_Reprieved._
"Now, May," began Miss Waller in her most portentous tone, on Monday
morning, "I must have an explanation with you. I'm going home this
week, for it's ruinously expensive being here; and to-day Mr. Lang
is coming for his answer. Without any beating about the bush, I
expect you to marry him."
"Oh, aunt, don't--_don't_!" entreated May, wringing her hands. "I
cannot marry Mr. Lang."
"What childish nonsense! Fancy refusing a house in Palace Gardens,
and all that money!"
"I can't and won't marry him."
"Very well, then, you and Doris must find another home. I have
pinched myself to keep you in luxury; but if you will be so wickedly
blind to your plain duty, I wash my hands of you."
"I don't care one bit for myself, aunt; I could earn a living,
I'm sure, and I'd gladly do it. Let me try," pleaded May, "I will
promise never to cost you another penny, if you will only be so kind
as to give Doris a home until I am able to keep her myself."
"Which will not be till Doomsday. Talk of earning your living--what
rubbish! Why, you haven't even one decent accomplishment. No, if
you leave my house, Doris goes, too; I won't have the little spoilt
monkey left on my hands."
"But, aunt----"
"Besides, think what advantages you could give Doris if you
married Mr. Lang--the best possible education, horses, carriages,
Continental trips, everything! If you really cared at all for your
child, you couldn't hesitate for a minute."
It was a clever argument, and it made May waver as nothing else
could; and Miss Waller did not know whether to be glad or sorry that
just then Mr. Lang himself was announced.
"Don't go, Miss Waller," he began, as the spinster, after a few
casual observations, was about to leave the room. "I've nothing to
say to Mrs. Burnside you may not hear as well. Your niece knows by
this time that I am anxious to have her for my wife. I want to marry
and settle down now, and I can promise you," he added, turning to
face May for the first time, "a most luxurious home--you've seen
it--both for yourself and your little girl. Your aunt wishes it, I
know; and I hope, Mrs. Burnside--May--you'll make me very happy by
saying you'll be my wife before Christmas."
He came closer, and would have taken her hand; but she started
back. Her aunt's basilisk eyes were fixed on her, to add to her
discomfiture; but she said as firmly as she could, "I am very
grateful for your kindness, Mr. Lang; nevertheless, I must refuse
your offer, for I do not love you, and I could not marry any man
unless I did."
"Now, really, Miss Waller," remonstrated the plutocrat, turning with
an injured air to the wrathful spinster, "I call this too bad! It
was understood between us that you would prepare Mrs. Burnside, so
that it might all be plain sailing. I'm not accustomed to ask and be
refused, I can tell you."
"May must have lost her senses to reject such an offer, Mr. Lang,"
returned Miss Waller, with an annihilating glance at her niece. "She
is an ungrateful, undutiful girl; and if she refuses you, I will
have nothing more to do with her."
"Well," rejoined Mr. Lang, with a gulp, as if swallowing something
very nauseous to the taste, "I must confess I didn't expect to be
sent to the right-about like this. However, young ladies often
change their minds; and perhaps, when Mrs. Burnside thinks my offer
quietly over, she may alter her opinion. I've great faith in your
persuasions, Miss Waller. I've just had a telegram, saying a fall of
rock has damaged the machinery at the Springkloof, and I'm wanted
out there, so I must sail for the Cape at once. I expect to be away
some months; by November I shall probably be back in England. I give
Mrs. Burnside until then to consider my offer; I won't look upon
this as a final rejection. I'm sure, when she thinks of all I'm in a
position to offer, she can't be so foolish as to refuse."
"How kind--how generous!" exclaimed Miss Waller, as May stood in
stony silence. "I promise in my niece's name that when you come back
she will accept you. I hope we shall see you again before you leave?"
"Well, no, for I've a lot to do before I go. But I'll write to you;
and as soon as I possibly can I shall return for Mrs. Burnside's
answer."
[Illustration: "How wonderful to meet you here!"--_p. 513._]
As if in a sick dream, with this threat ringing in her ears, May
mechanically tendered him her limp hand in farewell. When they were
once more alone her aunt said in crisp, dry tones:
"I shall return to Beachbourne on Wednesday, and make arrangements
for spending August and September in visiting amongst our friends in
the country. We have plenty of invitations. I have said all I need
say on the subject of Mr. Lang. Meanwhile, you can choose between
Palace Gardens and every luxury, and a life of starvation and
beggary for you and Doris."
Despite the apparent calm with which Mr. Lang had taken May's
rejection of his flattering offer, he was nevertheless in a very bad
temper when he left the house and jumped into his victoria. He was
not accustomed to rebuffs--which made the fact that he had just been
rejected by a penniless widow, only saved from actual want by her
aunt's charity, doubly galling.
"I'm mad to care so much about a pale-faced girl with nothing to say
for herself; and I really ought to do better. I could easily marry a
lady of title, or anybody I choose; and it would serve her right if
I went straight off and proposed to somebody else, just to show her
that rich husbands don't grow on every bush!"
Revenge is always the first thought of a mean mind which is smarting
from a sense of injury. Mr. Lang chuckled over this idea for some
time, and the result was, that when Esther Inglis entered their
one sitting-room about half-past five that day, she found Mr. Lang
seated in the most comfortable chair, awaiting her.
She instantly assumed her thorny manner; but it had no more effect
than it would have had upon a rhinoceros. "I've come to say good-bye
for the present, Miss Inglis," he airily remarked, as if his visit
were a matter of course. "I leave to-morrow for Johannesburg on
business; and as I shall probably see your brother, it would give me
great pleasure to take charge of anything you may wish to send him."
Esther's handsome face relaxed. Really it was very kind and
thoughtful of Mr. Lang, who, with his influence, might prove a
valuable friend to Jack.
"It is very good of you, and in his last letter Jack asked us to
send him some collars and ties; they are such a fearful price at
Johannesburg, and not good. But they are not bought yet, and you say
you leave to-morrow?"
"Yes, but the shops will not be closed for some time, and my
victoria is at the door, if you will honour me by using it to go
where you wish."
Esther hesitated a moment; but the opportunity of saving expensive
and troublesome postage, besides serving Jack, was too good to lose.
Mr. Lang rose, and indicated a box lying on the table.
[Illustration: "Oh, don't thank me."]
"I've brought you a little fruit, Miss Inglis, just sent to me from
my country place near Dorking. My head-gardener prides himself on
his peaches and nectarines; but I must leave you to judge."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Esther, with sparkling eyes; for she had not
tasted a nectarine since leaving Mallowfleld. In a moment she had
undone the satin ribbon which tied down the lid, and was feasting
her eyes on such peaches as she had seldom seen.
"As you seem fond of fruit, I'll give orders to my gardener to send
you a box periodically," observed Mr. Lang. "Oh, don't thank me;
I shall be away, and somebody may as well enjoy it. And if you'll
have the parcel and letters ready, my footman shall call for them
to-morrow morning."
He accompanied Esther down to the street, where his beautifully
appointed carriage was waiting; and it must be confessed she enjoyed
finding herself seated behind a spruce coachman and footman once
more. "You will take this lady's orders," pompously commanded Mr.
Lang. "Keep the carriage as long as you like, Miss Inglis, and I'll
not forget about the parcel."
So manifest was his desire to propitiate, that Esther could do no
less than bid him a civil farewell, with the hope that he might have
a pleasant journey. Then she rolled away, looking so much at home in
the smart carriage that Mr. Lang gazed after her admiringly.
"By Jove, how well she sets the whole thing off! Looks like a lady
used to carriages all her life. May Burnside really isn't a patch
upon Esther Inglis; there is no mistake about that!"
Had Miss Waller only been there to hear him, she might well have
trembled for the success of her darling scheme of marrying May to a
rich man.
[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]
[Illustration: EASTER EGG ROLLING IN WASHINGTON]
"Going to Mr. President's!"
That is what the hundreds of little boys and girls will tell you any
Easter Monday morning, should you chance to stop them and ask their
destination as they go toddling along the streets of Washington with
baskets of eggs hanging on their arms and a glad delight shining in
their eyes.
