Chapter III: Sib Anthony Trevithick (2)

Of Christian soldiers, who has appealed to us more strongly than Henry Havelock (died November 24th, 1857)? "So long," it has been truly said, "as the memory of great deeds, and high courage, and spotless self-devotion is cherished among his countrymen, so long will Havelock's lonely grave beneath the scorching Eastern sky, hard by the vast city, the scene alike of his toil, his triumph, and his death, be regarded as one of the most holy of the countless spots where Britain's patriot soldiers lie." As with many another man, his religious character owed much to the influence of his wife, a daughter of that Marshman whose name will always be remembered in the history of Indian missions. To Outram the dying man could say, "I have for forty years so ruled my life that when death came I might face it without fear." "Principles alone," wrote Havelock, "are worth living for or striving for." The words might stand as a motto for the life of John Bright (born November 16th, 1811), Christian statesman and orator, one of the many members of the Society of Friends who have left their names writ large in their country's history. The men who remember the struggle for Free Trade are passing away, but the part played by John Bright is not likely soon to be forgotten.

November has not been a month fruitful in the foundation of philanthropic and religious organisations. But to those who have watched the progress of the temperance movement in England, who remember the difficulties of its pioneers, and the obloquy which often fell upon them, November has a claim as the birth-month of one of the earliest and hardest of the temperance workers--Frederick Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury. Born in the Ionian Isles on November 30th, 1821, he has, all through his manhood been a vigorous exponent of the total abstinence cause. From the first he recognised no bounds of denomination in its support, and although he has been a great power to the Church of England Temperance Society, he has always lent his voice and influence to other agencies working in the same great cause. He has an invaluable helper in his wife, in both temperance and diocesan work.

(_Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W._)]

HOW BARNFORD CHURCH WAS SAVED.

A COMPLETE STORY.

=By Scott Graham, Author of "Pemberton's Piece," "All Through Prejudice," Etc.=

When Llewellyn Percival, the new Rector, first beheld the dilapidated pile called by courtesy Barnford Church, his heart sank. The late Rector, who had just died, aged ninety, had held the living fifty years, and during his sway scarcely any repairs had been done. The parish, a remote village in the East of England, was an exceedingly poor one; and the very ancient and interesting church had literally settled down--for one side was much out of the perpendicular--to decay.

It smelt incredibly fusty, it was disfigured by hideous high pews, daubed with yellow paint, locally termed "horse-boxes"; the fine west window was blocked by a huge gallery containing the organ--an instrument so much out of order that half the notes were mute, and the pipes emitted the weirdest groans, absolutely terrifying to a stranger. The old sexton assured Llewellyn that the roof was so leaky that in wet weather the rain poured down on the congregation, and though there was a stove, it was so ill-constructed that in winter the cold was terrible. There was a fine old peal of bells, but the tower at the west end had a huge crack running from top to bottom, and seemed so unsafe that they did not dare to ring more than one.

All this was sadly disheartening; especially as the church was really a fine building, with a splendid Norman doorway, a dilapidated but still beautiful carved screen, and many interesting features.

"Is there really no rich family in the place who could help to restore it?" Llewellyn asked the sexton. "What about the people at the fine grey-stone Manor House, there among the trees?"

"Oh, them's the Lancasters--they're rich enough, but you'll not get nothing out o' them, sir. Old Squire Lancaster and the old Rector quarrelled years ago about the family pew, and ever since they've gone to Thornton Church, in the next village. Miss never gives nothing to this church now."

"Is she an elderly lady?"

"Bless you, no sir, she's quite young--twenty-four, maybe--and handsome too. She's the only child, and since th' old Squire died she's had it all her own way, for her ma's a great invaleed, and never troubles about anything."

Llewellyn sighed. It did seem unfortunate that the only rich people in the place should have quarrelled with the late incumbent. He asked an old friend, an architect, to come and stay with him in the comfortable Rectory, which was such a contrast to the tumbledown church, and give his opinion about the restoration.

After due examination, Mr. Lane announced that, unless the foundations were strengthened, the tower at least partially rebuilt, the roof renewed, and the walls mended in weak places, the church could not last much longer. This would cost at least two thousand pounds, and if a new organ, new pews, and some much-needed internal improvements were also effected, a thousand more would be necessary. Poor Llewellyn--he was only thirty, and this was his first church--groaned aloud, as well he might. He had only a hundred a year of his own, besides his sorely depreciated living: and the small farmers and labourers who populated the parish were powerless to help. He might appeal to the Bishop, but the diocese was a very large and poor one, and Barnford was only one among many churches urgently needing repairs.

"If you can find the money, I'll undertake the work without fees, for absolutely out-of-pocket expenses," said Lane generously. "I'd do it economically too, and save you as much as possible."

Llewellyn thanked him most heartily, but, nevertheless, the thought of that two thousand pounds weighed upon him like a nightmare. He soon made the acquaintance of the formidable Miss Lancaster at a neighbouring Vicarage. The family were descended from a wealthy banker who had bought Barnford Manor for a country house, and as sole heiress Laura had nearly five thousand a year and was a great catch. She was a tall, dark, handsome girl, with a commanding air due to the fact that from her childhood she had been flattered and petted by everybody. But she was civil to Llewellyn and invited him to call at the Manor; apologising for her mother as an invalid who never went anywhere.

