Cartes de visite

Index

v

INDEX.

PAGE

Aerial Blue, On the Colour of.

By Sir George Hairey, Pres.

R.S.A. : . . .620

America, Impressions of. By W. Forsyth, Q.C. . . . 213

Blind Inventor, A. By the Rev.

B. G. Johns .... 466 Breaths, The Two, A Lecture to Ladies. By the Rev. Charles Kingsley . . . . . 498

Christmas Carols. By L. IT. . 851 Debenham’s Vow. By Amelia B.

Edwards, Author of “Barbara’s History ” —

Chap. I. At Hildegarde the Martyr . . 1

II. A Day’s Work . 8

III. A Pair of Friends . 11

IV. The Hardwickes . 14 V. The Party at Stra-

thellan House . 15

VI. Miss Hardwicke . 81 VII. At Flome in Canon-

VIII. On the ~Wye . . 87

IX. In the Porch . . 90

, X. Mr. Alleyne . . 92

'XI. Musical andAisthe-

XII. “ For the First

' XIII. The Church among

the Hills . . 158

XIV. The Vox Humana 160 XV. Archie Disappears 164 XVI. The Tryst by the

XVII. What Debenham found at the Post-office . . . 233

XVIII. Mrs. Debenham’s

Letter . . 235

XIX. Benhampton . .237

XX. The Tablet in the

Church . . 238

XXI. Cost what it May 242 XXII. Money v> Fame . 246 XXIII. “ He Loves and he

Rides Away ” . 305

XXIV. The First Plunge . 309 XXV. By Land and Sea . 313 XXVI. De Benham makes himself Master of the Situation .316 , XXVII. Philistines and Fig-

XXVIII. Past and Present . 378 XXIX. Had she Forgotten ? 381 XXX. Brother and Sister

at Home . . 384

XXXI. The Rising of the

XXXII. Mr. Hardwicke’s

Temptation . 388 XXXIII. The Stormy Petrel 391 XXXIV. “The. Athens of

Pericles ” . . 449

, XXXV. Running the Block-

XXXVI. The First Nugget . 453 XXXVII. Not a Bad Bargain 455 XXXVIII. Lord Stockbridge . 458 XXXIX. Senator Shirley speeds the Parting Guest . . 462

XL. Letters from Home 521 XLI. How theWorld went

Round . . 524

,XLII. The Sabina meets

the Stormy Petrel 527 XLIII. Perils on Shore . 531

<2

PAGE

Chap.XLIV. The Fortune of War 593 XLV. In Durance Vile . 597 XLVI. The Case of Madeira . . . 599

XLVII. The Perils and Dangers of the Deep . 604 XLVIII. “ Home, Sweet

XLIX. A Passage of Arms 668 L. In the Library . 672 LI. A Business Interview . . . 676

LII. A House of Mourning . . . 679

LIII. How Archie walked

into it . . . 737

LIV. A Waif from the

Far West . . 740

LV. AMomentousQues-

tion . 742

LVI. Miss Hardwicke’s

LVII. The Sooner the Better . . . 752

LVIII. De Benham makes

his Will . . 754

LIX. Something Mysterious . . . 809

LX. An Invalid’s Whim 813 LXI. Ante-Nuptial . . 815

LXII. A Marriage in High

LXIII. Man and Wife . 822 LXIV. Lady de Benham assumes the Duties ofher Position 824 LXV. At the Hotel Tete

de Boeuf . . 827

LXVI. Nigh unto Death . 830 LXVII. Too Late . . 833

ITeroes of Hebrew History. By the Bishop of Oxford —

II. Elisha ..... 122 . III. Micaiah,the Son of Imla . 208

IV. The Man of God who came out of Judah

. 289

V. Abraham . ...

• 337

VI. Jacob . . . ' .

VII. Joseph

• 505

VIII. Moses

. 626

IX. Joshua

. 714

X. Samson the Judge

• 785

XI. Samuel the Prophet .

. 863

House-hunting. By E. A. Helps 764

Hudson’s Bay Company, The. By William Forsyth, Q.C. . 358, 394

Huss Festival at Prague, The. By W. R. S. Ralston . . .839

Iona. By the Duke of Argyll

535? 614, 708

Jerusalem, The History of the Fall of, as Illustrative of the Evidences for the Truth of Christianity. By the Archbishop of Canterbury .... 188