They make up a very "mixed" crowd, these children! There is the
dainty little miss in richly embroidered frock and wide silk sash,
with one tiny hand held tightly in the grasp of a big negro nurse
and the other hand clasping lovingly a basket of pretty coloured
eggs; there is another little girl in a very clean but much-faded
gingham or print apron, trotting along at her mother's side--the
mother dressed, perchance, in shabby black, belonging to the class
known in the Southern part of the States as the "poor whites"; there
is also the trio of little "darkey" girls, dancing merrily along the
sidewalk, swinging their egg-baskets as though with intention of
spilling the eggs over passers-by, yet never quite dropping them,
and singing the while as they keep step--
"Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Easter Monday morning!"
There are nice, smart-looking little boys, strutting along proudly
in their first pair of knickerbockers, with pockets bulging out with
Easter eggs, their black nurses walking just a few steps behind
them; there are the poor white boys whose clothes are patched and
boots worn with toes protruding. On other days they sell newspapers,
black boots, and do "odd jobbs" to earn a few cents, but on Easter
Monday morning they somehow get together a collection of coloured
eggs and go to see the President. Then there are the little black
boys, some smartly dressed (for many of the coloured people of
Washington are well-to-do), and others as shabby as shabby can be.
But no matter. Are they not provided with Easter Monday eggs and
going up to the White House to see "Mr. President," who every Easter
Monday gives over his beautiful lawn to as many little boys and
girls as like to go and see him, and roll their eggs over the grassy
slopes that look out over the Potomac River?
[Illustration: Lester Ralph.
THE INVASION OF THE PRESIDENT'S LAWN.]
On no other day during the year does Washington present so
interesting and picturesque an appearance as on Easter Monday,
and it is the happiest day of all the year with the children of
the Capitol City. In England, of course, Easter Monday is always
a Bank Holiday, but not so in the United States. In New York and
other large American cities banks and shops and schools are open
as usual; but in the district of Columbia, where Washington is
situated, it is a legal holiday. That in itself makes it a happy
time for the children. Then, add to the joy of having no lessons to
learn the fact that they are allowed to take dozens of coloured
eggs to the White House lawn and play the games of "egg-picking" and
"egg-rolling" as the specially invited guests of the President of
the United States, and it will be easily understood how festive an
occasion is Easter Monday to the children of Washington.
Not even the oldest inhabitants of Washington can remember the time
when the boys and girls of the city did not celebrate Easter Monday
by "egg-rolling," although the children of fifty years ago rolled
their eggs down Capitol Hill, under the shadow of the magnificent
Capitol building, instead of on the White House lawn. Year after
year the children of former generations trudged up the great hill
with their egg-baskets over their arms and had the happiest times
imaginable with their Easter games.
One Easter Monday, however, about twenty years ago, hundreds of
boys and girls went to Capitol Hill with their eggs just as they
had done in previous years, when they were astonished to be hustled
off the grounds by special messengers and policemen from the Senate
and House of Representatives, who declared that the distinguished
Senators and Congressmen in convention assembled had made up their
minds that their "door-yard" was no longer to be disfigured for days
after Easter Monday with broken eggs and vari-coloured shells! They
were weary of having their highly polished boots smeared with yolks
of eggs, and Easter Monday "egg-rolling" in Washington was to be
ended!
Then there went up all about the precincts of the nation's Capitol a
loud wail of anguish and wrath from hundreds of childish throats, in
which the numerous nurses and attendants joined. Many boys and girls
gathered on the steps of the building, sobbing in disappointment,
some of the larger boys throwing out direful hints of vengeance
to be wreaked on the heads of the nation's law-makers; but the
stately Senators remained stony-hearted, in spite of it all. In the
midst of the tearful hubbub the President's carriage drove past,
and President Hayes (the then head of the nation) drew up near the
portico to inquire why the children wept instead of rolling their
eggs on Easter Monday.
A chorus of voices informed him that the "nasty Senators wouldn't
let them play any more because they messed up the grounds"; and then
again from the throng of little ones confronting the President there
arose fresh outbursts of grief and indignation.
[Illustration: Lester Ralph.
"GOING TO MR. PRESIDENT'S."]
"Never you mind, children," said President Hayes soothingly. "You
may come right up to my house and play in my back yard."
Then the mourning was turned to rejoicing. Every child knew that in
all the city of Washington there was not so wonderful a "back yard"
as that which belonged to the White House. Its beautifully kept
slopes were ideal places for "egg-rolling," and then there was the
great fountain in the middle of the lawn! So when the President's
carriage started to return to the White House, it was followed by
several hundred boys and girls swinging their egg-baskets, and
singing and shouting out their gratitude to the President of the
United States, who was going to let them play in his garden. I doubt
if ever an American President had an escort of which he had such
cause to feel proud as that which accompanied President Hayes to the
White House gates on that memorable Easter Monday.
[Illustration: Lester Ralph.
ON THE WAY TO THE WHITE HOUSE.]
Outside the gates they were kept waiting for about an hour, while
the President gave his hurried instructions to the gardeners to put
the place in readiness. At eleven o'clock the gates swung open, and
from that time till six o'clock the children rolled their eggs.
Ever since then Washington children have gone regularly every Easter
Monday to play in the President's "back yard," each of President
Hayes's successors having kept up the custom of inserting in the
Washington papers each year an invitation to all the children
residents of the town to spend the day rolling eggs on the lawn.
In President Hayes's time his own children joined in the sport, and
during the last term of President Cleveland the President's little
girls, who were considered too young to roll eggs with the elder
children, were kept on the back portico with their mother or their
nurse, where they could watch the progress of the games.
Two years ago, on Easter Monday, I spent the day on the White House
lawn, watching the big "Presidential children's party," as it is
called. The gates were opened at a little after ten o'clock, and
during the day there were several thousand children playing in the
grounds. Many of the children, besides carrying their baskets of
eggs, carried also their luncheon-baskets, and when tired of games
they sat about on the grass, picnic-fashion, eating bread-and-butter
and cakes and hard-boiled eggs. I should here mention that, although
the President does not consider it necessary to make any rules for
the preservation of order among his young guests--it being taken
for granted that all children invited to the President's garden
will behave in their very best style--he always requests that those
who accept his invitation to roll their eggs on his lawn will
be particular to bring with them only eggs that are thoroughly
hard boiled, for in the game of "egg-picking" the use of raw or
soft-boiled eggs would be, to say the least, most inconvenient!
The game of "egg-picking" is a very simple one, although it is
entered into most enthusiastically by the boys and girls. The
children separate themselves into groups of eight or ten, then seat
themselves on the grass at the top of the slopes and roll their eggs
down to the bottom. The eggs that make the descent without getting
cracked or "picked" may be brought back and re-rolled, until they
do get cracked or until the game is over, while those that get
"picked" are placed back in the baskets. The boy who can hit his
neighbour's egg and "pick" it without "picking" his own is looked
upon as something of a hero. Of course, toward the end of the game
many of the players drop out, all of their eggs having got "picked."
Very often the players are reduced to two who show themselves
particularly expert, and then there is great excitement watching for
the winner.
Besides the game of "egg-picking" there are egg-ball games, egg
croquet games; but plain "egg-rolling," which consists of rolling
eggs down the slopes, going after them, and rolling them again and
again, seems to be the favourite amusement. Then, too, the children
engage in "jumping the rope" and other similar amusements.
Although many of the children spend the entire day on the lawn,
numbers of them remain for a couple of hours only. By this means
the grounds are not kept so crowded as they would otherwise be. The
hours between three and five o'clock, however, are considered the
most enjoyable, as during that time the President always arranges to
have the Marine Baud to entertain the children with music, and it
is at that time also that the President makes his appearance out on
the back portico to greet the children. It is, of course, thoroughly
understood that so busy a man as the President cannot spend his
whole day with his young visitors. He entertains them by turning
over his grounds to them, and they enjoy themselves in their own way
without molestation.
On the afternoon of the Easter Monday which I spent in Washington
President McKinley came out on the portico at about half-past three.
He took off his hat and waved it to the children, who all gathered
as near as possible about the portico and shouted out--
"Howdy do, Mr. President? Howdy do, howdy do?"--the boys taking off
their caps and the little girls waving their handkerchiefs.
"How do you do, children? Glad to see you, and hope you are having a
good time!" shouted back the President.
