "perhaps it is 
 mere egotism." Again she prayed desperately that 
 she might be helped and guided. Then she rose. It 
 was intolerable to do nothing, so she put on her hat 
 and cloak, and went out towards the town for a 
 rapid walk. 
 
 About half-a-mile beyond her father's park gates 
 there Avas a common, and she noticed as she reached 
 it a sort of gipsy van ; by the side of it some young 
 men were standing round a fire of sticks. They 
 wore braided tunics, and on the van she read, printed 
 in large letters, "CHURCH ARMY MISSION Yan," 
 and underneath were the beautiful words, " Let not 
 your heart be troubled." 
 o 
 
192 THE LADY AND THE UN. 
 
 A sudden thrill mastered her a^ she read these 
 words. She felt that they were a ressage from God, 
 and as she drew near she paused, tae of the yonng 
 men saw her and immediately caie forward with 
 some papers, and, touching his ca} said, "Will you 
 please take a Church Army GazetU Ma'am ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I have not any inney " said Miss 
 Estcott, and she stopped. 
 
 " Never mind, Ma*am, if you wi be good enough 
 to accept it," said the young man ivllly. 
 
 Eeligious papers were not genertiy very attractive 
 to Miss Estcott, but she took it, nd said, "Thank 
 you," and asked, "What is the Ourch Army, and 
 what are you doing here ? " 
 
 " This is our Mission Van, Mam," replied the 
 young man. "We are visiting twns and villages 
 about here to do open-air preachig on market days 
 and at other times, especially Sudays ; and to sell 
 Bibles and Prayer Books and Churcl Army literature." 
 
 "And have you been to Mr. ^felford, the Vicar, 
 asked Miss Estcott. 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am. He said he hadno objection, and 
 we have sold a good lot, and th( people seem glad 
 to see us." 
 
 " How many of you are here ? " 
 
 "Three, Ma'am. There is a Gptain with two of 
 us under him. We two are not pod enough yet to 
 be Captains, so this is a sort of raining to give us 
 experience." 
 
 " Indeed, and what was your work before you 
 began to do this ? " 
 
THEJLADY AND THE VAN. 193 
 
 "I was a collif. Ma'am. Jones, who is cooking 
 our dinner, was a onfectioner's assistant ; our Captain 
 was an electrician and used to earn two pounds ten 
 a week." 
 
 "Is this the soj of thing that the Church Army 
 always does ? " 
 
 " No, Ma'am, on Captains often go to some Yicar 
 and stay there a jar or two, preaching and visiting, 
 and sometimes the get a Labour Home started for 
 tramps and peoplewho are out of work." 
 
 "Well, this townis very poor, and there is a good 
 deal of drunkenneE Is Mr. Salford going to engage 
 one of your men ? ' I know he finds it very difficult 
 to get the people tc church. 
 
 "He says he canot afford it Ma'am; so I am 
 afraid he will not.*' 
 
 " Oh. And how auch would it cost ? " 
 
 "A married manj salary would not he less than 
 about 27/- a week. Ma'am, and he ought to make 
 about 10/- of that rom collections at the meetings 
 and from Gazette stiing." 
 
 Miss Estcott pondred. She knew Mr. Salford very 
 well, as she often M to speak to him about poor 
 people whom she Ydted. He was an earnest, hard- 
 working man from Oxford. He had been brought 
 up in the evangelict school, and had never lost his 
 love of it. But the scientific literature of the day 
 had given him soie sympathy with the broader 
 school, and he was lot indifferent to the growth in 
 reverence and beaut, which High Churchmen have 
 
194 THE LADY AND THE VAN. 
 
 fought for. He believed that beauty of architecture, 
 and of music and colour, were all powers for God, 
 which ought to be used in His service. He might 
 be called, therefore, an evangelical, influenced by both 
 the High and Broad Schools ; and he certainly be- 
 lieved that the Body of Christ makes the best increase 
 when all its joints and bands minister vitality to it, 
 and when all recognise that they have need of all. 
 But his work had been very difficult, and to a certain 
 extent disappointing. The shop-keepers and the 
 wealthier people c^me regularly to church, but he 
 felt that with them it was largely a matter of respect- 
 ability ; and the working classes were conspicuous by 
 their absence, though he had tried hard to win them. 
 He would have sacrificed all his culture if he could 
 instead have gained the power of making the poor 
 one with him. 
 
 He had made a great efi:ort to get the Church into 
 good and beautiful order, and sometimes he feared 
 he had spent too nauch money on it. How easily 
 our work would go if we never made such mistakes ! 
 Now, having exhausted his givers, he found extreme 
 difficulty in collecting for current needs ; and when 
 the Church Army Captain had called on him with 
 one of the Cadets, he had been painfully sorry to find 
 that he could not possibly take the monetary responsi- 
 bility of engaging an Officer. His acute mind had 
 shown him that a pleasant, vigorous, working-man 
 Evangelist would be just the needed link between 
 himself and his people ; and when the Captain left 
 
THE LADY AND THE VAN. 195 
 
 him he read the papers which had been given him, 
 and especially the testimonials from Vicars where the 
 Church Army had been working. He really longed 
 for such a helper. 
 
 " Oh, that God would send me a generous person 
 with a purse. Why am I so harassed for money," he 
 said to himself. Would it be possible for him to 
 retrench personal expenses ? .Perhaps a very little. 
 He had a wife and children, and he feared he could 
 not do much. Indeed it seemed almost impossible 
 to do anything. 
 
 The Lord Lieutenant of the County was a good 
 man, but he had already helped largely with the 
 church. He felt that he could not ask him again 
 so soon. Besides, he felt sure that Lord Lancaster 
 would dislike the idea of Church Army work, and 
 would suppose that it meant religious excitement and 
 Methodism. 
 
 Lady Lancaster might help a little, for she was a 
 kindly and generous person. But smart London Society 
 had blunted her finer nature, and she lived for enter- 
 tainment, and was always busy about some useless 
 pleasure. She could seldom afford to contribute 
 more than a guinea to a charity, and she generally 
 forgot that she had promised even that much. The 
 Vicar could count on a pleasant hearty interview 
 with her, if he got an interview at all, but probably 
 it would end in the suggestion to get up a Bazaar, a 
 Avarm promise to collect for the good object, and a 
 few months later, a deeply penitent apology for having 
 
196 THE LADY AND THE VAN. 
 
 done nothing whatever, because she had been so busy, 
 and had had such headaches. Mr. Salford knew her 
 too well to go to her. 
 
 As he thought it all over a knock came at the 
 door. " Please, sir, can you see Miss Estcott ? " said 
 the servant, and the young lady entered looking 
 eager and absorbed. In fact with her usual im- 
 petuosity she had become most keen about the matter 
 after her talk with the Church Army officer and his 
 men. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Salford, I have been speaking to those 
 Church Army people. I do wish we could have a 
 man and his wife here under you. I would help 
 if you would let me." 
 
 "You are most kind, Miss Estcott," said the Vicar, 
 " I should be delighted to have a man, and was just 
 wishing it with all my heart, but I declare I don't 
 know how to raise £10 a year, and it would cost at 
 least £60 to have a man of any experience, even if 
 he cleared something with collections and his selling 
 of papers." 
 
 " I have been so wanting to do something,"' said 
 Miss Estcott. " And my mother won't let me be a 
 nurse. I daresay I should have been a very bad 
 one. But as I may not do that I should like to set 
 someone else to work. I care for nothing so much. 
 I have a hundred pounds a year of my own, and I 
 think I could manage with £40. I will willingly 
 give £60 if you will engage a really good man and 
 woman to visit and to do good. Please let me help, 
 
THE LADY AND THE VAN. 197 
 
 it is all I can do, and I am sure God intends me to 
 do it/' Her eyes were bright and soft, and her 
 mouth nearly smiled. "Do let me do it," she said 
 again. "But please you must not tell anyone. I 
 shall feel that God has accepted my little, poor 
 service, and that I am not useless any longer." 
 
 Mr. Salford was much moved. He had always 
 thought Miss Estcott cold, and hard, and distant, and 
 he had not liked her. Now he saw how wrong he 
 had been. He held out his hand. " Thank you, 
 thank you, Miss Estcott. I do accept your offer most 
 gratefully," he said. 
 
 "But I should like to see to the cottage they are 
 to live in," continued Miss Estcott, who scarcely 
 seemed to notice his reply, " so that "when they come 
 they shall feel they are welcomed. Do write and 
 ask when they can come. Oh ! how different every- 
 thing seems now to what it was an hour ago." 
 
 Miss Estcott's hopes were not disappointed. The 
 Church Army Van did its work. The young men 
 preached, and visited the neighbouring clergy. They 
 sold quantities of Church Army Gazettes and papers, 
 and created a real interest in the neighbourhood. 
 The preachings at the little fairs, and on the village 
 common, were largely attended. A great many people 
 signed the pledge, and there was ground for hoping 
 that there was work done that would last. Certainly 
 the way was prepared for the Captain and his wife, 
 who arrived in about a fortnight's time, and for the 
 Church Army Mission Nurse, who followed a few 
 months later. 
 
198 THE LADY AND THE VAN. 
 
 The opening of the work made a great sensation 
 in the town. Some over-sensitive people disliked 
 the sound of the cornet in the street, and thought 
 that the services were too informal and homely. But 
 the poor loved them from the very first. There were 
 marked conversions, and at the end of three months 
 the Captain brought to the Vicar a considerable list 
 of men and women who desired to be confirmed. 
 People laughed no longer when they heard that well- 
 known drunkards and ne'er-do-weel's were living 
 respectable and religious lives. And nearly all (but 
 not quite all) ceased to grumble that people in their 
 working clothes came to Church and knelt with them 
 at the Holy Communion. 
 
 The police gave unequivocal testimonies to the 
 change. Drunken brawls, and vile language in the 
 streets, were becoming things of the past. 
 
 The Vicar was deeply thankful, yet, strange to say, 
 he was not without trial in the matter. It had been 
 a kind of mortification to find that an uneducated 
 man could win the people whom (as everyone knew") 
 he had failed to win, and it was an effort to seem 
 entirely delighted that the Mission Room was full, 
 while his own week-day s^vice was thinly attended. 
 He was tempted to tell the Captain that he must 
 make all his converts attend Church instead of the 
 Mission Hall. But he did not yield to the temptation. 
 He came out of the fire like pure gold. After pray- 
 ing about it he felt that he must not expect every- 
 thing to come in a hurry, and he bore with the 
 
THE LADY AND THE VAN. 199 
 
 rongh services, the stirring testimonies, and the 
 homely, irregular meetings which followed each 
 evening after the General Confession, the Lord's 
 Prayer, and the Creed. He even got before long to 
 like to come in and sit by the door for a few minutes 
 as the service w^ent on, and gradually the mistrust 
 and shyness between him and the poor of his flock 
 disappeared, and during a time of sad domestic 
 trouble that came to him by-and-by, he was full of 
 wonder and comfort at finding how true and deep 
 was his people's affection for himself. 
 
 As to Miss Estcott, she could not often attend the 
 meetings, for in the evenings her parents disliked 
 her being away from home. But she worked hard 
 and very happily during the day, and she made 
 friends of the Church Army Officer and his wife, 
 bearing with them their anxieties, and often helping 
 them in different ways. 
 
 Nobody knew, while she lived, that the work was 
 really -of her originating, and that she paid for it. 
 Her parents knew that she helped, but neither of 
 them really sympathised with her, though they let her 
 have her way. Her father loved her tenderly and 
 always indulged her, and her mother felt that some 
 amends were due in the matter of her refusal about 
 the nursing. She saw that a new sweetness and 
 bright content had come into her daughter's life, 
 and she felt that this was due to her "good works" 
 and to her having become " serious." Her brother and 
 her younger sisters idolised her, and she had attained to 
 
200 THE LADY AND THE VAN. 
 
 "The heart at leisure from itself, 
 To sooth and sympathise," 
 
 which makes the possessor worth her weight in rubies. 
 And thus Adelaide Estcott, beloved by rich and 
 poor, solved the problem of how to live a blessed, 
 joyful life for Christ's sake. When she died, two 
 years later, people found that an angel had been in 
 their midst without being recognised. And when 
 her body was carried to the little churchyard, there 
 followed after her own family a long array of about 
 two hundred poor people, led by the Church Army 
 Officer and his once derided banner. Inside the 
 Mission Hall there was a little brass plate put near 
 the door — 
 
 ^n ^emortj of 
 ADELAIDE ESTCOTT, 
 
 WHO ORIGINATED THE WORK OF THE ChURCH ArMY 
 
 IN GaISFORD, and who LEFT AN ENDOWMENT 
 
 OF £100 A YEAR FOR ITS PERPETUAL 
 
 SUPPORT. 
 
 The grass grows green over her grave, and when I 
 visited it I found, placed there by rough but loving 
 hands, a great store of wild hyacinths, primroses, 
 daisies and daffodils. High in the air sang the larks. 
 
 HH 
 
THE CRISIS OF MIDDLE AQE, 
 
 : O :- 
 
 Arthur Rivers was a busy man, and his wife 
 wondered, therefore, to see him sit doing nothing for 
 a considerable time one morning in the library. She 
 was writing letters. They were both good people, 
 cultivated and well off. 
 
 " Kate," said he, " I went to see the Training 
 Home of the Church Army yesterday, and it has 
 made me ponder. You and I are both getting past 
 our youth, and though we are considered exemplary 
 people, I very much doubt if we are so good as we 
 were fifteen years ago. I am inclined to think that 
 most people lose more than they gain as life goes 
 on." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers laid down her pen ; her colour rose, 
 and she looked eagerly at her husband. "What do 
 you think we have lost, Arthur ? " 
 
 "A good deal. Seeing these young fellows full of 
 the freshness and joy of self-sacrifice and service, 
 made me long to be young again. Do you remem- 
 ber how we were never satisfied— twenty years ago — 
 unless we were helping at Mission services, or visit- 
 ing hospitals and districts ? Almost every day we 
 hoped we had won to God one or two souls. And 
 how glad it made us. There was just the same glad- 
 
202 THE CRISIS OF MIDDLE AGE. 
 
 ness and triumph about those men and women that 
 I saw at the Training Home yesterday." 
 
 " Yes ; I remember it all very well, Arthur," said 
 Mrs. Rivers, and she sighed. "Why did we ever 
 leave ofe ? " . 
 
 "It was easy to leave off, and it was a gradual 
 thing. We were disappointed in a good many people 
 whom we had believed to be converted, and in a 
 good many people whom we had looked up to as far 
 better than ourselves. When we found that conver- 
 sion was not generally the beginning or end of the 
 Christian life, but only one important chapter of it, 
 preceded by long, patient work, and sometimes fol- 
 lowed by disaster, then I think we felt that preachers 
 and little books had deceived us, and we tired of 
 after-meetings and of personal talk with inquirers." 
 " And do you think that we were wrong, Arthur ? " 
 "Yes, I do. I think our characters have suffered 
 spiritually. We need direct Christian work to keep 
 us bright and happy and strong." 
 
 "But no one can say that we are idle, Arthur." 
 " Certainly not ; we have Committees, and we give 
 money, and we set other people to work, and that is 
 all right, but it is not enough. We ought not to 
 have let our hands get slack and our knees feeble 
 because we had foolishly made conversion everything, 
 and had often found it imperfect. We ought to have 
 accepted the laws and facts of God's Kingdom, and 
 to have learnt experience and not discouragement from 
 our disappointments." 
 
THE CKISIS OF MIDDLE AGE. 203 
 
 " I got SO disgusted with our Vicar, Arthur ; I 
 think that was what stopped my working. He was 
 so selfish and jealous." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Kate ; our disgust was natural, but 
 our cessation from work was not justifiable. We al- 
 ways said we were working only for God, and there- 
 fore our Vicar's faults ought not to have hindered 
 us." 
 
 "Don't you think most people, as they grow older, 
 get cool about that kind of work, Arthur ? I think 
 that most of the people who convert souls are rather 
 young." 
 
 " Most of the people who claim souls as their con- 
 verts are young, certainly. But a soul's conversion 
 is as complicated and as little sudden, in one sense, 
 as a child's birth and growth, and as long as we do 
 our part in it we need not mind what the part is. 
 Kindness, holy living, prayer, self-denial, are probably 
 as important factors as straight questions and diffi- 
 culties cleared. I believe a seeking soul finds God, 
 whether he finds an eager worker to explain per- 
 plexities or not. People's work ought to be better as 
 they get older and more experienced." 
 
 " Well, what ought we to do, Arthur ? " 
 
 " I mean, first, to give more money to Christian 
 work. If you are willing, we won't buy that broug- 
 ham, and we won't give such expensive dinners. 
 Why should we try to do like enormous swells ? It 
 is foolish of us. Let us give £100 to the Church 
 Army. Let us also help other Societies that seek to 
 
204 THE CRISIS OF MIDDLE AGE. 
 
 save the lost. And let us get into touch again with 
 poor, miserable folks. That doesn't seem much to do, 
 but it will be a fresh start. I want to learn of those 
 beginners whom I saw yesterday." 
 
 Tears stood in Mrs. Rivers' eyes. She felt little 
 regret at giving up the luxuries her husband had 
 mentioned, and she silently recorded a vow that she 
 would burn a letter which she had just written to 
 her dressmaker about a velvet gown. 
 
 Womanlike, she rose to the situation, and encour- 
 aged and supported her husband. 
 
 A bright peace came to them, and something of 
 the buoyancy of youth, without its cmdeness, gave 
 a fresh spring to their life and work. 
 
 '^ 
 
UNTEMPTED 
 
 : o :- 
 
 Mr. Strudwick, the Yicar, sat in his study, deep in 
 thought. 
 
 A sore and heavy trouble had come to him. Alfred 
 "West, his sexton, Scripture reader, and principal lay 
 helper, had, after ten years' service fallen into sin. 
 Money, morals and temper had all gone wrong, and 
 the Vicar had found it out, and was expecting him 
 to call in ten minutes' time. 
 
 He dreaded the interview intensely. 
 
 He had trusted West, and had treated him as a 
 friend and brother. Every week they had knelt and 
 prayed together, and the Yicar, who was a simple, 
 godly man, and also a gentleman, had had no reserves 
 from him, but had been in the habit of freely talk- 
 ing over all parish affairs, and even private matters 
 of his own. 
 
 And now it had transpired that West had been 
 secretly married for nearly a year, to a girl in a 
 neighbouring parish whom he had led wrong about 
 fourteen months ago. There was a poor baby, and 
 alas, West had stolen and embezzled Church funds to 
 the amount of £35. 
 
 The Vicar had felt for some time that he was not 
 
206 UNTEMPTED. 
 
 satisfactory. He had been proud and disloyal. And 
 he had also been quarrelsome, which had never be- 
 fore been a fault of his. Mr. Strudwick had spoken 
 to him kindly about his frequent absence from Com- 
 munion, and West had made excuses, and been more 
 regular since. Now the Yicar earnestly wished that 
 he had never spoken on the subject, for the coming 
 to Communion had added to the sin. 
 
 The deception of it all grieved him as much as the 
 fall. He had only known about the matter for two 
 days, and he had put off taking any steps for twenty- 
 four hours. Then he had sent a note to West, telling 
 him to come to the Vicarage the next morning at 
 ten o'clock. It was a short, brief note, and he knew 
 that West would guess that he was discovered. Would 
 he confess his sin, or try to exculpate himself ? 
 
