Chapter XV: The Wood of Strange Meetings (1)

"Pamela!"

He had come back, and his eyes and his voice were full of fire.

"Pamela! What have you done to yourself, my sweetheart? You are not the Pamela I left."

She had turned towards him as irresistibly as the needle to the pole. But at his words a quick shiver ran through her. Her eyes turned from him and darkened. Her head drooped.

"You have come too late," she said, almost under her breath; and her voice was cold.

"Look at me, Pam. I have so much to tell you that you must hear. You must not be angry with me. We have been cheated and tricked. I wrote to your father to say I would come and ask for you, Pam, the road being clear."

"He never had your letter."

"It was not posted, Pamela. I must tell you, Pam, though it is hard. You have a right to know. My mother intercepted the letter."

"She detested me. I knew it from the first moment her cold eyes rested upon me."

"She does not like me, Pam, much. But that will not part us."

"Ah!" said Pam, and her voice was almost a cry. "But we _are_ parted. She could not do it, but I have done it by my own act."

His foot knocked against the heap of trinkets on the moss.

"What are these, Pam?" he asked wonderingly.

"Give them to me," she implored. "They are mine. And you must go away, Sir Anthony, and never come again."

"Why, I see"--holding the jewels in his hand--"they are his gifts. But you have thrown them off!"

His eyes blazed suddenly.

"It is an omen, Pam. Let him follow his jewels. What right has he to buy you? You had given yourself to me."

"Ah!" cried Pam, still stretching out her hands for the jewels. "You don't know what you are talking about. He is the best man in all the world; and our wedding-day is fixed, and my wedding-dress is ordered."

The young man flung the jewels on the ground.

"There," he said, "let them lie where I found them. Why should we think of them? It is all a bad dream, Pamela, but not so bad as it might have been--not so bad as it might have been. Why, you are talking folly, Pam, about wedding-days and wedding-dresses. It is our wedding-day you must think of, and the wedding-dress you will wear for me."

He held out his arms to her imploringly, and for a moment, with a dazed look, she seemed as if she must come. Then she pushed him off with a gesture of her two hands.

"No," she said. "Love is not everything--love is not everything. There is honour, there is loyalty, there is faith. And you,--you have your cousin to think about. She is sweet and lovely. I felt it, though I----"

She broke off suddenly.

"Though you loved me and were jealous"; and he laughed masterfully. "All wrong, my Pam! I never cared for Kitty in that way, nor she for me. She is going to marry my chum, Jack Leslie. They have been in love with each other for years."

"Your mother told me----"

His face darkened.

"I know. I shall forgive her when you have yielded your will to mine."

"That will never be."

"Never, Pam? Ah! yes, it will. If I had come here and found that you loved this other man, I could have done nothing but leave you. I came full of anger and fury. All through the journey I had been goading myself to a jealous madness; but the minute I saw you here beside the well where I told you I loved you, I knew you were mine. I can afford to forgive Lord Glengall."

"What do you propose to do?"

"I shall go to the house and explain to your father about the missing letter. I was on my way there when I turned aside to the Wishing Well and found you."

"My father loves Lord Glengall."

"He loves you better, Pam. He will not want you to marry him, loving me."

"You take too much for granted."

"Oh, no, I don't, Pam! You are not the girl to love me seven months ago and love another man to-day. And your eyes betray you, darling!"

"And if my father chooses Lord Glengall before you?"

"Then I will tell him the choice does not rest with him. I will go to Lord Glengall himself."

"And if he should refuse to listen to you?"

"Then I will come to you, Pamela, my beloved."

She suddenly turned on him her beautiful, stormy eyes, and her face was full of tragedy.

"And I shall send you away," she said. "It is no question of loving. I shall not see you any more, Tony"--using the familiar name unconsciously--"never, I hope, after to-day. And I love you; I do love you, and if I might love you for ever I should be the happiest woman on earth. No, don't come near me, for I am saying good-bye to you. I decline to purchase my happiness, and even yours, at the cost of unhappiness to the best man I ever knew. Ah! go now, my love, and do not tempt me any more. You will soon forget me."

She turned as if to go, but before Anthony Trevithick could make any effort to detain her, a quiet voice spoke beside them.

"I came to meet you, Pamela. I expected to find you alone. Who is this gentleman?"

Pamela turned quickly, and put her hand into the hand of her betrothed.

"It is Sir Anthony Trevithick, Lord Glengall."

The two men bowed coldly.

"I will take Miss Graydon home now," said Lord Glengall, drawing her hand through his arm. "I am grateful to you for having taken care of her."

The two stood looking at each other, and the air was as if charged with a storm.

"I am staying in the neighbourhood," said Sir Anthony stiffly. "I shall hope to see your lordship later on."

"Come," whispered Pamela to her betrothed, "come away. I will explain to you."

She stole one glance at the hot and angry face of her young lover. Then, without a word, she passed out of his sight down one of the wood paths, still clinging to Lord Glengall's arm.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then she lifted her eyes to her companion's sad face.

"You heard what I said," she half-whispered. "I am not afraid of you; I was loyal."