Mrs. Lancaster did not appear when Llewellyn went, but Laura, who had been her own chaperon all her life, entertained him in the handsome drawing-room with great composure. He had never seen a girl with such an assured manner before.

Over his cup of tea he ventured, humbly and meekly, to hint at the restoration of the church.

"It's such a picturesque old place that it would be a shame to pull it to pieces and spoil it by injudicious restoration," returned Laura decidedly.

"It isn't a question of my own particular fads, Miss Lancaster, but the fabric is absolutely unsafe, owing to an extensive settlement. The roof isn't watertight, and the windows are almost tumbling out of the walls."

"And how much would be needed?"

"A friend of mine, an architect, has most kindly offered to give his services without fees; but to make the place even decent would cost, he says, two thousand pounds."

"You will never raise such a sum here!" was her brusque answer.

"I don't like to commence our acquaintance by begging, Miss Lancaster; but if you could see your way to do anything for what is, after all, your parish church----"

"Yes, but we always go to Thornton. Old Mr. Short was awfully rude to father years ago, and we left the church. I play the organ at Thornton and train the choir; and the Vicar and his wife are great friends of ours. I couldn't leave them in the lurch by coming back to this church now--especially as Thornton is a very poor parish too."

"Even if you don't attend the services, I should be most thankful for any offer of help towards the restoration," he patiently answered, determined not to show annoyance at her abruptness. "Something must be done, and very soon."

The heiress tapped her foot petulantly on the carpet.

"You clergymen are all alike!" she cried. "You undertake tasks too great for you, and then come to the laity for help! A poor parish like this could never raise two thousand pounds, unless we ourselves gave the whole sum, which we certainly can't afford to do. There is nobody else here to subscribe."

"Believe me, I never thought of asking you for such a large sum as two thousand pounds, or even a quarter of it, Miss Lancaster. But the smallest sum would be welcome, as the nucleus of a fund. I intend to use my uttermost efforts to raise the money, if it takes me the rest of my life!"

His fair, good-humoured, and thoroughly English face had assumed a very dogged look as he uttered the last words: and Laura, who knew a real man when she saw him, noted it approvingly. In her secret heart she relished a little wholesome opposition; it was an agreeable novelty when most people were so subservient.

"But how can you raise it?" she asked doubtingly.

"This is now October, and these country villages are so dull in the winter evenings that any entertainment is welcome. If the Bishop will consent, I propose to get a very good magic-lantern, with several sets of slides, and exhibit it in the villages and small towns round, with the consent of their clergy, and paying a certain proportion of the proceeds to their own charities if they lend me a hall. I shall charge very little for seats, from a shilling down to twopence or threepence; and as I shall explain the views and work the apparatus myself, the expenses will be nothing."

"Fancy the Rector of Barnford turning showman! What a come-down!" said disdainful Laura. "I can't think you will make much! However, if you succeed, and come to me in the spring with a statement of the profits, I promise I will give you as much as they amount to."

It was more than he expected; and he thanked her warmly, despite her evident conviction that the profits would be small.

"I'll give you a written promise, if you like, to that effect," added Miss Lancaster, who was a most businesslike young woman.

"No, thank you; a lady's word is quite enough," he answered earnestly; and a genial smile stole over her handsome face as he spoke, for she was secretly pleased by his chivalrous trust.

On the whole, he quitted the Manor fairly well satisfied; for though Laura could not be described, by any stretch of courtesy, as an amiable girl, he discerned fine traits of character behind her somewhat repellent manner. "A girl who wants knowing," he decided. "She has been flattered because of her riches, and pestered by mercenary suitors, until she imagines all men are deceivers!"

II.

The Bishop, who was a liberal-minded man, and much interested in the restoration of the church, entirely approved of the projected lantern entertainment. In addition, a drawing-room meeting was held at the Palace, which produced twenty-five pounds, and the Bishop added another twenty. As Llewellyn had decided to set apart his own hundred pounds annually until the restoration was completed, he felt justified in immediately commencing the most necessary repairs at once, trusting that the printed appeals which the Bishop caused to be sent out would bring in a steady flow of subscriptions.

He inaugurated his magic-lantern entertainment at Barnford itself with great success, for the Bishop came over with several friends, and Mrs. Lancaster sent a sovereign for five tickets. But neither she nor her daughter put in an appearance, their places being filled by their servants. The principal farmer lent his biggest barn gratis, so that Llewellyn cleared over five pounds that night. And after that, though he encountered some good-natured ridicule, the Rector and his lantern were in great request. His enterprise was even commended in the London papers; and the villagers simply crowded to the entertainment everywhere, glad of some amusement in the long winter evenings. The richer farmers and tradespeople gladly paid a shilling or eighteenpence for a seat, and the smaller sums mounted up amazingly, so that, after all deductions, Llewellyn seldom received less than between two and three pounds for one evening. Although he never gave more than four exhibitions a week, being resolute not to neglect his own parish, he made over forty pounds a month.