[Illustration: Lester Ralph.
PRESIDENT McKINLEY GREETING HIS YOUNG VISITORS.]
"Splendid time, Mr. President, and thank you for your invitation,"
called back the delighted little guests.
"That's right!" returned the President, laughing. "I hope you'll all
come again next Easter Monday."
"Thank you, Mr. President. Good-bye, good-bye!" shouted the
children. Then President McKinley went back to his duties of State
and the children returned to their egg-rolling. Mrs. McKinley
sat on the portico most of the afternoon watching the merriment.
Occasionally a little boy or girl would edge up to the portico, and
push a blue or red egg through the railings, saying:
"Please, Mrs. President, I've brought you one of my eggs to keep!"
Mrs. McKinley accepted the little presents with the sweetest of
smiles and a "Thank you."
At about two o'clock in the afternoon the White House lawn looked
like a large picnic ground. Some of the children had brought napkins
to lay upon the grass when they should be ready to eat their
luncheon, and on the napkins they spread their boiled eggs and
bread-and-butter. One little girl, when I complimented her on her
daintiness, explained:
"I does it so I won't get eggshells on Mr. President's grass! My
mamma told me I must be careful, cos it wouldn't be very nice if the
President of the 'Nited States had to go round to-morrow picking up
eggshells after me!"
During the afternoon there were several slight accidents at the
fountain. Some of the children delighted in digging all the meat
from their eggs through the smallest possible aperture and then
floating the empty shells in the lower basin of the fountain where
the water was undisturbed. In trying to keep their improvised ships
from sailing away, two little girls fell into the water, but they
were quickly rescued by their nurses and taken home to be dried.
At five o'clock the crowd began to disperse, and at a little past
six the small guests of the President had all left the lawn and
were on their way to their various homes. Such a variety of homes,
indeed, they went to! Some to magnificent mansions on Connecticut
Avenue. Their fathers were high Government officials, Senators,
members of the Cabinet, and their mothers well-known society
women. Other little boys and girls went to very humble homes and
minded their little baby brothers and sisters while their mothers
got supper; and then there were the homes in the localities given
over almost entirely to the negro population. Before the War their
parents and grandparents had been slaves, little dreaming that their
descendants would ever be invited along with the children of the
aristocratic whites to play in the President's "back yard"!
By the way, what a sight that "back yard" did present on the morning
following Easter Monday! There were four gardeners busily at work
with rakes and brooms and baskets. They were gathering up the litter
of eggshells, breadcrumbs, bits of paper, lost playthings, and tiny
bits of muslin and calico that had somehow got torn off the dresses
of some of the children. At the fountain one of the gardeners was
fishing out pieces of string and floating shells. It was four
o'clock when the garden was finally "picked up" and shorn of its
festive appearance. It was then absolutely "spick and span," and
no one could ever have guessed that the day before it had been a
playground for several thousand children!
ELIZABETH L. BANKS.
[Illustration: decorative]
FORGIVENESS.
Within a spacious hall, before a fire
Whose flick'ring light danced weirdly on his brow,
Stood Peter mutely brooding o'er his vow
To die with Christ, though thousands should conspire
To wreak their vengeance, profitless and dire,
On Christ and all who faith in Him avow.
With sin the soul of Peter struggled now,
When, "Known, or not, to Jesus?" men inquire.
"I know Him not"--thus, falsely, thrice he swore;
And think you that because this weak man fell
The God-Man would deny him evermore?
Christ looked upon him, and that look did spell:
"For thee My soul shall on the Cross be riven,
And, therefore, Peter, is thy sin forgiven!"
LOUIS H. VICTORY.
[Illustration: OUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDS
The above picture records a brave attempted rescue on the part of
Private Frederick Lakeman Banks, of the London Rifle Brigade. When
on the way to the Rainham Rifle Range some time ago, Banks and
several of his companions were attracted to this spot by the cries
of some bystanders, who stated that a child had fallen into the
thick muddy water of the tidal creek and had disappeared. Banks
immediately threw off his coat, plunged into the filthy water,
and after a three minutes' search succeeded in finding the boy.
Unhappily, the child was past help; but, all the same, the gallantry
displayed by the rescuer was rewarded by the bestowal of the Bronze
Medal of THE QUIVER Heroes' Fund.]
[Illustration: MISS LUCRETIA'S NEW IDEA.
H V Brock]
_A COMPLETE STORY._
By M. H. Cornwall Legh, Author of "The Steep Ascent," Etc.
I.
"So poor Annie is dead!" Miss Lucretia repeated as she
laid down the black-edged letter which she had just read through for
the third time and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief already damp
and flabby. "Poor Annie! So soon after poor Edward's death too! And
now I wonder what will become of poor little Amy?"
She repeated the adjective which seemed most appropriate as often as
she liked, for she was only speaking to herself.
Miss Lucretia lived alone in a very small house, which was one of
a row, all just alike, with a bow-window apiece for their glory,
and a little bit of garden and a fence and a gate. They were called
Primrose Cottages, despite the fact that there were no primroses
about them.
Thirlambury was a very dull, behind-the-age little town, and people
thought Miss Lucretia a very dull, behind-the-age little lady. She
thought so herself; for she had always taken life meekly.
Lucretia was the only one of the three sisters--of whose happy
girlhood together the old maid was thinking as she wiped away
her tears--who had been at all meek. Constantia and Ann had both
been strong-charactered, masterful girls, in accordance with the
traditions of their family. With Constantia this decided turn had
met with the happiest development. It had enabled her to manage to
perfection a husband and family, and it was with pardonable pride
that she now looked at her six successful sons and daughters,
all brought up just as they should have been, physically,
intellectually, and morally; of whom the last had just left the
nursery for the school-room.
With Ann the family characteristics had gone in the wrong direction.
Her strong will had led her to marry a very unsatisfactory little
man, whom his family finally exported to New Zealand, with her and
their four children, rejoicing over the happy riddance. Out there
Constantia did not like to say, providentially, though that was the
adverb which suggested itself--the four children took diphtheria,
and every one of them died.
When the grass had grown green on those four graves, another
child was born--little Amy--and Aunt Lucretia was asked to be its
godmother. And now, there was this child of five years old left
without either parent. They had not been first-class parents,
but Miss Lucretia did not think of that; her heart being of too
old-fashioned make for such philosophy.
"An orphan, poor little dear!" she said to herself, and her
handkerchief became damp again at the thought.
"Constantia has arranged already about her being brought to
England," Miss Lucretia soliloquised. (Being alone, she had got into
the way of soliloquising.) "How prompt Constantia always is! And now
what will become of the child?"
It was not an idle speculation. Miss Lucretia was revolving
something in her mind--an idea so new, so absorbing, that over it
her eyes dried, and she put back the letter into its envelope with
untrembling fingers.
"I am sure I could do it!" she said at last, speaking aloud this
time, and with a great deal of determination. "A child of five
cannot cost much to keep, and there are many little ways in which
I could reduce my expenditure." Then she relapsed into silent
thought again. She was making deep calculations, wondering how an
income which just sufficed for her and her faithful Fanny could
be stretched at the four corners so as to cover the expenses of
one more member of humanity. Such a little member that in a large
household she could be received and fed and clothed for some years
to come without any perceptible difference in the outgoings; but
this was a very small household, and the matter had to be considered.
Miss Lucretia's income was of the kind described as modest; but she
was a careful manager, and, as everybody knew how poor she was,
nothing was expected of her in the way of entertaining beyond a
quiet cup of afternoon tea, and the promoters of charity lists went
away from her door contented if she only gave half-a-crown.
She always did give the half-crown, and a penny to the organ-grinder
who came round weekly, and sixpence each to the butcher's boy, the
baker's boy, and the grocer's boy at Christmas; the same every year,
not allowing herself any wild excursions of charity till the regular
subscriptions had been provided for.
But it was not in her philanthropies that Miss Lucretia proposed
making her substantial reductions. There were a great many little
luxuries which could be curtailed.