"Yes, you were loyal, Pam, in the spirit, but loyalty without love is poor comfort. It is not enough for me."

"I do love you."

"I believe you do, Pam, but there are different kinds of love. Is this that other you once told me about?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. You have had few opportunities for meeting men in your quiet life. This is the lad who was your father's pupil?"

"The son of his old friend, Sir Gerald Trevithick."

"I ought to have met him when he was here. But I was finishing up in Australia. He is honest, Pam--is he?"

"I am sure he is--now. Before I thought he was false."

"How did it come that he went away like that, having made you love him?"

"He was called away to a sick uncle. He wrote to father to explain, but the letter never reached him."

"You are sure he wrote?"

"Yes, he has told me. His mother----You saw her once?"

"A frozen-looking woman, dressed like an empress, who came one day. She was so haughty to me that I very soon removed myself."

"That was her."

"My poor little Pam!--that was the woman you went to visit afterwards? I had not realised it. I never thought of her after that day."

"She made me very unhappy. From the first she had a quiet way of making me feel not of her world, and afterwards she was horrid--about papa. She told me--falsehoods, too."

"Why didn't you come home, Pam?"

"I wouldn't let them know that the visit had been so horrible. Papa was pleased for me to go. Then he fell ill, and I came away."

"What did she tell you, Pam?"

"She told me Sir Anthony was engaged to his cousin. It was she who intercepted his letter to papa, in which he said he would come back."

"Ah! there are such women. But why didn't he speak fully and frankly before he went?"

"I do not know. There was some reason. He spoke of something that stood in the way."

Lord Glengall frowned, with his eyes on the ground.

"I shall find out the reason," he said.

"Ah! no," cried Pamela, clinging to his arm. "Let it be. I have told him he must go away. I belong to you, and not to him."

A little spasm of pain passed over the irregular features.

"Don't try me too much, Pamela, or I might take you at your word."

"I want you to take me at my word."

"I am sure you do--at this moment."

"Now and always."

"My little Pam! Still mine till I give you up of my own free will. You will trust me to do what is for the best?"

"I will trust you for ever. You are not going to give me up?"

Again his face contracted.

"Not unless I ought to, Pam. Not unless the lad is straight and can prove himself worthy of you. If I feel he can make you happier than I can, I will give you to him. If not, I will keep you in spite of yourself, and trust to my love to make you forget him."

"I think that might easily come true."

"Don't make it hard for me, Pam, if I have to cede my right to another. Pamela"--she had lifted her hands to him in her emotion--"where is your ring?"

Pamela wrung her hands in her trouble.

"Do not be angry with me," she entreated. "I took it off in the wood, there where you found me. It is there still."

"Pamela," his voice was stern. "Did _he_ remove your ring?"

"No, no. A thousand times, no! How could you think I would let him?"

"Forgive me, child--I ought to have known you better. But why did you take off the ring?"

She looked to left and right, as though seeking a way of escape, and answered nothing.

"I see," said Lord Glengall, and his face had a look of suffering. "You took it off because it irked you to wear it. You wanted to be free."

"It was only a mood."

"A bad mood for me, child. Why could you not have trusted me, and have told me I had asked too much? It would have been kinder."

"I shall never forgive myself," cried Pam.

"I am going back for the ring, Pam. Run away home now, and I shall bring it. Run now--I can keep you in sight till I see you within the door of Carrickmoyle. I shall not be long."

"The ring is on the ground, by the well," said Pamela, her head hanging like the head of a sensitive child caught in the act of wrongdoing. "You will find it there, and my necklet and bracelet also."

Her voice stumbled as she made her full confession.

"Poor Pam!" said Lord Glengall.

"Ah!" she said, "if you would only forget about it. There was never any man like you. If I do not love you now, it is only because he came first. I shall love you in time. I could not help it."

"Kiss me, Pam, before you go. I have not asked you for kisses when I might."

"I have done nothing but hurt you," she cried, conscience-stricken. Then she lifted her face for his kiss.

"And I have been hurting you, quite unconsciously, all the time. It is the old story of May and December. But, thank God! it is not too late."

He lifted his hat again, with the reverential gesture characteristic of him. As he stood bare-headed, a glint of the dying sun fell on his hair and forehead. It made him look old and dusty and tired.

Then Pamela went away slowly across the park to the house, while he stood watching her. When she had entered the house, he went back down the wood path.

As he went slowly and sadly, he felt something thrust against him. He looked down. It was Pamela's dog, Pat, who had remained behind, hunting an elusive rabbit, and had only just come up with their trail. The dog jumped about him with demonstrations of joy.

Lord Glengall stooped down and patted the rough head.

"I am not to be your new master, after all, old fellow," he said.

Pat licked his hand vigorously, and then looked up inquiringly into his face.

"She has gone home," said Lord Glengall in answer, "and I should be a bad substitute."

But Pat manifested very unmistakably that he was going to accompany this friend of his back into the woods.

"Ah! good little beast," said Lord Glengall, oddly comforted. "It is good to have a dog sorry for one, Pat."

[END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN.]