Laughter : A Contribution to the Morals of the Subject. By the Hon. and Rev. W. H. Lyttelton 482

Musical Pitch Question, The. By John Hullah .... 266

Noblesse Oblige An English Story of To-day. By the Author of “ Citoyenne Jacqueline ” —

Chap. I. Town and Castle . 66 II. Phoebe’s Walk to

the Castle . . 69

III . Lady Dorothea’s

Boudoir . . 71

PAGE

Chap. IV. The Latimer Family 78

V. Barty Woolermakes

a Suggestion . 140

VI. Mrs. Wooler receives her Guests . 144

VII. After Tea . . 147

VIII. The Walk toWooers’

IX. In the Painting-

X. Surpiised and Mystified . . . 226

XI. Lord Wriothesley at

XII. “ A Bold Step and

XIII. A DisagreeableDuty 299

XIV. A Love Tale . . 301

XV. “As Others See

XVI. The Cloud disperses 365

XVII. An Unexpected Pleasure . . . 367

XVIII. Wellfield in its

XIX. On the Course . 439

XX. Lord Wriothesley’s

Colours . . 442

XXI. Conscience-stricken 444

XXII. Not to be Beaten . 446 XXIII. Phoebe makes her

XXIV.- The Tableaux Vi-

XXV. Lady Louisa’s Confidences . .518

XXVI. A Dilemma . . 520

XXVII. A Drawback . . 581

XXVIII. Inopportune . . 583

XXIX. Gossip and More . 585 • XXX. A Lull . . .58 7

XXXI. Lord Wriothesley’s

Appeal . ' . 589

XXXII. Friends speak their

Minds . . 591

XXXIII. A Dawning Suspicion . . . 650

XXXIV. Mrs. Paston reviews

the Situation . 652 XXXV. Notes of Warning . 655 XXXVI. A Surprise . . 658

XXXVII. Another Ordeal . 660 XXXVIII. A Family Conference . . .721

XXXIX. Trials on the Way . 722 XL. A Confidence . 724 XLI. “ Follows Him like

his Shadow” . . 727 XLII. Delicate Commissions . . . 730

XLIII. A Friend in Need . 732

XLIV. “Dust to Dust” . 735 XLV. A Change of Scene 793 XLVI. Under her Cross . 794 XLVII. In Folksb ridge . 795 XLVIII. Glimpses of Rest . 798 XLIX. Foreshadowings . 799 L. Change upon

Change . . . 805

LI. A Feather in Barty ’s

LII. A Sudden Summons 870 All. A Heavy Heart makes a Long

LIV. A Beaten Man . 873 LV. The True Elixir . 876 LVI. “ Throwing Herself

LVII. Mrs. Wooler’s Ambition . . . 880

LVIII. Forty-six . and

Twenty-six . 884 vi

INDEX.

PAGE

Pain, The Man who couldn’t Feel : a Legend of the Harz Mountains. By William Gilbert .' 53 Pamphlets for the People. By the Dean of Canterbury —

I. The Wants of Man in the

Matter of Religion . . 18

II. The Reasonableness of the

Christian Life . . 108

III. Mosaism and Christianity 274

IV. Right Views of Life . . 430

V. Romanism and Protestantism .... 563

VI. Things which need to be

Reformed . . . 770

Peeps at the Far Last. By the Editor —

I. Outward Bound . . .22

II. First Impressions of Bom-

bay 94

III. Bombay — Poona . 1 . 178

IV. Colgaum — The Caves of

Karli — Return to Bombay 249

V. From Bombay to Madras . 324

VI. Missions in South India —

Conjeveram . . . 407

VII. Vellore and Bangalore . 550

VIII. In Madras . . . .640

PAGE

Agnes Jones, Epitaph on. By the Bishop of Derry .... 769 Captain’s Wife, The. By Florence

Fields 64

Carmina Nuptialia. By Gerald Massey .... 624, 686 Choice : a Dramatic Sketch. By the Author of “ Lady Grace ” . 424 Girl’s Faith, A. By L. C. S. . 870 Good and Bad. By the Rev.