Little could be done to the church before spring, as it proved a very severe winter, and outdoor work was impeded by frost. Tarpaulins were temporarily stretched over the cracked roof, but at best it was a very shivery and dreary spot, so that Llewellyn always returned with renewed eagerness to his magic-lantern journeys after a Sunday spent in the desolate building, where the howls of the ruined organ made the singing a mockery. In his private life he exercised the strictest self-denial, for the scanty income from his living left no margin for luxuries. He scarcely went into any society, as his engagements left him no time; for, as Miss Lancaster informed everybody, he was a perfect maniac on the subject of restoring the church. He met her now and then in going about the roads; and sometimes she passed him with a brief nod, though occasionally she would stop to ask, with some mockery in her tones, how the magic-lantern was getting on. She never appeared at his church, though it was so much nearer than Thornton, and the duty-calls he paid at the Manor were few and brief.

In February the long frost broke up, whereupon Mr. Lane arrived one Saturday night at the Rectory with a view to commencing work in earnest. After the Sunday morning service Llewellyn felt impelled to rebuke the old sexton, who was supposed to clean the church. "When did you dust the pews last, Reed? The very air seems choked with it; the reading-desk and my books and the communion rails are in a disgraceful state!"

The old man began the rigmarole he always employed when criticised. "I served Mr. Short, man and boy, for fifty years, and never was told the church was dirty afore! I cleaned it out reg'lar, on Saturday, I did, and dusted everything, sir!"

The Rector shrugged his shoulders as he looked round at the dust which he could see lying thick on every moulding and ledge, but said no more to Reed. On reaching home, however, he mentioned the matter to his friend Lane, who had not been at church, having caught a bad cold on the journey. To his intense amazement, no sooner had he mentioned the amount of dust in the church than Lane started up, and, disregarding all remonstrances, flung on his overcoat and hat, and started off through the churchyard at a tremendous pace to examine the tower from outside. Although carefully shored up in the autumn, the crack in it had widened perceptibly even to Llewellyn's sight, and was extending across the wall of the south aisle.

"It's the frost," said the architect ruefully, after a thorough examination both inside and out. "It has assisted in disintegrating the masonry, and caused a further settlement that may bring the old tower down with a run any minute. Being Sunday, we can't do anything to prevent it, even if that were possible now. The dust in the church is no fault of old Reed, but is simply caused by the stones of the tower grinding together, because every moment they are becoming more displaced. To-morrow, if it stands till then, I'll try and get men to take it down."

Poor Llewellyn looked very dejected. "Oh, Lane, this is bad news! If the tower falls, it will wreck half the church!"

"It's a pity, certainly, but it's nobody's fault. You mustn't have service in it again, for it really isn't safe."

Fortunately, during the dark winter months Llewellyn, at the urgent request of the inhabitants at the other end of his very large and straggling parish, was accustomed to hold service on alternate Sunday evenings in a large room at the outskirts of the village, and was due there that night. He decided not to say anything about the tower, for fear of alarming his parishioners; but he carefully locked the churchyard gate so that no one could enter it, and, returning home, he took the key of the church from the nail where it usually hung, telling his old servant Dorcas that nobody must go into the church on any pretext whatsoever, as he feared it was unsafe.

That afternoon he called to soothe old Reed's wounded feelings by saying in confidence what had caused the dust. He strictly enjoined the sexton in case any strangers came to inspect the church, as they did sometimes, not to admit them on any account. Reed promised faithfully; but that Sunday was a sadly anxious time for Llewellyn, who expected every moment to hear a mighty crash and see the tower fall.

Early next day Lane set off to engage men and appliances; for the old tower, to his great surprise, was still standing, though perceptibly more out of the perpendicular. Llewellyn departed to the school, and had not been gone long, when an imperative knock sounded at the Rectory door. Dorcas opened it to behold Miss Lancaster and another girl, Daisy Staples, an old schoolfellow, who was staying at the Manor.

"I've come to borrow the key of the church, please. I want my friend to see it, and I'll bring back the key when we've done with it." Laura, it is needless to say, had heard no whisper of the precarious state of the tower.

Dorcas, who, like all the villagers, stood considerably in awe of Miss Lancaster, was much taken aback. "I'm very sorry, miss," stammered she, "but you mustn't go into the church--master says it's not safe; and I wasn't to give the key to anybody."

"Not safe!" cried Laura incredulously. She had seen the old place shored up with timber so long that the spectacle had lost all its significance. "What nonsense! I'm sure it's just as safe as it ever was, and I particularly want my friend to see it. So give me the key, please, and we'll go."

"I haven't got it, miss, indeed. Master took it away, and left word nobody was to go inside."

The spoilt heiress, unaccustomed to opposition, turned upon her heel in high dudgeon. "Then I can only say your master is a most arbitrary and disagreeable man!" she cried angrily. "Mr. Percival is just like all the rest of the clergy, Daisy!" she grumbled to her friend as they went away. "They love to show their power by tyrannising over the laity! I don't believe the church is really unsafe at all! Probably the Rector thinks that because I won't go to his services on Sundays I don't deserve to enter the church on weekdays, and so I am to be refused the key!"

Angry people are very seldom dignified; and Laura, knowing that Daisy was keenly interested in architecture, was determined to try and accomplish her project somehow. "After all, I'm a parishioner, and I've a _right_ to enter the church!" she exclaimed. "The old sexton has a key, and we'll go and get his, since that cross woman refused the Rector's."

But the sexton was out. As no answer was returned to her knocks, Laura, who was well acquainted with his habits, tried the door, which was unfastened, and, looking in, saw the large church key hanging on its accustomed nail in his little kitchen. She snatched at it in triumph, and hastened to the churchyard; only to find her progress once more barred.