CURIOUS CHARITABLE GIFTS

It is a well-known and pleasing fact that several millions of pounds are annually devoted, throughout the kingdom, to the purposes of public charity, but few people are aware to what a great extent charitable gifts in _kind_ are nowadays sent to philanthropic institutions. These "donations" vary in value from a few pence to hundreds of pounds; and although the greater number consist of ordinary articles which are easily disposed of, yet some most extraordinary gifts are frequently received, of which the outside public hears little.

Quite recently two mummified hands--one with the forearm attached--both authoritatively stated to be over 3,000 years old, were sent to the Church Army by a West-End physician, who brought them from Egypt, and they will doubtless be the means of an appreciable accession to the funds of the organisation when disposed of.

The Salvation Army also receives some curious articles at times. Jewellery of various kinds often finds its way to the Headquarters, and some little time ago a deaf-and-dumb convert presented a perfect model in cork of one of the barracks, showing the soldiers marching in and the roughs gathered around; whilst a travelling showman who recently joined the Army begged to be allowed to hand the officers his stock-in-trade, which included two remarkable-looking effigies used in his ventriloquial entertainments.

The most singular donations received by the Army, however, are presented at the harvest festivals. General Booth's followers are exceptionally energetic at such times, and it is no uncommon thing for the proceeds of the gifts collected for a festival service in a poor neighbourhood to amount to some seventy or eighty pounds, half of which is retained for the local funds, whilst the remainder is sent to Headquarters as a donation towards the general expenses. An impromptu barn is frequently erected in the meeting-room with the front open to the audience, and in this the gifts are displayed to the best advantage.

In addition to fruit, flowers, and vegetables, presents of live stock are often made which are not _always_ acceptable. For instance, at one place a calf was given, and was accommodated in a temporary stall on the platform. But it did not appear to enjoy the service. Whenever the band played, it made such a terrible noise that eventually it had to be escorted to a quiet corner outside. Birds of many descriptions have also joined in these services; and a Russian cat which was presented on such an occasion kept up harvest celebrations during the night, we are told, by devouring a pound of beef sausages, which represented another, though humbler, gift.

Many people will question the advisability of allowing live stock to be present at such services. The important fact remains, however, that gifts of this nature frequently serve to attract large crowds of the very people the Army officers wish to influence. But difficulties sometimes arise through the thoughtlessness of enthusiastic donors. At Chester recently a live donkey was led up four flights of stairs to the barracks, and handed over as a free-will offering. When the service concluded, it was discovered to be impossible for the animal to walk down again; and, to use the words of the officer, they "had to tie the thing up in a knot, wrap it up in a sack, and lower it gently and gracefully over the banisters!" We may hope that the patient animal did not suffer any ill effects from his attendance at the service.

Some most curious articles are also occasionally received by the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation, which, as is well-known, does a most useful work by making grants in money and clothing to clergymen in temporary distress, and to the widows and children of clergymen who are left insufficiently provided for. These articles comprise revolvers, respirators, artificial teeth and wigs, feeding-bottles, military and naval uniforms, silk-worm cocoons, and bicycles, and all are turned to account either by direct gift or by realisation at a jumble or auction sale. An amusing incident, the secretary states, recently occurred in the clothing department in connection with an involuntary gift. The matron was filling a large bag for a poor family whilst a carpenter was in the room engaged on some repairs. He had placed his cap--which was a good one--on the table, and the matron, thinking it part of the stock, promptly annexed it and despatched it with the other things. It was gratefully acknowledged! Of course, the carpenter had to be provided with a new cap, which he has since been careful to place in his pocket when working in the building.

A STACK OF OLD CLOTHING.

(_At the Offices of the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation._)]

But the institution which receives the greatest number of gifts in kind is undoubtedly Dr. Barnardo's well-known Home for Waifs and Strays in Stepney Causeway. During last year alone 9,651 parcels were delivered from various supporters, containing in the aggregate over 97,000 articles of various kinds! When it is also stated that the sales of these goods realised, in the same twelve months, the grand total of £1,850, some idea will be gathered of the enormous number of articles dealt with every year, and the welcome addition which they bring to the income of the Homes.

The gifts come from all quarters of the globe. Even such far-distant countries as India, China, Corea, Burmah, and Japan contribute their quota, and many a pathetic history and much amazing romance is embodied in the articles received.

One of the most valuable, and certainly one of the most remarkable, of the donations which have found their way to Stepney Causeway was ex-King Theebaw's ivory throne, sent a year or two ago by a gentleman in Rangoon. The throne was somewhat in the form of a large armchair, and was ordered by the king in the palmy days of his despotism. According to his edict, only the very best craftsmen were employed to fulfil the commission, and only the finest and soundest tusks were used. The design was exceedingly elaborate, and both time and special talent were needed for the task, which it took years to accomplish. But, such is the irony of Fate, when the work was practically finished the king was deposed, and the completed throne never passed into his possession. After some little time it came into the hands of the Rangoon donor who so generously presented it to Dr. Barnardo. This interesting piece of furniture was estimated to be worth some £500. The detail of the work was exquisite, a delicate tracery covering nearly the whole, with some most beautiful and elaborate carving in high relief lying behind it. The little figures inside appeared to be executed with the utmost thoroughness, and the chair was an eloquent testimony to the genius and patience of the native workmen.