Philip Hale 128

Hapless Love. By William Morris 264

PAGE

IX. Calcutta .... 689

X. Calcutta ( continued) . . 776

XI. Calcutta ( continued ) . . 855

Perceiving without Seeing : A

Romance in Astronomy. By the Rev. Charles Pritchard, late President of the Royal Astronomical Society . . . *45

Raja Brooke, The Last Days of . 572

Short Essays. By the Author of “Friends in Council” 114, 202, 281,

Speech, The Christian Rule of. By A. P. Stanley, D.D., Dean of Westminster .... 578

Stars and Lights ; or, The Structure of the Sidereal Heavens. By the Rev. C. Pritchard, late President of the Royal Astronomical Society —

Chap. I. The Education of the

Discoverer . . 353

II. The First Discovery . 356

III. The Discovery of the

Georgium Sidus . 418

IV. Recognition and Eman-

cipation . . . 421

POETRY.

PAGE

Holyhead Breakwater. ByMenella B. Smedley . . . .783

Love maketh Fair. By the Rev.

John S. B. Monsell, LL.D. . 563 Machaerus, A Burial at. By the Rev. E. H. Plumptre . . . 351

Music. By G. A. Simcox . . 112

Old Manor-house, The. By Ada

Cambridge 847

Palms, Under the. By L. C. S. . 200 Passing Pleasures. ByA.L.Waring 401 Poor People. (From Victor Hugo.)

By L. C. S 278

PAGE

V. The Arrival of Herschel’s Faithful Assistant . . . 609

Thrift : A Lecture to Ladies. By the Rev. Charles Kingsley . 343 Toiling and Moiling: Some Account of our Working People, and how they Live. By “ Good Words ” Commissioner —

I. The Merthyr Iron-Worker 35

II. The Connaught Cotter . 129

III. The Staffordshire Potter . 168

IV. The Buckinghamshire La-

V. The Banffshire Fisherman 699

VI. The Northampton Shoemaker .... 758

Workhouse Girl, The. By Mrs. de Morgan 284

Young Men, The Self-Education of : A Village Sermon. By the Rev. Charles Kingsley . . 138

Youngest Colonel in the Service,

The : A Memorial of Alexander Roberts Dunn, V.C. By the Rev. Patrick Beaton . . . 470

PAGE

Sailor Boy, The. By one of the Authors of “Child-World ” . 480

Sonnets, Four. By Jean Ingelow 176 Spring, The Spirit of the. By Edward Capern .... 273 Spring Flowers. By D. Laing

Purves 120

War, A Ballad of. By Menella

B. Smedley 32

Widow and the Priest, The. By the late Robert Leighton . . 543

Wife’s Wonder, A. ByL. C.S. .870

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Debenham’s Vow.

Illustrations .

Peeps at the Far East. Sixty-one Illustrations. .

A Ballad of War. Three Illustrations

The Merthyr Iron -Worker. Seven Illustrations ....

The Captain’s Wife

“ Noblesse Oblige.” Thirty-five Illustrations ....

PAGE

From ", Photographs

F. A . Fraser

7‘. Dalziel

• 65

Music. Two Illustrations .

Spring Flowers ....

The Connaught Cotter. Nine ) Illustrations . . . . )

The Staffordshire Potter. Five ) Illustrations . . . . )

Four Sonnets. Four Illustrations j

Under the Palms. Two Illustra- )

tions J

The Spirit of the Spring Poor People ....

A Buoial at Machaerus Passing Pleasures ,

Choice . . . S .

Colonel A. R. Dunn . .

The Sailor Boy ....

The Way j

Iona. Five Illustrations

The Widow and the Priest .

The Last Days ®f Raja Brooke. )

Two Illustrations . . . ]

Carmina Nuptialia. Two Illus- ) trations j

The Northampton Shoemaker. \ Three Illustrations . . )

House-hunting. Two Illustrations

Epitaph on Agnes Jones .