Regarding food, people would have said that no one was more
economical than Miss Lucretia, but Miss Lucretia herself knew
better. It was true that there never was any waste in this little
establishment. A pound of meat was never ordered when three-quarters
of a pound would do; and every scrap of food was eaten. But the
meat and the milk and the butter ordered for 4, Primrose Cottages
were always of the very best. The eggs must be newlaid, and not
selected. The pot of jam--"preserves," Miss Lucretia called it,
with old-fashioned elegance--in which she and Fanny indulged once
a fortnight, must be of whole fruit in syrup; not the marvels of
cheapness in two-pound jars.
"Why," thought Miss Lucretia now to herself, "should I buy butter
at eighteenpence a pound, when they say the Normandy butter, or
the Brittany, is really excellent? And it does seem a sinful waste
to give two shillings for tea when one can get it quite good,
the Vicar's wife tells me, at sixteen-pence. Indeed, I have seen
phenomenal tea at a shilling." And so on.
The little lady proceeded with her reductions till she was quite
convinced that Amy's coming need make no real difference in Fanny's
comfort--the question which had pressed most upon her mind.
Then there were Amy's clothes to be thought of. Well, they would not
cost much. There was a gown hanging up now in the cupboard which
might be cut up for her.
Then there was a crimson merino dress which Miss Lucretia had
bought last summer for the Vicarage garden-party--not without some
misgivings as to the choice of so unwearing a colour, but with the
solace to her conscience of knowing it could be dyed.
That would make a sweet little frock and cloak for Amy; for the
dress had only been worn twice, and its wearer had held it up very
carefully out of the dust.
Miss Lucretia went up to the little box-room opening out of her
bedroom, and turned out a number of old treasures--things she had
kept ever since her girlhood, carefully folded, wrong side out,
and covered with tissue-paper. Here was her bridesmaid's dress for
Constantia's wedding--that would cut up into a lovely Sunday frock;
and here was a piece of china silk which had never been made up till
Miss Lucretia grew too old for white dresses; and other things that
would all come in. Yes, she would have no difficulty in dressing
little Amy, and making her look just as smart as the children at
Beaconsfield Mansion when occasion arose for it. She hoped the
occasions would arise, that her child would be asked to parties,
like other children, and with a new interest the old woman thought
of the different families of her acquaintance.
And now about a room for Amy. The little box-room must be cleared
out, and that would make a charming nest for her. The old chintz
with the rosebuds on it Miss Lucretia had just taken from its paper
would be the very thing for curtains. A little bed would just
fit here behind the door, and a washstand there, and so on. Miss
Lucretia planned it all out with absorbing interest. The question
was, where was the money to come from for buying the furniture?
There were certain things in the box-room which could be sold. Miss
Lucretia's harp; she never played on it now, and harping was out of
fashion, so it would not be wanted for Amy. And that portfolio of
engravings--and---- She had soon marked out enough of her treasures
to make the furnishing of the little room an easy matter.
Then she went downstairs and divulged her great project to Fanny.
Her co-operation was very necessary, and her mistress approached her
a little timidly.
"Fanny, I am thinking of having a child to live with me."
"Bless us! ma'am, a child?"
"Yes, my poor sister's little orphan."
Fanny's heart was warm. She listened to Miss Lucretia's plans and
wishes without any crushing comment, but at the end she remarked,
"Well, I should have thought as Mrs. Dalrymple would have taken her;
she is so rich and with that big place and all; but if she don't
feel disposed that way, and you do, ma'am, well, I suppose the poor
little soul had best come to us." That was quite enough, and now
Miss Lucretia hurried out of the house, and into the High Street, to
inquire about the price of children's beds. It was early in the day,
of course, to enter into such details, but then, the whole affair
was so interesting that they could not be put off till to-morrow.
As Miss Lucretia walked down the High Street, she was attracted by
a toyshop, and found herself straying into it to inquire the price
of a doll in the window. It would be very silly to buy one so soon,
and before any of the necessaries of life were provided for. But the
temptation proved too strong for her. She went in and bought it--the
first present she would give to _her child_.
Miss Lucretia spent an hour in the furniture shop. She had to
arrange first with the proprietor about the sale of her own
belongings, and then to choose the furniture for the room. She
found she wanted only the prettiest, nicest things for Amy, though
the cheapest for their solid value would have been her main object
if for herself. Then there was a lovely paper, with nursery rhyme
pictures all over it, which so fascinated her that she ordered
half-a-dozen pieces of it to come on approval.
Altogether, it was a most exciting afternoon, and Miss Lucretia
came home with a springing step, and radiant eyes, and a general
bearing of youthfulness, such as she had not known for the last
twenty years. A bright golden glow had suddenly overspread the grey
landscape of her life, such as the sun sometimes throws at sunset,
when it looks out from under a cloud at the end of a long grey day.
Before the post went out, she wrote a letter to Constantia,
announcing her intention of taking Amy for her own, which gave a
delightful seal of finality to her decision.
II.
"I could not have believed that Lucretia would be so foolish. Just
fancy! she wants to adopt Amy!" was Mrs. Dalrymple's comment, as
she read her sister's letter; and everyone at the breakfast table
exclaimed.
"It is a very generous idea," remarked Mr. Dalrymple mildly. He had
always been a mild sort of man, and marriage with Constantia had not
made him less so.
"Generous! yes. Lucretia is always generous. You know the difficulty
I had in stopping her giving expensive presents to the children; but
it is so very foolish. I shall write her a letter, of course, and
tell her that we intend to have Amy ourselves. Poor Lucretia! Fancy
her with the charge of a child!"
So Constantia wrote her letter. It contained about a quarter of
the words that Lucretia had used, and was very sensible, kind and
decided. There was no answer required to it.
Great was Mrs. Dalrymple's surprise, therefore, when by return of
post came a reply, not of acquiescence, but setting forth the other
aunt's superior claim as godmother, an idea which, as Constantia
remarked, was simply absurd.
"I shall have to go to Thirlambury myself," she said: "though it
is not very convenient." It was often not very convenient to go to
Thirlambury.
[Illustration: Then she divulged her great project to Fanny.
H V Brock]
In the meantime, Miss Lucretia had been indulging in her new
day-dream, till every bit of her life had been remodelled in
anticipation, and brought into harmony with her coming work and
responsibility as an adopted mother. Already she attached to herself
that beautiful title, the missing of which had been the sole sorrow
of her life. As a young girl, Lucretia's day-dreams had not been of
lovers, but of marriage; the joys of children clinging round her
neck, the merry voices about the house, the little feet pattering up
and down.
And now she counted the days to the one coming so near, when
she should feel the real warm arms of little Amy clasped round
"godmamma's" neck, and fold the child in her own with the new
wonderful joy of possession. She felt that she could hold up her
head again among women, and that the life which a week ago had
seemed to hold nothing more except advancing infirmities was full of
new possibilities and ever-increasing interest. Miss Lucretia lived
again.
Miss Lucretia actually bought the bed, which the shopman had urged
her to purchase at once, or it might be gone, as he had no other
bedstead for a child.
As Miss Lucretia relinquished one after another of her own comforts
and conveniences, the blessedness of giving grew more and more
apparent to her. Nothing in life had ever given her a joy like the
joy of this sacrifice.
Four days had passed so, and Miss Lucretia was just planning which
plot of the small garden space allowed to a Primrose cottage might
be spared from beans and cauliflowers to make a flowerbed for Amy,
when a ring was heard at the door-bell. Miss Lucretia answered it
herself, as Fanny was out, and there stood Constantia!
[Illustration: There stood Constantia!]
Miss Lucretia was always delighted to see her sister, and made the
most of her rather infrequent visits. But to-day a kind of misgiving
came over her at the unexpected sight of Constantia's smiling face;
and a sensation of defeat as Constantia uttered, in her brisk,
cheerful voice, the words, "And how are you, Lucretia? You didn't
expect to see me?"
Lucretia welcomed her, as usual, and took her into the little
parlour, which was drawing-room or dining-room according to the time
of day. It was drawing-room now, and the dining-table stood folded,
with a cloth and some ornaments on it, in a corner; everything was
as neat and carefully arranged as it always was; each chair in that
particular spot which experience had proved to be the best for it.
"How nice and tidy you always look, Lucretia," was Mrs. Dalrymple's
first remark, as she sat down with a genial laugh in the visitor's
arm-chair. "You must be struck with the difference when you come to
The Towers. With six children, it is impossible to keep everything
in its place!"