From the same country a number of quaint silver goods are constantly received from a resident Englishman and his native wife, both of whom take a very keen interest in the work of saving the waifs of the slums. Owing to the extensive fluctuations in the value of the rupee, and to the low rate of exchange in England, they find it more advantageous to purchase native goods which will realise good prices in London than to send their donations in cash.

(_Worked in Gold and Silver Braid and Sequins._)]

Dr. Barnardo has little difficulty in disposing of such gifts. There is a special trade department at Stepney Causeway, consisting of a show-room and several large and airy stores. These storage rooms, which are not open to the general public, contain a most extraordinary collection of gifts, including such articles as bedsteads, false hair and teeth, old pictures, jewellery, a microscopic cabinet, a three-manual organ, an oak lectern, boxes of geological and ornithological specimens, air pillows, sewing and sausage machines, a bottled snake, as well as a great variety of clothing both new and secondhand.

(_From Ephesus, New Zealand, and India._)]

Amongst the more valuable of the articles which have recently been received may be mentioned a number of exceedingly dainty and costly Eastern shawls, and a cape constructed entirely from birds' feathers, which is supposed to be the only one of its kind in England. This handsome cape originally belonged to a Spanish lady, and is now more than a hundred years old. Each feather was worked in separately, and the various colours are so beautifully blended that the worker must have possessed considerable artistic talent as well as great patience, for it contains some thousands of tiny feathers of various hues. Another piece of work that must have entailed an immense amount of time and care is a sample of Indian needlework, of which we give a photograph. The ground is coarse black cloth, but the design is so cleverly worked in gold and silver braid and sequins that the result is a most handsome example of native embroidery, which needs to be seen to be fully appreciated.

From India also come the two models of native types photographed in the group shown on the preceding page. They are most delicately moulded, every detail being scrupulously attended to. The figure on the left is ten inches in height, and represents a grass-cutter, whilst that on the right depicts an Indian water-carrier, and both bear the name of the modeller--Buckshar Paul of Krishnagar.

A different form of Indian work may be seen in the candlestick in the same illustration, which is moulded in brass in the form of a serpent, and forms a curious and certainly not inartistic ornament. Standing beside this is an ordinary-shaped box with a diamond design on the lid, and this article is specially interesting, owing to its having been constructed of sixteen different varieties of wood grown in New Zealand. It is a far cry from this fertile colony to the historic city of Ephesus, but we are carried thither in order to explain the presence of the two odd-looking pieces of ware (representing an ancient vase and lamp) to be seen in the forefront of the same photographic group. They were selected at random from a number of such articles which Dr. Barnardo has in his possession awaiting a remunerative purchaser. The extraordinary character of the gifts received at the institution is well exemplified in these articles, which were actually discovered in the ruins of the Temple of Diana by the well-known antiquarian, the late Mr. F. Wood. Each piece is authenticated by the signature of the excavator, which is affixed, and they were presented to Dr. Barnardo by Mr. Wood's widow about three years ago.

A striking instance of the wonderful changes wrought by time is shown in the generous gifts in money and kind recently received from the descendants of the mutineers of the _Bounty_. Here is romance pure and unadulterated, and Dr. Barnardo may well have said that the following letter which recently came into his hands read like "something out of a book." It appears that the captain of a British vessel wrote to him from Australia as follows: "I called in our passage through the Pacific at Pitcairn Island. A number of the natives came off, and when they learned I was bound to Great Britain, they desired me to take some presents for you, consisting of a case full of fancy articles made by themselves. I have already despatched this case to you, and I now enclose postal orders for £5 10s. 8d., being the cash, less a spurious two-shilling piece, which the islanders had collected for your institution." The case contained six walking-sticks, eighty cocoanut-shell baskets, as well as a quantity of shells and a large number of bananas. These gifts form undoubted evidence of the Christian and philanthropic spirit of the present Pitcairn Islanders, and at the same time bear valuable testimony to the world-wide appreciation of Dr. Barnardo's life-work.

(_At Dr. Barnardo's Homes._)]

A walk through the storage rooms is amply repaid by the number and the limitless variety of the articles to be seen therein. Here is an organ constructed by an amateur after seven years of assiduous work. It is unique in its way, the pipes being made of cardboard; but whether the gift of the ingenious organ-builder was an altogether disinterested one is not for me to state. I heard it whispered that the cleverly constructed instrument refused to work properly, and was somewhat of the nature of a white elephant to the present owners. Another example of tireless ingenuity is to be seen in the three large brass models of engines which adorn a corner of the same room. The mechanism of these engines is perfect in every way, and the models are of considerable value.

