Chapter IX: "the World Is So Cruel." (2)

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

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

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

A REMARKABLE SERVICE IN THE GWENNAP PIT.]

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

THE TOWER SERVICE AT OXFORD.]

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

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

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

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

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

WATCHING THE SERVICE ON ST. MARY MAGDALEN'S TOWER, OXFORD.

(_A crowd which gathered at four o'clock a.m._)]

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

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

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

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

(_Photo: Photochrome Co., Cheapside._)]

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

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

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

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

THE RAILWAY MEN'S BREAKFAST SERVICE AT DERBY.]

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

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

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

(_Photo: H. R. de Salis, Uxbridge._)]

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

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

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

GEORGE WINSOR.

Coals of Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AN INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE.

DEAR READERS OF THE QUIVER,

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE QUIVER INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE.

(_No person under sixteen years of age should be asked to sign._)

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

NAMES. ADDRESSES.

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Our Roll of Heroic Deeds

TWO MANCHESTER HEROES.

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

AS CHAPLAIN TO MR. SPEAKER

_Some Reminiscences of Parliament._

(_Photo: Russell and Sons._)

By F. W. Farrar, D.D., Dean of Canterbury.

MR. SPEAKER GULLY.

(_Photo: Bassano, Ltd._)]

_PART II._

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

(_Photo: Melhuish and Gale, Ltd., Pall Mall, W._)]

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

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

DANIEL O'CONNELL.

(_From the Painting by David Wilkie._)]

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

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

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

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

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

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