"Mr. Percival has actually gone and locked the gate!" she exclaimed, descending to slipshod English in her excitement. "Now, I should say that must be distinctly illegal! At any rate, here goes!"

They vaulted over, with the agility of modern girls practised in gymnastics, and very soon were inside the church. The dust was thicker than ever, but in the excitement of displaying the various points of interest Laura hardly noticed it; and they poked about everywhere, little dreaming of the appalling risk they ran.

Llewellyn, on quitting the school, came round to speak to Reed; and found the old man, who had just returned, standing staring stupidly at the bare nail on the wall. "Did you come and fetch the church key away, sir?" he began.

"I? I've never touched it--never seen it! And yet it's gone from the nail! Surely it can't be that somebody has taken it to go inside the church! Lane says the tower can't possibly last out the day."

For an instant they gazed at each other with scared faces; and then Llewellyn rushed away, mad with fear, clearing first the churchyard fence, and then the tombstones with incredible bounds. As he went a curious, dull rumble was audible, and to his horror he distinctly saw the massive tower first sway slightly, and then commence to slip, slip with a horrible motion unlike anything he had ever seen before. The church door was ajar--there must be somebody inside! Pray Heaven he might be in time!

Meanwhile the girls, poring over an old floor-brass, were startled by the rumbling; whilst the dust grew so much thicker that Laura exclaimed, "Pah! What a stuffy old place! That rumble must be thunder--there it is again!"

Still not suspecting their danger, they leisurely retraced their steps to the south door, at the bottom of the church, very near the fatal tower. Laura could distinctly remember turning past the last pew; but after that nothing was clear. She only knew that some man, unrecognisable in the cloud of dust and mortar which suddenly obscured everything, threw himself, as a still louder rumble occurred, with what then seemed absolutely brutal violence upon her and Daisy. Seizing her with a force which for days left bruises on her arms, he positively hurled her and her friend before him through the open door. Then before he had himself quite crossed the threshold the entire fabric of the tower fell with a terrific crash, wrecking the whole of that end of the church.

III.

When Llewellyn Percival, after some time, recovered from the effects of a serious wound on his head from a falling stone, and a broken arm, it was to find himself a popular hero. To his own mind, he had only done a most ordinary thing, such as any man would naturally do; and he could not understand why all the papers should publish glowing accounts of his bravery. The poor old sexton, who had faithfully followed him on his errand of mercy, and had only been deterred by his age and feebleness from arriving in time, deserved quite as many thanks as he did, Llewellyn maintained. But the fickle public did not think so, and subscriptions for Barnford Church literally poured in.

It is a fine thing to be a popular idol, even for a day; and Llewellyn received so much kindness during his illness that he had never been happier in his life. An old aunt came to nurse him; and on the first day he was allowed to come downstairs a humble message was brought that Miss Lancaster would like to see him for a moment, if it would not tire him too much. She and her mother had been incessant in their inquiries, besides sending fruit, flowers, and invalid delicacies daily.

"Show her in," said Llewellyn, unheeding his aunt's remonstrance; and in a minute she was bending over the chair from which he feebly strove to rise, her dark eyes full of tears. "I couldn't rest till I saw you," she faltered. "But oh! if you had been killed, I should have felt like a murderess! It was all my fault, for being so obstinate and wicked! When Dorcas told me I couldn't have the key of the church, I thought"--and she hung her head--"I said, indeed, that it was a piece of spiteful tyranny on your part, just to assert your arbitrary authority. Oh, how could I ever think it of you? Say you forgive me--only say so!"

With the tears of genuine repentance and humility streaming down her face, it was not possible for mortal man to refuse her anything. "My dear Miss Lancaster, pray don't distress yourself! We are all liable to errors of judgment, and, believe me, I forgive you from my heart--if, indeed, I have anything to forgive."

"Besides that, I've always been horrid to you," she sighed remorsefully. "I wouldn't help about the restoration, nor do anything in the parish, and I sneered at your magic-lantern. Oh, yes, I did--you can't deny it. But I hope now you won't worry any more about raising funds. Daisy and I, as a thank-offering for the great mercy vouchsafed to us, are going to finish the restoration, if you'll only tell us what you'd like. No, not a word of thanks--at least, not to _me_--I feel I really don't deserve it."

And the dignified, self-complacent Miss Lancaster fairly bolted from the room; conscious that her face was quite unfit to be seen, and that it was absolutely necessary to have her cry out somewhere. Llewellyn leaned back in his chair, almost overwhelmed by the knowledge that he was about to attain his heart's desire at last.

* * * * *

The restored Barnford Church was such a dream of beauty that sometimes Llewellyn would ask himself whether it were a real building or only a fairy vision. The light fell through beautiful painted windows; an excellent organ replaced the old one; and oak pews, exquisitely carved, filled the nave. A huge gilt cock strutted proudly above the restored tower, and a brass tablet near the pulpit declared the restoration to be the thank-offering of two grateful hearts. People came from far and near to the services, eager to see the beautiful church, but the largest crowd that ever assembled in the building came on the occasion of the marriage of the Rector to Laura Lancaster.

EX-SPEAKER PEEL. MR. SPEAKER GULLY.

(_Photo: Russell and Sons._) (_Photo: Bassano, Ltd._)

AS CHAPLAIN TO MR SPEAKER

Some Reminiscences of Parliament.