In close proximity to them is a dinner service of Worcester china, dated 1794, and consisting of 150 pieces. This will doubtless soon be "discovered" by a lover of old china, who will also see another "find" near by equally worthy of attention. I refer to a dessert service of seventeen pieces, which originally formed a wedding present before it found its way to Stepney Causeway. The service is more than fifty years old, and its chief value lies in the exquisite pictures to be found on each plate. The design is different in every case, and when it is added that the pictures are hand-painted the munificence of the kindly donor will be recognised.

But it is impossible to give an adequate idea of the curiously mixed contents of the stores. Cumbersome articles such as mail-carts, rocking-horses, Bath-chairs, and water-beds will be found adjacent to billiard balls, pipes, samples of inlaid ebony work and other "small" goods; whilst near at hand will be found piles upon piles of articles of dress of all sorts and conditions. It is not surprising that a number of assistants are kept constantly employed in receiving, listing, sorting, and selling these miscellaneous gifts, which are sent by a grateful public as a small donation to the good and beneficent work which has for so many years been carried on by means of the Homes.

A. PALFREY HOLLINGDALE.

(_A View at Stepney Causeway._)]

HIS STRANGE REPENTANCE.

AN ADDRESS TO YOUNG MEN.

By the Venerable Archdeacon Madden.

ARCHDEACON MADDEN.]

It was close upon midnight. I was alone in my study, busy clearing off a pile of letters that had been waiting all day for a "leisure moment." In the midst of my work a vigorous ring of the door-bell resounded through the house, followed by such a peremptory _ran-tan_ at the knocker that I jumped to my feet and rushed to the door to see what was the matter. There I found two rough-looking men, who lost no time in stating their business. "We want your reverence," they said, "to come and see a poor young fellow who is dying; the doctor has given him up, and he is crying out for a minister to come and pray with him." I could not refuse such an appeal, and off I started with the men. They led me to a narrow street in my parish and into one of the most dingy houses in the street. After groping my way, by the aid of lighted matches, up a dark flight of stairs, I found the dying man in a dirty back bedroom.

He could not have been more than thirty years of age. He was propped up in bed, and the grey look of death was upon his face.

As I entered he turned eagerly to me, and, holding out his hand, said, "I'm dying, and I am not ready--_not ready_!"

Just as I was about to speak he suddenly gasped out, "John, John! hand me those things on the table." John came forward and laid upon the bed a sporting paper, a pack of cards, a set of dice, a bottle of whisky, and some race lists.

There was a deliberation about the whole business which convinced me that the matter had been talked over between the men. When all were spread out in due order, the dying man again turned to me and said, "Look, vicar, those things have been the ruin of me; and they have been a curse to me, and I want to turn my back upon them all--I want you to help me to do it." Again I was about to speak, when suddenly, stooping down, he gathered them all up and thrust them into my hands with the words "Shove them up my back." I was so staggered by the request that I stammered out "What--what do you mean?" "I want you," he said, "as God's minister to shove them up underneath my shirt. I want to put them behind my back. I want God to see that I have done with them for ever." I did not know whether to laugh or cry. It was all so absurd and yet so pathetic. The man was in dead earnest. He had evidently thought over it, and meant it as an "act" of true repentance. He was undoubtedly a man who had "come down in the world," and it was not all ignorance.

I said to him, "I will do what you wish, but I will kneel down first, and you will repeat a prayer after me." I knelt and he repeated after me these words: "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before Thee. I renounce all my sins--from the bottom of my heart I renounce them all. Father, receive Thy prodigal son, and forgive me for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

I then rose from my knees and carried out his wishes. To us all in that chamber of death it was a most solemn sacramental rite. I, indeed, verily believed that it was the outward and visible sign of the inward and spiritual grace of a true repentance. There I held the things that had cursed his young manhood, ruined a promising career, and brought him down to poverty and a premature grave; and as I held those emblems of evil behind his back I told him of a Saviour who "carried our sins"--upon whom the Lord had laid the iniquities of us all.

Little by little he gasped out his tale of sin: the gambling, the betting, and the "horsey set" he had got amongst as a youth; then drinking and bad company; then "striding came ruin and poverty like a weaponed warrior." Deserted, degraded, he crawled into this wretched room, sick in mind and body, to die forsaken and forgotten by all his old boon companions except John.

The scene of that night has left an indelible impression upon my heart and mind. I believe the merciful God accepted that strange outward act as an evidence of sincere repentance. To the very last he would have us hold those instruments of sin between his shirt and his bare back, and as I held them there he died calling upon God.

When I passed out of that house of death into the streets and the morning light, I prayed, as I had never prayed before, that God in His mercy might deliver this fair England of ours from the deadly and degrading vice of gambling.

It is over ten years since my midnight visit to that gambler's death-bed. I remember still one sentence of the ruined man: "It doesn't pay, sir! It doesn't pay!" Aye! and even if it does pay some few, what then? Is it not ill-gotten gain? And if so, what shall it profit such a man, though he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?

The vice of gambling does not stand alone. It is the mother of sins; the sordid and the sensual too frequently go hand in hand. Lying, blasphemy, impurity, dishonesty, trickery, double-dealing, follow in its train.

The gambler who, by a stroke of "luck," becomes rich in an hour, is tempted to spend his winnings in riotous living. It is with him a case of "luxury" to-day, despair and drink to-morrow.