 The Vicar heard the front bell ring, and then came 
 a knock at his study door. " Come in," he said, and 
 fixed his eyes on the ground, as if he himself had 
 been the guilty party. He felt that he could not 
 meet West's eye. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, in a low broken voice, and 
 glanced for an instant at the culprit. West was thirty- 
 eight years old, with a dark, rather pleasant face. 
 He sat down silently. One look at the Vicar's sad, 
 dejected attitude and lowered eyes would have told 
 him that he was found out, if he had not felt sure 
 of it when he received the note. 
 
 " West, how could you deceive me ? " said the Vicar, 
 in a sad, reproachful voice. 
 
UNTEMPTED. 207 
 
 The kindness of the tone smote West, and in a 
 moment his eyes moistened and reddened. 
 
 "I am in your hands, sir," he said. 
 
 " You are in God's hands, my poor fellow," said 
 Mr. Strudwick, and his voice trembled. " What have 
 you to say to me ? " he added after a pause. He 
 seemed even more moved and distressed than the 
 wrong-doer himself. 
 
 "I cannot explain it, sir," said West. "I fell all 
 in a moment. I was never tempted before or since. 
 It was entirely my fault, not hers. I tried to tell 
 you, but I dared .not. I did what I could. I married 
 my wife." 
 
 " And the money ? " 
 
 Tears of shame were trickling down West's cheeks. 
 
 "I took it for her and the child, sir. And that sin 
 was the reason why I lost my temper and spoke evil 
 of you and everybody." 
 
 He sobbed. 
 
 " If you had but told me ! But you kept it con- 
 cealed, and you only confess it now when it is found 
 out. What can I say ? What can I do ? I cannot 
 keep you, of course, in your present position. How 
 could you go on preaching and visiting and praying 
 with the people ? And how could you come to Com- 
 munion ? " 
 
 W^est was silent. He had nothing to say. 
 
 " I cannot be hard on you," said Mr. Strudwick, 
 " we are brothers. I have never been tempted as you 
 have. If I had, perhaps I might have fallen." 
 p 
 
208 UNTEMPTED. 
 
 The good, humble man spoke with a broken voice, 
 and looked away at the distant landscape. He felt 
 that fellowship with sinners which all the best men 
 feel, and an impulse made him say — 
 
 "Years ago I nearly fell into a gross sin. But God 
 made it impossible. At the moment of temptation, 
 a sort of freezing horror came on me, and saved me, 
 so that I fled from the tempter. But I confess that 
 if I had been tempted again later, in the same way, 
 I might have fallen as you fell. God forbid that I 
 should be hard on you. 
 
 " As to the money temptation, I have never wanted 
 money so badly as to be tempted to steal it. My 
 innocence is no virtue. But, "West, I have never 
 deceived a friend as you have deceived me. How 
 could you do it?" 
 
 West was silent, and then replied, " You are a 
 gentleman, sir, and your father taught you better. I 
 was brought up to deceive till I was converted ; and 
 my father and mother were both bad." 
 
 The Vicar was silent. "Let us pray,". he said, and 
 they both knelt ; and broken, tearful petitions went 
 up from each of them. 
 
 West knew that he was forgiven. The Vicar took 
 his hand as they rose, and pressed it. 
 
 " You must go from here. West, and I cannot re- 
 commend you for religious work without saying what 
 has happened. Get secular work, and I will help 
 you if I can. God bless you." 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 (Reprinted from ''Broadlands as it wa?," 1889). 
 
 : o :- 
 
 I AM now past sixty, and it is nearly fifty years ago 
 that I fell in love as a child with my cousin Oliver. 
 He returned my affection with a brotherly regard, 
 but with no warmer feeling, and time, aided by the 
 strange circumstances which I have unwillingly to 
 relate, gradually changed my feeling for him till there 
 was on each side no more than a quiet trustworthy 
 friendship. 
 
 It may seem as if the experience which for so 
 many years he half cherished and half hated would 
 have separated us from each other. But it did not. 
 I suppose that I never wholly understood the matter, 
 though I knew that his finest qualities were impaired, 
 and that he was deprived of much of the grace and 
 power in which he had promised to excel. Much 
 remained, however, and he was always the central 
 figure of my life. I have known greater and nobler 
 men, but I never knew one so intimately or for so 
 many years, nor was I ever bound to anyone else 
 by the same ties of mutual help. 
 
 A few weeks before he died, as I was sitting one 
 
210 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 day by his bedside, I saw that he was making a 
 great effort to say something to me. At last, with 
 much apparent difficulty, he spoke as follows : — 
 
 " Cynthia, I must ask you to do a thing for me 
 which I know will be painful to you. I have tried 
 to write down my secret, but I am too ashamed, and 
 I want you to do it and to publish it. I should 
 have kept it from you, if I could, but as you know 
 it was impossible for me to do so. And now I am 
 glad that you know it. You are aware of all the 
 facts, though I think you are too innocent to know 
 their full significance. 
 
 "I charge you to record the whole story for the 
 service of those whom it may concern. I sometimes 
 think that if I had been warned in time by another 
 victim that I should have rid myself of its terrible 
 hold before it had mastered me, and that my life and 
 work would not have been wrecked ! Now I can 
 only be one of the witnesses who prophesy clothed 
 in sackcloth. It seems to me that I have myself 
 failed in every way that I have tried hardest to warn 
 others against." 
 
 I was greatly moved as he said this, and it was 
 only with a choking voice that I could reply, "Your 
 life and your work have not been wrecked, Oliver. 
 Your life has done much good and no harm. You 
 have steadily loved truth. You have always been 
 kiiid and self-denying, and useful. Who can accuse 
 you of having injured them ? " 
 
 He looked at me gratefully. "I am glad you think 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 211 
 
 SO," he said, and then added passionately, '' But for 
 all that I have been withered, and stunted, and cursed, 
 and blighted. And you know it. I did good service 
 whenever I escaped the power of that vampyre-like 
 thing. But generally I did not escape. Thousands 
 of times I have felt nerved and fired for work, and 
 thousands of times it has come upon me and drained 
 me of all my zest and power. I shall enter into life 
 halt and maimed." 
 
 " Oliver," I said weeping, " It is asking too much 
 when you ask me to tell this story. I don't half 
 understand it. We have seldom spoken of it. Do 
 not insist on my telling it. Have mercy on me, for 
 you know I cannot refuse you anything that you ask." 
 
 "But I do ask it of you, Cynthia, with all the earn- 
 estness I am capable of. You must do it. I do not 
 require you to make theories about it, but only to 
 tell the bare facts." 
 
 " Do you not pity yourself rather than blame your- 
 self, Oliver ? Was it your fault that you were beset 
 by this strange thing ? You hated and detested it." 
 
 "Unhappily I loved it in spite of all my hatred," 
 said he almost in a whisper. 
 
 " It was an inheritance, and you were not respon- 
 sible for it," I urged. 
 
 After a short silence he answered, "Yes, it was an 
 inheritance. But I believe I could have resisted it 
 if I would." 
 
 "You have resisted it, and I believe you have con- 
 quered it, Oliver. You have bruised its head." 
 
212 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 "And it has bruised my heel," he replied sadly. 
 "Heaven knows which is the conqueror." 
 
 There was another silence, and then suddenly he 
 cried out, " God save me," and I saw the drops on 
 his brow. 
 
 I trembled, and my heart beat hard as I dumbly 
 prayed for him. 
 
 After a dreadful half a minute he said, "Thank 
 God ! " and blushed to the roots of his hair. ' 
 
 "Cynthia," he said, "I know heaven and hell, and 
 part of me belongs to each. You will do what I 
 have charged you to do, not only for my sake, but 
 because it is right that you should do it. Tell it 
 truly out, and let it be published. My hope is that 
 this ghastly bit of truth-telling may perhaps atone for 
 some of my sins. To most men, happily, it will only 
 read like a ghost story, but some will know its mean- 
 ing, and perhaps it may be their deliverance. Fore- 
 warned is forearmed. All temptations are in their 
 degrees alike, and I often wonder if most men have 
 not an experience which they could translate into 
 something similar to mine. There is a bait about 
 every sin. Every one is pleasant as well as deadly. 
 Pride, hatred, profligacy, drunkenness, avarice, idle- 
 ness, ambition. I have lived long enough to know 
 something about them all, and to know that they 
 have all got something akin to my own sin." 
 
 I dared not refuse to give my promise, and it 
 seemed to comfort him. He alluded to it once or 
 twice before he died, and I now sit down, not many 
 weeks later, to do his bidding. 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 213 
 
 Oliver and I were brought up together as children, 
 and we were always the greatest friends. He was a 
 bright, clever boy, full of life and enjoyment, and 
 always busy about some keen interest or other. To- 
 gether we invented tales, made our collections of post- 
 age stamps, and did our lessons. I lately found a 
 collection of our childish essays, which had been in- 
 dulgently preserved by our mother, and one of them 
 I will transcribe here. 
 
 Bloody Mary. 
 
 Bloody Mary ascended the throne in 1553. She 
 was surnamed Bloody from her Bloodiness. Ignorant 
 people mix her up with Mary Queen of Scots, but 
 there is no foundation for this, as, for instance, she 
 was never beheaded. 
 
 In her short and bloody reign, the principle marters 
 flurrished, of whom she burnt thousands, because 
 they would not believe in the Pope. She was also 
 rather unkind to Queen Elizabeth. When she died 
 the name of Callis was found written on her heart, 
 which was a great disgrace, though her behavyour 
 to the marters was even worse. Bloody Mary was a 
 striking instance of Roman Catholicness. 
 
 We should all earnestly try not to be like her, 
 though if we had lived in her reign, and been her, 
 we should very likely have been still worse. But I 
 don't believe I ever should, the horrid old thing ! 
 We have a picture of her in our history book, which 
 is exactly like aunt Maria. 
 
214 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 When Oliver and I were ten years old, we were 
 invited to spend our holidays with our great-grand- 
 father at Afton Grange, a fine old house in the 
 country, which we had visited several times before. 
 
 Our tw^o great-aunts lived with him, and always 
 proved themselves kind and indulgent to us. But we 
 had a childish dread of the old man, and this made 
 a visit to the Grange a somewhat mixed pleasure. 
 We did not often see him, and I have sometimes 
 thought that he must have been half demented. 
 Certainly he used to glare at us in a terrifying sort 
 of way, and a dignified and reticent person called 
 Mr. Hatchley w^as always with him as an attendant. 
 
 The great mystery of the place for us, and the 
 thing we longed above all things to explore, was a 
 room on the ground floor, of which the shutters were 
 always kept closed and the door locked. I think we 
 both disliked passing this room after dark. It figured 
 in many of our stories, and we invested it with all 
 sorts of superhuman characteristics. 
 
 Our great-aunts were stately, but rather common- 
 place old ladies, and when once or twice a year they 
 went into the yellow room on the occasion of its be- 
 ing cleaned, I do not believe that they showed any 
 special sentiment about it. But it was noticeable that 
 they never had off^ered to take Oliver or me into it. 
 
 " That chamber is not used," I remember hearing 
 my Aunt Susan say one day when showing some 
 visitors over the house, and she said it in a way 
 w^hich prevented questions, while it stimulated curi- 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 215 
 
 osity. Oliver and I longed more and more to know 
 its secret. 
 
 It happened on the occasion of the visit I am writ- 
 ing about that Oliver had not come with me to Afton 
 Grange, but was to follow a few days later, and I 
 was, therefore, kept more than usual in the company 
 of my great-aunts. My feeling about the room was 
 intensified during this time, because once as I w^as 
 coming in from a walk, I saM- my great-grandfather 
 coming out of it with wild eyes and a guilty look. 
 He seemed frightened when he saw me, and as he 
 shuffled off t^o his own room he said something which 
 I took to be a kind of apology, and, therefore, very 
 uncalled for to a child. 
 
 About an hour after he had one of his bad fits, 
 and later I heard my great-aunts talking together in 
 a low^ voice, and one of them said, " It was exceed- 
 ingly wrong of Hatchley to go out without informing 
 me. Of course, poor papa was sure to get into the 
 yellow room if he could. Most unfortunate that the 
 key was in my open desk, but I had no idea that 
 Hatchley was not with him." 
 
 It was only two or three days after this that my 
 wish was fulfilled. The room was to undergo its 
 half-yearly cleaning, and my Aunt Winifred, little 
 knowing what a fearful interest it had gradually 
 acquired for me, unlocked the door calmly one morn- 
 ing after breakfast and took me into it. I remember 
 feeling a little sick as we went in, and being very 
 much ashamed of the feeling. I hoped intensely that 
 
216 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 she would not see the whiteness of my face and 
 cause me to forego the excitement of the adventure. 
 However, she noticed nothing, but went composedly 
 in and opened the shutters. As the light streamed 
 in I found that the room was large, and rather scantily 
 furnished. The wall paper and the upholstery were 
 yellow. There were some large mirrors, an old piano, 
 a bookcase, and some Chippendale furniture. 
 
 But all the interest was at once concentrated and 
 baffled by the presence of a verj^ large picture, which 
 was concealed by a green blind made to draw up and 
 down over it. It was in the middle of the side of 
 the room facing the door, and I instantly felt that 
 here was the key to the mystery of the room. 
 
 I said that the picture was concealed by a blind, 
 but this was not strictly the case, for the lower part 
 of it was left uncovered, the blind having been drawn 
 down only to about three feet from the bottom of 
 the canvas. My great-aunt, perceiving this, went 
 quietly up to the picture and drew the blind down 
 till all was completely hidden. What I had seen was 
 the feet of a horse, and, standing up in front of them, 
 a soldierly pair of legs in riding boots with long spurs. 
 
 I stood rivetted, but, child-like, I dared not ask a 
 question, though I was almost crying with my long- 
 ing to know who or what the booted man might be. 
 
 My great-aunt trotted about unconcernedly, throw- 
 ing open the windows, and finally she took me away 
 with her, calling the housemaid to come and begin 
 her cleaning. 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 217 
 
 "Don't touch the large picture, Mary," she said. 
 
 A sudden feeling came into my mind that it was 
 my great-grandfather who had drawn up the blind 
 and had left it partly uncovered, and that it was 
 naughty of him. 
 
 Three days after this Oliver arrived, and he brought 
 with him a new possession, a delightful black-and-tan 
 terrier. 
 
 Of course I seized the earliest opportunity of tell- 
 ing him what had happened, and I then said, " Let's 
 go into the room, and draw up the blind to the top." 
 
 " Oh no, we mustn't, Cynthia." 
 
 "Why, we have never been told not to," I said. 
 
 "We haven't got the key, and I don't believe we 
 ought to do it," said he. But I saw that the idea 
 fascinated him. 
 
 "I know where the key is," said I. "In Aunt 
 Winifred's desk, and she often leaves it open. I 
 don't believe she'd mind." (I knew perfectly well 
 that she would mind, however). 
 
 We said nothing more then, but the idea settled 
 in our minds, and two days afterwards, when our 
 great-aunts were entertaining some visitors in the 
 drawing room, I hastily went into the morning room 
 and discovered, as I hoped, that Aunt Winifred had 
 been writing, and left her desk open, and that the 
 key of the yellow room was lying there in company 
 with the pens and sealing wax. I quietly took it, 
 and ran out into the garden. 
 
 It looked as lovely as Eden on that sunny May 
 
21<S THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 hiorning. The pink may and the guelder rose, the 
 laburnam and the lilac were all in blossom, and the 
 Solomon's seal grew thick under their shade. The 
 birds were singing as if the world were but just 
 created. 
 
 "Oliver," I cried in a low voice. "Oliver." 
 
 " Hullo ! " said he. 
 
 "Oliver, here's the key, let's go in and look at the 
 picture." 
 
 " Jolly ! " said he. 
 
 We went into the house together by the back way. 
 Looking warily round, I turned the key of the door 
 of the yellow room, and we both entered and shut 
 ourselves safely in. 
 
 It seemed to me as soon as we were inside the 
 room that I felt an evil influence beyond the mere 
 sense of naughtiness, but I was too excited to regard 
 it. A little light came through the chinks of the 
 shutters. I jumped on a chair, and unbolting the 
 fastening, let in the full day-light. 
 
 There before us was the ominous picture, with its 
 dark covering. As we stood before it I had a sensa- 
 tion as if there were strong forces — almost physical 
 forces — ^pulling me two ways, and I stood transfixed 
 for two or three seconds. 
 
 "Draw up the blind," said Oliver. 
 
 And, woe of woes, we drew it up and saw. When 
 I think of it there is a verse that always comes into 
 my mind. 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 219 
 
 *' She left the web, she left the room, 
 
 She made three paces through the room. 
 
 She saw the water lily bloom, 
 
 She saw the helmet and the plume. 
 
 She looked down to Camelot. 
 
 Out flew the web and floated wide, 
 The mirror cracked from side to side, 
 * The curse has come upon me,' cried 
 
 The lady of Shalott." 
 
 Yet what we saw seemed at first nothing much 
 after all. 
 
 Simply a tall soldier standing by his horse. 
 
 It was magnificently painted. The uniform was 
 white and dark blue and gold, and all the details 
 were duly expressed, but in subordination to the face, 
 which was nearly full, with the eyes fixed steadily 
 on the spectator. The face could not have been hand- 
 somer, but there was surely something brutal about 
 the smile and the gleam of the teeth. The jaw was 
 square, the neck was thick and muscular. The short 
 dark hair was crisp and curly, the brow was low, the 
 eyebrows were heavy. The strong fierce eyes held us 
 perfectly breathless. Beautiful they were, but they 
 were the eyes of a demon. 
 
 The man's figure was muscular and graceful. The 
 fingers of the left hand rested on the hip, the right 
 arm lay carelessly across the horse's neck, and the 
 hand held a heavy riding whip. 
 
 " Look at the snake," said Oliver, and following the 
 direction of his eyes I saw that the heel of the boot 
 trod on an adder's head. 
 
220 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 Just then Oliver's dog began to howl most dismally 
 in the garden. 
 
 " Let ns go," I said suddenly. 
 
 " No, no," said Oliver, " let us stay." His lips 
 were parted and his cheeks were burning. 
 
 We stayed I don't know how long, probably only 
 half a minute. Then we heard a carriage driving up 
 the approach, and we fled in a sort of panic, locking 
 the door behind us. Oliver ran into the garden. I 
 went into the morning room, feeling guiltily sure 
 that my misdeed would have been discovered. But 
 all was as I had left it. I dropped the key into its 
 place, and sat down. 
 
 What had I done ? Was it so very bad, or was it 
 not ? Child though I was, my heart ached. Do not 
 reckon my fault a light one. I would now give all 
 that I have not to have committed it. Innocence had 
 departed. 
 
 I stayed crying a long time, but at last I went out 
 into the garden to look for Oliver. 
 
 He was lying under a tree, apparently reading a 
 story book, and he did not look up as I approached. 
 When I spoke to him he answered me rather shortly 
 and crossly. And from that hour I became often 
 aware of a kind of reserve between us which had 
 never before existed. 
 
 " Oh, Oliver," I said, beginning to cry again, " I 
 wish we hadn't gone into that room." 
 
 " It's all right, you donkey," said he. " I am very 
 glad we went in, and I mean to go again." 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 221 
 
 The day had changed. The sunshine was gone, 
 and all pleasure was gone too. Something immeasur- 
 able had happened or was going to happen, I did 
 not know which. 
 
 We played about till dinner-time, and I remember 
 we quarrelled. When we came in there was a hush 
 and a stir in the house. 
 
 Aunt Winifred came down to meet us. She had 
 red eyes, and she spoke in a whisper. "You must 
 try and be quiet, dears, for your great-grandfather is 
 very ill. Your Aunt Susan and I shall not come 
 down to dinner." 
 
 " Is he going to die. Aunt Winifred ? " we asked, 
 much awed by her manner. 
 
 " We don't know," she replied. " He has had a bad 
 attack, and the doctor is coming." 
 