Miss Lucretia asked after the six children, categorically, staving
off the subject which she knew very well had brought her sister to
Thirlambury.
"The girls are as well as possible," answered their mother, massing
them, for brevity; "and they are all looking forward so much to
having Amy." Mrs. Dalrymple was a person who took bulls by their
horns. She always knew exactly what she intended to do with the
bull--the great secret of success in life--and was quite sure about
its being the best thing that could be done.
"But I intended to have Amy," answered Miss Lucretia, in almost as
firm a voice, but putting herself at a disadvantage at once by her
slip of the past tense.
"Yes, I know you did. You wrote me all about it. It was exceedingly
kind and good of you to think of such a thing, but, of course, it
was quite out of the question. As I told you when I wrote, we intend
to take her."
"Didn't you get my second letter?"
"Yes, and I saw by that you did not quite understand mine to you. I
wrote in a hurry, and I suppose I did not make myself clear."
Constantia Dalrymple was under the impression that she was the most
truthful of women.
"You made yourself perfectly clear," answered Lucretia, with a
quiet dignity which was not usual with her. "But before you spoke
of taking the child, I had made up my mind to do so. I have spoken
to Fanny about it, and she is perfectly willing to accept the extra
economies we shall have to practise, and any trouble Amy will give
her. Of course, I shall take charge of her myself."
"How good of Fanny! I have always thought she must have enough to do
with the whole work of your house, and she works a good deal in the
garden, too, does she not?"
Miss Lucretia looked a trifle uncomfortable.
"I think Fanny will enjoy having a young life about the house," she
replied, rather hurriedly; "just as I shall myself."
Constantia smiled. It was not exactly a nice smile, but perhaps she
did not know that.
"I do not think either you or Fanny have had much to do with
children," she said. "It is all very well to have them with you for
a few hours at a time, when they are in their best frocks and on
their best behaviour, and you have nothing to do with them except
amuse them. But when you have the whole responsibility of a child,
and are obliged to look after her from morning till night, it is a
very different thing."
"Of course it is," said Miss Lucretia.
It was that very fact, comprising as it did the constant demand
on time and thought and labour, with all the rich reward of
corresponding affection from the child in its dependence, that
made the sweetness of this dream of motherhood. But Lucretia could
not put this into words. She was never very fluent with her deeper
ideas, which were, perhaps, instincts rather than formulated
notions, and she was least fluent of all with Constantia.
"And how could you ever afford it?" went on Mrs. Dalrymple.
Lucretia explained her scheme of retrenchment, and all her little
plans.
"But you won't be able to go on dressing Amy with your old things
for ever," said Constantia. "And, then, there will be hats and boots
and shoes.
"She may be ill, too; children have to go through measles and
whooping-cough, and that sort of thing: how will you afford to pay
the doctor?"
Lucretia was silent for a moment; Constantia had such a very
convincing way of saying things, and making all that was unpractical
and visionary appear so; but she was not really vanquished.
"I think one must trust for that----" she began, at which Constantia
smiled again.
"How about schooling, too? A girl's education is a very expensive
thing nowadays. I am sure Edie and Gwendoline have cost us as much
as the boys."
"Amy is only five now, and for some years to come I think of
teaching her myself." The present tense this time, for she was on
her mettle. "You know we were very thoroughly grounded by Miss Cox."
"That is a long time ago, Lucretia!"
"Yes, it is a long time, but I suppose the principles of grammar and
arithmetic are the same, and I have not forgotten how to read!"
It surprised Mrs. Dalrymple to see her sister pluck up so much
spirit, but this defiant attitude did not affect her. There was in
her such a certainty of being in the right, and of causing the right
to prevail, that she was able to take all Lucretia's opposition very
quietly. It was obstinate of her sister to hold out like this--weak
people always were obstinate--and it was extremely foolish, but her
surrender was only a matter of time.
Lucretia went on talking, urging her suit in a way that would have
struck some people as pathetic, but Constantia was not much given
to seeing the pathos in life; her view of things in general was
optimistic, and unless a sorrow was thrust before her she did not
look at it.
Constantia let Lucretia talk on until she naturally ceased, after
repeating herself a good many times, in the way that peculiarly
weakens a cause. Then she brought up her reserve force.
"But do you think it would be good for the child to be by herself,
just with you and old Fanny?"
Fanny was ten years younger than her mistress, and Lucretia realised
how very old fifty-nine must be.
Constantia paused a moment. Then she went on to point out all the
drawbacks of a bringing-up such as Amy must have with two old
maids--not using the term, but dwelling on the characteristics
implied in it.
"What would you do with the child if she were naughty?" Mrs.
Dalrymple asked by way of a test question. "She is sure to have a
strong will of her own; you know what poor Ann was."
Miss Lucretia could not answer the question, naughtiness seeming to
her as multi-form a thing as illness, and the treatment for either
depending upon its form and cause. She replied that her idea was to
bring the child up on a system of love; a vague answer which did not
satisfy her sister.
"Bringing up children is not such an easy and simple matter as
people might think who have had no experience." Here Constantia
herself stood on a firm foundation. "And it is much more difficult
to bring up one child by itself than when there are others for it to
consort with."
Then Mrs. Dalrymple proceeded to dilate on the smallness of Primrose
Cottage, which was certainly a very poor little place compared with
The Towers. There Amy would have the grounds to play about in; she
would share the girls' governess, ride on Gwendoline's pony, and
Nurse, who had been so splendid with Bertram and Edie, would only be
too pleased to have a child again.
"It always makes her and me quite unhappy to look at the empty
nursery," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "though the children have only flown
into the schoolroom."
There was a weight of truth in every sentence Constantia uttered,
which made it strike like a battering-ram against the walls of Miss
Lucretia's airy castle. At last she gave a little cry--a cry in
words:
"Oh, don't tell me that I mustn't have Amy!"
"I do not say that you must not have her," answered Constantia. "As
you say, you are the child's godmother, and the elder of us two. I
leave it for you to decide. Only, I want you to think which would
really be best for Amy."
Released thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, from the paws of the
cat, the little mouse of Miss Lucretia's soul ran trembling into a
corner, while the cat smiled, sweetly enough this time, as those may
who have won the game. It was a good cat, too, which had only been
doing its duty.
At this moment, Fanny came in, bringing tea, and Mrs. Dalrymple
greeted her with her usual warmth and kindness, rejoicing in the
anticipation of eating some of that delicious home-made cake which
was always so much better than they could get their cook at The
Towers to make; asking with sympathy after Fanny's rheumatism, and
giving her an abundance of those smiles which were so taking; while
Lucretia sat, looking old and small and withered, with a face that
seemed as if it would never smile again.
She had come to her hour of sacrifice; the great sacrifice of her
life. Even with Lucretia the age was not past when sacrifices may be
lit up by a golden halo of romance. There had been a halo round the
sacrifice of all her little comforts which she had already made in
will for Amy. The love that prompted it had turned the self-denial
into a part of the joy of her prospective guardianship.
But round this sacrifice there hovered no such brightness. It was
only like herself, a poor, common-place, drab-coloured thing.
No sense of heroism could attend it; common-sense demanded it,
so Constantia had proved, but, even with Constantia's provings,
Lucretia could not have offered up her precious sacrifice upon the
altar of common-sense. But the other altar, which stood hard by,
the altar of love, was one that she could not thus disdain. The
result of the pitiful struggle was certain, or Constantia would not
have given the game into Lucretia's hands; but Lucretia was not
sharp enough to see that. To her the whole brunt of choosing was
as real, the action of her will as decided, as if a long habit of
unselfishness had not made any other course impossible.
It was better for Amy that she should go to Constantia. Then to
Constantia she must go.
"I suppose you are right," she said at last, in words as commonplace
as befitted her unheroic sacrifice.
"I was sure you would agree with me when you came to think about
it," Constantia answered, gently now, for it was part of her system,
the one, perhaps, which had made it so successful with her children,
never to use unnecessary force. "I am sure a month hence you will
feel very glad that you have not a child turning your peaceful life
and your pretty cottage upside down."
There was no use trying to make Constantia understand; and, if she
could have understood, it would have made no difference.