A general atmosphere of blackguardism seems ever to pervade the race-course. Here is a cutting from the daily press of August last:--

"BLACKGUARDISM AT THE ALEXANDRA PARK RACES.--Fourteen
brutal assaults, committed on the Alexandra Park race-course
on Saturday afternoon, have been reported to the police, the
assaults in several cases having been accompanied by robbery.
One of the gentlemen assaulted was a professional man well
known in the neighbourhood. He was standing at a refreshment
bar in the grand stand when he was half-killed by roughs.
Another person who was assaulted was a member of the Jockey Club
staff; but many frequenters of the course were heard to express
pleasure at this, in the hope that it would lead to some better
provision being made for the exclusion of well-known roughs from
the rings and stands."

I have seen more than one young man of my acquaintance stand in the felon's dock, and I know they were brought there by betting. I have heard the wail of wife and children in the court as the culprit was hurried from the dock to his cell. And what was left for him to do when he was released from prison? Who will employ a man with the stigma of "imprisonment for dishonesty" resting upon him? He sinks lower and lower, dragging his poor wife and has little children down with him in his degrading descent--down to abject misery.

"In addition, too, to the frightful injustice to wives and children caused by betting and gambling, and the results on the home life," says a recent Report of the Convocation of York, "they have an injurious effect on those who are addicted to them, deadening their spiritual life, and making them indifferent to higher joys and nobler pursuits while the passion lasts. An example of this is afforded by Greville, who, in his memoirs, says: 'Thank God! the races are over. I have had all the excitement and worry, but have neither won nor lost. Nothing but the hope of gain would induce me to go through the demoralising drudgery, which I am aware reduces me to a level of all that is most disreputable and despicable, for my thoughts are eternally absorbed in them. It is like dram-drinking; having once begun, you cannot leave it off, though I am disgusted all the time with my occupation.'"

And it is useless, my brother, to juggle with your conscience in this matter. Gambling is a vice, whether it be for penny points or for "ponies." The question of the amount of the bet has nothing to do with the sin of gambling. The principle is what we look at.

"The wrong of gambling lies not in the excessive indulgence in an intrinsically innocent practice, but in the surrender to chance of acts which ought to be controlled by reason alone, and decided by the will in accordance with the moral laws of justice or benevolence."

Brother men! shun this vice. It is the certain road to ruin. Do not be lured to your doom by this terrible fascination. Shake off its spell, renounce its tyranny: "It doesn't pay! It doesn't pay!"

It is an accursed thing. It degrades the mind, it demoralises the whole moral being, and, if not renounced, means everlasting ruin.

This is no time for smooth words. Gambling is a growing evil in the land. Women and children, as well as men, have become entangled within its meshes, and are being dragged down to perdition. It destroys all that is noble and unselfish in the human heart. It paralyses the will, stultifies the reason, and stifles every holy emotion in the soul. The man who "prepares a table for fortune and fills up mingled wine to destiny," who makes chance his idol and gain his god, will live to curse the day of his birth. Be wise, therefore, O ye sons of men and seek the Lord your God with all your hearts; for "the blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with it."

Told in Sunshine Room.]

A Fairy Parable. By Roma White.

Once upon a time there was a country all sweet with the honey-smell of white clover, and all full of music with the song of birds. Rain and wind swept it now and then; but, when they had passed the warm joy of sunshine came again, and the shadows of sailing, snowy clouds drifted purple over the soft green sides of the hills where the young kids played round their quiet mothers, so that all the people who lived in the beautiful country felt its loveliness thrill their hearts.

But surrounding the clover-fields and the bright gardens and the sunny meadows was a band of black darkness, and those who had passed into the darkness never came back. Everybody who sang and laughed and loved in the sunshine knew that some day their turn would come to step alone into the strange country of night that girdled the land like an impenetrable curtain; and sometimes one or another would come and look sadly and tearfully on the darkness, and then turn back with bowed head, and try to forget it. And sometimes a sound of low, sad singing would approach it, and men and women, with tears running down their faces, would accompany some dear one, whose time in the bright country was finished, to the edge of the silent darkness and watch him pass away into it, never to return; and though they held out beseeching hands after him, and strained their sight that they might perceive whither he had gone, the darkness never gave up its secret; only continued to lie, hushed and mysterious, round the land where the apple-blossom budded and the young lambs played.

Now the King of the country had seven daughters and an only son. The daughters were very beautiful, but the son was fairer than the day. His hair was as golden as the noontime of the South, and his eyes were blue and laughing as the summer sea, and his mother loved him better than life, from the day when he lay in a little white and silver cradle by her side.

The royal children played together in the gardens and courts of the palace, and sometimes the Queen gathered them about her and told them tales of the fairies and the dewy rings which they danced into greenness on summer nights; or she would tell them of brave kings who had done their duty, and loving queens whose names had been blessed by their subjects. And the children would ask questions about the dark belt that encircled the country, of which they had heard, but which they had never seen. And then the Queen would shake her head and fold her arms tightly about them one by one, but the child that she pressed most closely to her was her only boy.