Holyhead Breakwater

The Huss Festival at Prague.

Three Illustrations The Old Manor-house

PAGE

E. C. Dalziel . . 121

Eras. Walker . j 12g> x36»

J. Mahoney . j ^ \]°^ T. Dalziel ) A

E. C. Dalziel) ' I/6> 177

F. A. Fraser .273

F. A. Fraser . .280

Fras. Walker . . 352

T. Snlman . . . 401

F. A. Fraser . . 424

From a Photograph . 472

F. A. Fraser . . 4S1

E. C. Dalziel ) ,

H. Herkomer ) 49 , 497

Duke of Argyll j gp^1^ T. Green . ’ . 544

From Photographs 576,577

Arthur Hughes .625,688 7 • Mahoney . 760, 761

Fras. Walker . . 784

■ From Photographs 840, 841 W: Small . . . 849

DEBENHAM’S VOW.

By AMELIA B. EDWARDS, Author of “ Barbara’s History.”

twilight. Neither spoke. In the house all was silent. There were no drovers at the tap, no wayfarers in the parlour, no wheels upon the road. The coach has passed long since, bringing neither passengers nor letters ; and save a monotonous dull sound of wood-chopping in some yard close by, and now and then the bark of a sheep-dog far away, no token of life was audible about the place.

It was a low, large room, fronting west; the ceiling intersected by one heavy, black beam ; the window lozenge-paned ; the floor sunken and uneven. A four-post bedstead, from which the hangings had been removed, stood in one corner, and near it a smaller bed for the child. A few varnished prints in black frames hung over the mantelpiece. A dilapidated easy-chair, a huge Elizabethan chest with ponderous clasps and handles, a small square of faded carpet in the middle of the floor, some rush-bottomed chairs and a rickety Pembroke table, made up the total of the furniture. Poor as it was — and it could not well be poorer — this lodging might by no means be classed with “ the worst inn’s worst room.” The remoter Welsh hostelries are sufficiently comfortless to this day, but

______ j ^ they lagged still farther in the rear of English

big arm-chair beside the half-opened window, progress some twenty or thirty years ago. A watching the changing mists and thickening ! landlord who stammered a dozen words of cessant drifting as she listening his every of some

FKUJLOGUE A.D. IO42.

N a tiny wayside inn at the head of one of the wildest passes of the Snowdon range, a traveller lay dying. An invalid on his first arrival there some six or eight weeks before, he had been slowly fading ever since ; and now, towards jjjfjPlD dusk, to the low wailing of ^0* the wind, and the soft inpatter of the rain, was passively away. His wife sat by his pillow, had been sitting since mid-day, in an agony of apprehension for ' breath. His child, a tall pale boy

DEBENHAM’S VOW.

[Good Words, Jan. 1, I860.

Sassenach, a landlady acquainted with the properties of bohea, a bedroom which the traveller was not called upon to share with some stranger whose tongue was as unintelligible to him, and whose habits were as barbarous, as those of a South _ Sea islander, were then people and conditions not only rare to find, but, in certain mountain districts, wholly unknown. The room, in short, was an exceptionally good room, and the inn an exceptionally good inn, as those times went ;. and the occupants thereof, being provided with the actual necessaries of life, had reason to be well satisfied.

Something was there for grace, however, as well as for necessity — a large dish filled with wild flowers and mosses ; a few well-worn but richly bound books ; and an antique silver inkstand, elaborately chased. These, apparently, were the property of the travellers ; for the dish was of the rarest Gubbio ware, lustrous with gold and purple, and the bookplate in the book, and the lid of the inkstand, were engraved alike with a stately coat of arms. Theirs also were the boxes and portmanteaus piled together in a distant corner ; the garments hanging on the door ; the songbird silent in his cage.

To a practised observer, certain of these trifles might have told a whole history of wellborn poverty and homeless wandering. Only the dwellers in tents carry their household gods from camp to camp.