 It was dreadful, and I felt sure that the illness 
 was somehow the fault of our naughtiness. 
 
 After dinner we crept upstairs, and listened outside 
 the door of the sick room. We heard a terrible gasp- 
 ing sound, and were glad to steal away again. The 
 rest of the day was long and miserable. It is easy 
 to bear troubles if our hearts are innocent, but con- 
 science makes cowards of us all, and we were both 
 afraid when we went to bed. 
 
 The next morning when we were called, the first 
 words that Mary said to us were, " Your great-grand- 
 father is dead." 
 
 It was a sad week that followed, and the death in 
 the house seemed to intensify my sense of wrong- 
 
222 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 doing in having entered the room. At last I could 
 bear it no longer, and took courage to make my con- 
 fession to Aunt Winifred. 
 
 I think she was a little surprised at my feeling so 
 guilty about it. After a slight pause she said, "You 
 should not have done it, Cynthia. You know that 
 chamber was always kept closed. It was naughty of 
 you, and especially naughty to go to my desk and 
 take the key. I can't think what made you wish to 
 do it." 
 
 I cried a little and said. "I don't know, Aunt 
 Winifred," which was quite true. And then I added, 
 " I suppose it was the devil. Please forgive me." 
 
 "Well, I forgive you, and don't ev^r do such a 
 thing again.'' 
 
 She did not evidently take it very seriously, and 
 so I ventured to ask, "Who is the man in the picture, 
 Aunt Winifred." 
 
 "He was an uncle of your great-grandfather, but 
 I don't know anything about him. His name was 
 Sir Carnaby Fane." 
 
 " Why is he treading on a snake. Aunt Winifred 1 " 
 
 " I never noticed that he was treading on a snake," 
 said she. " I suppose there must have been some 
 story connected with him and a snake." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Why is a curtain kept over the picture ? " 
 
 My aunt hesitated a moment, and then said, "You 
 shouldn't ask so many questions, Cynthia. The reason 
 was that your poor great-grandfather used to get 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 223 
 
 excited when he looked at the picture, and the doctor 
 Baid it was bad for him. It ia too valuable to be 
 destroyed, but I don't think it is a nice good picture. 
 I remember our old clergyman at Shrewsbury used 
 to say it had the mark of the beast on it. If you 
 want to look at pictures, why do you not look at 
 nice ones like Eva and Uncle Tom, or Jephthah's 
 Daughter, or Mrs. Fry in Newgate ? Now run away, 
 and tell Mary to get you ready to go out." 
 
 My heart was light again, and I told Oliver of my 
 conversation with my aunt. 
 
 " I wish I knew about the snake," said he gravely, 
 "It makes me think of where it says in the Bible to 
 the serpent, ' It shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt 
 bruise his heel.' Are heels wicked ? Do you suppose 
 the snake could bite through that man's boot ? " 
 
 That afternoon I was sitting upstairs doing my 
 worsted work when I heard Oliver's dog beginning 
 to howl in the garden. I ran downstairs, and I saw 
 Oliver coming out of the yellow room alone. I shall 
 never forget the pang it gave me. He got red, and 
 pretended not to see me, and I felt that he was do- 
 ing the same wrong thing that my great-grandfather 
 had done. 
 
 I ran up to him and said, " Oliver, w^hy did you 
 go in again ? " 
 
 Like a boy he brazened it out as well as he could, 
 but his voice was unnatural as he said, " Why shouldn't 
 I go in ? " 
 
 " You know it is wicked," I answered. 
 Q 
 
224 THE beast's mark., 
 
 He laughed scornfully. " Wicked ! what is wicked?" 
 
 " It's wicked to look at that picture." 
 
 ^' It isn't. Rubbish ! " 
 
 My tears came again very readily, and I said, " It's 
 all my fault. I took you in first. Oliver, I'll give 
 you my silver pencil case if you'll promise never to 
 go in again." 
 
 " What nonsense ! As if I wanted your pencil 
 case ! You needn't go in if you don't choose. I shall 
 go in if I like because I am a man. But I daresay 
 I shan't like again, so you needn't cry." 
 
 I was only half consoled, for I couldn't get a pro- 
 mise out of him, and I afterwards felt sure that he 
 did go in sometimes when we were not together. 
 Occasionally at night if I heard a cock crow or a dog 
 howl, the conviction came to me that he was either 
 there or wishing to be there. I can't account for this 
 strange unchildlike sort of clairvoyance. I thought 
 that Oliver seemed dull and inattentive and unlike 
 himself. It was clear that something had gone wrong. 
 
 Not many days after the funeral was over our aunts 
 told us that they had decided to let Afton Grange, and 
 to return to their old hous^e at Shrewsbury. There 
 was to be a sale of the greater part of the furniture, 
 and the place soon began to be dismantled in pre- 
 paration for their departure. 
 
 The yellow room was now as public as any other 
 room, and the picture's blind was drawn up. What- 
 ever reason there had been for concealing it had 
 ceased with my great-grandfather's life. We were 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 225 
 
 now going in and out many times a day on all sorts 
 of errands, and though I still had a certain dread of 
 the picture, yet it seemed to me to have lost a good 
 deal of its balefulness. Now that the doors were 
 open I no longer had the feeling that it was wrong 
 for me to look at it, and so I often stayed and won- 
 dered about it. But strange to say I couldn't bear to 
 see Oliver looking at it, and it was most mysterious 
 that whenever we looked at it together I was sure to 
 hear some animal making a noise. Either a dog 
 whined, or a horse neighed, or a cock crew, or a cat 
 howled. It was very odd. I did not know if Oliver 
 noticed it, but again and again it made me start, and 
 I felt as if the world of kind beasts knew all about 
 it and was vainly warning us and lamenting over us. 
 
 It was certainly a most splendid picture. The dis- 
 tance was lurid and stormy, the great war-horse was 
 full of grandeur, the man was superb. He always 
 made me feel as if he could hurt me if he chose, 
 but let me alone because I was only a little girl and 
 it was not worth his while to injure me. The beauti- 
 ful eyes looked steadily at me, but disdainfully, and 
 I hated beyond words the curled savage lip and the 
 heel that crushed down the serpent. He looked as if 
 he had worse fangs than the reptile he trod on. 
 
 Oliver was standing by me one day, and I said, 
 " Doesn't he look as if he despised us ? " 
 
 " No," said Oliver. " I like him, and I should like 
 to be like him." 
 
 "I should hate it," I replied. "What makes you 
 like him ? " 
 
226 THE beast's mark. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I shan't tell you. I suppose 
 it's because he looks so proud and strong and fierce." 
 
 " I don't like people to be proud and fierce," said I. 
 
 "Well, I do then. Fancy being on that splendid 
 horse and making him tear along." 
 
 It distressed me that Oliver and I should differ 
 about anything, and I could not bear that he should 
 feel this way about the picture. But I reflected that 
 boys and girls could not be exactly alike. 
 
 Soon after this Sir Carnaby was packed up and 
 sent off to London to be sold at Christy's, and it 
 seemed like an incubus gone. I never saw the picture 
 again, or wished to see it again, but years afterwards 
 I found with strange sensations an attempt at copy- 
 ing it in pencil, which Oliver must have made at 
 this time. It was, of course, very imperfectly exe- 
 cuted, but it was unmistakeable. There was the 
 stately horse, the elegant pose of the figure, and 
 there well emphasized was the heel grinding down 
 the adder's head. As I looked at it, a mouse behind 
 the wainscot shrieked. I burned the sketch in a 
 hurry, and breathed again. 
 
 After the sale at Afton Grange our life went on 
 smoothly and happily. Oliver's parents had died 
 when he was a baby, and he had been adopted by 
 my father and mother, who had no child besides my- 
 self. My father was a clergyman, and I must men- 
 tion that we were brought up to read the Bible every 
 day, and to learn a good deal of it by heart, so that 
 it was not strange that Oliver should be reminded by 
 the picture of certain texts. 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 227 
 
 To describe our childhood and youth would not be 
 very interesting, for it was in the main like other 
 happy childhoods. Oliver was less selfish than most 
 boys, I think, and he was very affectionate, active, 
 and innocent-minded. We were all inclined to in- 
 dulge him a good deal. At school he was popular, 
 and he specially pleased grown-up people, to whom 
 he generally behaved with very nice manners. 
 
 He and I often talked together about what he 
 would like to be when he was grown up. He wanted 
 to be the best man possible, and he hesitated chiefly 
 between becoming a doctor, a soldier, and a clergy- 
 man. As years went on he inclined more and more 
 to take orders and he read a good many religious 
 books with that idea, and there were certain poor 
 people in the parish whom he used to visit and try 
 to do good to. The impression of the picture was 
 beginning to fade in my memory, but I think I men- 
 tioned it two or three times in our talks, and I be- 
 lieve he received my observations without comment, 
 and with something of that slight reserve to which I 
 have alluded. 
 
 When he was about S3venteen years old some rela- 
 tions asked him to pay a visit at a distant country 
 house, and he went. On his return he seemed to me 
 a good deal older, and not so light-hearted. Some- 
 times he was depressed, and even rather peevish. 
 The spirit seemed gone out of him, and he was back- 
 ward not only in going to see the families in whom 
 he used to take an interest, but even in his studies 
 and recreations. 
 
228 THE beast's mabk. 
 
 One day m\^ mother was recommending him a 
 book, and said, " If you are ever a clergyman it will 
 be useful for you to have read it, Oliver." 
 
 He took the book listlessly, and looked at it widi 
 a kind of distaste. 
 
 "All right," he said. 
 
 "You have not given up the idea of being a clergy- 
 man, have you ? " asked my mother, regarding him 
 uneasily. 
 
 " No," said Oliver. " At least — yes. I don't believe 
 it will be thB best thing. I believe I'd rather be a 
 doctor. A clergyman ought to be so tremendously 
 good." 
 
 I knew that my mother was extremely disappointed, 
 but after a moment's silence she merely said, " You 
 seem out of spirits, Oliver; Is anything the matter ? " 
 
 "No, nothing," said he. 
 
 " Do you feel well ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 After he had left the room, she said anxiously to 
 me, " I wonder what is the matter with Oliver. He 
 seems quite different since he came back from Thurl- 
 bury Hall." 
 
 I had nothing to say on the subject, but two or 
 three days afterwards a light came to me. 
 
 My father was talking to him one day at dinner 
 about his recent visit, and said, " By the way, John 
 Thurlbury bought that picture of Sir Carnaby Fane 
 that used to be at Afton Grange. Does he keep it at 
 the Hall or in London, Oliver ? " 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 229 
 
 Oliver glanced quickly at me and hesitated for a 
 moment before he replied, with a kind of embarrass- 
 ment, " It is at the Hall ; in the dining room." 
 
 "Why, Oliver, you never told me that," said I. 
 
 "You never asked me," said he. 
 
 " "Why how should I ask you ? Don't you remem- 
 ber how we used to hate that picture, and how glad 
 we were when it was gone ? " 
 
 Oliver made no answer, and my father began to 
 ask him. questions about the other family portraits. 
 
 Till this visit to Thurlbury Hall our life had been 
 happy beyond our share. Now I felt that we sank 
 down to an average experience. Sometimes, for a 
 week or two, Oliver was as delightful as ever. Then 
 he would one day come down to breakfast wearied 
 and fretful, and seeming drained of all interest in 
 everything. And these fits lasted two or three days. 
 He never did anything exactly wrong, but his sparkle 
 and gaiety were gone. 
 
 He never talked now of taking orders, but seemed 
 to have quite decided to study medicine. 
 
 I believe I had ceased to think about the picture, 
 but it was somehow latent, and one day it was 
 brought suddenly to my mind again. 
 
 Oliver was reading to me out of a new book as 1 
 sat working, and he came to these words — 
 
 '*I had a vision when the night was late, 
 A youth came riding towards a palace gate, 
 He rode a horse with \vings that would have flown 
 But that his heavy rider kept him down, 
 And from the palace came a Child of Sin, 
 And took him by the curls and led him in." 
 
230 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 As he read, a painful self -consciousness came into 
 his voice, and he stopped for five long seconds. I 
 felt that we were both thinking of Sir Carnaby as 
 the Child of Sin. 
 
 Clearing his throat, he finished the poem and closed 
 the book. We read no more that day. 
 
 What I am next going to relate will not, of course, 
 be received by most readers as an objective fact, and 
 I do not ask them to accept it as such. I do not 
 feel quite sure about it myself. 
 
 When Oliver and I were nineteen I had a severe 
 illness, and my convalescence was somewhat pro- 
 longed. Our senses are apt to play us tricks at such 
 times, and it may be that I only thought I saw what 
 I am going to describe. 
 
 One afternoon I had fallen asleep on the sofa in 
 the library, and had dozed on till it was nearly dark, 
 except for the flickering of the fire. When I awoke 
 I saw that Oliver had come in, and was sitting on 
 one side of the hearth, leaning back in an arm chair. 
 He seemed to be thinking, and had evidently not 
 noticed my presence in the dim light. A book lay 
 in his lap, but he was not reading, 
 
 I was just going to speak to him, when I felt a 
 kind of oppression, as if something evil were in the 
 place, and my eyes travelled from Oliver across the 
 tiger-skin rug that lay in front of the grate. 
 
 Good heavens ! Was Oliver alone, or did my eyes 
 deceive me ? 
 
 While the roots of my hair stirred I perceived the 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 231 
 
 firelight glitter on something metallic, and nearly- 
 paralysed with fear I saw those terrible spurred feet. 
 
 An almost unbearable weight weighed down my 
 eyelids, but I made a great effort, and slowly raised 
 them. 
 
 There stood Sir Carnaby Fane, tall and furious, and 
 he and Oliver were regarding each other. Sir Carnaby 
 scowled and made a quick threatening gesture. I 
 could only gasp, but Oliver heard me and sprang up. 
 And the phantom — if phantom it was — vanished. 
 
 "What is it?" I had only strength to whisper 
 the words. 
 
 Oliver looked scared and wild. "What do you 
 mean .^ " he said. 
 
 I was turning sick, and only answered " Sir Carnaby 
 was standing there." 
 
 " Sir Carnaby standing there," said he, in a sort of 
 frozen way. 
 
 " Yes, you saw him." 
 
 " Before God I swear that I did not," said he, em- 
 phatically. He paused, and then the words came 
 slowly, "But I was thinking of him." 
 
 I was still weak from my illness, and I fainted. 
 When I recovered consciousness, he and my mother 
 were bending over me, but Oliver's eyes could not 
 meet mine, and all through the evening they were 
 lowered if I looked at him. 
 
 Such a thing could not of course pass without an 
 explanation, and when I was going up to bed about 
 nine o'clock, I said " Come into my room, Oliver, do, 
 I want to speak to you." 
 
232 THE beast's mabk. 
 
 " Arn't you too tired ? " he said. 
 
 "No," I replied. And he came. 
 
 "Oliver, tell me everything," I said, as soon as the 
 door was shut. 
 
 "You must have been dreaming, Cynthia. It is 
 impossible that you could have seen anything." 
 
 " I was not dreaming, Oliver, I saw him as plainly 
 as I see you now. Please tell me all you know 
 about it. I feel as if I should die if you don't. You 
 said you were thinking of him, and I am sure there 
 is more in it than I know. Did you ever see him 
 at any other time ? " 
 
 " Never," said he steadily. 
 
 He remained silent a little, and then said in a 
 faltering voice, " Cynthia, I will tell you. I don't 
 understand it. I wish I did. But if you really saw 
 him you have a right to know. That first time, 
 years ago, when we looked at the picture, some new 
 thing came into me. I was ashamed of it, so it must 
 have been wrong, and yet I was proud of it, for it 
 made me feel more a man. I went again and again, 
 to look at the picture, and always it got more power 
 over me. I used to think about Sir Carnaby, and 
 admire him, because he looked so proud and strong. 
 He became the vehicle of all the worst and most 
 animal part of me. I used to imagine that he was 
 doing all sorts of wild and evil things. And I al- 
 most got a wish to do them myself. I often won- 
 dered if they were my own thoughts that used to 
 career in my mind, or if some evil spirit was taking 
 its pastime at my soul's expense. 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 233 
 
 " It was a long time before I felt sure that it was 
 wrong. I never guessed what it would come to." 
 
 "Oliver, do you remember the dog howling that 
 day ? " said I. 
 
 " Yes I do," said he wearily, " and many times 
 since. Especially at night, when I have woke and 
 been the prey of Sir Carnaby's terrible frown or 
 more terrible laugh. His white teeth were like fangs ! 
 I can't tell you how sick and miserable and exhausted 
 I have often felt. It spoilt everything. Do you 
 really mean to say that you saw him, Cynthia, 
 actually smv him ? " 
 
 " Yes, but go on." 
 
 ''Sometimes I thought I had got rid of it all, and 
 then I was as happy as I could be, and everything 
 went well. And then, perhaps, I read a book or 
 saw a picture which reminded me of him, and I got 
 under the spell again. He seemed to be waiting for 
 me. Now that you tell me you saw him I really do 
 believe it is his evil spirit that besets me. I know 
 it is my own sinfulness that gives him power, but 
 there are terrible odds against me. After such re- 
 pentances I have such falls I ' In the evening he 
 will return, grin like a dog, and go about the city.' 
 How often I have felt his scorn of my repentances, 
 and his cruel smile. 
 
 " Oh, how I wish I had never gone to Thurlbury 
 Hall ! It all came back ten times stronger when I 
 found myself there. It was such a horrible surprise 
 to find that awful picture gazing straight at me in 
 
234 THE beast's mark. 
 
 the dining-room. I couldn't help looking and look- 
 ing. I remember even going down one night late 
 with a candle after everyone was gone to bed. He 
 seemed to free all the worst parts of me." 
 
 " Did you ever pray to be delivered, Oliver ? " 
 
 "Yes, and was forgiven a thousand times. That 
 was my greatest help. Without it I should have 
 been in hell by this time. There are things in the 
 Bible which must have been written to describe it 
 all." 
 
 " What things, Oliver ? " 
 
 "Words like 'Lest he tear my soul like a lion, 
 rending it in pieces when there is none to deliver,' 
 That was just how I felt — as if all the good parts of 
 me were getting torn to shreds. And then in Jere- 
 miah, ' Therefore the holy flesh is departed from 
 thee.' It seemed as if all the heavenly part of me 
 were getting eaten away. One Sunday the sermon 
 was about the pure in heart seeing God, and I made 
 up my mind that I would never allow the thought 
 of Sir Carnaby to come in again. But it did. I was 
 never safe from him. Sometimes I was better, some- 
 times I was worse. I think I am worse now than I 
 was five years ago. What I dread is that when I 
 die I may find myself akin to him." ^ 
 
 " Do you hate him enough to wish him gone for 
 ever ? " 
 
 "I do now^'' said Oliver, "but not always. Often, 
 when I have been happy, I have prayed that I might 
 die sooner than be in the mire again. You girls can 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 235 
 
 never know how hard our battles are. We have ten- 
 dencies that you, in your innocence, never dream of." 
 