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

I knew something about the Houses of Legislature, and had been present at not a few debates, long before I had the high honour of being a Chaplain to the Speaker. Many years ago, when I was a master at Harrow, I had the privilege of knowing the late Lord Charles Russell, whose son, Mr. G. W. E. Russell, was once in my form, and who always treated me with conspicuous kindness. Lord Charles was for a long time the highly popular Serjeant-at-Arms of the House of Commons. There are only two persons who enjoy the privilege of having "private galleries" at their disposal at the end of the House--the Speaker and the Serjeant-at-Arms. Whenever there was likely to be a very important debate, which excited keen public interest, Lord Charles used to offer us two seats in his gallery. I availed myself of this exceptional privilege as often as I could, and in that way I have been present at some of those deeply interesting political and oratorical displays which may almost be said to have become things of the past. The speaking of the most distinguished leaders in the House of Commons is still manly, forcible, and lucid: but I do not think that I am only speaking as a _laudator temporis acti, Me puero_, when I say that never--or, at any rate, only on the rarest occasions--do we now hear those flashing interchanges of wit, or those utterances of sustained, impassioned, and lofty eloquence which were by no means unfrequent thirty years ago. It may be that the pressure of affairs is greater, owing to the immense and ever-extending interests of the British Empire; or that there is not, at the present moment, the intense political excitement which once prevailed; or that the prevalent taste in such matters is different:--but, whatever be the reason, it would, I think, be generally admitted that, in nine cases out of ten, debates in these days are more unexciting and more severely practical than once they were, so that speeches full of "thoughts that breathe and words that burn" are now rarely delivered before our assembled senators. For that reason the debates are far less interesting and memorable than they were in former times.

There are still many speakers in the House to whom all must listen with pleasure and admiration. Sir W. Harcourt, Sir Henry Fowler, Mr. Morley, Mr. Goschen, Mr. Balfour, always set forth their arguments with force and dignity; and it would, I think, be generally conceded that few speakers could surpass Mr. Chamberlain in the skill and fearless forthrightness with which he enunciates his views. There are still a few debaters who might bear comparison with Sir Robert Peel in the dignified enunciation of views full of sober wisdom; or with Mr. Cobden in his "unadorned eloquence"; or with Lord Palmerston in his unstudied and lively geniality:--but since first Mr. Bright, and then Mr. Gladstone, stepped out of the political arena, anyone who could be called "a great orator" has become very uncommon in Parliamentary debates. No orator in the House has acquired, or perhaps even aims at, the fame for eloquence obtained in the political arena by men like O'Connell, Sheil, Lord Macaulay, Sir Edward Bulwer, Mr. Disraeli, John Bright, Lord Sherbrooke when he was at his best, or William Ewart Gladstone. We do not now have speeches which, like that of Lord Brougham in the House of Lords on the Reform Bill, occupied six hours in the delivery; or, like the famous "_Civis Romanus sum_" speech of Lord Palmerston in the Don Pacifico debate, are prolonged "from the dusk of a summer evening to the dawn of a summer day."

MR. H. D. ERSKINE.

(_The Present Serjeant-at-Arms._)]

LORD CHARLES RUSSELL.

(_Late Serjeant-at-Arms._)]

(_Conducted by Canon Wilberforce, the Present Chaplain._)]

This may partly be due to the fact that we have not, for many years, passed through political crises in which the hearts of men have been so powerfully stirred as they were in the times of the first Reform Bill; or in the early struggles of the Irish party; or in the debates on the abolition of the corn laws; or during the thrilling incidents of the Crimean War. In these days speeches are shorter, less formal, less ornate, less impassioned. But if the passions of men should again be stirred as they were by those anxious issues, doubtless the same stormy eloquence might once more be evoked. In those days the hearts of millions beat like the heart of one man. One or two historic incidents may serve to illustrate the intensity of national feeling.

While the great issues at stake in the first Reform Bill were filling the thoughts of all, only one Bishop, Dr. Philpotts of Exeter, voted (I believe) in favour of the Bill. The consequence was that the whole bench of Bishops was for a time overwhelmed with national hatred. The late genial and kind-hearted Duke of Buccleuch told me that he had been severely hurt in an attempt to protect the Bishops from popular insult as they came out of the House of Lords. The Bishops had to sign a common protest that they were no longer able to carry out their legislative duties because they could not attend the House of Lords with safety. Even in Canterbury, when the kindly Archbishop Howley visited his metro-political city, he was assaulted by the mob in the streets, pelted with mud and dead cats, prevented from dining at the Guildhall, and was only saved by two or three courageous gentlemen from being dragged out of his carriage and brutally ill-treated. Lord Macaulay's celebrated description of the scene which took place in the House of Commons when the Bill was passed by a very small majority proves how much less inflammable is the present state of the political atmosphere.

He tells us that not only did the members who attached supreme importance to the passing of the Bill clasp each other by the hand with tears, but that, with unprecedented disregard of the decorous traditions of Parliament, they leapt upon the benches, and stood there waving their hats, and cheering themselves hoarse.

Take again the scene which the House witnessed during a memorably eloquent speech of Mr. Bright. He was addressing a House which in those days all but unanimously rejected his opinions, though time has since then shown how well deserving they were of consideration; and yet he moved many to tears who were little accustomed to give open signs of their emotion. He always spoke in a style of nervous Saxon English, and his words on that occasion were a singular mixture of unconventional homeliness and profound pathos.