But one day a great fear fell upon the kingdom, and all the palace was hushed and still. It was told that the little Prince's days were numbered, and that he must soon pass away. And a few hours later twilight fell over the land, and through the twilight came the solemn steps of mourners and the sound of tears. And the lilies bent their white heads, and the roses nestled sadly together among their green leaves as the royal procession swept wailing by through the dusk. And for a few moments a child's voice spoke, and then it ceased as the little Prince went bravely away, alone, into the darkness, and those who had loved him were left behind.

They returned by-and-by to the palace, and the King took up his royal duties again, and the seven Princesses went back to their lessons and to their play. Sometimes they would talk, with sudden sobs, of their brother, and then they would forget him while tending to their flowers and watching the wild birds on the wing. The King, too, now and then, would rest his face upon his hands, and be very silent for a while. But his kingdom claimed him, and he had not the time always in which to mourn.

Only the Queen never forgot, for the little Prince had been her only son. Night after night she went alone to the edge of the darkness, and tried to pierce it with her longing eyes, and to beat it away with her mother's hands; but it was always motionless and impassable, and seemed to extend into endless night.

But one evening, as she knelt there, quiet for very weariness, there came a sweet smell through the dusk, as if the spices of wild thyme were crushed out by some approaching tread; and the sleeping flowers that had hung heavily under the weight of her falling tears, lifted their faces and unfolded their closed petals, as if they were dreaming of the morning sun. And then, all at once, fragrance and warmth and light were about the Queen; and, looking up, she saw the radiant figure of a wise, quiet man.

His voice spoke to her, and she heard many echoes in it, so that it stirred her memory strangely. It was as if she listened to the notes of a thrush on a dewy morning, or to the south wind among the summer trees by night.

"Why do you mourn here, all alone?" he asked her gently.

Her tones shook as she answered him.

"I am weeping for my only son, who has gone away from me into this darkness by which we stand."

For a moment the wise man was silent; his grave, tender eyes looked down into hers.

"You try to beat the darkness away with your hands," he said by-and-by, "and you feel only that it is like solid rock to your touch. You strain your sight to pierce it, and, as you gaze, you realise its blackness, and it becomes deeper to your eyes. Why, then, do you stay upon its margin?"

"I stay because I hope and pray that, by dwelling near it, I may catch a glimpse of my only son; that I may hear his voice speak to me, or feel for a moment the warm, clinging touch of his little hands. I stay because I crave for a message from him, to tell me that he loves me still."

Then there was pity in the wise man's eyes, and it was the sweet pity of a mother who sees a child cry over a broken toy.

"Your son has many messages far you," he said, "but you cannot find or read them here; and, if you stay, your eyes will soon grow too dim to see, and the darkness will hold itself all about your heart. Turn your face and footsteps back to your people and your king, and seek there a message from your son which shall speak of consolation."

The Queen was silent then, and her feet and hands were still. She looked up at the wise, quiet man, and, as she looked, she saw that his eyes were like those of the child who had passed away, and she caught at the hem of his robe with trembling fingers.

"Who are you?" she cried. "Who are you, with your wise words, and your eyes like those of my son, who was but a little, little child?"

Then into the face of the man came a wonderful look, so that the Queen, seeing it, bent her head and bowed her forehead upon her hands. And it seemed to her, for a moment, as if strange sweet scents blew to her, and the darkness broke away into long alleys of light and bloom. And then there was a hush, and when she looked up again the wise man was gone.

But she remembered that he had given her the sweetest promise in the world--the promise of a message from her only son; and, believing him, she went away from the belt of darkness, and turned again to the palace, to her children, and to her king.

And as she passed along the road she came across a poor cripple who had fallen and hurt himself by the way. His wounds bled, and he looked up at the Queen with wistful eyes. So she went, herself, to the nearest stream to fetch water for him, and she gave him some to drink, and bound up the poor bruises, and soothed him with gentle words. And as she tended him, she forgot for a moment the darkness into which her son had passed, and only remembered that the land, in spite of its beauty, was full of suffering and tears, and that she had her work to do among her people; and she looked with her shining mother's eyes into the cripple's face, and bade him be comforted.

And then, all at once, a wonderful thing happened. The cripple spoke, in faltering tones, to thank her; and his voice thrilled her, for it was the voice of her little son.

Wondering and grave, the Queen passed on. Some blue butterflies flew by, circling in the still air. As she looked at them her heart was suddenly stirred to reverence and gratitude and joy for the beauty of their silken burnished wings. And as the thrill of tenderness shook her, it seemed, all at once, as if a glow were across her path, and as if, through the glow, she heard the child-laughter of the little Prince who had passed away.

And so it happened, day after day, as the weeks sped by. Whenever the heart of the Queen was stirred to holiness by deeds and thoughts which were true and lovely and pure there came to her all the tender sweetness of memory and of communion, so that she knew that beyond the darkness her little son still sent his thoughts to her in love. But whenever she went to the belt of gloom to weep his voice was silent, and it seemed to her as if he had gone away for ever.