 "Were the thoughts ever more than thoughts, 
 Oliver ? Did they ever become sins .^ " 
 
 " No, but the thoughts themselves were sins," said 
 he. " I believe they have used up my very life. It 
 was no credit to me that I did not put them into 
 actions. I had everything to keep me back from 
 wicked deeds — education, habits, friendship, work, 
 besides the power of religion. I'll tell you what I'll 
 do, Cynthia. I'll go and see Mr. Austen and ask 
 him what he thinks I ought to do. It was bad 
 enough to have such things in my mind, but if you 
 saw Sir Carnaby — how I loathe his name ! " 
 
 Mr. Austen was an old man for whom we rightly 
 felt a profound veneration. His life had been full 
 of vicissitudes, but now he lived alone, and yet 
 seemed to belong to everybody. He was poor in this 
 world's goods, but like St. Francis, was apparently 
 well content with poverty. He had had many sor- 
 rows, which had only the effect of making him 
 extraordinarily sweet and tender. One of his charac- 
 teristics was a kind of insight which enabled him 
 to justify almost all the men he knew of, or at any 
 rate to bring them out of the fires of execration into 
 a heavenly light of pity and of understanding. Some 
 people reckoned this a fault, but I never knew any 
 one else whose judgment I so looked up to. How- 
 ever blameable I had been, I always felt sure of 
 getting love and sympathy from him as well as 
 
236 THE beast's mark. 
 
 wisdom. I remember his once saying ''The difference 
 between Christ and Satan is that Christ justifies all, 
 and Satan accuses all. Christ is for ever justifying 
 man to God and God to man, Satan from the very 
 first has been accusing God to man and man to God." 
 
 It was a great relief to me to think that Oliver 
 would be guided by Mr. Austen rather than by any 
 ignorant advice of mine, and I rejoiced at his 
 decision. 
 
 " I'll go to-morrow," he said, " and I'll tell you 
 everything that he says. Good-night, Cynthia." 
 
 He kissed me very affectionately, and I spent the 
 night not unhappily, though wakefully. It was a 
 great relief to have been told the truth. 
 
 When Oliver came back from Mr. Au.sten the next 
 day he looked clear and happy. 
 
 " He has been the greatest help, Cynthia," he said, 
 " He did not seem so very much surprised or shocked, 
 but he said that he wished I had told some one 
 sooner. I told him that you knew almost everything 
 about it, and he said he hoped you would go and 
 see him when you were well enough." 
 
 Oliver talked on and told me a great deal. He was 
 full of hope. 
 
 In a day or two I went to see Mr. Austen. 
 
 " Do you think I can help Oliver ? " I said. 
 
 " You can help him a great deal, my child," he 
 replied. "And you have already helped him a great 
 deal. You must bear his burden with him, for it is 
 a heavy one, and victory will be difficult. We will 
 
THE beast's mark. 237 
 
 lift up our hands continually for him. ' More things 
 are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.' 
 These terrible conflicts have their uses, and cannot 
 yet be wholly dispensed with." 
 
 " Do you think that it is possible that I really saw 
 Sir Carnaby, Mr. Austen ? " 
 
 "I am not prepared to say that it is impossible, 
 Cynthia," he answered. " It may be that some evil 
 influence hung about that picture. You say that 
 your great-grandfather felt it, and you believe that it 
 had power to hurt him. I am sure that there are 
 bad airs about certain books and certain newspapers, 
 and about certain places too. I believe that it is 
 possible, if we wish it, to open doors to all sorts of 
 evils, and there may be poor wretched earthbound 
 souls near us who have neither the will nor the 
 power to rise above the evil desires that held them 
 when they were in the body. Sir Carnaby may be 
 one of these, implacable and unmerciful. Such souls 
 may be able to torment and worry those who give 
 place to the devil, and little by little they may even 
 make their home in a man's heart and possess it. 
 Possession is as real now as ever it w^as. It is a 
 great mystery, but it is true that as some men live 
 controlled entirely by Christ and filled with the 
 Spirit of God, so others live at the command of evil 
 and unclean spirits. 
 
 " I think it is not impossible that our dear boy 
 has suffered in this way. Oh, the wiles of the devil ! 
 The wiles of the devil ! It is well if, by God's 
 
238 THE beast's mark. 
 
 grace, we are just able to stand in the evil day. 
 Oliver must be saved — as we are all saved — by love, 
 by human and Divine love. Hell itself is only a 
 great madhouse, where none believe in the love of 
 God or man. But Christ commands even the unclean 
 spirits, and they obey Him." 
 
 " Then you really think it was Sir Carnaby's 
 ghost, Mr. Austen ? " 
 
 " I did not say that, Cynthia. What I said was 
 that I could not say it was impossible - God only 
 knows. The creative power of thought is very great, 
 and it may be that what you thought you saw was 
 only the product of Oliver's mind. 'Things that are 
 seen are not made of things which do appear.' Who 
 can say how far human thought may have power 
 actually to create form ? ' Soul is form, and doth 
 the body make.' Who can say how it was that the 
 Word Himself was made flesh ? The sculptor's 
 thought forms the marble into a statue. 
 
 " My dear child, I hardly like to talk to you about 
 these matters. But perhaps it may be your work 
 willingly to go forth as a lamb into the midst of 
 these wolves. We know that there is a Lamb who 
 is able to overcome not only wolves, but lions, too, 
 and all kinds of fierce beasts. And the little child 
 is the one who can safely put its hand on the hole 
 of the cockatrice and prevent its egress." 
 
 " Do you think it was only a coincidence, Mr. 
 Austen, that we nearly always heard animals making 
 a noise when we looked at that picture ? " 
 
THE BEAST'S MARK. 239 
 
 " It was strange," said he thoughtfully. " It cer- 
 tainly seems as if the mark of the Beast must have 
 been on it. People think me a mystic because I see 
 in the Bible explanations of so many experiences. I 
 read there that it is over the Beast and over his 
 mark, that in all ages Christ's servants win the 
 victory. You have read the story of it in the Book 
 of the Revelation. The Beast is evidently our worst 
 animal nature, which we all have to deny in some 
 form and to conquer, if we are ever to stand on the 
 sea of glass. It may be like a lion or a wolf, or 
 like a fox, or a boar, or a serpent. But its power 
 comes from the dragon itself. One of its heads may 
 be wounded to death, yet it revives and is healed. 
 How often have I hoped that the beast in me was 
 for ever destroyed, and how often have I been dis- 
 appointed I " 
 
 " I don't understand all that, Mr. Austen," I said. 
 
 "And God forbid that you should understand it, 
 my child," he said kindly. " May you never need to 
 understand it. But you will find it well to read 
 those chapters about the wild beast nature. The 
 world worships it and says, ' Who is able to make 
 war with him ! ' And the world has reason for say- 
 ing this, for we are told that it was given to the 
 Beast to make war with the saints and to overcome 
 even them. But he does not overcome them finally. 
 ' Here is the patience and the faith of the saints.' 
 Do you remember how we are told that those who 
 dwell on the earth make an image of the Beast, and 
 R 
 
240 THE BEAST'S MARK. 
 
 that the image somehow gets life into it and does 
 mischief ? That makes me think of this strange 
 sight of Sir Carnaby that you tell me of. 
 
 " The mark of the Beast is easy to see in the faces 
 of many men and women, besides drunkards and 
 profligates. I have seen it often — the mark of the 
 tiger or the fox, or the swine, or of the peacock, 
 the vulture, or the serpent. This we may be sure 
 of, that if we encourage the beast nature it soon gets 
 the upper hand. The power of a dominant bad 
 habit is dreadful. But if it is bravely fought, there 
 comes a sweet calm Indian summer into life before 
 it ends." 
 
 We remained silent for some time and pondered. 
 
 " And how can Oliver get the victory, Mr. Austen ? " 
 
 " Only by the grace of God, Cynthia," he said 
 solemnly. " But you can help him to get that grace. 
 It will help him to have told us about his trouble, 
 and to know that we are in sympathy with his need. 
 Daily and hourly we will pray for him. The ex- 
 perience that he has had of the forgiving love of 
 God is worth gaining, even at a great price." 
 
 I kissed the dear old man and went home. 
 
 Then a happy time began. Oliver's old light- 
 heartedness came back, and all his zest for work and 
 play. I gave him at that time two pictures, which 
 afterwards hung in his room always. One was 
 Durer's St. George and the Dragon, the other was 
 Van Eyck's "Worship of the Lamb." Thank God 
 there are not only bad pictures but good ones, which 
 carry our thoughts heavenwards. 
 
Ttt^ beast's mark:. 24J 
 
 I shall always remember his life during the next 
 years as the most beautiful thing I ever knew. It 
 was filled with gladness and with enthusiasm for 
 God, and nature and humanity. The sense of de- 
 liverance made him not only grateful, but ready for 
 all kinds of service. 
 
 Now it truly seemed as if he rode a horse with 
 wings, and as if it was no longer kept down by the 
 heavy rider. To this day I can see the results in 
 diflPerent lives of that beautiful time. 
 
 It was forty years ago. 
 
 I feel that my story dwindles in interest as it pro- 
 gresses, and I will end it here, for I think I have 
 told you all that I need and almost all that I know. 
 
 How far the old deep-seated habit of thought after- 
 wards re-asserted itself I can not tell you. Nor can 
 I say whether it ever led Oliver into any act of sin. 
 If it did not, the victory was won after a long brave 
 fight. If it did, then his life was so far maimed and 
 broken. But I do not believe it did. 
 
 Once he said to me, " I began my fight almost too 
 late I am afraid, Cynthia. The eyes with which I 
 ought to see God are half dimmed. The 'holy flesh 
 has almost departed' from me. The world, the flesh, 
 and the devil between them will enfeeble a life, 
 
 even when they do not actually kill it God 
 
 has been very good to me ; I shall not die, but 
 live." He spoke sadly, but he always took the 
 lowliest view of himself. 
 
 Afton Grange came into my father's possession 
 when my great-aunts had died. Oliver ended his 
 
242 THE beast's mark. 
 
 days there in his old bedroom, and I expect to live 
 in the house till I die. 
 
 About ten years later Thurlbury Hall changed 
 owners, and the picture of Sir Carnaby Fane was 
 again sold at Christy's. I had inherited my great- 
 aunt's estates, and was able, therefore, to buy it. 
 
 As soon as it became my property I had it burnt 
 to ashes. 
 
 My tale is told, and as I sit at my desk I look out 
 at the dear old garden. It is early spring, and the 
 afternoon sky is clear. The sun casts long shadows 
 across the lawn, beyond which I can see the quiet 
 churchyard, where are the mossy graves of my father 
 and mother. 
 
 There, too, is Oliver's newly-made grave. 
 
 In accordance with his wish a headstone will be 
 put up, with the words inscribed, "A bruised reed 
 shall He not break, and smoking flax shall he not 
 quench, till He send forth judgment to victory." 
 
 The mellow note of a blackbird sounds close by 
 me in a lilac bush, which shows its first delicately 
 bronzed leaves. The crocus and the scylla are star- 
 ring the dark beds with the gold and blue of their 
 little flowers. The orange of the sky is slowly 
 deepening behind the naked trees. 
 
 I am very, very sad, and I pray God that if it be 
 His will, my life may not be greatly lengthened. 
 When this story has gone forth, there will not, I 
 think, be much more left for me to do, and I should 
 like to lie down to rest with those I have loved 
 under the green grass in the churchyard. 
 
 Cynthia Fane. 
 
SAINT PATRICK'S INVOCATION 
 
 I BIND to myself to-day, a strong power, an invocation 
 
 of The Trinity. 
 The power of the Incarnation, and Christ's Baptism. 
 His Crucifixion, and Bm'ial, with His Resurrection 
 
 and Ascension, 
 bind to myself to-day, the power of the ranks of 
 Cherubim. 
 11 the obedience of Angels, in the service of Arch- 
 angels, 
 n the hope of Resurrection, in the prayers of 
 
 Patriarchs, 
 n the prediction of Prophets, in the preaching of 
 
 Apostles, 
 n the faith of Confessors, in the purity of Holy 
 
 Virgins, 
 n the acts of righteous men. 
 
 bind to myself to-day, the power of Heaven. 
 The light of sun, the brightness of moon. 
 The splendour of fire, the speed of lightning. 
 The swiftness of wind, the depth of the sea. 
 The stability of earth, the firmness of rocks. 
 
244 SAINT PATRICK'S INVOCATION. ' 
 
 I bind to myself to-day — 
 The power of God to guide me. 
 The might of God to uphold me. 
 The wisdom of God to teach me. 
 The eye of God to watch over me. 
 The ear of God to hear me. 
 The word of God to speak for me. 
 The hand of God to protect me. 
 The way of God to lie before me. 
 The shield of God to shelter me, the host of God to 
 defend me. 
 
 Against every man who meditates injury to me. 
 
 Whether far or near, alone, or in a multitude. 
 
 Christ protect me to-day against all evil. 
 
 Christ be with me, Christ before me. 
 
 Christ behind me, Christ within me. 
 
 Christ beneath me, Christ above me. 
 
 Christ at my right, Christ at my left. 
 
 Christ in breadth, Christ in length, Christ in height. 
 
 Christ in tlie heart of every man who thinks of me. 
 
 Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks to me. 
 
 Christ in the eye of every man that sees me. 
 
 Christ in the ear of every man that hears me. 
 
 I bind to myself to-day a strong power, an invocation 
 
 of The Trinity. 
 I believe in the Threeness with a confession of the 
 
 Oneness in the faith of The Trinity. 
 Salvation is the Lord's. Salvation is Christ's. Let 
 
 Thy salvation, Lord, be ever with us. — Amen. 
 
'>^i "%^^«> 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 ■: () 
 
 The following eight short stories (written long ago) 
 are given as suggestions of possible future experiences. 
 Do not read them as statements on eschatology. On 
 such subjects the Church Army does not theorise, 
 but holds simply to the words of the Bil)le — all of 
 which we steadfastly believe, even though they may 
 at first sight seem to say opposite things. We need 
 nowadays to preach faithfully what the Bible teaches 
 us of Hell and Hades, as well as of Heaven. Such 
 passages as the following have been too much 
 neglected : — 
 
 " It is good to enter into life maimed and halt 
 rather than to be cast into the eternal fire." — Matt. 
 xviii. 8. 
 
 " Every one shall be salted with lire." — Mark 
 ix. 49. 
 
 " Fear Him which is able to destroy both soul and 
 body in \\Q[\r—Matt. x. 28. 
 
 " Holiness, without which no man shall see the 
 Lord."— £re&. xii. 14. 
 
 No. I.— FORGIVEN BUT DISAPPROVED. 
 
 A certain king had four sons, whom he destined 
 to rule four provinces in different parts of his 
 dominions. 
 
246 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 The princes were placed for training in a college, 
 where their education lasted for several years, during 
 which time their father maintained an intimate know- 
 ledge of their lives and characters. 
 
 The time at last arrived when they reached an 
 age to enter on their public duties, and they accord- 
 ingly presented themselves at their father's court. 
 
 The king, habited in his royal robes, sat in his 
 council room. At his right hand were four books 
 containing the records of his sons' careers. His head 
 was bowed down as the four princes entered, but 
 he rose as the eldest son came forward, and he 
 kissed him with much affection. 
 
 Then he fixed his keen eye on the young man, 
 who had a fine martial appearance, and said : 
 
 "Lionel, it cuts me to the heart to tell you that 
 you cannot rule in my kingdom, because you have 
 made yourself utterly unfit to do so. My hope in 
 you is disappointed. You have lived in feasting and 
 in sin. You have lived a life of self-indulgence, and 
 you have lost your birthright." 
 
 The prince started and turned pale, but his look 
 fell before the tears which trembled in his father's 
 eyes. 
 
 " It is true, sir," he said, " but you know well 
 that I have had great temptations which I could not 
 resist. I implore you not to cast me out. I will 
 turn from my sins. Give me my province and I 
 will prove my sincerity." 
 
 " That cannot be, Lionel," said his father sadly. 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 247 
 
 "I never have any choice in these matters, for my 
 appointments are made in simple righteousness, and 
 I may not make favourites even of my sons. What 
 your character proves you fit for, that, and that 
 alone, I can give you. You shall stay by me, and if 
 you prove yourself fit, you shall, by-and-by, have 
 work, meanwhile you must submit yourself to new 
 conditions." 
 
 " Am I then forgiven, sir ? " said the young man, 
 who was almost sobbing in the bitterness of his dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 "Yes, my son, you are freely forgiven, since you 
 desire it, and I love you unchangeably." 
 
 " Then why do I lose my province ? " 
 
 "Because your character has become incapable of 
 governing it rightly. It is weak and loose. Your 
 strength is eaten away— your rule would be bad. 
 If you indeed repent, you may recover much, and I 
 may yet give you service to do for me ; but the 
 kingdom I had meant for you must be given to 
 another." 
 
 The second prince now came forward and received 
 his father's kiss. His face was handsome and eager, 
 but somewhat hard and crafty. He met his father's 
 gaze with confidence, and the thought in his mind 
 was, "My brother's province will surely be given to 
 me as well as my own." 
 
 " Bertram," said the king, " I cannot make you a 
 ruler. You have been diligent and self-denying, but 
 you have been nearly consumed with ambition and 
 
248 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 hatred and envy. You have served yourself only. 
 You do not love your people, or care for their 
 welfare. You only care to be great yourself. You 
 have continually been jealous of your comrades, and 
 tried to injure them by word and deed. Great kings 
 are not made of that material. I study your reports, 
 and I find the same faults on every page, poisoning 
 all your work : you, too, must be put back for fresh 
 training and discipline." 
 
 " It is unfair and unjust," said Prince Bertram, 
 hotly. But all the time he knew well that his 
 father could not be unfair, and could not be unjust. 
 Yet he turned away, and refused to look at the love 
 in his father's face. 
 
 Very mournfully the king turned as his third 
 son approached with a bright smile and an air of 
 courtly grace. But after the king had greeted him, 
 he looked once more into the record and sighed 
 deeply. 
 
 "Rupert," he said, ""your idleness has ruined you, 
 as you well know. No kingdom can be yours. You 
 have neglected your education — you have shirked 
 your work — you have fed mind and body on pleasant, 
 noxious food — you have frittered away all your 
 opportunities, and made yourself into a useless man." 
 
 " Oh, my son, my son ! why have you thus dis- 
 appointed the father who loved you so well ; and 
 who hoped so much from you ? " 
 
 The prince burst into tears of shame and sorrow, 
 and flung himself on his father's breast. 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 249 
 
 " Forgive me, father, he cried, " I will be different, 
 I have been a fool." 
 
 The old king wept with his son, but no thought 
 of mere indulgence ever entered his mind. Prince 
 Rupert never received a kingdom. 
 
 The youngest son. Prince Ronald, now stood be- 
 fore his father. His frame was active and well 
 drilled, his eye was clear and frank, his mouth was 
 sweet and firm. 
 
 " Ronald," said the king, " you alone of my four 
 sons are fit to rule. You have duly used the train- 
 ing that has been given you. Your life has been 
 pure, your heart has been right, your work has ])een 
 good. Rule in your province." 
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 God, Who through Jesus Christ has made me His 
 child, and given me forgiveness of sins, and eternal 
 life, has placed me here to grow into the likeness of 
 my Lord. May I obey Him faithfully, ever choosing 
 the good and denying the evil — steadfast in the fight 
 and joyful in tribulation, that so I may be a vessel 
 fitted for any service to which He may hereafter 
 call me. For day by day I am making my own 
 character and fixing my future. 
 
 No. 2.— A MOST DREADFUL SURPRISE. 
 
 A religious lady, Mrs. Woi'sfall, was very much 
 worried with all her good works. She used to 
 complain to her husband that she had so many dis- 
 appointments in people. 
 
250 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 He and her friends used to keep saying, " You do 
 too much. You will kill yourself with overwork. 
 You give away too liberally. People impose on your 
 generosity." 
 
 And she really sometimes hoped that their estimate 
 was true. Her self-denial, however, did not go very 
 deep, for her means were large, and it was pleasant 
 to benetit poor people, and to l)e thanked by them. 
 And it was a change. It quieted her conscience, 
 and was something to think about. 
 
 One day she was dissatisfied with a very good 
 Mission woman whom she employed. 
 