He mentioned that he had met Colonel Boyle, a well-known member of the House--"at Mr. Westerton's, the bookseller's I think it was, at the corner of Hyde Park"--and had asked him whether he was going out to the Crimea. He answered that he was afraid he was. "It was not fear for himself; he knew not that. 'But,' he said, 'to go out to the war is a serious thing for a man who has a wife and five children.' The stormy Euxine is his grave; his wife is a widow; his children are fatherless." And then, after alluding to other well-known members who had perished in the Crimean War, he added, "The Angel of Death has been among us; we may almost hear the beating of his wings."

As he spoke many of the assembled gentlemen of England were seen indignantly dashing away, or furtively wiping from their eyes, the tears of which no one need have been for one moment ashamed. When Lord Palmerston arose to answer the oration, and to repeat to the House its own predominant convictions, the bursts of cheering with which his entirely unoratorical speech was welcomed were heard even in the House of Lords. But what the members cheered was not Lord Palmerston's eloquence, for to eloquence he had scarcely the smallest pretence, but the British pluck which would not succumb to the intense feeling which the great orator had aroused by appeals that had held his audience "hushed as an infant at the mother's breast."

On the evening before this speech Mr. Bright and Mr. Cobden had been the guests of a former kind friend of mine, Mr. W. S. Lindsay, M.P., in his beautiful house on the banks of the Thames. Mr. Lindsay had been the warm ally of both these great leaders in the Free Trade agitation, and he told me this curious anecdote. Mr. Bright, as is well known, carefully studied his speeches and committed them to memory word for word, delivering them in such measured, yet often thrilling, tones as gave to each word its utmost force. Mr. Lindsay said that the evening before--knowing the extreme importance of the speech, and the fact that he would be trying to persuade a multitude of hearers against their will--Mr. Bright had recited to these two friends in the drawing-room the arguments which he intended to enunciate. But he had not then brought in the allusion to the Angel of Death. The three members were sitting side by side during the debate; and it was perhaps as a relief to his own over-burdened feelings that Mr. Cobden, when the tumult of applause which followed the speech had subsided, said to Mr. Bright, "Where did you get hold of that passage about the angel, John? You did not say it to us last night." "No," answered the orator; "I only thought of it while I was dressing this morning." "Now, if you had said 'the _flapping_ of his wings,' instead of 'the _beating_ of his wings,'" said Cobden, "everyone would have laughed." I have no doubt that in this apparently trivial criticism Cobden was only seeking to lighten the oppression of his own misgivings about the national policy of that time; but, curiously enough, I several times heard Dean Stanley allude to the great speech, both in conversation and in sermons, and he _always_ quoted the passage, "We may almost hear the _flapping_ of his wings."

RICHARD COBDEN.]

Several of Mr. Bright's best points seem to have occurred to him suddenly. In the days when there was the secession from the Liberal party to which he gave the popular nickname of "the Cave of Adullam," speaking of the fact that the members of the party seemed to be all on an equality, and to have no acknowledged leader, he convulsed the House with laughter by comparing them to one of those shaggy lapdogs of which it was difficult to distinguish which was the head and which was the tail. One leading member of this party was the late Mr. Horsman--a very forcible debater, who used sometimes to be spoken of as "the wild Horsman." I once heard a little passage of arms between him and the late Lord Houghton. "Ah!" said Mr. Horsman, "you can't boast of a Cave of Adullam in the House of Lords!" "No," replied Lord Houghton, with the readiness of a rapier thrust, "in the House of Lords we have nothing so _hollow_!"

It is extraordinary how much our judgment of oratory is affected by our opinion as to the point at issue. I once heard Mr. Bright deliver a speech of great force and beauty on the second Reform Bill; and his speeches were always eloquent and admirable so that he never seemed to sink below himself. Indeed, one secret of his splendid success was the care and study which he devoted to master every detail of what he intended to say; so that--to the astonishment of Mr. Gladstone, who had the happy art of falling to sleep as soon as he laid his head on the pillow--Mr. Bright's speeches often caused him sleepless nights. The oration to which I refer was delivered, if I remember rightly, in 1857. I was listening with admiration in the Speaker's gallery, when suddenly an ardent Conservative, who was sitting next to me, showed himself so entirely impervious to the charm and power of the orator that he flung himself back in his seat with the contemptuous remark, "I thought the fellow could speak!"

This reminds me of one or two incidents in the great debate on the Disestablishment of the Irish Church in the House of Lords. The Earl of Tankerville, whose son was a boy in my house at Harrow, had very kindly given me a seat in the gallery, and I heard a great part of that very famous discussion. The learned and lovable Archbishop Trench had to plead the cause of his Church; but he was old and deeply depressed, and his speech was naturally ineffective. At the very beginning he made an unfortunate slip, which, trivial as it was--and it is by no means unfrequently the case that a "trifle light as air" makes an impression, favourable or unfavourable, far beyond what might seem to be its proper importance--at once marred the effect of what he was about to urge. For, at the beginning of his speech, he unluckily addressed the assembled peers as "My brethren!"--or, as he pronounced it, "My _brathren_"--instead of "My Lords"; and, hastily as he corrected himself, the scarcely suppressed titter which ran through the House was alike disconcerting to the speaker and injurious to the effect of his words. A stranger was seated next to me, who was burning with enthusiasm for the Irish Church, and expected a powerful defence of its position from its eminent Archbishop. But the prelate's somewhat lachrymose appeal seemed to him quite below the importance of the occasion; and, with a sigh of deep disappointment, he leaned back with the murmur, "Oh dear! he's as heavy as lead and as dull as ditch-water!"