Miss Lucretia said nothing. It was time now for Mrs. Dalrymple to
go, and, finishing her second cup of tea, she wished her sister an
affectionate good-bye, with the promise of a hamper of game from The
Towers, where they were just going to have one of their "big shoots."
[Illustration: She had come to the great sacrifice of her life.
H V Brock]
"Perhaps I might have done it more kindly," Constantia thought, as
she drove in her cab to the station. "But it was such a foolish
idea. I am glad Lucretia saw it for herself in the end."
Miss Lucretia went upstairs with slow, old footsteps, after her
sister had gone. The last red glow had faded from her landscape, and
everything was grey again, a shade deeper grey now, as it must go on
growing deeper, till the night. She went into the little room, and,
as she looked at the little bed which was never to hold her child, a
tear came up into each of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
The doll lay on the bed, wrapped up in the white muslin that was to
have made its underclothes, looking like a tiny corpse. It seemed to
Lucretia like her dream of motherhood as it was now, the dead body
of something that had never really lived.
She went to the window and looked out on the grey, darkening
landscape, and over it there twinkled one faint star. She stood
watching, and the star grew brighter, then another came out, and
then another. For a long time Lucretia looked up: then she knelt
down, looking up still.
The far-off light from the stars seemed to be shining on her face as
she turned it to Fanny, when that faithful woman came up at last to
bring her mistress down to supper.
"Miss Amy is going to Mrs. Dalrymple," she said, quietly, and with a
little smile. "My sister left it to me to decide whether she should
go to The Towers or come here, and I gave her up to them, Fanny. I
am glad she is going to my sister. She will be happier there."
[Illustration: SOME FAMOUS EASTER HYMNS]
There can be no two opinions as to the most famous Easter hymn.
In almost every church throughout the land, and in most chapels
too, there arises, every Easter morning, the well-known strains of
"Jesus Christ is risen to-day, Alleluia!" There may be an occasional
difference in the wording of a line here and there, as the hymn
appears in various hymnals, but practically it is the one hymn which
binds all Christian congregations together on Easter morning. It
is our Easter greeting one to another, in the joy and hope of that
blessed day, like the greeting of the pious Russian on the same
morn, who salutes every passer-by with the words "Christ is risen!"
[Illustration: (_Photo: W. and D. Downey, Ebury Street, S.W._)
THE REV. S. BARING-GOULD.]
[Illustration: (_Facsimile of part of the original manuscript of Mr.
Baring-Gould's Easter Hymn._)]
On the Resurrection Morning
Soul & Body meet again,
No more sorrow, no more weeping,
No more pain.
Here awhile they must be parted
And the Flesh its Sabbath keep,
Waiting, in a holy stillness
Fast asleep.
* * * *
O the beauty! O the gladness
Of that Resurrection Day,
Which shall never, thro' long ages,
Pass away.
On that happy Easter morning
All the graves their dead restore,
Father, sister, child & Mother
Meet once more.
S. Baring Gould.
It is strange, therefore, that no one has even an indistinct
notion as to who wrote this famous hymn. Its author is, and long
has been, unknown; and, equally strange, there is almost the same
to be said of the composer of its famous tune. For the tune is as
great a favourite as the words, and, in fact, whilst the words do
occasionally alter, as stated, the tune is ever the same one we know
so well. The honour of being its composer has by some been ascribed
to Henry Carey, but there are no certain grounds for the assumption,
fine musician though he was. So completely has this tune associated
itself, however, with the hymn that few people are aware that some
collections of hymns have alternative tunes to the great song of
praise for Easter Day. But even Monk's tune to it in "Hymns Ancient
and Modern," takes quite an inferior place; it is seldom, or never,
used.
[Illustration: (_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W._)
DR. E. H. TURPIN.]
Possibly the immense popularity of "Jesus Christ is risen to-day"
depends on two things. Firstly, the words are extremely simple--a
little child can understand them; secondly, the tune is one of the
very best "congregational" ones of any collection.
Were I asked to name the next favourite Easter hymn, I should
certainly give the palm to one of the most beautiful hymns of
the Church of Christ--a hymn which has solaced and sustained the
hearts of thousands in their dark hours of grief for the loss of
their loved ones, just as it has rejoiced the hearts of so many
loving servants of the Master at their Easter festivals. I refer to
Baring-Gould's touching hymn "On the Resurrection morning."
The comfort derived from the sweet words of hope and promise in this
hymn by members of the Church militant here on earth will never be
known till that "Resurrection morning."
The Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould has kindly given me, for THE QUIVER,
a copy of the manuscript of this hymn, and a few notes about it
which cannot but prove interesting. It was composed on May Day, in
1864, he says; and, certainly, that is appropriate enough, for do
not all poets sing of May Day as a special day for the awakening
and rejoicing of nature? Horbury, that robust Yorkshire village
where Mr. Baring-Gould was then the curate, was the birthplace of
"On the Resurrection morning," as it was of what has proved one of
the six most "popular" hymns of the world, viz. "Onward, Christian
soldiers." So Horbury enjoys no mean fame. No one speaks more
lovingly of Horbury than does its former curate, now so famous; and
Horbury--church, chapel, and "non-connected"--is proud to a degree
of Sabine Baring-Gould and of the fame he has for ever given its
name by these and other noted hymns.
[Illustration: "ON THE RESURRECTION MORNING."
(_Facsimile of Dr. Turpin's Musical Setting._)]
It will be noticed that there is a word or two slightly different
in the author's copy from those of the usually printed text. In one
case his manuscript is not perhaps the better. "Which shall never,
through long ages, pass away," is not, in the writer's opinion,
grander than "Which shall not, through endless ages, pass away."
Dr. E. H. Turpin's fine tune to "On the Resurrection morning" has
the merit of exactly suiting it. All can sing it, and that makes
it so popular. The composer, with great kindness, has also allowed
me to reproduce his manuscript of it here; and it is only fair to
say that did the renown of the celebrated organist, as a composer,
depend only on this one tune, so linked to the hymn, it would not
easily perish whilst joyful hearts on Easter Day, and sad hearts at
the graveside of loved ones, join in singing "On the Resurrection
morning."
[Illustration: _Come, ye faithful, raise the strain._
_S. John Damascene._ _Arthur Henry Brown._
FACSIMILE OF THE COMPOSER'S ORIGINAL SETTING.]
To the Rev. J. M. Neale, who died about the time when Baring-Gould
wrote the hymn just spoken of, the Christian world is indebted for
three splendid Easter hymns. Of these it is difficult to say which
is the finest, though perhaps, being quite original, we should give
that honour to the well-known "The foe behind, the deep before."
Every section of the Church of Christ sings with deep and solemn
pathos those beautiful lines--
"No longer must the mourners weep,
Nor call departed Christians dead;
For death is hallow'd into sleep,
And every grave is but a bed"--
following so closely on the joyful strain of "Christ is risen!" in
the preceding verse.
[Illustration: (_Photo: William Gill, Colchester._)
_Arthur H. Brown._]
To this hymn innumerable tunes have been composed by musical people
of various degrees of ability; but it has always seemed to me that
by far the best are the two tunes given to it in the Wesleyan
hymn-book, and, curious to relate, the composers are both ministers,
the Rev. Olinthus R. Barnicott and the Rev. Sidney J. P. Dunman.
And it may safely be said that the singing by an average Wesleyan
congregation of this fine hymn, to either of these fine tunes, will
not be easily forgotten by the person who hears it for the first
time.
The two other famous Easter hymns of Dr. Neale's composition were
really translations from the Greek. Nevertheless, they are grand
translations, if one may say so. "The Day of Resurrection"--best
recognised when sung to the tune composed by Berthold Tours, the
celebrated composer is a regular favourite at Easter-tide; but even
more famous is the other hymn from the Greek--
"Come, ye faithful, raise the strain
Of triumphant gladness."
This hymn may safely be placed amongst the most popular of Easter
favourites, and, like so many others, whilst excellent in its
words, it owes not a little of its fame to its fine tune. This
latter was composed by Mr. Arthur Henry Brown, of Brentwood, and
was called "St. John Damascene," under which name it still figures
in the various Church hymn-books. Mr. Brown told me that the tune
was composed in less than a quarter of an hour! But he also told
me that even that was eclipsed by the tune "St. Anatolius"--does
any hymn-lover not know it?--to "The day is past and over," which
was composed in five minutes! Truly that was an "inspired" five
minutes, for which the Christian Church has reason to be thankful!