 " I really cannot afford to keep you any longer. 
 Miss Jonson," she said, " I have so many calls ; and 
 I must say that I do not think you have worked as 
 hard as you might have done. I will give you a 
 guinea as a present, but I shall not require your 
 services any longer. I am sure I hope you have 
 done some good, but I seem to find nothing but 
 failures and ingratitude among the poor." 
 
 Poor Miss Jonson burst into tears and said, " Oh, 
 ma'am, you are so kind and good. What shall I do, 
 and what will the poor people do ? Think of that 
 poor old Mrs. Stone, for instance : she has nothing 
 to live on except the 5/- a week you so kindly allow 
 her through me. Do reconsider the matter." 
 
 " It is impossible, I assure you. Miss Jonson," said 
 Mrs. Worsfall. " I have been talking the matter over 
 with Canon Price, and he strongly advises me not 
 to do so much. The work is killing me." 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 251 
 
 So Miss Jonson had to go off with a heavy heart, 
 and her late employer settled herself for a nap be- 
 fore dinner. 
 
 In her sleep a kind of deathly sickness came over 
 her, and she thought that she actually died. 
 
 She seemed to wake up in the next world with a 
 <lismal chill. 
 
 The scantiest and dirtiest of garments covered her, 
 instead of ample silk and costly fur. 
 
 The place was a ])arren wilderness, with grey 
 driving clouds overhead. 
 
 She felt an impulse to rise into the air, but a 
 dead weight kept her down. 
 
 A lean, wretched-looking ghost with chattering 
 teeth approached her, greeting her with a kind of 
 servile politeness. It was the elegant Canon Price, 
 who had advised her not to be so self-denying. 
 
 " We seem to be paired off together here," he said, 
 and he repeated this speech three times in a be- 
 numbed sort of way. Then he added, "And here 
 comes another." 
 
 An extremely offensive and canting tradesman, who 
 had once cheated Mrs. Worsfall about some blankets 
 for the poor, now joined them. His familiarity in 
 claiming their acquaintance as equals was very dis- 
 agreeable. 
 
 " It seems kind o' singular that we should meet 
 so," he said cordially. And he evidently recognised 
 the fact that they had reached a place where virtues 
 and not social distinctions were recognised. 
 
252 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 It was a most uncomfortable meeting. The trades- 
 man had never thought well of Mrs. Worsfall, or 
 Canon Price, or himself either, so it was no shock 
 to him to find that they were all three classed 
 together. 
 
 But the Canon was a very sensitive man, and 
 suffered intensely while he wildly tried to measure 
 the merits of his life and his eloquence, and to com- 
 pare them with the coarse good nature which was 
 the tradesman's only virtue. Mrs. Worsfall was 
 swelling with anger, l^ut realised that anger was per- 
 fectly impotent, and that a power had measured them 
 all which was as accurate as the law of gravitation, 
 and as unassailable. 
 
 Suddenly two figures appeared hand-in-hand, and 
 clad in robes of soft and brilliant light. Both per- 
 sons were of great beauty, and their presence seemed 
 to diffuse warmth and hope. 
 
 They drew near to Mrs. Worsfall and fixed their 
 eyes on her with astonishment. 
 
 They were Miss Jonson and Mrs. Stone. 
 
 It was dreadfully mortifying to see the old pauper 
 and the humble Mission woman suddenly changed, 
 as it were, into two queens, while she, their late 
 benefactor, stood bereft of everything before them. 
 
 But they looked so humbly and so wonderingly at 
 her that tears sprang to her eyes, and in a broken 
 voice she said, " Pray, pray, help me. Remember 
 how I helped you." 
 
 The two pairs of beautiful eyes beamed lovingly 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 253 
 
 upon her. Miss Jonson said, "We do remember it," 
 and at the same time she took Mrs. W.'s hand. But 
 a movement which she tried to repress showed that 
 the contact was unexpectedly painful to her. 
 
 " May we help her ? " said Mrs. Stone pleadingly ; 
 and Mrs. Worsfall was aware of an angel's grave 
 attention being fastened on her. 
 
 After a pause he said. " Yes, you will both help 
 her as much as you can : but it cannot be very 
 much because she is so earth-bound. Scarcely any 
 of her work has abode the fire. Self-indulgence and 
 selfishness have spoiled nearly all. There were a 
 few grains of kindness and pity. But none without 
 holiness shall see the Lord." 
 
 A timid knock at the door sounded at this moment, 
 and Mrs. Worsfall awoke. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am, I am truly sorry for 
 my carelessness, but I left my umbrella l^ehind me," 
 said poor Miss Jonson, coming in. She recovered 
 her very shabby piece of property, and was hastily 
 withdrawing. 
 
 " Stop, stop, cried Mrs. Worsfall, and she looked 
 with rapture on the plain, mild, sad face, disfigured 
 by smallpox. 
 
 '" Forgive me. Miss Jonson. I have changed mj' 
 mind. Do not leave your work. God, I am a 
 sinner ! " 
 
 And she wept. 
 
254 THE ISSUES or death. 
 
 No. 3.— A LIKELY STORY. 
 
 My first ten years in business were prosperous. 
 Then my partner, Tom Nevis, died, and I felt his 
 loss severely. We were both young fellows, and of 
 the same mind about most things. Tom was a good 
 fellow, strictly honourable in business, seldom drank 
 to excess, and never led astray a pure woman. He 
 enjoyed life, and was universally liked and respected. 
 He made no profession of religion, indeed, we l:)oth 
 disliked and distrusted " sanctified " people. We had 
 both come across hypocrites — by which I mean men 
 who we believed got money advantages out of theii' 
 religious profession, and acted meanly or dishonour- 
 ably towards others on certain occasions. No dou])t 
 there are sincere religious people in the world, l)ut it 
 suited us to fight shy of them, and to rest satisfied 
 with pleasure, prosperity, and straightforward living. 
 
 It made a great blank for me when Tom died of 
 scarlet fever, and m^^ mind turned for the first time 
 with interest to the consideration of the next life. I 
 often said that Tom had as good a chance of heaven 
 as many who made a great profession of religion. 
 
 One night I dreamed a dream that seemed so real 
 that I have never felt sure that it was a dream. 
 
 Tom stood by my bedside and called me by my 
 name, " Jack." I wondered that he should be so 
 like his old self, but his face looked dull and l)e- 
 wildered, and his figure was shadowy, though dressed 
 in his usual clothes. 
 
 " Tom, are you in heaven ? " I said, in a sort of 
 gasping whisper. 
 
THE ISStJES OF DEATH. 255 
 
 " I don't think I am," he answered slowly, " but 
 there is not much of me left to be anywhere. I feel 
 as if the least thing would blow me out. It was all 
 business and pleasure while I lived, and when I left 
 my body I found there was only a wisp of me left. 
 Foi- there is no pleasure or business to live on here. 
 There is no such thing as cash, or food, or drink, 
 and no pleasure for the body, because there are no 
 bodies. It is all dark and deadly dull. I don't 
 know what to be at. As far as I can make out, what 
 happens when men die is that they get out of their 
 bodies, and if the soul has lived for pleasure and 
 ambition, it has nothing to fall back on when it is 
 away from the body. It is just what I might have 
 expected, if I had thought about it. If I had lived 
 for the kingdom of God, and worked for the good 
 of others instead of my own pleasures and profit, 
 then I should have plenty of life now. But I let 
 religion alone, and now it lets me alone, and I am 
 just a withered soul and nothing mere. I wanted 
 to tell you this, and that is why I am here." 
 " Is there any hope for you, Tom .^ " a 
 
 " I don't know. I scarcely feel anything. But if 
 there is hope I think it is because I feel a kind of 
 ache sometimes w^hen I remember Christ's words, ' So 
 is he that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not 
 rich towards God. For a man's life consisteth not in 
 the abundance of things which he possesseth.' I tell 
 you what. Jack, I am reaping exactly what I sowed 
 — neither more nor less. And so it is with every- 
 one. I am better off than some. All here find 
 
256 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 themselves exactly what they made themselves, re- 
 member that. I have nothing else to say, and 
 nothing else to think about." 
 
 Then he slowly faded out, and whether I was 
 awake or asleep, I don't know. 
 
 No. 4.— ALEXANDER BUTTS. 
 
 " A melancholy occurrence took place last Tuesday 
 at Beechton. A wedding party had come down to 
 spend the day at the seaside, and one of them, Mr. 
 Herbert Alspice, went after dinner with two friends 
 to bathe. He was reckoned a good swimmer, and he 
 swam out towards St. Mary's Island. He had nearly 
 reached it, when he was taken by the cramp, and 
 called out that he was drowning. The bride's brother, 
 Ml-. Alexander Butts, rescued him, and they both 
 reached the island in safety. But in returning to 
 the main land Mr. Butts was himself swept away by 
 the current, and his body was not recovered for 
 some hours." 
 
 The above notice in a local paper created a strong 
 feeling in the neighbourhood. The young man, 
 Alexander Butts, was liked and respected by all who 
 knew him. He was not much of a talker, but he 
 was a good workman, and a good son, and he had 
 often done a good turn to others who were not so 
 well off as himself. 
 
 He was a fine, healthy young fellow, and many 
 tears were shed over his body. 
 
 Hundreds of people attended his funeral, and a 
 subscription was made for his bereaved mother. 
 
THE ISStTES OF DEATH. 257 
 
 Six years after, she gave to a clergyman the follow- 
 ing paper, which she had found in the pocket of the 
 coat he had stripped off before he swam out to save 
 his friend. He appeared to have written it some 
 time before, and to have kept it in his pocket-book 
 ever since : — 
 
 " I want to put down on paper a trouble that is 
 in my mind. I don't think I am living my life 
 rightly. I do my work, and I enjoy myself some- 
 times, and I get on all right with folks. But some 
 day I know I shall die, and I believe that my soul 
 will live after I die, and I don't feel as if my life 
 was any preparation for what comes after I die. 
 Sometimes I have even hoped there is no life after 
 death. But I know the»'e is, and I believe I have 
 only got this world's life in me — pleasure and sin, 
 and trouble and work. These things take up all my 
 time, and they all come to an end when I die. 
 I believe there is a God, and I want to live God's 
 life, so that there shall be something left when my 
 body dies. I know that some men live God's life, 
 and everything they do is done for God and for His 
 Kingdom, and that that is how Christ lived. All 
 He did was good, and it brought forth fruit and lasts 
 for ever. I feel very down-hearted to think that I 
 have lived for myself and for this world. For no- 
 thing but God's Kingdom is worth living for. In 
 future, before everything else, I mean to belong to 
 God. And may he now forgive me the past. And 
 may Christ now come into me and be my life. 
 
 Alexander Butts." 
 
258 The issues of bEAtn. 
 
 His mother did not know how long before his 
 death he had written this paper, but she had noticed 
 for some time that he used to get up very early in 
 the morning, and she felt sure he did it for prayer 
 and reading his Bible. And though he said little, 
 all could see that his life was a godly life. On his 
 gravestone there is this inscription : — 
 
 In Memory of my Son, 
 ALEXANDER BUTTS, ' 
 
 Who died on the cSth Aug., 1880. 
 
 He prayed to God to save him, and He saved him. 
 He had begun to spend his life on earth for Christ. 
 
 No. 5— THE MIRROR. 
 
 In our characters each sin breeds its measure of 
 death : each good act results in increased divine life. 
 And I have often wondered if after all people may 
 not be pretty nearly left alone to find their after 
 state. I am sure Satan would not choose a place on 
 the right hand of Christ. Sensual, self-indulgent 
 men complain at such a fate as hell being theirs, 
 but would they prefer heaven ? I doubt it. Here 
 they avoid good places, because they find them in- 
 tolerable, or dull, or tasteless. Kabelais would not 
 enjoy the society of Henry Marty n. The Herods of 
 this world may have something good in them which 
 for a time makes them seek the company of the 
 John the Baptists, but they end by making away 
 with them if they can. Mercy and justice appoint a 
 
The issues oi' Death. 259 
 
 hell for such people. Darkness and fire and worms 
 have their place. 
 
 Not long ago, on a Sunday morning, I walked 
 home after church with young Brown. He hates 
 going to church, but is obliged to obey the family 
 rule, and he expressed his views about the sermon 
 with his usual frankness. He said : — 
 
 "What do I care for spiritual rewards? I do not 
 pretend to take any special interest in religion. I 
 have no desire to sit in ' heavenly places.' How 
 could I talk to Apostles and Prophets and Martyrs ? 
 We should only bore each other. After I die I 
 should like to have my own set of friends about me, 
 and of course I should want sufficient food and 
 clothing, and a certain amount of pleasure. That is 
 what I should like." 
 
 I asked him what sort of pleasure he expected to 
 enjoy when he was deprived of his body, for the 
 only certain thing about his after-state was that he 
 would have no body. 
 
 To this question he made no reply. 
 
 Surely it stands true that we shall by-and-bye reap 
 what we sow. We shall all get what we deserve. 
 The Eternal God is fair to everyone. He will do us 
 full justice. He will take all things into account, and 
 we shall receive our reward accordingly. 
 
 If we are trying only to get worldly pleasure, men's 
 praise, or money, we can scarcely expect that we 
 shall be rich in the kingdom of God, where such 
 things count for nothing. Every day the character 
 
260 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 is being made unfit for the delights of heaven. If 
 we are sowing sinful pleasure, dishonesty, impurity, 
 unkindness, hatred or selfishness, we shall surely reap 
 death and corruption, for all these things perish with 
 the using. 
 
 But sorrow for sin is the seed of comfort. 
 
 Hunger for righteousness is the seed of goodness. 
 
 Meekness is the seed of power. 
 
 To work and suffer for others is the seed of gladness. 
 
 Faith is the seed of heavenly possession. 
 
 Are we satisfied with our prospect ? 
 
 The worst punishment of sin would be extinction 
 of spiritual life. All the plans by which go(xl and 
 bad people think to elude the consequences of their 
 sin and to gain undeserved rewards are futile. What 
 looks to human eyes like reward is often only a fur- 
 ther progress towards death. This is as inevitable as 
 the law of mathematics, for God is not fair from 
 sentiment, but fair as a pair of scales is fair. If the 
 lead in one scale is a grain heavier than the gold in 
 the other, down it goes. 
 
 If we could now see ourselves and our actions so 
 weighed what incredulity and expostulation there 
 would be I What excuses ! What pleadings for the 
 merits of a good deed to be taken more fully into 
 account I How many different circumstances should 
 be considered before justice could be done us I 
 
 It might be a long time, I think, before the abso- 
 lute inviolability of God's fairness would be recog- 
 nized. For poor souls, for their supposed advantage, 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 261 
 
 hold such queer doctrince about God and themselves. 
 But blessed be God, He is not only the Truth, but 
 He is also Love, and He has Almighty Power. So 
 we may well praise Him and be glad. No doul^t 
 there are many kind quiet humble people who will 
 be astonished at the richness of their heavenly treasure. 
 
 "I saw two angels standing at the golden gates, 
 whose faces were unchangeably full of love. I heard 
 them sing the 107th Psalm, and I saw how their 
 hearts praised God for the blessed work of bringing 
 low and lifting up. Between them they held a 
 crystal mirror, and each disembodied soul saw its 
 image in it as it came up to the portals. After look- 
 ing therein, it understood what place it could occupy 
 in the kingdom of heaven, which lay beyond the 
 gates, in sweet and infinite stretches of landscape. 
 The shock was often very great, but the glass was so 
 evidently true that no soul could long be in doubt 
 as to its accuracy. Therefore it was onlj^ a question 
 of looking long enough. And meanwhile they were 
 not without comfort, for there was a sense of Divine 
 tenderness aiid love everywhere. 
 
 One man came up confident that a great sphere 
 would be his in the kingdom of heaven, and pre- 
 pared to contest the point strongly if it were denied 
 him. He had been active and pushing and success- 
 ful. He had done a great work and had a great 
 name (whether religious, political, or philanthropic 
 I do not know). His character had never been 
 
262 THE ISStJES OF DEATH. 
 
 aspersed. He did not, at first, look at the mirror, for 
 liis eyes were fixed on the fair country beyond, and 
 especially on ten glittering cities which lay among 
 some blue hills in the distance. 
 
 ' May I be ruler over those ten cities ? ' said he. 
 'I think I could do it well.' 
 
 ' Every one may take any reward and any work 
 that he chooses after he has looked in this mirror,' 
 said the angel. ' It shows you your real self and 
 your life, and it gives you any information that you 
 need about either. You have now got the faculty 
 of judging yourself truly.' 
 
 The man turned his eyes and saw his reflection in 
 the glass. At first he was motionless and dumb with 
 astonishment. Then he seemed slowly to shrivel be- 
 fore the sight. 
 
 ' Had I no more love in me than that ? ' he said 
 at last in a whisper. ' I thought I was full of it I 
 Was it all activity and push that I mistook for it ? 
 Is my sympathy so blunted as that ? Is my sense of 
 rectitude so dulled ? Was I always so, or how did it 
 come about ? ' 
 
 In answer to these questions new revelations of the 
 man's life were manifested in the glass. He saw how 
 in years gone by he had, in the press of life and 
 work, allowed himself to use words and phrases that 
 were beyond his experience and his belief, and he 
 saw how each time he did so the keen edge of truth- 
 fulness was more and more destroyed. Routine had 
 been allowed to blunt his best faculties. He saw how 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 263 
 
 the hurry and press of his work left him no time 
 for self-examination, or for tenderness and thought 
 about those in his path who should have been lovingly 
 succoured. The image he saw reflected looked strong 
 indeed, but it was a wooden strength. There was a 
 long pause. 
 
 ' My life has been wasted ! ' he said at last. 
 
 ' Not so,' said the angel, whose eyes were turned 
 kindly on him. ' Not so : but you will not wish to 
 be ruler over the ten cities, will you ? ' 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' said the man ; ' I am fit for no- 
 thing in the Kingdom, and will only hide my head 
 there.' 
 
 ' Trust yourself then, to your Father and your 
 Saviour,' said the angel, and already an inner light 
 shone in the man's face. 'Those ten cities will be 
 given to the man for whom they are prepared — 
 here he comes ! ' 
 
 ' It is my old clerk ! ' said the other in astonish- 
 ment : ' the man I rescued from misery. Is he to 
 rule over those ten cities ? ' 
 
 'If you look at his image in the glass you will see 
 how exactly fitted he is to do so,' said the angel. 
 ' He has been faithful over a few things : perfectly 
 truthful, consistently kind, always humble, denying 
 himself pleasure for Christ's sake. Look at his life 
 and you will see that, though it used to look narrow 
 and monotonous, yet it has had results which reach 
 far and wide. It was his unconscious influence which 
 turned your cousin into a great worker for God : it 
 
264 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 was through him that you were induced to begin 
 your best piece of work. You got the credit, l)ut it 
 was his thought, and he bore the brunt of it. You 
 were kind to him and helped him, though you 
 thought cheaply of him. He will now gratefully re- 
 pay your kindness tenfold. But in all things 3'ou 
 must submit yourself to him, for he is far in advance 
 of you in all ways, except in fixity of purpose : there 
 you can help him.' 
 
 Tlie two men passed through the gates together." 
 
 No. 6.— ENTERING MAIMED. 
 
 IS IT POSSIBLE ? 
 
 It was twilight — a twilight that scarcely ever varied, 
 though Mirvel thought that the light in the east was 
 a little stronger than it was when he had first 
 entered Hades. 
 
 The wonder and shock had been great when he 
 had first found himself in mist and loneliness instead 
 of ecstasy and triumph. 
 