The greatest speech on that occasion was that of the late Archbishop Magee, who had then been recently appointed Bishop of Peterborough. I had, shortly before, heard his powerful sermon in St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, at the Church Congress, while the fate of the Irish Church was still trembling in the balance. He had chosen the text, "And they beckoned to their partners, who were in the other ship, to come over and help them." The text was so singularly appropriate that Archdeacon Denison is said to have started up from his seat and almost to have clapped his hands aloud! Great things were expected of the speech, and the recently appointed Bishop fully rose to the occasion. As we went out of the House, one of the peers told me that the late Lord Ellenborough (the famous Viceroy of India) had pronounced Dr. Magee's speech to be the most eloquent he had ever heard, except one (I think) of Lord Erskine's. Yet I could not help fancying at the time that political circumstances had tended to the undue extolment of this speech--eloquent and powerful as it undoubtedly was above its intrinsic merits. I perfectly remember the scene and all the circumstances, and even the manner and accent with which it was delivered; but neither then nor afterwards was I at all impressed by the arguments, nor can I now recall them. This is far from being the case with another speech delivered in the same debate by Dr. Connop Thirlwall, the very able and learned Bishop of St. Davids. He was dealing with the charge of "sacrilege," which was freely brought against the Bill, and he endeavoured to show that there were acts which some might characterise by such a stigma which might, on the contrary, be deeds actuated by the highest justice and mercy.

(_Archbishop Trench addressing the House of Lords_.)]

I witnessed a humorous little incident in the House of Lords during the debate on the Public Schools Bill. The late Earl of Clarendon was in charge of it, and the Earl of Derby, "the Rupert of debate," was opposed to it. A number of head-masters, whose methods and interests would be affected by the Bill, had been permitted to stand by the throne in the part of the House where members of the House of Commons are allowed to take their place when they want to hear a debate. Lord Clarendon in his speech was gently complaining that Lord Derby, in characterising the Bill, had said of it (as Lord Clarendon misquoted it)--"Sunt bona; sunt quædam mediocria; _sunt pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la_." This quotation, as the amused head-masters instantly noticed with a smile, involved two very glaring false quantities on the part of the statesman who was introducing the Bill for the improvement of the education of the country. Instantly Lord Derby started up with the words, "Will the noble Lord repeat what he has just attributed to me?" Innocent of the little trap which had been thus laid for him, Lord Clarendon repeated his "_Sunt pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la_." "I never said anything of the kind!" said Lord Derby with humorous indignation. "I am sure," said Lord Clarendon, "that I shall be in the recollection of all when I repeat that the noble Lord, though he must have forgotten the fact, quoted the line which I have just repeated to the House." "Nothing of the kind!" said Lord Derby, with great emphasis; "what _I_ said was very different. It was" (and the quotation was emphasised by pointed finger and slow enunciation), "'Sunt bona; sunt quædam mediocria; _sunt m[)a]l[)a] pl[=u]ra_.'" Lord Clarendon laughed good-humouredly, and apologised for the slip; but he was evidently a little discomfited.

RICHARD LALOR SHEIL.]

To return for a few moments to the House of Commons, a friend of mine once asked Mr. Gladstone who was the most eloquent speaker whom he had ever heard in the House of Commons. He answered, as he has replied to others, "that he thought he had never heard anyone more eloquent than Richard Lalor Sheil." Anyone who will read Mr. Sheil's published volume of speeches will not be surprised at this remark. The one celebrated outburst which is best remembered, thrilled all who heard it, and sounded like the sudden sweep of a tornado. Lord Lyndhurst, in a recent speech, had unwisely and unfairly spoken of the Irish as "_aliens_." Alluding to this, Mr. Sheil burst out with the fine passage from which I will only quote a part: "_Aliens!_" he exclaimed. "Was Arthur Duke of Wellington in the House of Lords, and did he not start up and exclaim, 'Hold! I have seen the aliens do their duty!'... On the field of Waterloo the blood of Englishmen and Scotchmen and Irishmen flowed in the same stream, and drenched the same field. When the chill morning dawned their dead lay cold and stark together; in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited; the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust; the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave. Partakers in every peril, in the glory shall they not be permitted to participate? And shall we be told as a requital that we are '_aliens_' from the noble country for whose salvation our lifeblood was poured out?"

The effect of such a passage delivered as Richard Lalor Sheil delivered it, can better be imagined than described. He was a man of short figure and somewhat insignificant appearance; and his voice was high and shrill, and never well-modulated like the voices of such orators as Lord Chatham or Mr. Bright. But he spoke with genuine feeling and enthusiasm. The impression produced by such earnestness can never be resisted. The tones of passion are very penetrating, and they vibrate in the memory. "But did not Mr. Sheil _scream_ a good deal in his speeches, Mr. Gladstone?" asked his friend. "Sir," was the answer, "he was _all scream_!" And yet few Parliamentary debaters have ever produced a deeper impression!

THE INTERVENTION OF TODDLELUMS.