And one day there came a strange beggar to the palace gates, with wild, wicked eyes and hatred of all men in his heart; and he had sworn to injure the King because the King was great and good. He kept his vow, and struck at the kind King as he was passing through the gates. But the Queen saw the raised dagger, and sprang in front of her husband, so that she received the blow herself.

Then the Queen lay in strange silent illness, and the court met to judge the deed. The beggar crouched, terrified and trembling, before them; but, ere sentence could be given, a sweet woman's voice bade those who condemned him to pause, and the judges saw that the Queen had risen from her bed of sickness and stood among them.

"Wait!" she cried, "wait! I, who have borne the pain, must speak the sentence."

She paused, and, crossing to the beggar, laid her hand upon his head.

"My sentence is--Forgiveness!"

Her voice rang out like a sweet silver trumpet in the court-room, and everybody was very still. Then, all at once, the beggar burst into tears.

But nobody else spoke or moved. Only the tears of the beggar flowed down until they made a tiny crystal pool, and the Queen, who bent over him, saw into the pool as into a mirror.

And she beheld the margin of the country and the deep black fog which lay beyond; and as she looked, the fog broke away into long gleaming alleys of flowers with shining mists above them, as if of a rising sun, and, among the bloom, the face of the little Prince smiled fully upon her once again.

Then, all at once, she heard the voice of the wise, quiet man, and she perceived that he stood again by her side.

"What does it all mean?" she asked him breathlessly; "what does it all mean?"

The beggar, whose face was pressed to the hem of her robe; the court, who still remained hushed and motionless; and the King, whose eyes reverenced her, all waited for the wise man's reply. It came to them softly, like the murmur of pine needles in a south wind.

"There can be no Death where there is Love."

We record this month a signal act of heroism which took place a few years ago in a coal-pit near Dalkeith. The mine was suddenly flooded, a vast volume of water rushed through the workings, and it was only after some hours of dangerous and most difficult work that the imprisoned miners were rescued. It was then discovered that Walker, a boy of twelve, had been left behind, and immediately James Nolans volunteered to save him. Nolans had to be forcibly pushed through the rushing torrent by some of his comrades; then he had to grope about under the water to find a rail which he used for the purpose of guidance, and, after narrowly escaping death from drowning, he eventually discovered the terrified lad. Even then it was doubtful whether they would escape alive; but after a plucky dash through the water, and by the help of some old ladders hastily fastened together, they managed to regain their comrades, who never expected to see them again.]

Rise, Gracious God, and Shine.

_Words by_ WILLIAM HURN, 1813. _Music by_ H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D.
(_Organist of the Temple Church._)

_With majesty._

1. Rise, gracious God, and shine
In all Thy saving might!
And prosper each design,
To spread Thy glorious light:
Let healing streams of mercy flow,
That all the earth Thy truth may know.
Amen.

2. O bring the nations near,
That they may sing Thy praise;
Let all the people hear
And learn Thy gracious ways:
Reign, mighty God, assert Thy cause,
And govern by Thy righteous laws.

3. Put forth Thy glorious power;
The nations then will see!
And earth present her store
In converts born to Thee.
God, our own God, His Church will bless,
And earth will teem with fruitfulness.

N.B.--The last verse should be sung _ff_ in unison.

TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.

By a Leading Temperance Advocate.

THE CARE OF THE INEBRIATE.

The present year has brought into operation a new Act of Parliament dealing with the habitual drunkard. The unfortunate men and women of the type of the notorious Jane Cakebread have been the despair of stipendiary magistrates for years past. At the time of writing the working of the new Act has not settled into shape, so it is all too early to forecast its probable results. Meanwhile we tender our congratulations to Dr. Norman Kerr, F.L.S., for it is to this humane and philanthropic physician we are indebted for anything like an intelligent treatment of the confirmed dipsomaniac. Dr. Kerr was born at Glasgow in 1834, and graduated at Glasgow University in 1861. While yet a student he took a keen interest in temperance and established a society for his fellow-students. From that time to the present, his active services to the reform have been steadily maintained. He takes a prominent part in the work of the Church of England Temperance Society, the United Kingdom Alliance, and the National Temperance League. It is, however, as an authority on dipsomania that he is best known. He is the founder and President of the Society for the Study and Cure of Inebriety, and it was at his instigation that a highly successful Colonial and International Congress on Inebriety was held in Westminster Town Hall in July, 1887. Dr. Kerr has written largely on the subject, and his learned work on "Inebriety: Its Etiology, Pathology, Treatment, and Jurisprudence," speedily passed into several editions. He is almost as well known in the United States as at home. The gist of Dr. Norman Kerr's views may be best indicated by the opening sentence of the volume referred to. He writes:--

"No _disease_ is more common than inebriety, and yet none is so seldom recognised. No _disease_ is more widespread. In the whole circle of even an extensive acquaintance it may happen that no member has been known to have suffered from any of the leading diseases which prevail in our islands, that no one has been laid low by phthisis or cancer. But there are very few families in the United Kingdom which have not had at least one relative who has been subject to inebriety."