 A terrible fear — almost like despair — had gnawed 
 at his heart. But that had soon been dispelled. 
 Hope and faith now held their places, and the pre- 
 sence of God was known and felt. 
 
 The great disappointment was at finding himself 
 so unaltered — so unable still to reach the heavenly 
 standard. 
 
 He had formerly lived a busy life, and had boasted 
 of it somewhat unnecessarily. Here there was leisure 
 — leisure to think, to regret, to blush. 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 265 
 
 Many eulogiums had been passed on him by his 
 family, his friends, and his acquaintances. Besides 
 being active and useful, he had been sincerely re- 
 ligious, and more unselfish than most men. It is 
 something to have lived without committing any 
 heinous sin, and it is better still to have fairly earned 
 the reputation of being a good man. Even in Hades 
 he knew that he had much to be thankful for. 
 
 He had now got used to his new conditions, and 
 life, though sad, was not unbearable. Repenting at 
 leisure is a wholesome and good thing. What a pity 
 that we so seldom allow ourselves time for it here ! 
 
 Though generally shut out from companionship, 
 Mirvel was not entirely alone. At times he could 
 converse— as the rich man in the parable did — with 
 spirits who had left their earthly life purer and 
 holier than himself. When their voices came back 
 to him they were sweet and friendly, though some- 
 what preoccupied, as if new conditions claimed their 
 attention. 
 
 Often he called to his wife, and often she answered 
 back through the mist, and he felt a degree of 
 warmth and strength from her personality. On earth 
 she had been his willing slave, and had obeyed his 
 slightest whim. Now she was no longer at his beck 
 and call. Love, pity and kindness were all apparent, 
 but the earthly tie was altered, and he had no power 
 to command her full attention. 
 
 He accepted these new conditions with sad resigna- 
 tion. It never occurred to him to question their 
 justice. 
 
266 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 A boy of his who had died almost in infancy also 
 spoke back to him. His had been a pure young soul, 
 innocent and almost unspotted by sin. Both mother 
 and son spoke quiet words of patience, hope, and 
 trust in God. Sometimes petitions from the Lord's 
 Prayer came back to him- with power and blessing. 
 No reproach was ever uttered. All the reproaches — 
 and they were many — arose from within. The subtle 
 self-pleasing of his former life was now as plain as 
 pebbles at the l^ottom of a clear pool. 
 
 Every forbidden thought was remembered, and 
 lamented over, every deed of kindness that he had 
 left undone, every harsh word, every resentful thought. 
 And there was much wondering gratitude in his 
 heart at God's watchful guarding him fi'om tempta- 
 tions and dangers into which he now saw he would 
 easily have fallen. 
 
 "What had been grievances were now recognised as 
 wasted opportunities for growth in God's grace. He 
 felt no anger against even malignant enemies, for it 
 had become plain that all their injuries ought to have 
 been received with thankfulness, as the very best 
 and most advantageous things that could happen to 
 him. 
 
 Sickness, loss of money, bodily pain, and wounded 
 reputation, ought to have all helped him forward in 
 his journey to the place of heavenly riches. 
 
 Would St. Paul have a grudge against Nero who 
 got him his martyr's crown ? Or David against 
 Absalom who brought him to the depth of humilia- 
 tion which his soul needed ? 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 267 
 
 Other voices reached Mirvel besides the happy ones 
 in front. From behind him there often sounded sad 
 grating accents that he recognised only too well. 
 His partner in business had been a man of powerful 
 imperious character, selfish, unprincipled, and un- 
 scrupulous. He had been a tyrant and a curse to 
 Mirvel in a hundred ways, and had ruthlessly dam- 
 aged and wounded him. Now his voice was feeble 
 and dreadful, pleading passionately for help out of 
 darkness and pain. The old contempt which had so 
 often galled Mirvel was gone, and so also was the 
 cheap, transparent flattery which had sometimes been 
 employed. Apparently he knew no one else to whom 
 he could appeal for succour in Hades. His friends, 
 except Mirvel, had been low and bad. He had 
 affected to despise goodness, but his abject misery 
 was now slowly teaching him lessons that he had 
 formerly scorned. 
 
 A most malicious woman, who had caused Mirvel 
 much anguish by her false and abominable accusa- 
 tions, also cried out to him for help. • 
 
 Mirvel had the will to help them both, for pity 
 instead of bitterness was in his heart. He answered 
 back to them in a half frightened voice, saying the 
 best that he knew how to say, but deprecating his 
 power to help. He had forgiven their trespasses as 
 truly as God had forgiven, his, and doubtless what 
 he said was blessed and useful to these poor wretches. 
 But he had not the comfort of knowing it. 
 
 How welcome, after their selfish despairing cries, 
 T 
 
268 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 was the placid voice of his old Nurse, who often 
 talked with him. She was a faithful, dear old woman 
 whom he had pensioned and been kind to. She had 
 formerly been rather a tiresome bore to him, and her 
 death had not caused him much regret. But now it 
 was she who comforted and benefited Mm with her 
 simple, firm faith in God, and her tone of affection- 
 ate loyalty to himself. 
 
 Altogether this new life was strangely unlike what 
 he had expected. 
 
 Hope and faith and love were all present. There 
 was a little spring of peace that flowed steadily. He 
 was learning patience and humility, and he was 
 absolutely convinced of both the fairness and the love 
 of God. No doubt of salvation through Jesus Christ 
 ever clouded his mind. 
 
 But the gradual work of sanctification in his soul 
 was slow, and for the present his predominant feel- 
 ings were sorrow, shame, and regret. 
 
 He had entered into life maimed, and he knew 
 that it was entirely by his own fault. He was but 
 reaping what he had sown, and his heart ached, even 
 while he thanked God. He willingly accepted the 
 experiences which lay in his upward path. But they 
 were sometimes very painful. 
 
 After he had been in Hades for some considerable 
 time, he came one day to a large gloomy-looking 
 mansion. On entering he was astonished to find that 
 it was tenanted by a number of his former acquaint- 
 ances. They were sitting there apparently idle and 
 
THE ISSUES OP DEATH. 269 
 
 objectless. As he entered they looked fixedly at him, 
 and it was noticeable that the expression of their 
 faces was either cold, angry, or reproachful. When 
 he greeted them, they with one accord repelled him, 
 some of them gently, because they were gentle people ; 
 some of them rudely. His cousin, Herbert Briarley, 
 at once rose and approached him, looking steadily at 
 him, and with a most hostile expression. Mirvel's 
 first instinct, strange to say, was almost to cringe, for 
 the united disapproval of all these people was almost 
 more than he could bear. But he rallied. 
 
 " Why do you look at me like this ? What have 
 you got against me ? " he said. 
 
 " I do not know by what law of this place you 
 come here," said his cousin, "for you have somehow 
 contrived to get that which you see that all of us 
 are destitute of. If you came to taunt us you can 
 scarcely expect us to be glad to see you. Formerly, 
 we all made you welcome to our houses. If you 
 knew how to benefit yourself^ you might have told 
 us^ I think. But we have done with each other now, 
 and I see no object in your being here to exult over 
 your old friends." 
 
 " I am not here to exult over you," replied Mirvel 
 humbly, ^' I am continually suffering the pangs of 
 self-reproach. But what do you blame me for ? You 
 had the same opportunity that I had of receiving the 
 divine gift, and of living the divine life. Was it my 
 part to believe that you were godless and lifeless ? 
 I always hoped that you had more religion in you 
 than you chose to let appear." 
 
270 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 "Then you were wrong, and if you had had the 
 kindness and friendliness to tell us straight what you 
 had and we had not, we should probably have listened 
 and obtained it." 
 
 "Whenever I approached the subject with you, I 
 met with a rebuff, as you very well know," said 
 Mirvel. 
 
 " I think you were very selfish to let a rebuff stop 
 you in such a matter," said Briarley. "However, we 
 speak the truth here and I thank you for anything 
 you did, or tried to do. It certainly was unavailing. 
 We do not dispute the justice of our being here, but 
 we helped you to many pleasures of society, and we 
 think you might have done a little more for us." 
 
 " Why do you talk like that, Herbert ? " said his 
 brother, who stood listening by his side. " Can we 
 not learn that only we ourselves are to blame ? It is 
 all fair. How could we expect anything different ? 
 Did any of us ever really think that we were laying 
 up treasure in heaven ? Certainly not. We did what 
 was pleasant, and what we liked doing. We neglected 
 religion, and we did not really believe in our excuses 
 for neglecting it. We lived for ends that were ex- 
 clusively earthly. If we did not consider the matter 
 more carefully, it was because we did not care to do 
 so. Nobody is to blame but ourselves. We took our 
 chance for the future, always hoping that, somehow 
 or other, we should pull through. But we have not 
 pulled through. Mirvel may have been wrong, and 
 
 is suffering for it, for he might have been kinder 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 271 
 
 and more unselfish. But as for us it is our own 
 fault that we are here." 
 
 This straightforward speech, slowly and deliberately 
 spoken, sent new reproaches into Mirvel's heart. 
 Herbert's wife, a poor mean-spirited woman, stood 
 by, and wept plentifully. She regarded Mirvel with 
 aversion and anger, while she peevishly and miser- 
 ably reproached him. He would have despised her 
 if pity and self-reproach had not made it impossible 
 for him to do so. 
 
 He regarded them all three, and stammered, " Is 
 there no hope for you through Christ ? " All fixed 
 their eyes eagerly on him, but they were tongue-tied 
 and answered nothing. But out of his sore humilia- 
 tion and poignant self-reproach, a prayer arose in his 
 heart for the poor dark souls he was leaving behind. 
 He pondered over the words, " a ransom for all to 
 be testified in due time." 
 
 No. 7.— THE EVENING PRIMROSE. - 
 
 In the Pall Mall Gazette of the 7th of August, 
 1806, an ardent lover of flowers described the beauty 
 of a large white evening primrose, which grew in 
 his garden. As the twilight advanced, the flower 
 always opened its shining petals to their widest ex- 
 tent and seemed to stretch itself to its tallest on its 
 slender stem. 
 
 There was a reason for its making itself as con- 
 spicuous as possible, for its only hope of propagation 
 lay in attracting to it a moth, which, when it came 
 
272 THE ISStJES OF DEATH. 
 
 to seek for honey, fertilized the flower, and thus 
 secured to it the seed which meant life next spring. 
 
 In proportion to this laying itself out for the fer- 
 tilizing moth lay the flower's chance of resurrection. 
 If its blossoms were hidden under leaves and half 
 folded up, it would escape notice in the dimness and 
 darkness of the night. So it did its very best. 
 
 Surely this is a figure of the natural and the spiritual 
 life. To all the gift of salvation is ofi'ered, but there 
 are conditions. And are there not, alas ! many who 
 do not fulfil these conditions ? 
 
 We may well believe that God is not indifferent to 
 all the energy, and cleverness, and steadfastness that 
 is spent on making the world progress on its present 
 dispensational lines. But there is more for us to care 
 for than food, raiment, and pleasure. These things 
 perish with the using. 
 
 If the evening primrose is to have a resurrection, 
 it must have a seed that shall remain when its 
 lovely petals have fallen. 
 
 And so too with us. We must seek the invisible, 
 if we are to enter into the Kingdom of God. 
 
 No. 8.— BAD TASTE. 
 
 A very disagreeable thing had happened. A large 
 party was staying at a country house. Some friends 
 from a little distance had come to lunch, and among 
 them was a gentleman who had taken occasion, from 
 something that had been said, to speak in a marked 
 and pointed manner of religion. Everybody got red ; 
 
THE ISStJES OF DEATH. 273 
 
 several people felt his remarks to be exceedingly 
 unpleasant and in very bad taste. There was a dead 
 pause after he had spoken ; then the hostess did the 
 best she could, trying to speak with reverence of 
 sacred things while she warded off the ill-chosen 
 subject, and the party separated with altogether a 
 very uncomfortable feeling. 
 
 Among them was a lady, Mrs. Fane, who, some- 
 how, felt stung by what had happened. She walked 
 up and down the terrace alone, and the following 
 dialogue took place between herself and her con- 
 science : — 
 
 " How impertinent it was of Major Day to speak 
 as he did ! What bad taste ! Can he not learn that 
 there is a time for everything ? " 
 
 Her conscience : "You know you ought to talk 
 the same way more often than you do." 
 
 " I know nothing of the kind. I don't believe in 
 all this talk. You can't talk people into religion ; a 
 life lived rightly is more effective than sermonizing." 
 
 Her conscience : " Is your life more effective 
 than Major Day's ? " 
 
 "Perhaps not. Of course, I am not as good as I 
 ought to be, but I am sure I should do no good by 
 talking religion to my friends ! " 
 
 Her conscience : " The reason that you do not 
 talk religion to them is not because you don't think 
 it will do them any good, but because you know 
 they will like you less if you do it, or that very 
 likely they won't like you at all." 
 
274 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 " I can't sermonize them." 
 
 Her conscience : " You can let them know that 
 Christ is yom- Saviour, and that He desires to be 
 theirs." 
 
 "They know that abeady." 
 
 Her conscience : " No, they do not ; and they 
 will certainly never learn it from anything that your 
 life teaches them. They have only a vague idea that 
 you are rather more religious than they are — that 
 is all. You get your own salvation and a certain 
 amount of comfort from your religion, you give away 
 a small proportion of your means to religious objects, 
 you abstain from gross worldliness, for which you 
 have lost your taste, you praise certain clergymen 
 and other good people— that is all. For the rest, you 
 enjoy yourself as much as you can." 
 
 " Christ did not force religious conversation." 
 
 Her CONSCIENCE: "That is not true; He did so 
 continually. You talk of your life as a power. What 
 effect has it on your husband ? Does he see that in 
 you which draws him to Christ ? What effect has it 
 on your servants and on your children ? Do they 
 believe in your religion ? No." 
 
 Mrs. Fane would perhaps have gone on talking 
 with her conscience some time longer, but she was 
 called away at that moment for a promised drive. 
 Everyone was anxious for her company, for she was 
 attractive, good, and pleasant. People said, " Surely 
 hers must be the right sort of religion ! It is never 
 offensive to anyone." 
 
THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 275 
 
 She had, however, been much discomposed by 
 the morning's occurrence, and that night she had a 
 dream. 
 
 She dreamed that she was in heaven. The Day of 
 Judgment was passed, and she found herself saved. 
 Yet, somehow, all was not right. Her heart ached. 
 She walked alone in the golden streets. Though she 
 met groups of happy rejoicing people, she could not, 
 somehow, join herself to them. She began to feel 
 dreadfully home-sick. If only she could have seen 
 one face that she knew I Could this place be heaven, 
 and she feel so wretched in it ? 
 
 She saw an angel near, and went and asked him, 
 " Is this heaven ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I feel very wretched : I want to see someone I 
 know. I seem to belong to no one here. I would 
 give anything to see some of my old friends — my 
 husband or my children, or Frances King, or Anthony 
 Cole, or Lady Maine, or any of them." 
 
 "You will have to go a very long way to see 
 them," said the angel, looking gravely at her, "but 
 I may take you if you wish." 
 
 "I do wish." 
 
 " Close your eyes then." 
 
 She did as she was bidden, and immediately felt 
 herself being transported through some inmiense 
 space. The sense of the brightness and glory of 
 heaven died away, and she came to an atmosphere 
 that seemed to wither her and chill her to the very 
 
276 THE ISSUES OF DEATH. 
 
 marrow. At last her feet rested somewhere. A voice 
 that she knew said, " Catherine ! " and she opened 
 her eyes and met those of her old friend, Frances 
 King. 
 
 " Catherine, may I kiss you ? Will you let me 
 pnt my arms round you ? Do not refuse me." 
 
 " Refuse you, Frances ! " said Catherine, her heart 
 going out to her dear old friend as she opened her 
 arms wide and embraced her. "Why should I re- 
 fuse you ? " 
 
 " Because I am shut out ; because I am lost ! Oh, 
 Catherine, it is my own fault, perhaps, but why 
 didn't you tell me that I might be saved ? Indeed, 
 I should not have laughed at you. We were friends 
 so many years, and you loved me, yet you never 
 told me of my danger, and I never realised it. I 
 knew that you were better than I was, but I never 
 thought there was all this difference between us. Did 
 you know it and not tell me all those times that we 
 were together ? You were almost my only religious 
 friend. But it is something to see you and kiss you 
 once more. Alas ! if I had only had a friend who 
 would have risked something for me ! 
 
 While these words were still ringing in her ears 
 she heard a man's voice behind cursing her, a man 
 whom she had always regarded as a decidedly mean 
 cad. 
 
 " Curse you ! " he said. " A thousand curses light 
 on you, bad woman and false Christian. You shame- 
 fully deceived me, else I should never have been 
 here." 
 
THE ISSUES OP DEATH. 277 
 
 " It is untrue ! " cried Catherine, her indignation 
 getting the better of her horror for a moment. " I 
 never injured you ; you have no right to speak to 
 me like that ! " 
 
 " I have. Do you not remember that day at 
 Hetherley, when Major Day spoke to us at lunch ? 
 I was hard hit by what he said. And don't you re- 
 member how I came to you afterwards, as you were 
 the most religious person there, and don't you re- 
 member what you said ? You said, ' Oh, he's a very 
 good man, but very ill-judging. We can't all be 
 alike. Everybody can't be equally religious in these 
 outward things. It's a pity good people are so dis- 
 agreeable. It would be much better if they would 
 attract people to religion by their goodness, instead 
 of talking in such bad taste. It is not necessary for 
 people to take such tremendous steps and make such 
 great sacrifices.' Then you talked 'goody' to me a 
 little, but you made me feel that, any way, you 
 didn't believe in that violent sort of way of looking 
 at religion, and that it would be all right if I went 
 on pretty much as I was. And I took your cursed 
 advice because I liked it, and here I am." 
 
 Catherine shuddered ; but the next moment, such 
 fearful agony pierced her soul that she woke up 
 screaming, for two voices in that dismal abode cried 
 out together in her ears, " Mother ! " 
 
WHY NOT CONFESS? 
 
 Why should we be so unwilling to confess our faults 
 to one another ? 
 
 A good woman almost never admits that she has 
 done wrong, and a good man very seldom admits it. 
 
 Yet surely it would be all gain and no loss to 
 do so. 
 
 For instance : " I am told," says an angry friend, 
 " that you have laughed at me and told ridiculous 
 stories of me behind my l)ack." Why should I not 
 say in reply, if the truth of the accusation convicts 
 me, " It is all true, alas ! All true. It was hateful 
 of me : how could I do such a thing ? I have never 
 said spiteful things about you, but I admit with 
 shame that I did repeat some ridiculous things about 
 you. But are you so much surprised ? Did you 
 expect me to be a friend without a fault ? " 
 
 After such a confession, could anything happen 
 but forgiveness ? 
 
 " I want to tell you something, Eliza," said John 
 to his wife. " I have been very mean about money. 
 I have no excuse, but I beat down, from the force 
 of habit, that poor woman who was selling mats. 
 She was poor, and I am well off. Why did I grudge 
 her a fair profit ? I despise myself, and I shall go 
 
WHY NOT CONFESS ? 279 
 
 and pay her the difference." How cleansing such a 
 confession would be ! 
 
 " Marian," said Mrs. Martin to her friend, " I have 
 been a snob this year, and you have been very good. 
 I know that I have neglected and snubbed you, my 
 oldest friend. I did not come to your party or ask 
 you to mine. It was all because I was getting into 
 a new set. I detest myself for it. Will you forgive 
 me ? I mean never to do it again, and I value you 
 a thousand times more than I value these new 
 acquaintances. Henceforth I will try and behave 
 sanely." 
 