Such was the interior of the room, growing momently dimmer in the coming dusk. The scene without was scarcely less gloomy. It had been raining for several days without intermission, and the water lay in troubled pools about the road and yard. The sky was low and leaden, and hung like a dense curtain over the mountains which here closed round in every direction, leaving only their lower slopes obscurely visible. The wind came and went with long sighs, like the breath of one in pain. A few last leaves fluttered shiveringly down now and then from the solitary ash tree at the door. In the air was a confused murmur, as of the rushing of many torrents ; and the barren, boulder-strewn flats which stretched away from the head of the pass to the brink of the little heron-haunted tarn some three-quarters of a mile farther up, were almost wholly under water.

And all this time the rain poured on, beating a monotonous measure on the roof of the inn, and dripping mournfully from the eaves above the sick man’s window.

Presently, for the _ first time in several hours, he uttered a faint moan. It was little more than a sigh, and scarcely audible; but it thrilled both listeners like a trumpet call. The boy started to his feet, pale and shivering. The mother held' up a trembling finger.

“ Hush !” she whispered. “ His lips move — he may speak.”

They knew that he was dying. They knew also that hope was past. The doctor, who came all the way from Corwen, and was anxious to spare both his pony and his time, had dismissed himself the night before, bluntly declaring that the patient had not a dozen hours to live. But twenty hours had dragged by since then, and still with half-closed eyes and parted lips, and a pulse growing feebler with every passing minute, he lingered.

Again he moaned. Again his lips stirred feebly.

The boy crept to his mother’s knee. She, watching that white unconscious face with a passionate eagerness that might almost have called it back to life, wiped the damp brow, put aside the scattered locks, and waited breathlessly.

Such a young face as it was, too, to have death written on it so legibly ! Prematurely worn, and lined, and grey; but still young, still handsome, still instinct with a sort of pathetic dignity that not even approaching death had power to efface. He was only thirty-three years of age, and had been sickly from boyhood. Disappointment, reverse of fortune, exile, privation, were alike familiar to him. Young as he was, he had suffered bitterly; but the time for suffering was now almost gone by, and everlasting peace was at hand.

“ If it were but one word — only one !”

It was as though her supplication were answered. A faint shiver swept over the pallid face. The languid hand became suddenly contracted. He looked up, and, not so much uttering the word as shaping it with his lips, asked for “water.”

She gave it to him steadily, tearlessly. Her hand did not even tremble. And yet she had thought never to see those lips move or those eyes open again. Then she asked if he had slept.

“Yes,” he murmured, faintly, “I have slept — and dreamed.”

“ Dreamed, my dear love ? ” .

He closed his eyes affirmatively.

“ Of — of the old place,” he said.

“Of Benhampton?”

“ Ay — of Benhampton. I seemed to see it so plainly.”

She looked in his face with a wan smile.

! Good Words, Jan. 1, 18C0.] DEBENHAM’S VOW. 3. !

“ Benhampton is but a name to me,” she said ; “ and yet I seem to see it plainly, too —when you speak of it.”

He sighed, and relapsed, apparently, into unconsciousness. Blow like death he looked and lay ! How faint and far between was the coming of each feeble respiration ! The wife hung over him, daring neither to speak ! nor stir. The boy stood by, weeping silently, j And still the rain dripped, dripped, dripped ; from the eaves outside the window, like minute drops from a clepsydra, pitilessly | telling off the last moments of a life condemned.

He presently spoke again.

“ You remember?” he whispered.

“ I remember, Reginald.”

“ In the chapel — at Benhampton — under the north window.”

“Yes, dearest, yes.”

He pressed her hand. His strength was ebbing fast, and his voice became each moment less articulate.

“Tell me — once more,” he faltered. “Do you forgive ? ”

“ Forgive ! Oh, my dear love, what have I to forgive ?. Nothing — nothing — nothing !”

He looked at her, and a strange light, as 1 1 of a smile in which the lips had no part,

! came upon his face like a glory.

“ God bless you ! ” he said, brokenly. “ God bless you — wife and child !”

The light faded ; the breath died away ; the clasped fingers fell apart.