To the late Bishop of Lincoln, Dr. Christopher Wordsworth--who that
knew the saintly old man did not love him?--the world is indebted
for the ever-popular
"Alleluia! Alleluia!
Hearts to Heav'n and voices raise,"
which always goes with "a good swing" on Easter morn. Its tone is
"victory" from beginning to end, and there are few more beautiful
Easter verses than the first one of this hymn.
Sir Arthur Sullivan composed its tune--the one best known, "Lux
Eoi"--and the very lilt of the music seems somehow to suggest the
work of the great musician who gave us similar "swinging" tunes for
"Onward, Christian soldiers" ("St. Gertrude") and for "The Jubilee
Hymn." But Sir Arthur tells me that "Lux Eoi" was not composed
especially for this hymn, but for another one less famous. The
rapidity of Sir Arthur's composition is only equalled by that of
Arthur H. Brown, already mentioned. The gifted composer of _The
Golden Legend_ thinks long before he puts pen to paper, and often
defers doing this "till the last minute," as we say; but when he
_does_ get started, he goes at it as few composers can, and will
polish off the introduction to an oratorio in a night!
[Illustration: (_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W._)
THE LATE BISHOP WORDSWORTH.]
"When I survey the wondrous Cross," that splendid old hymn of that
splendid old divine, Dr. Isaac Watts, is probably one of our very
oldest hymns that is at all well known to-day. Everybody sings it,
for everybody knows both words and tune: Englishman, native African,
Brother Jonathan, converted Chinese, all sing alike from the heart,
after they have felt the real significance and power of that death
and resurrection--
"Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my life, my soul, my all!"
"Rockingham," the tune to which this hymn is eternally wedded,
was composed by Dr. Edward Miller. There is a magnificent roll
and stateliness about it which suits the words perfectly, and the
wonderful magnetic force which comes over one as one listens to six
thousand people--led by, say, Mr. Ira D. Sankey, singing "When I
survey the wondrous Cross"--was well described by the nameless slave
in America, who, hearing it thus sung by a crowd, and being reproved
for humming the tune as the people sang, said, "Massa, it no use; me
_must_ jine in!"
[Illustration: (_Photo: J. C. Schaarwächter, Berlin._)
SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN.]
A living hymn-writer of no small fame--the present Archbishop of
York--has given us one of the very finest of the hymns for this
season. Though not popular in the sense that Dr. Watts' celebrated
hymn is, yet there are few more charmingly beautiful lines,
suggestive of Good Friday and Easter thoughts, than are found in Dr.
Maclagan's hymn, "Lord, when Thy Kingdom comes, remember me!"
This hymn is one of the best-known of the Archbishop's, though, of
course, his most famous one is the ever-beautiful "The Saints of
God, their conflict past."
We cannot pass by without notice the Rev. John Ellerton's "Welcome,
happy morning," and the Rev. F. W. Faber's very sweetly sad "O come
and mourn with me awhile," which, of course, is a hymn for Good
Friday. The tune to this was written by the celebrated Durham man
to whom the Church of England (and all denominations) will ever
be in debt for some of the sweetest hymn-tunes the world has ever
known--Dr. J. B. Dykes. And it was fitting that he who composed the
beautiful tune to "Our blest Redeemer," for Whitsuntide, should then
give us another ever-famous tune to Faber's grand words.
[Illustration: (_Photo: T. Heaviside, Durham._)
THE LATE DR. J. B. DYKES.]
Let me close this brief account of some of our finest Easter hymns
by just recalling one or two of our finest Easter anthems. Of
course, the first, _par excellence_, is the immortal "I know that my
Redeemer liveth"; and equally with it, from the same "oratorio of
oratorios," is the "Hallelujah" Chorus. Of these what shall be said?
Shall it be told again how Handel thought he was in heaven when he
wrote them? Or shall we note that the "Hallelujah" Chorus is one of
the three pieces of music in the world on hearing which every Briton
stands up and doffs his hat? These are the National Anthem, the
"Dead March" in _Saul_, and the "Hallelujah" Chorus. In the first he
pays his tribute to his earthly sovereign; in the second he pays his
last tribute to the venerated dead; in the third he acknowledges the
tribute due to his Almighty Lord, the Sovereign of Heaven.
[Illustration: (_Photo: Hills and Saunders, Oxford._)
_John Stainer_]
Apart from these two masterpieces of Handel, the prettiest and most
beautiful Easter anthem is that of Dr. Stainer, composed for the
cantata _The Raising of Jairus' Daughter_. In a wide experience of
cathedral music and anthem-singing by our best choirs, I doubt if
there is any much finer musical treat than to listen to the choir of
St. Paul's, or that of York Minster, as there rolls forth that most
beautiful of anthems, words and music--"Awake, thou that sleepest,
and arise from the dead, and God shall give thee light." This is,
indeed, a noble song for "Easter's bright morning," and well may its
words be taken as our special Easter thought; for to all of us, in
some way or other, they must have a special meaning.
[Illustration: SELF-HEALING.]
By The Rev. Hugh Macmillan, D.D., L.L.D.
"Physician, heal thyself."--ST. LUKE iv. 23.
We are accustomed to think that the healing virtue there
is in herbs and trees was meant only for man; that herbs and trees
were created with these virtues in them for the special purpose of
curing our human diseases and ministering to our human wants, and
for nothing else; that God had man in view in the beginning when He
gave these medicinal qualities to plants, and apart from man's use
of them they serve no other purpose.
Now this, which is a common, widespread idea, is an altogether
erroneous one. For if God meant these vegetable qualities and
products exclusively for man's use, the questions may be pertinently
asked, Why were they so long undiscovered; and why do they occur in
places often remote from human habitation, and waste themselves upon
the desert air?
It is true indeed that God designed them as remedies for man's
ailments, that He prepared beforehand the cures of human ills long
previous to the necessity for these cures arising. But this law of
mercy was a comprehensive one, and had a two-fold object in view.
God in the first place created the plant complete in itself, adapted
to its own circumstances and requirements; and in the second place,
it is through this perfect adaptability to its own wants that it
becomes generally useful in nature, and ministers to the necessities
of other created things. It is because the plant heals itself first
by the remedy which it grows and produces by its own powers that it
becomes a medicine to the animal world, when any members of that
world are placed in similar circumstances and exposed to a similar
disease.
Why, for instance, does the Peruvian bark tree produce the bitter
principle in its bark from which we have prepared the valuable
medicine called quinine? Is it not because that bitter principle
is necessary to preserve the health of the tree itself in the wet,
malarial districts where it grows? The Peruvian bark tree grows its
own quinine, and administers it to itself, as it were, in order to
prevent a disease in itself caused by the marshy places where it
is found, similar to fever in the human subject. The willow grows
beside rivers and streams which are apt to cause exhalations and
breed influences that are noxious to the well-being of the tree. It
has therefore developed in its own bark a febrifuge called salicin,
which protects it from these noxious influences and maintains its
trunk and branches and foliage in vigorous health and beauty. And
it is because the quinine is good for the tree itself in malarial
places that it is good for the fever which human beings take in such
places; and it is because the salicin of the willow guards the tree
from the injurious exhalations of marshes and river banks that it
is a specific for rheumatism in man, which is produced by the same
causes.
The same benefit which the medicinal principle developed by itself
works in its own constitution it confers upon man when subjected
to the same evil. And so it is with all the herbal medicines. They
have a purpose to serve in the economy of the plant that yields them
before they can minister to human sickness and disease. Sugar was
not meant in the first instance to sweeten man's cup, but to store
up food for the plant in order to enable it to flower. Tannin is
created in the bark of the oak tree, in the first instance, not for
the purpose of helping to make leather for man's shoes, but for
the purpose of preventing mildew and fungous growths from settling
on the bark of the tree and so decaying it. Scent is produced
in flowers and shrubs that grow in watery places, not for man's
gratification in the first instance, but in order to deodorise the
air and make it fit for these scented flowers and shrubs to breathe
and to preserve their vitality and vigour. Aromatic fragrance is
yielded by the grey shrubs and herbs of the dry desert, not that the
garments of the human passer-by might smell pleasantly of it, but
that it might regulate the temperature, and keep the plants cool in
the burning heat of the noonday and warm in the freezing cold of the
night air.