A Complete Story. By Helen Boddington.

Bang! bang! went the fist of Toddlelums on the window-pane, as the little hand tried to capture a cunning fly which always managed to escape his grasp. Toddlelums was curled up on the window-seat, with such big, big thoughts coursing through his little brain. Not unspoken thoughts. Oh, no! Toddlelums at six always did his thinking out loud. "Ah! you silly, silly, little fly," he said in his cooing voice; "I wonder what you are made of, and where you go to when you die. Ah!" with another bang and a little chuckle. "I nearly caught you that time."

"Toddlelums, what are you doing?" said his mother, from the other end of the room.

Toddlelums rolled off the window-seat, picked himself up, put his hands in the pockets of his knickers, and finally placed himself with his back to the fire. "I was only trying to catch one little fly, mammie."

"Ah! but, my pet, it is rather cruel to kill the poor flies."

"Oh! I wasn't going to kill it, only catch it and make a tiny cage between my two hands"--putting the palms of his hands together--"then I would let it fly away again, right away."

The mother sat there watching her boy and thinking how like his father he was growing. Presently he edged up to her and leant against her knee, and then she put her arm round him, and bent her head so that her cheek touched his brown curls. "Mother's baby," she said softly; "mother's little Toddlelums," and there was a quaver in her voice.

Toddlelums did not notice it, though, for he turned to her with a merry twinkle in his great brown eyes and twined his arms lovingly round her neck. "Let's play, mammie; let's play bears," he cried, trying to drag her out of her chair with fearless hands which were certain of no repulse.

She stood up, laughing. How tall and graceful she was, and how young! Soft golden hair, brown eyes like Toddlelums', only with a sad, sad look in them even when she smiled. Toddlelums thought his mother was beautiful, and Toddlelums was right. A romp was in full swing when a man's step sounded in the hall. In a flash the boy with his rosy face and rumpled hair made a bolt for the door, as a deep voice called, "Toddlelums!"

"It's dad, it's dad!" he shouted, battling with the knob of the door. Then two little feet scampered down the hall, and Toddlelums was raised up high into the air and smothered with kisses. The mother was cognisant of all this, yet she did not attempt to follow. She merely gave little touches to the disordered hair, took up her work, and seated herself once again. Where was the smile now? Where had the tender look gone? Vanished at the sound of a man's voice--and that man her husband!

"Mammie and me were just playing bears," said the son, as he came in perched on his father's shoulder. "Wasn't it fun, mammie?" looking at his mother with a joyous smile.

"Yes, dear," she answered, without looking up; and her husband, glancing at her, noticed that she bit her under lip and a flush suddenly dyed her cheeks.

They had been married seven years, and during that time never one word of love had passed the lips of either. It had been a _mariage de convenance_, his and her fathers' estates joined, and, as she told him afterwards, she had seen nobody she liked better. It had seemed easy enough at first even without love, but gradually--neither knew exactly how--a coldness sprang up, they drifted apart. There was no actual quarrel, only a few hard, bitter words on both sides, but the barrier grew and grew until there seemed little hope of its being broken down.

At the end of the first year Toddlelums came, and then, if anything, matters became worse, for all the mother's thoughts were centred in her baby, all her love was lavished on him--the father was left to his own devices. As the child grew older, instinct told him to divide his love between father and mother, and then cruel pangs of jealousy visited the mother's breast.

So the years passed, Toddlelums with his sweet baby voice making sunshine in the home where lurked so many shadows. Toddlelums never saw the shadows, though, for mother and father vied with each other in keeping them out of his path.

During the last few months, almost unknown to herself, something had been stirring in Grace Millroe's heart; some strange feeling hitherto quite foreign to it. Perhaps it was the constant vision of a man's grave, patient face with the sad look on it which seemed of late to have grown sadder. That may or may not be; but, in any case, before she was aware, love, which had lain dormant so long, was awakened. Then at last, when it came upon her with its mighty full force it brought her only sorrow, for, as she cried within herself, "There is so little use in loving when there is no return." And so this day, when her husband came in after her game with Toddlelums, the flush on her cheeks, which he attributed to annoyance at his approach, was in reality caused by the quickened beatings of her heart.

Later, when Toddlelums was fast asleep in his tiny crib and the house was silent, she sat alone in the drawing-room and he in his study, as was invariably the case when there was no visitor before whom to keep up appearances.

She wanted the second volume of the book she was reading, and so presently she rose from her comfortable chair near the fire, slowly crossed the large, old-fashioned hall, and softly opened the study door. How cosy the room looked, with its crimson curtains drawn closely before the great windows, the fire and shaded lamp combined filling it with ruddy light! She stood with the knob of the door in her hand and with her eyes riveted on the figure at the writing-table.

His arms were folded on the table, his head was buried in them, and, surely, that was a low, despairing moan which came to her across the stillness!

"Ah!" she thought, "if he only loved me, I could make him happy." Then she noticed for the first time that the black hair was streaked with grey. Her lips quivered, she made a step forward; then she drew back, passed out of the room, and softly closed the door after her. In the impulse of the moment she had intended saying some comforting word, and then she thought of his usual cold, passionless look, and refrained.

How could she know that if she had made an advance the man would have gladly, most gladly, responded? A few minutes after he lifted his head, and, had she been there, she would have seen that the face was full of passion, and on it were deeply drawn lines of pain.