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Author of ^A Blue Distance,'' ^A Green Pasture,' 
and ''Father Damien' 


The Church Army Book Room, 

14, Edgware Road, W. 

• • •. 


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 




Father Damien ..... 


Quartus, a Brother .... 


Felix and Byal . . 


Miss Graves ..... 


My Little London Garden .... 


Mr. and Mrs. NichoUs .... 


A Tale for a Mother .... 


Edward and Oliver .... 


Pictures ...... 


A Talk about Art 


A Story of Stinginess .... 


Whose shall he be? .... 


Emma, and others (by Mrs. Kobert Cholmeley) 


The Lady and the Van .... 


The Crisis of Middle Age .... 


Untempted ..... 


The Beast's Mark ..... 


Saint Patrick's Invocation 


The Issues of Death ..... 


1. — Forgiven but Disapproved 


2.— A Most Dreadful Surprise 


3.— A Likely Story 


4. — Alexander Butts .... 


5.— The Mirror .... 


6.— Entering Maimed .... 


7. — The Evening Primrose 


8.— Bad Taste ..... 


Why not Confess ? . . . . 


Unwelcome Autumn ..... 


Sir Owen and Mr. Orme .... 


My Brother's Farewell .... 


Easton and Grant .... 


A Snubbed One ..... 



(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^ 


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 


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- 

The missionaries reached Hawaii on the 31st of 
March, 1820, after a long, wearisome journey round 


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 


" 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 


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 


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. 


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 

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 


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. 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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. 


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 


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 



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 


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 

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 


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. 


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. 


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- 


mitted to the Superior, but Joseph ventured to dis- 

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- 


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 


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 


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 

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 


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. 


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 


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 


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- 


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. 


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 

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 


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. 


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 


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. 



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.) 


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 


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 


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- 


siderable organizing powers, and a taste for art and 
beauty, which can find little scope in that outcast 

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- 

As our ship weighed anchor the sombre purple 
cliffs were crowned with white clouds. Down their 
precipices leaped the cataracts. The little village, with 


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 

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 


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^/^ 


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 


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." 


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 



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.") 


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. 


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 


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 

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. 



"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. 


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 

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 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. 


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. 


"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. 


" 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 

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 


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 

" 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 ; 


" 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. 


" 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. 


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 

" 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 


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 


returned, for the dinner at Nicias' was long and 

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 

" 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. 


" 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 

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. 


"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. 


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. 


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. 


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 


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- 


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 


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. 


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 

" 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 


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- 

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. 


-: 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. 



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 

" 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 


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 

"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." 



" 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. 


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 

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 


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- 



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. 
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.' 



: 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- 

Notice that it is a cruciform flower, and so it wit- 


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 



with purple and yellow grapes hanging among its 

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 


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. 


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 ! 


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 


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 


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. 


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 ! 


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 


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. 


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 


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 

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. 



: 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- 

With abilitv and determination she had won an 


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 

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 


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 


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 

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 


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 

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. 



"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 


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 

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 

" 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 


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." 


: 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. 


"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- 

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. 


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 


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 

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 


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- 

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, 


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. 


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 

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 ! 


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 


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, 


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 


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 — 


: 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 

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 


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 

"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 

"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." 


" 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. 


"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 


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 


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 


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 

"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; 

"All the disturbance has arisen from the fact that 
another body had been substituted for his as a relic." 


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 

"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 


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 


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 


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 

"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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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. 


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 

" 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 ? " 


" 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. 



" 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 


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 

" 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. 


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 


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, 


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 


where ladies and gentlemen have been viewing the 

"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 

"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." 


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. 


" 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. 


"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 


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. 


: 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 

"Yes," she said, "They were left me by my old 


" 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 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." 


"Never mind," said the gentleman, "I will give 
you a cheque for the balance." And he paid her 

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 


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 

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. 


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 


sorts of people called on me to ask for subscriptions. 
It really seemed as if they thought I was made of 

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 

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 


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. 


■; 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, 


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. 


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 

" 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. 


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 


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. 



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. 


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 

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 


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 


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 


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- 


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 


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 

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 

"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 

"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.' " 


" 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 

"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 


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 


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. 


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 

"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 


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 


" Will you scrub down some steps for me ? " she 

"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 

" 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.'? 


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 


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 


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 

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 


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 : 


" 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 


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 


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 

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 


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 


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 


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." 


* =;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 


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 


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. 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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." 


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 

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 

" 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 


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. 


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 


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- 

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 


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- 


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- 


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 ? 


: 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 


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 

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 : — 


" Oh your father and I should not think of 

it for a moment. Pray do not allude to the subject 

" 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. 


" 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 


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." 


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 

" Indeed, and what was your work before you 
began to do this ? " 


"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 


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 


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 

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 


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 

" 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, 


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. 


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 


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 


"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 





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. 



: 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 

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- 


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." 


" 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 

"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 

" 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 


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. 



: o :- 

Mr. Strudwick, the Yicar, sat in his study, deep in 

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 


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. 


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." 


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." 


(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 

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 


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 


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." 


"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. 


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. 


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- 


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 


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. 


"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 

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 


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 

"Oliver," I cried in a low voice. "Oliver." 

" Hullo ! " said he. 

"Oliver, here's the key, let's go in and look at the 

" 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. 


*' 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. 


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 

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 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- 


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 


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. 

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 


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. 


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 

" 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 

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 ? " 


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." 


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 


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 

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. 


" 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 

" 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 


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 

" 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 ? " 


" 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 


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. 


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 
11 the obedience of Angels, in the service of Arch- 
n the hope of Resurrection, in the prayers of 

n the prediction of Prophets, in the preaching of 

n the faith of Confessors, in the purity of Holy 

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. 


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 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. 


A certain king had four sons, whom he destined 
to rule four provinces in different parts of his 


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 

" 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. 


"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 

" Am I then forgiven, sir ? " said the young man, 
who was almost sobbing in the bitterness of his dis- 

"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 

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 


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 

"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. 


" 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." 


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. 


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. 


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 

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." 


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- 

" 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. 


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 

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 


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 

" 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. 


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. 


" 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 


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. 


" 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. 


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, 

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. 


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 


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, 


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 


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 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 

' 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 


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." 



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 

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. 


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 

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 


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 

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 ? 


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, 


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 


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." 


"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 

" 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 


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." 


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 


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 ; 


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." 


" I can't sermonize them." 

Her conscience : " You can let them know that 
Christ is yom- Saviour, and that He desires to be 

"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." 


She had, however, been much discomposed by 
the morning's occurrence, and that night she had a 

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 ? " 


" 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 


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 

" 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 

" 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 


" 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 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 


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 

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 


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 


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 ? 



: 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 


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. 


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. 



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. 



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, 


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 

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. 


" 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. 

'* 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. 


•* 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 

''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 


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." 



■: 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. 


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- 


tained an aspect of hilarity, while he was always on 
the watch for an opportunity of religious or parochial 

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 


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 

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 


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 


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. 


" 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 

" 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. 



-: 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 


have said this to you. I say it once more, for 
everything depends on your exertions while I am 

" 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. 


: 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 

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 

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 is a religious man. Grant is avowedly not 

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 

" 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 


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 

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. 


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 ? 



: 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. 


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 


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- 


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- 


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 


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 


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 

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, 


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." 


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." 







This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 

on the date to which renewed. 

Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 





APK V 5 ijs 


LD 21A-50m-9,'58 

General Library 

University of California 


Y.C 1 02833