What next ? He must surely move, look up, speak again ! There was no change within the last few seconds ? Nothing was gone — nothing was hushed ? It could not be that his heart had ceased from beating ! Was it the dusk only, or had a cold grey tint stolen suddenly upon his features like a veil ? Gracious heaven ! was this the end ? Was this death?

Seized by a nameless terror, the child broke all at once into a passion of sobs.

“Take me away!” he cried. “Oh, take me away ! ”

But his mother, instead of taking him away, drew his head to her bosom, kissed him, wept over him, clung to him. He was her all, now. In the whole wide world she had nothing to love, nothing to hope for, nothing to rejoice in, to serve, to suffer for, but this one fragile, fatherless boy.

She knelt down beside the bed, still holding him fast locked within her arms, and prayed aloud— a poor, broken, artless supplication, which he, in his childish way, repeated sentence by sentence. Then came those words, whose very cadence echoes

with the sorrow of ages — “ Thy will be done.”

“ Thy will be done!” Only four words; and yet what a history is theirs ! Alas ! what scars they cover ! What tears they consecrate ! What broken hearts, and darkened lives, and ruined homes they grow over and sanctify, like sweet flowers over graves ! Can resignation, humility, fortitude, go farther than this ? What heroic phrase of all the olden time, what golden saying of patriot, philosopher, or poet, breathes such high courage ? What more has heaven to ask, or man to give ?

Chapter I. — -st. Hildegarde The Martyr. I

Far east of Temple Bar, beyond St. Paul’s, beyond the Mansion House, beyond the Bank, beyond the uttermost landmark entered in Belgravian charts, stands, and has stood for nearly a thousand years, the ancient church of St. Hildegarde the Martyr. Buried deep in the heart of that intricate quarter where streets are narrowest, traffic densest, population scantiest, this tiny building is only remarkable in so far as it is one of the smallest churches in one of the smallest parishes of the City of London. Other fame or interest it has none. It is neither curious, nor beautiful, nor historical. It is enriched by no stately monuments, by no wealth of sculptured stone, carved oak, or painted glass. It is simply very small arid very old — a church without a congregation in a parish without inhabitants. So hidden is it in a network of byways, that one might pass daily within a dozen yards of St. Hildegarde the Martyr without so much as suspecting its existence. Huge warehouses hem it in on every side. Round and about it from dawn till dusk a sluggish, thunderous tide of heavy traffic ebbs and flows. One window, crusted with the grime of centuries, looks upon a narrow thoroughfare leading dockwards ; the rest stare blankly into a court surrounded by stores and counting-houses, where in summer no sunbeam ever penetrates, and in winter the gas burns all day long. Through this court, by means of a passage tunnelled under the warehouses, the church j of St. Hildegarde is approached from the busy world without. A quaint, out-of-the- j way nook ; populous by day ; a desert when j business hours are past — now vibrating to The rush and roll of wheels, traversed by innumerable feet, and echoing to the discords of many voices — now wrapped in a Sabbathlike stillness ; every door locked, every win- ;

i

DEBENH AM’S VOW. [Good Words, Jan. 1. 1*59.

dow shuttered up, every clerk and porter gone. Entering it thus on a summer’s evening, when the sky is yet full of light, and the far-away parks are at their gayest, and the river close by is all alive with steamers, the solitude of the place has in it something both strange and solemn. It is as if one had come upon a city of the dead.

On such a summer evening, in the pleasant month of June, in the year of our Lord i860, one of the church windows being partly open and the church door standing ajar, the little court, then at its stillest, was filled with an irregular sound of chanting — a sound as of hymns begun, broken off, repeated ; responses continuously sung, and canticles from both services indiscriminately succeeding each other. This lasted for perhaps three-quarters of an hour. Then came a pause ; then a pattering and scrambling, as of little feet heavily shod ; and then the door was dragged suddenly open, and an impatient flock of school children came trooping out. They were about a score in number. Some of the boys wore quaint little grey coats turned up with dirty yellow, and muffin caps of the same ; but both boys and girls, for the most part, were dressed in their home clothes, and looked untidy enough. Crowding together for a moment on the threshold, they paused and looked back.