 A flood of spiritual joy one day took possession of 
 John Marple. One result of it was that he called on 
 a tiresome, poor, good, old second cousin of his, who 
 was continually leading up to receiving help and 
 presents from him. "James," he said, "I have 
 brought you £50 to make you a little more comfort- 
 able. Forgive me that I have been so unresponsive. 
 I know that you are better than I am, and if we 
 both died to-day, you would be the rich man and I 
 should be the poor one. Buy some better tobacco, 
 and ask a friend to dinner sometimes, and go to 
 Brighton for a change." 
 
 " Vicar," said a Curate, " I believe I ought to leave 
 you, and in disgrace. I have tampered with a wrong 
 affection for someone in the congregation. It was 
 partly her fault, but of course it was worse in me. 
 Nobody else knows of it, but I will tell you all, and 
 go^ if you say 'go.' I wish I had told you six 
 
280 WHY NOT CONFESS ? 
 
 weeks ago. I have sinned against you, and her, and 
 the people, and most of all against God, "Whose pro- 
 vidence alone has kept me from a black fall. Forgive 
 me — even if you punish me." 
 
 " Rawlings," said the Vicar, " I blame myself. I 
 have kept you at a distance and been unfriendly 
 l)ecause I was jealous of you. Your youth and 
 pleasantness, and your popular preaching have made 
 me grind my teeth. Stay with us. We will go to- 
 gether to the lady if you will tell me her name, and 
 we will be perfectly frank about the matter." 
 
 They went, and the confession answered well on 
 both sides, and the evil ended. 
 
 A sermon convicted Mrs. Robinson of a fault, and 
 as she left the church she said to her husband, " If 
 I do not confess it now, this moment, I feel I shall 
 never confess it. I have nagged you. You were to 
 blame, but still I ought not to have done it so much. 
 That is as far as I will go." Here she burst into 
 tears, and then went on : " Robert, I will admit that 
 it was almost entirely my fault, but it is very teasing 
 to me when you keep your temper so provokingly." 
 (Here she sobbed.) " No, I will unsay that. I 
 believe it was really and truly my fault. Oh, if 
 you did but know how impossible it is to say what 
 I have said ! " 
 
 " Selina," said Charles, " I know I have been a 
 beast about the dinner. I think I am naturally 
 greedy, and too fond of my food. I wish I had not 
 grumbled yesterday at the fried plaice coming so 
 
WHY NOT CONFESS? 281 
 
 often, and at the weak coffee and the cold stewed 
 cranberries. I will try and do better. And so I am 
 sure will you." 
 
 " Sarah," said her mother-in-law," in future I will 
 try and not be a nuisance, but will let you manage 
 your house and husband and children in your own 
 way, unless it is in matters in which I feel sure I 
 am right. I know I often have interfered when I 
 ought not, and I want now to ask your forgiveness." 
 
 '' Stainforth," wrote a politician, " I wish to apolo- 
 gise to you and say that I won't do it again. I 
 wilfully damaged you unjustly on the two following 
 points : — I have repeatedly called you a humbug, and 
 I believe I was entirely wrong. I have also called 
 you a fool, and there again I was mistaken." 
 
 Thieves, murderers, loose livers, evil speakers, 
 cheats, ill-tempered people, proud people, stingy 
 people, disagreeable people, why not confess your 
 faults and get cleansed and delivered from them ? 
 
 -^<^ 
 
UNWELCOME AUTUMN 
 
 : o :- 
 
 " But let autumn bold 
 With universal tinge of sober gold 
 Be all around me, when I make an end." — Keats. 
 
 Shortening days — the first blossom of the Michael- 
 mas daisy, the first yellowing leaf, the light garments 
 of summer discarded, the first inevitable fire in the 
 sitting-room — who greets willingly these signs that 
 the year is waning ? 
 
 Who does not say " Summer is yet with us. The 
 days are still long enough. Those two or three 
 yellow leaves are but a freak of nature. The warmer 
 garment and the bright fire only mean that one day 
 is apt to be cooler than another. As to the Michaelmas 
 daisies, tiresome gardeners push forward to summer 
 the flowers that belong to autumn. No, it is surely 
 not autumn. 
 
 So we say, and our words pass indulgently with- 
 out contradiction. But for all that, autumn is coming, 
 and soon there will be no doubt about it — a little 
 later or a little sooner, what does it matter — either in 
 nature or in our life ? Expostulations cannot stop 
 
tJNWBLCOME AUTUMN. 283 
 
 it. We may as well face our autumn, and welcome 
 it with a smile. 
 
 For, indeed, autumn deserves a welcome as truly 
 as spring and summer. It brings us fair gifts. Let 
 us not turn away our faces from it or shut our eyes. 
 Let our life's year run its normal course, even if it 
 means decay and dying for some things that were 
 good and beautiful in their time. God's way is best. 
 " In everything give thanks." 
 
 For my part, I think that the melancholy of autumn 
 is as good as the prime of summer. The trees glow 
 with red and russet and gold, and the branches are 
 loaded with fruit. The hills take their grandest 
 purple, and the sunsets are splendid beyond words. 
 What beauty there is in the gathering and circling 
 of the birds for flight ! Are not the late roses and 
 the late lilies as fair as the early ones ? Some of 
 you will like to read Keats' matchless Ode (the last 
 he wrote) to Autumn. 
 
 I. 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfnlness, 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch -eaves run ; 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage -trees, 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core : 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
 With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
 Until they think warm days will never cease. 
 
 For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 
 U 
 
284 UNWELCOME AUTUMK. 
 
 II. 
 
 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store':' 
 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor 
 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
 Or on a half- reap' d furrow sound asleep, 
 
 Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
 Spares the next swathe and all its twined flowers. 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook : 
 
 Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
 
 Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 
 
 ■ 
 
 III. 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
 While barred clouds crown the softly dying day, 
 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue. 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 
 Among the river shallows, borne aloft 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies. 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
 
 Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
 
 The red-breast whistles from a garden croft ; 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 And as to our own individual autumn (for out- 
 ward things are all parables), can we not rejoice in 
 it as truly as in our summer 1 Is there no beauty 
 to be looked for in restful dignity and silvering hair, 
 in well-earned leisure, in gathered power, in mellowed 
 hearts, and in kinder and humbler judgments ? What 
 though the spring of youth with its delightful sur- 
 prises and its quick emotions has gone .^ It is gone, 
 
tJNWELCOME AUTUMN. 285 
 
 and it cannot worthily be retained. We all know 
 how sad it is to see the characteristics of youth 
 vainly imitated in the autumn of life. 
 
 Who loves "falsely brown hair," or cheeks that 
 are pink and white when they ought to be tenderly 
 chastened ? Age has a beauty that sometimes exceeds 
 the beauty of youth. An old olive tree gets exquisite 
 almost in proportion to its antiquity, and indeed all 
 trees are more beautiful when they are old than 
 when they are young— God orders both youth and 
 age. 
 
 To everything there is a time, and we can retain 
 nothing longer than its day. 
 
 So when autumn is come, and when winter is 
 coming, let us be prepared with our welcome for 
 both of them. Let us not quarrel with the lines in 
 our foreheads, with our slower movements, and our 
 more careful expenditure of vital force. It is true 
 that eyes and ears and voice all give signs of wear 
 and tear and are a little past their prime. Some- 
 thing of energy and creative force is gone, and 
 doubtless there is humiliation in all this. But our 
 souls need it and are better for it. 
 
 A certain melancholy comes. But in this world 
 the most beautiful things are touched with sadness, 
 and I have already said that, for my part, I think 
 the tender, wise melancholy of autumn is even a 
 lovelier thing than the hope of spring, and the joy 
 of summer. 
 
286 * UNWELCOME AUTUMN. 
 
 " Though much is taken much abides, and tho' 
 We are not now that strength which in old days 
 Moved earth and heaven, that which we are we are." 
 
 Do you like these following lines ? 
 
 * ' Spring came to me in childhood long ago .... 
 And said, ' Pick violets, they're at thy feet ' ; 
 And I fill'd all my pinafore, and oh, 
 They smelt most sweet ! 
 
 ' * Summer came next, in girlhood long ago, 
 
 And said, ' Pick roses, they are everywhere ' ; 
 And I made garlands out of them, and oh, 
 They were most fair ! 
 
 " Then Autumn came, in womanhood, you know, 
 And said, * Garner the apples, it is late ' ; 
 And I fill'd baskets with their load, and oh, 
 My store was great ! 
 
 *' Last, Winter comes, for Eld has brought its snow. 
 And said, * Sit quiet, shelter'd from the storm ' ; , 
 And I sit in my easy chair, and oh, 
 The hearth, how warm ! 
 
 Spring creates, summer perfects, autumn governs, 
 winter rests. And when Death comes, shall we not 
 welcome him as God's angel, and therefore our angel 
 too ? Would we rather that he delayed his coming 
 till every faculty was gone ? 
 
 Hear the jubilant words of America's great singer. 
 Whitman. 
 
 '* Come, lovely and soothing Death, 
 Undulate round the earth, serenely arriving, arriving, 
 In the day, in the night, to all, to each, 
 Sooner or later, delicate Death. 
 
UNWELCOME AUTUMN. 287 
 
 •* Prais'd be the fathomless universe, 
 For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, 
 And for love, sweet love — but praise I praise ! praise ! 
 For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death. 
 
 "Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet, 
 Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? 
 Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, 
 I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come 
 unfalteringly. 
 
 ''Approach, strong deliveress, 
 When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing 
 
 the dead. 
 Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, 
 Laved in the flood of thy bliss, Death." 
 
 And then, after death come resurrection and a 
 new Divine dispensation. 
 
 Meanwhile is it nothing to have happily lost so 
 much of intoxication with earthly things, to have 
 won a deeper trust in God, to have a growing con- 
 sciousness that the heavenly treasure is more real to 
 us ? Fever, fret, hopes and fears have become less 
 harassing, as age makes earth look fainter and heaven 
 clearer. Those in the autumn of life are perhaps the 
 greatest benefactors to the world. It ought to be 
 the time of victory, and of gracious and effective 
 ministering to others. 
 
 In Van Eyck's picture of the "Worship of the Lamb" 
 — the great consummation — we do not find the green 
 fields of heaven peopled chiefly by boys and girls, 
 but by companies of mature men and women, who 
 have lived and suffered, and fought and won — men 
 
288 UNWELCOME AUTUMN. 
 
 and women who look able to rule, and able to obey, 
 able also to train others for God's service. They 
 have used their office well, and have purchased to 
 themselves a good degree. 
 
 As age advances a delightful unselfish enjoyment 
 of youth comes. We are not young ourselves, but 
 other people are young, and we can enjoy them 
 perhaps better than we ever enjoyed ourselves. Glad- 
 ness, sympathy and help are all in our power to give 
 almost every day, and we may live again with calm 
 brightness in the young lives around us— giving to 
 them some knowledge of how happily a Christian 
 life may draw towards its farewell to earth. 
 
 Let us ponder the following beautiful lines by 
 George Macdonald : — 
 
 '* And weep not, tho' the beautiful decay 
 Within thy heart as daily in thine eyes. 
 Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies 
 Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay. 
 Yet doubt not; beauty doth not pass away. 
 Her soul departs not, tho' her body dies, 
 Waiting the spring's young resurrection day — 
 Through the kind nurture of the winter cold; 
 Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive 
 The summer time when roses were alive. 
 Do thou thy work — be willing to be old, 
 Thy sorrow is the husk that doth enfold 
 A gorgeous June for which thou need'st not strive." 
 
SIR OWEN AND MR. ORME, 
 
 A TALE RE-TOLD. 
 
 ■: o :- 
 
 " Herod feared John, knowing that he was a just 
 man and holy, and observed him. And when he 
 heard him he did many things and heard him gladly. 
 But John said unto Herod, It is not lawful for thee 
 
 to have thy brother's wife And the king was 
 
 exceeding sorry, and he sent an executioner and he 
 beheaded him." 
 
 Manton Court stood on a wooded hill in Berkshire. 
 It was the show place of the neighbourhood, and was 
 celebrated for its gallery of pictures, its lake, and its 
 orchid houses. 
 
 The owner. Sir Owen Trevor, was a bachelor. He 
 was not unpopular in the county, though it was 
 known that his morals were not as pure as they 
 might have been. In London society he held a good 
 position, but in the country there were to be found 
 various old-fashioned people who would not visit him 
 because it was notorious that his relations with a 
 certain Mrs. Fitzjames were wrong. She was a charm- 
 ing person, and as her husband chose to take no 
 public notice of her conduct, she was received in 
 society by persons who, either because their own 
 characters would not bear inspection, or for some 
 other reason, were not scrupulous about such matters. 
 
290 SIR OWEN AND MR. ORME. 
 
 There were people in society who even did that 
 wickedest of wicked things, invite the two to meet 
 at their country houses with the full knowledge of 
 the facts. . It is wonderful what horrible things the 
 desire to be reckoned fashionable is responsible for. 
 
 Dr. Heron, the Vicar of Manton, had known Sir 
 Owen from a boy, and was sincerely attached to him, 
 and valued his many good qualities, — frankness, 
 generosity, and grace of manner being among them. 
 But the intimacy had been shaken by the fact of the 
 scandal, and the Squire was now seldom seen at the 
 Vicarage or at Church. But the Vicar still followed 
 him with prayers and affection. He was now old, 
 and was obliged to engage a Curate to take the 
 brunt of the work off his shoulders. This Curate, 
 Mr. Orme, was a remarkable young man. He was of 
 the evangelical school, but his habits were ascetic 
 and his appearance worn. He had high spirits, and 
 though he was troubled with a painful stutter, his 
 speech was often racy. The poorer people loved him 
 exceedingly, and so also did good old ladies, but the 
 rich, dull, county people voted him a failure. He 
 was felt to be practically unmarriageable, and though 
 he made it a point of duty to attend any social 
 festivities to which he was invited, yet he usually 
 stayed a very short time, and in spite of keeping 
 up a cheerful grin while he remained, it was evident 
 that he took no real pleasure in fripperies. He 
 accepted the boredom of parties as part of his work, 
 and though everybody knew he was dull, he main- 
 
SIR OWEN AND MR. ORME. 291 
 
 tained an aspect of hilarity, while he was always on 
 the watch for an opportunity of religious or parochial 
 talk. 
 
 Sir Owen was not often present at such festivities, 
 but Mr. Orme, a few weeks after his arrival, was in- 
 troduced to the Squire by the lady of the house at 
 whose garden party he was present. Her attention 
 was immediately called away to a fresh arrival, and 
 the two men were therefore left alone. 
 
 "I hope you do not dislike Manton, Mr. Orme. It 
 is rather a dull place," said Sir Owen courteously. 
 
 "Th— thank you," said Mr. Orme with a gulp, "I 
 d — do like it, but w — will you allow me to say to 
 you as one of your Clergy, that you are both offend- 
 ing God and injuring man deeply by your intimacy 
 with Mrs. Fitzjames. It is a great sin." 
 
 Sir Owen was not only a well-bred man, he was 
 also, in many respects, an excellent man, and he had 
 his temper completely under his control. No one 
 would have discerned from his manner that he had 
 just received a straight hit between the eyes, as it 
 were. He paused, and then said : 
 
 " Mr. Orme, I do not allow strangers to discuss 
 such private matters with me. Excuse me, but I 
 think you are forgetting yourself." 
 
 «N — no, indeed," stammered Mr. Orme, "for some 
 weeks I have wished to speak to you on this point. 
 It is no hasty impulse. I am not forgetting myself, 
 for I am paid to be here for the very p — purpose of 
 telling people of their sins and how to g— get rid of 
 
292 SIR OWEN AND MR. ORME. 
 
 them. Would you have me speak to the p — poor 
 and not to the r — rich ? " 
 
 Orme's manner was quite simple, and he looked 
 Sir Owen in the face. There was nothing priggish 
 about him, and he was too earnest to be counted 
 impertinent. 
 
 It happened that Sir Owen was not angry. He 
 paused, and then said : 
 
 " If you want to talk to me we will sit for a few 
 minutes in that seat under the oak." 
 
 " T — thank you," said Ornie, and when they had 
 sat down he said, " I have said what I had to say. 
 It is a great sin, and God calls you to put an end 
 to it." 
 
 " I like your courage, Mr. Orme," said Sir Owen. 
 *' On second thoughts I admit that from your point 
 of view you are not wrong to make this attack on 
 me. I will meet you frankly and tell you what I 
 have never told anyone else — that I know I am doing 
 wrong, and that I often think, and have been specially 
 thinking lately, of altering my conduct. Perhaps I 
 shall do so, but you have now done your duty and 
 need say no more. I bear you no ill will." 
 
 " Sir, I pray you not to put the matter off," said 
 Orme. " Every day is an offence to God and does 
 infinite harm to innocent men and women, making it 
 easier and more justifiable for them also to do wrong. 
 Break it off for her sake and for your own too, and 
 for God's sake." 
 
 " I must go, Mr. Orme," said Sir Owen, rising and 
 
SIR OWEN AND MR. ORME. 293 
 
 holding out his hand. " Will you come and lunch 
 with me to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Certainly," said Orme, "but do not wait till to- 
 morrow to break it off." 
 
 On the morrow the two men were alone, and Orme 
 spoke long and freely to his host, who listened and 
 was evidently moved. And, though he said nothing, 
 he wrung his visitor's hand at parting, and said : 
 
 " Come and see me again. You ask me to do 
 what is almost impossible, Orme, but I will think it 
 over. Come and dine here on Friday, you will meet 
 my brother and his wife." 
 
 " Th— thank you," said Orme, " but I th— think I 
 w — will not come, for if you are not alone we should 
 talk commonplace, and that would be bad for my 
 p — purpose." 
 
 " Then come on Saturday, I shall be alone." 
 
 " I will come," said Orme. " Good-bye." 
 
 From this time the two men were friends, but 
 Orme always talked persistently on the one subject 
 whenever he was alone with Sir Owen. 
 
 " I know it is painful, and a bore, he said, " but I 
 will not talk about anything else till you have done 
 this thing." 
 
 " I think I shall do it, Orme," said Sir Owen. 
 
 And he went to town and saw the lady, and told 
 her that there must be an end of their relations. 
 What she said to him nobody knows, but the intimacy 
 did not end. Mrs. Fitzjames was a fascinating, clever, 
 beautiful woman, and she held Sir Owen faster than 
 
294 SIR OWEN AND MR. ORME. 
 
 he thought. Whether she used anger or pathos is not 
 known, and does not matter. But she kept him on, 
 a more or less unwilling captive. 
 
 When Sir Owen returned, Orme saw him again, 
 and it both surprised and pained him to find that 
 nothing had been done. He earnestly returned to 
 the old attack, and again Sir Owen, Herod-like, 
 " heard him gladly," wavered, and almost promised. 
 
 " I wish I could break it off. I am tired of it all, 
 and it wears my life out, but I cannot, I cannot. 
 Do not give me up, Orme. Pray for me. I want to 
 do this thing if I possibly can." 
 
 " There is one thing a man can always do, Sir 
 Owen," said Orme, " and that is Ins duty J'' 
 
 A year passed in this state of vacillation. And 
 then an awful trial came to Orme. He was innocently 
 incautious in his parochial work, and as a conse- 
 quence of his visiting an evil woman in the village, 
 calumny was raised against him. No responsible 
 person believed it, and it would have come to nothing 
 if Mrs. Fitzjames had not heard of it. But she did 
 hear of it, and it was an opportunity both for revenge 
 and self-defence which, Herodias-like, she was not 
 disposed to lose. 
 
 She appeared on the scene, and indirectly influenced 
 and magnified the scandal, which again became active 
 and virulent. Orme knew now, for the first time in 
 his life, what it was to have a bitter enemy. He 
 called on Sir Owen, but was refused, for Mrs. Fitz- 
 james was staying at the Hall. 
 