Such instances might be multiplied indefinitely. Indeed, it may
be regarded as a rule of nature without exception that, whatever
properties plants possess that are useful to man, these properties,
in the first instance, are not only useful but indispensable to
themselves. And it is because they serve necessary uses in their own
economy that they are found so necessary in the economy of man. Each
plant that grows in circumstances where it is likely to be injured
by the soil or climate develops within itself the antidotes and
remedies against these unfavourable circumstances. It is a physician
that heals itself first of all, that adapts itself as perfectly as
possible to the peculiarities of its own place of growth. Nature
and it are harmonious: they help each other. The qualities that
are beneficial to itself are equally in the same way beneficial to
other creatures; and it helps the world because it has first helped
itself. It imparts health all around because it looks first after
its own health.
All this is obvious. The plant could not exist at all did it not
develop those qualities which would minister to its welfare and
adjust it perfectly to its environment. But in human economy we
fancy somehow that the law is less strict and more irregular, and
can be violated at times with impunity. We think that a man can
perform the part of a physician, and cure others, although he cannot
cure a trouble that afflicts himself; that he can restore others
to health while he himself is unhealthy. We can separate between a
man's skill and his personality; and, indeed, there are many cases
where a physician who is dying slowly of some incurable disease
can yet, by his knowledge and cleverness, so treat his patients
that he may heal their diseases and restore them to health and
strength. But we are usually suspicious of a doctor endeavouring
to cure others when he himself labours under an uncured disease.
We reason naturally that his first concern should be himself; and
if he fails in doing good to himself by his skill and medicine,
when his interests are most of all concerned and the motive for
healing strongest, how can he hope to succeed in the case of others,
strangers and comparatively indifferent to him? We should not accept
with implicit confidence a so-called remedy for baldness forced
upon our notice by a person whose own head was in that condition.
We should expect him to operate upon himself in the first instance
with success, and then we should feel disposed to venture upon a
similar use of it. The proverb says that "He who drives fat cattle
must himself be fat"; and upon the principle involved in that common
saying he who would heal others must himself be a specimen of that
active, vigorous health to which he wishes to restore others. In no
work, indeed, is the personal equation of more consequence than in
the work of the physician. Three-fourths of the elements that enter
into all diseases are spiritual, and three-fourths of the remedies
that must be used for them must also be spiritual. The personal
appearance, character, and manner of the physician himself are most
important factors in the cure of disease. Confidence in the doctor
is more than half the cure; and therefore what the doctor is in
himself is of great consequence.
In the spiritual sphere the physician can only heal others as he
heals himself. He himself must be an exemplification of the saving
health of God's countenance if he is to do good to others. It is
just as true in the affairs of the human soul as it is in the
case of the plant--that the quality which is beneficial to the
soul itself is equally beneficial to the world. It is noticeable,
however, that there are exceptions to the rule in the spiritual
world as there are exceptions in the natural human world. Just as
there are cases of physicians healing bodily diseases in others
while their own disease is unhealed, so there are cases where a man
is the means of saving others while he himself is unsaved.
It is not, indeed, a matter of supposition, but of certainty, that
a man may do good while he is not good. Hundreds of instances could
be given, in which persons have been the means of quickening,
comforting, and building up souls in the Lord, while all the time
they themselves were strangers to the power of truth and ignorant
of the love of Christ in their hearts. Ministers have preached the
Gospel for years, and have been wise in bringing souls to Christ,
and yet have themselves been castaways in the end. Members of
churches have been zealous in every good work, and yet have known
nothing of godliness but the form. The very commonness of this
thing increases its sadness. We think the case of Moses leading
the Israelites to the border of the Promised Land while he himself
was forbidden to enter peculiarly pathetic; but its pathos is in
reality far less touching than the case of the man who brings others
to the fountain of life while he himself is perishing of thirst, who
is like a guide-post pointing the way of salvation to others while
unable himself to take a single step.
But though instances have unquestionably occurred in which signal
beneficial results have followed the preaching of the Gospel by
ungodly men, this is not the normal order of the Divine procedure.
It is personal experience of religion as an inward life, as a living
power in the heart, that imparts unction to active Christian effort,
that adds conviction and power to testimony and commendation. He
is the man to do spiritual good to others who is able to say with
the Apostle, "That which we have heard, which we have seen with our
eyes, and our hands have handled, of the word of life, declare we
unto you, that ye also may have fellowship with us." He is the man
to say to others, "O taste and see that the Lord is good," who has
himself tasted, and from his own enjoyment can say, "Blessed is the
man that trusteth in Him."
It is an unchangeable law and constitution of our nature that we
cannot desire blessings for others which we do not really desire for
ourselves, the blessedness of which we have not known ourselves.
When we feel the value of our own souls, and not till then, we
shall feel the value of the souls of others. When we see the Lord
ourselves, and not till then, we shall desire that every child of
man shall see Him.
It is on this account that our Lord says to Peter, "When thou art
converted, strengthen thy brethren." "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest
thou Me? Feed My sheep; feed My lambs." If we are saved ourselves,
we shall be best fitted to save and benefit others. There is a
virtue in true holiness, there is a secret charm in the wisdom that
cometh from above, which wins our hearts, and inclines us to embrace
a religion which yields such blessed fruits. The man who eminently
possesses and constantly exhibits these qualities becomes quick and
powerful in acting upon the minds of those around him.
The best way, then, to do good is to be good, and to have such a
Christian character as will of itself communicate good. Be yourself
what you wish your family, your friends and neighbours, to be.
"Physician, heal thyself." God needs physicians, many physicians;
for there are many destroyers spreading the influence of their
ungodly life--a deadly infection--around, and adding to the disease
and misery which man's sin first brought upon the world. Let us act
as fellow-workers with the Good Physician in bringing back health
and strength and beauty to a plague-stricken world; and for this
purpose let us qualify ourselves more thoroughly. Let us apply the
Gospel remedies anew to our own case which we recommend to others,
that our own profiting and healing by these may be made manifest to
all. Let us ask God to search us and see if there be anything that
would prevent us from doing all the good that we might, any defect
of manner or disposition of heart that might cause the way of truth
so far as we are concerned to be evil spoken of; and let us ask the
help of the Divine Spirit to get it healed. So that thus being made
every whit whole ourselves, we may diffuse a healthy atmosphere
around us and make others partakers of our saving health.
The Sabbath is the best day for healing. Jesus asked the Jews, "Is
it lawful to heal on the Sabbath day?" The reply might have been,
"Is it lawful to do anything else but heal on the Sabbath day?"
That day is set apart for healing the diseases of the world. It is
the day of recreation--re-creating us and fitting us anew by its
rest and refreshment of worship for the toil and travail of our
weekday life. Let us bring to Jesus on this Sabbath day all the old
infirmities and disabilities which have been a hindrance to the
growth of the work of grace in the midst of us, and He will deliver
us from them, and make us new creatures; and so--set free in newness
of health and strength, with our palsied frame invigorated, our
withered hand restored, our lame feet made swift in the way of God's
commandments, and our world-bound spirit loosed from its infirmity
and covetousness, and enabled to look upward where our true treasure
is--let us seek to free others from their infirmities and diseases,
and to make all around us strong in faith and health in the new life
of God's service.
Let the tonic that has restored our own spiritual constitution be
in all our words and deeds and looks, to restore the spiritual
constitution of others. Let the perfume that neutralises the drought
and cold of the world be exhaled from all our character and conduct,
so that it may be the means of enabling all with whom we come in
contact to resist the aridity and the coldness of the world too.
Let each of us be so full of Christ's healing and saving power, so
saturated with His salvation, as it were, that we ourselves may be
Christ's best medicines. Let the words "Physician, heal thyself" be
in the very forefront of our profession and of our life throughout
all the years; and we ourselves in such a case will be among the
most potent influences for good in the world.
[Illustration: PLEDGED.]
By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.