“ At half-past ten, then, on Sunday morning,'” said a voice within.

“Yes, sir; half-past ten, sir,” replied some six or eight shrill voices.

“Not one minute later, remember.”

“ No, sir. Oh, no, sir ! ”

And with this, being finally dismissed, they broke loose into the court, laughing, hallooing, flinging caps into the air, chasing each other into corners, and vanishing presently under the dark arch leading to the world of streets beyond.

When the last straggler had disappeared, and the last shout had died away, a young man came to the threshold ; stood there for a moment, bareheaded, with the cavernous gloom of the doorway behind him and the evening light upon his face ; drank in a deep breath of cool air ; cast a wistful glance towards the glowing patch of sky over the housetops ; and then, half-reluctantly, turned back into the church.

He shut the door and locked it from the inside, waking a desolate echo through the empty nave. Within, all was twilight : except | where twilight deepened into profound I shadow. The topmost leaves of a solitary tree close outside the east window showed like bronze against the sky. Here and there, making the darkness darker as it were by contrast, a faint gleam stole along the walls, rested on altar rail and pulpit, and glanced upon the pipes of the tiny organ standing back in an obscure corner by the vestry door.

Unsightly and insignificant without, the church of St. Hildegarde was no less unlovely within. It measured, perhaps, a hundred feet in length by about forty in width ; and, excepting only a certain unmistakable look of age, resembled nothing so nearly as a plain, ill-lighted lecture-hall or corn-exchange in a provincial town. The bare stone walls, unskilfully daubed with bands of rough colour, were blotched with mildew, and hung in places with common illuminated cards. Rows of rush-bottomed prie-dieu chairs filled the body of the church. The ceiling just above the communion-table was painted blue, and stuck over with little stars of cut paper, most of which had fallen away, while the rest, half detached, hung fluttering overhead. A gilt heart and a few wreaths and crosses of immortelles were suspended over the altar ; and in an antique-looking piscina close by lay a scrap of crochet work, on which stood a small glass jug crusted with dregs of sacramental wine. A dismal place to be alone in towards dusk. Dismal for its silence — dismal for its solitude— dismal, above all, for the poverty that betrayed itself in every shabby fitting and tawdry decoration.

The young man who had just locked himself in there, however, with the gathering shadows was used to the little church, and indifferent to its dreariness. For him it was neither silent nor solitary — for him it echoed to noble sounds, and was peopled with the spirits of Handel and Beethoven and Mozart. He was a musician — very young, very poor, very much in love with his art, and paro-* chial organist, with a salary of twenty-five pounds a-year.

Considering that he lived at Islington, a good three miles from St. Hildegarde the Martyr ; that his rector was an Oxford man, with High-Church proclivities ; and that, besides the orthodox three services on Sunday, he had to play an early service every morning, and an extra eleven o’clock service on saints’ days and fast days, it must be admitted that this young man was not overpaid with twenty-five pounds a-year. He was not dissatisfied, however. He was even contented. Granted that the salary was light, he was none the less willing that the duty should be heavy. He looked upon it as “ good prac-

Good Words, Jan.l, i860.] DEBENHAM’S VOW.

tice,” and upon himself as a particularly fortunate fellow in being able to command it. And so he was, perhaps, V argent apart. Musical talent is not at a premium, and young organists are plentiful in the market. When the situation fell vacant some eighteen months before, Temple Debenham, then just returned from the famous collegiate academy of Zollenstrasse-am-Main, and armed with a double first-class certificate countersigned by the Grand Duke himself, carried off the prize from more than thirty competitors. It was quite a triumph, as far as it went ; and the salary, translated into florins, sounded sufficiently imposing when written about to fellow-students on the other side of the Channel. What wonder, then, that a clever, ambitious, inexperienced young fellow, who had never owned a spare thaler in his life, and who believed in his fellow-creatures as implicitly as he believed in himself, should mistake this very small victory for a brilliant omen, and fancy himself on the high road to fame and fortune with twenty-five pounds a year ?