SIR OWEN AND MR. ORME. 295 
 
 " 3hall this impudent, meddling young scoundrel 
 dare to come here, Owen ? " said she. " Are you a 
 man ? After his impertinence will you back him up 
 in his wickedness ? I am certain that this story 
 about him is true. I insist in the name of common 
 decency on your writing to the Bishop and getting 
 him dismissed. I say I insist on it." 
 
 " Julia, he is as innocent of it as I am," said Sir 
 Owen. 
 
 " I won't hear a word," replied the lady. " He 
 shall leave this place in disgrace if I write to the 
 Bishop myself. Have you no regard for me, I who 
 have given up everything for you ? I insist on your 
 writing to the Bishop," 
 
 The end of the story is soon told. Guilty and 
 pestered out of his life. Sir Owen was persuaded to 
 write to the Bishop, and Orme was inhibited and 
 went abroad, dead, like John the Baptist, to his 
 native country henceforth. 
 
 The relations between Sir Owen Trevor and Mrs. 
 Fitzjames did not cease. They lived on in sin, but 
 all noticed that he looked wretched and grew thinner 
 and thinner. He sickened and died of shame in 
 twelve months, despised by all who knew or guessed 
 the truth. If Mrs. Fitzjames felt any compunction 
 she certainly never showed it. She flourished, and is 
 living still. 
 
MY BROTHER'S FAREWELL. 
 
 A TALE RE-TOLD. 
 
 -: O : 
 
 Before he started for Canada my brother John gave 
 a supper to his father's tenants, in the village school- 
 room, and when he bid them farewell he addressed 
 to them the following words : — 
 
 " I leave you to-morrow, my friends. As you 
 know, I am going to the estates in Canada which my 
 father has given me. I am full of hope for you, 
 as well as for myself, and I am looking forward to 
 many of you coming out to me in Canada. You can- 
 not all stay where you are, and many of you have 
 already spoken to me of your desire to emigrate. I 
 am going out, as you know, purposely to see how 
 the land lies, and to prepare the place for you. Often 
 we have talked about it, and some of you have given 
 me your names as candidates who wish to join me. 
 
 " It is a big country that I am going to, and there 
 will be room for all who are fit to go. Fit, for I 
 want no useless, incompetent people, none who are 
 idle, none who are bad. 
 
 " While I am away you must work steadily to fit 
 yourselves for your future posts, learning to be 
 farmers, mechanics, workmen, labourers. Often I 
 
297 
 
 have said this to you. I say it once more, for 
 everything depends on your exertions while I am 
 away. 
 
 " Let me hear from you from time to time, and 
 all your letters shall be fully answered. 
 
 " To-morrow I depart, but before long I shall re- 
 turn, to take back with me all who have fitted 
 themselves for the new life in Canada." 
 
 And this is very much like what Christ has said 
 and done. 
 
EASTON AND GRANT. 
 
 : O : 
 
 Do we like godless old men ? 
 
 I sometimes like godless young men, if they have 
 good spirits, and are generous and pleasant. But I 
 only like them as long as they are young. Life 
 spoils them. A worldly, irreligious old man is an 
 object of pity or dislike, but seldom of respect or 
 love. 
 
 If an old man drinks or swears, there is nothing 
 hne about it. It only disgusts. If he is proud, or 
 fond of money, people give him a wide berth. And 
 his outlook for the next life is a blank — or w^orse. 
 He has had his fling, and there is nothing for him 
 in the future. Friends who remember his youth 
 and his life's work, may try to make his declining 
 days easy. But his life is sad, and his death is 
 sadder. 
 
 We do not like godless old people. 
 
 How diff'erent is the feeling towards a godly old 
 man who has held faithfully to Christ all his life. 
 Even the careless and irreligious respect and admire 
 him, and his death is felt to be only the entrance 
 into a better life. 
 
 I have been pondering about two men I know. 
 Each is about thirty years old, unmarried, successful 
 in his calling, and well educated. 
 
EASTON AND GRANT. 299 
 
 Easton is a religious man. Grant is avowedly not 
 religious. 
 
 It is a question which is really the best man. 
 Which would you rather be ? 
 
 Certainly Grant is the easiest man to like. He 
 talked to me quite freely about himself one day. 
 
 " I don't make any profession of religion, as Easton 
 does. He is a kind of sanctified fellow that I can't 
 stand — always turning up his eyes. 
 
 " If I am anything, I am a Protestant — at least I 
 am not a Roman Catholic. I respect genuine religion. 
 And as far as I have seen, I should say that the 
 best specimens of all Christian religions are pretty 
 much alike in their lives and characters ; so it seems 
 a pity that they disagree so much. 
 
 ''I am outside it all. What Easton calls religion, 
 doesn't seem to suit men, and I don't want to be 
 like him, or like most of the religious men I have 
 seen. 
 
 " I am not against women being religious. It is 
 natural to them. They ought to be gentle, and soft, 
 and good. But in a man I like grit. Let him look 
 out for his interests and fight his way. Let him be 
 liberal and free with his money. Let him swear and 
 drink in moderation, if he wants to. Let him be no 
 slouch at his business. Let his mind be free and 
 his temper high. Let him enjoy life." 
 
 Grant lives up to his standard, and is liked and 
 loved. He talks well, reads a good deal, and is not 
 the slave of his passions. A pleasanter young fellow 
 X 
 
300 EASTON AND GBANT. 
 
 I do not know. Even when he is gloomy he is good 
 company, and his laugh clears the air. Nearly every- 
 one thinks of him with pleasure and affection. 
 
 How would religion act on him ? 
 
 On the contrary, there is a great flatness about the 
 good and religious Easton. When he is cheerful, he 
 has none of Grant's spontaneousness. When he is 
 depressed, he is apt to be uninteresting. He will 
 talk with eagerness about religious work and about 
 doctrines, but his views have not much freshness or 
 originality. He is capable of doing a slightly mean 
 thing, which Grant would abhor the thought of 
 doing. 
 
 But you can rely on his sympathy and help in any 
 good work, which Grant would not touch with his 
 little finger. He always wishes to be better and 
 more useful than he is. He prays, he reads his 
 Bible. The conflict is hard and constant with him. 
 He is respected, but not popular. 
 
 What does God feel about these two men ? Cer- 
 tainly He loves them both, for He loves all whom 
 He has made. He knows the vigour and sincerity 
 and generosity of Grant's character. And He knows 
 the humility, the teachableness, and the self-denial 
 of Easton's. He knows, too, the earthliness, and god- 
 lessness of the first, and self-interestedness and want 
 of nobility in the second. 
 
 Let us look forward thirty or forty years, and see 
 what each man will be, if his life continue on the 
 same lines. 
 
EASTON AND GRANT. 301 
 
 The charms of youth will have long left them 
 both, and the dark river of death will not be far off. 
 For one it will be bridged by faith, for the other it 
 will look like a dark abyss. 
 
 They will be elderly men. Easton will have had 
 a long discipline, and it will have left him the best, 
 the happiest, and the most useful of the two. Men 
 will have learnt that they can trust his Christian rule 
 of life, that where he has erred he has repented and 
 amended. The Divine part of him will be the plainest 
 and the strongest when he is old. He was born unto 
 the Kingdom of God, and has grown up in it. His 
 treasure is in heaven, and he will be nearing it. 
 
 As to Grant, I cannot bear to think of the steadily- 
 losing ground that is before him. I fear lest in 
 thirty years all that we love in him may have 
 flowered and withered, and turned out to be only of 
 the earth. 
 
 The faults in him, to which we are indulgent now, 
 will then be hateful. His powers will be going. He 
 never hungered after God, or desired the Spiritual 
 Kingdom. He loved life, and enjoyed life. And at 
 last it will be slipping away, leaving him old, sad, 
 bitter and destitute. 
 
 Which of these two men would you rather be ? 
 
 HH 
 
A SNUBBED ONE, 
 
 : o : 
 
 Mr. Bevington always speaks with great thankful- 
 ness of the Criston Conference. 
 
 He is counted as only a second-class Christian 
 worker, for though he is about fifty years old, he 
 has never done anything more remarkable than work 
 in a London slum, where he has built a little Mission 
 Hall in connection with St. Andrew's Church. 
 
 He has a small competence and a cheerful manner, 
 but his cheerfulness is (or was) not always quite 
 thorough. It is apt to look a little like the cheer- 
 fulness of the man who has just found a shilling and 
 lost eighteen pence. His Vicar says of him " If the 
 good little man has a fault, it is that he is rather a 
 bore. He is so assiduous in getting up minute 
 occasions in his Hall, and in wanting me to be pre- 
 sent, and it generally is impossible for me to go. I 
 quite dread that eager smile of his, and the sound of 
 his creaking shoes." 
 
 Mr. Bevington has a wonderful power for getting 
 people to address meetings in his district. I suspect 
 that he is used to snubs, and probably it would be 
 better all round if he did not try so hard to get 
 notable people to take the chair, for the resources of 
 the Hall are very limited. Even when it is crowded 
 it only holds a hundred persons. 
 
A SNUBBED ONE. 303 
 
 Most people have their weaknesses, however, and 
 he is not the only one who exposes himself to mor- 
 tifications from the desire to be in touch with eminent 
 people. And it must be admitted that though this 
 desire leads through thorny ways, it is not without 
 its rewards. The best thing is for a man to be in 
 touch with his superiors as well as his inferiors and 
 equals. And this rule holds good in religious matters, 
 as well as in the cases of rank, wealth, and talent. 
 
 It must be understood at the outset of my story 
 that the verdict of the poor in St. Andrew's parish is 
 that there is nobody like Mr. Bevington. For steady 
 and industrious kindness, systematic visiting, and per- 
 severance in temperance and gospel work, there are 
 not many who can surpass him. And Mrs. Beving- 
 ton is in all ways a fit helpmeet for him — a tall, 
 gentle woman, ugly to the eye, but beautifully good. 
 
 He had long talked of the Criston Conference, and 
 planned to go to Wales for it, and you may be sure 
 that when he got there he went in for it thoroughly, 
 and conscientiously followed the advice of the leaders. 
 There was scarcely any fault that he did not will- 
 ingly suspect himself of at the bidding of any of 
 
 the speakers. After Mr. D 's beautiful address, 
 
 he owned himself a perfect Jonah for self-willed 
 disobedience, and, again and again, during the times 
 of silent prayer, he confessed that his work was "all 
 self." He perfectly ransacked himself in search of 
 secret sins, and accused himself of envy, dishonesty, 
 unforgivingness, lukewarmness, coldness, and even of 
 
304 A SNUBBED ONE. 
 
 pride, ill-temper, and overbearingness. He considered 
 that he was guilty of them all, and that he was a 
 Zibah, a Micah, a Mephibosheth, an Ananias, an 
 Aehan, and a Lot (more). 
 
 He felt that the Conference was truly delightful 
 (though it was rather depressing to be convicted of 
 so many evil things). He heartily admired every one 
 of the speakers, and shuddered obediently as each 
 one directed his powerful telescope at the guilty 
 hearts and lives of the audience. " Oh, for a clean 
 
 heart like Mr. G. and the others ! " he thought. 
 
 He had always believed that they were wonderfully 
 good, and now he came to believe even more than 
 this : that they were as good as they said they were. 
 It really seemed as if there were no virtues which 
 could not be gained at Criston — or almost none. 
 Good temper and purity and consecration were 
 specially to the fore, and in some instances there 
 was even humility. 
 
 One thing that depressed him was the fear that the 
 giants of Criston did not quite take to him. He had 
 not expected much, but he had hoped that he might 
 pick up one or two recruits for his beloved Mission 
 Hall, which needed fresh speakers to keep the work 
 going. In this he almost entirely failed. Occasionally 
 he got the ear of someone, and began to recount the 
 needs and the joys of the work, but it was a some- 
 what abstracted attention which he usually gained, 
 and it generally ended in the listener's abrupt de- 
 parture. 
 
A SNUBBED ONE. 305 
 
 He knew that the humble little pink reports which 
 he gave away so lavishly were often not even glanced 
 at. He picked up several that had evidently not 
 been opened. 
 
 A hearty shake of the hand from Mr. Moody glad- 
 dened him for a whole day, and it always gave him 
 a lift to catch a sight of him on the platform, half 
 hidden behind the other speakers, but listening earn- 
 estly and happily, and sometimes with moistened eyes. 
 
 Another cheery friend who lightened his heart was 
 Mr. Denny, who had more than once given him help 
 in his need (as he has given to scores of others). 
 Thank God for such men, whose human sympathy 
 and friendliness make a warm place wherever they 
 go ! He looked long at some of the valiant young 
 men who made such a good show everywhere, and 
 he rejoiced greatly in their beautiful consecration, 
 but from them he did not succeed in getting any 
 friendly glances. They were in their own set, and, 
 as they did not want middle-aged recruits, they 
 behaved somewhat distantly to such outsiders as he. 
 
 When he tried to testify, someone generally testified 
 more loudly at the same moment, and extinguished 
 him. And he was unable to tell in the final praise 
 meeting whether the tears which wetted his cheeks 
 on that occasion were of joy or disappointment. He 
 never felt quite sure. 
 
 However, he considered that he had obediently 
 received the blessing "without feeling," and he was 
 exceedingly glad to have been at the Criston Con- 
 vention. 
 
306 A SNUBBED ONE. 
 
 Moreover, the Rev. Alexander Collins, a Missionary 
 from Africa, had promised to come and take the 
 chair at his Anniversary on the 3rd of August, when 
 there was to be a Tea, and a great effort in Midgham 
 Court to " reach the masses." To get an address 
 from such a man was indeed a splendid point to 
 have gained, and he thanked God, and took courage. 
 
 As he travelled back to town he felt that it had 
 indeed been a grand time, and he prayed again and 
 again in the train that he and Mrs. Bevington might 
 have increased power to win souls. 
 
 The railway carriage was crowded, as it was Bank 
 Holiday, but that was all the better, as it gave him 
 an opportunity of offering his seat to a hot-looking 
 matron with a large, coarse bunch of flowers, who 
 was, in consequence of his kindness, disposed to 
 listen favourably when he spoke to her about spiritual 
 things. Besides the flowers she had with her an unat- 
 tractive restless little child, of about five years old, who 
 besides being peevish was dirty and altogether trying. 
 Mr. Bevington smiled kindly at the child, who re- 
 fused rather crossly all his advances except a ginger- 
 bread, and he almost regretted having pressed the 
 gingerbread on her as she most ingeniously used it 
 to increase her general unsightliness, by making a 
 dreadful mess of herself with it. But there was no 
 unkind criticism apparent when he asked the mother 
 very pleasantly what the little one's name was, and 
 the mother was evidently gratified, and replied with 
 pardonable pride that it was Venus Amelia. Later 
 
A SNUBBED ONE. 307 
 
 on in the journey poor little Venus made friends 
 with him, and eventually went to sleep on his knee 
 very heavily, this was at least a comfort to the rest 
 of his fellow-travellers, who had found her niggling 
 pettishness almost more than they could endure. 
 Besides Venus and her mother he also talked to two 
 dirty young men, who, alas I proved themselves un- 
 satisfactory cases by saying, when they parted from 
 him, that they would " like to drink his health." 
 
 Getting up a Tea is rather an anxious business. 
 It is difficult to know how many bills should be 
 distributed to non-tea drinkers, so as to avoid an 
 empty room on the one hand, or hopeless over-crowd- 
 ing on the other. Mr. Bevington had also to con- 
 sider whether it would be well to give tickets to 
 such people as poor drunken Ben Stokes, who had 
 so often disturbed his meetings, and how the gossipy, 
 officious hall-keeper, Mrs. Riggins, could best be kept 
 in check. Sour milk had once been a difficulty, and 
 must be carefully guarded against if the weather 
 proved sultry. 
 
 However, all went well. The room was crowded 
 even to standing ground, and the atmosphere told of 
 moist sweet cake, and unlimited greyish tea. Many 
 a pocket-handkerchief fanned its portly owner, and 
 often were heard the gently-spoken words, "Will you 
 sit a little closer, please." But more and more anxious 
 did Mr. Bevington become at Mr. Collins's non- 
 appearance. There were no other speakers besides 
 himself, his wife, and a Chm*ch Army Cadet, who 
 
308 A SNUBBED ONE. 
 
 was a capital young fellow for helping all round, 
 but scarcely equal to the post of principal speaker 
 on such a great occasion. However, as Mr. Collins 
 had said that he might be a few minutes late, Mr. 
 Bevington would not let himself be seriously alarmed, 
 and when the tea was cleared away and all were in 
 their places, he gave out No. 281 in the Church Army 
 Hymn Book, and Mrs. Bevington began to drum 
 through the tune on the little wheezy, useful, old 
 harmonium. 
 
 At this moment a dire sight met his anxious eyes 
 — a boy in uniform bearing a letter whose envelope 
 was of that lurid orange hue, which we all know so 
 well. Almost breathlessly he opened it, and read the 
 following words : " Extremely sorry, but detained at 
 Manchester for Consecration Meeting. Remembering 
 you in prayer." 
 
 A mist came over his eyes, and his head swam. 
 He had all along expected a disappointment, but now 
 that it came it seemed impossible to endure it. He 
 bowed his head with an almost dazed feeling, but as 
 the harmonium ceased, and the people rose to sing 
 the opening hymn, he, too, rose mechanically. 
 
 Then came the burst of voices — 
 
 "Head of the Church triumphant, 
 We joyfully adore Thee ; 
 Till Thou appear, 
 
 Thy members here, 
 Shall sing like those in glory. 
 We lift our hearts and voices, 
 
A SNUBBED ONE. 309 
 
 With blest anticipation, 
 
 And cry aloud, 
 And give to God, 
 
 The praise of our Salvation." 
 
 With eyes that were misty with teiii'S he looked 
 towards the empty chair which stood behind the 
 little table with the Bible and the tumbler of water. 
 And, lo ! it was not empty. 
 
 He never told anyone except his wife, but he told 
 her that he saw there a glorious Person clad in 
 shining white raiment, with deep pathetic eyes, and 
 a brow of spotless purity. Was it only a vision ? To 
 his surprise, the expression of the face was not sad 
 or reproachful, but joyful. Slowly the heavenly Visit- 
 ant's gaze passed over the whole audience, not one 
 missed the look of love, even poor drunken Ben and 
 tiresome Mrs. Riggins had their share of it. And all 
 the time the wounded hands were raised in blessing. 
 But the people knew it not. 
 
 Last of all He looked at Mr. Bevington, and in the 
 midst of the singing there was surely heard a voice 
 like the sound of many waters, which said to him, 
 " Blessed art thou Michael Bevington, thou hast been 
 faithful over a few things. Be thou partaker of the 
 joy of Thy Lord. Behold I am with thee always." 
 
 Then came the last words of the hymn — 
 "And if Thou count us worthy, 
 We each with dying Stephen 
 Shall see Thee stand 
 
 At God's right hand 
 To call us up to Heaven." 
 
310 A SNUBBED ONE. 
 
 With these words the Vision faded from mortal 
 sight, though surely Christ remained in the little hall. 
 The audience only knew that a flood of blessing 
 tilled the place that evening, that many souls hungered 
 after Christ, and that some received Him. 
 
 Mr. Bevington actually forgot even to allude to Mr. 
 Collins's absence, and nobody asked a question about 
 it. He himself gave the principal address. It was 
 partly about Criston and its teachings, but chiefly 
 about his dearest Master and Saviour. 
 
 And I think the man who knows that the Lord 
 stands beside him as Guest and Friend, will never 
 mind being " a snubbed one." 
 
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