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Number One; or, The Way of the World

Chapter xviii. Happiness.—The Best Stage of All

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Chapter xviii. Happiness.—The Best Stage of All.

"I Thank God for this severe affliction." With some persons it is usual to return thanks to God for benefits received. I am not aware of ever having omitted the like duty for any special act or acts of kindness conferred on me by man, though unfortunately I have no doubt whatever of having again and again neglected it for blessings from above. But after two years of severe illness I could honestly and gratefully exclaim, and did so exclaim to myself and myself alone, "I thank God for this severe affliction." Though a great sufferer, my sins have been far greater than my sufferings, and I am therefore thankful I have not suffered more.

Thankful for affliction? Yes. And more than this—I declare such affliction to have been the greatest boon of my life. These words may fall on some ears like vacant sounds from a mind affected by the infirmities of a diseased body. Be this as it may, they are nevertheless something beyond the mere phantoms of an inflated imagination. They are nothing more nor less than the silent records of sterling realities. I was never a good hand at fiction, and will not now attempt it in probably the last work, if not the last chapter I shall ever pen. Not easily led away by plausible theories, and sceptical on all subjects that can- page 295not be clearly explained, I will not myself advance anything incapable of proof. Let me, then, in a few brief sentences, offer to the sceptic an explanation of the seemingly strange avowal of—thankfulness for affliction!

First—on personal or selfish ground alone, I have every reason to be thankful for affliction, inasmuch as it has been my greatest benefactor. How? Because I have received from it a treasure by far more precious than gold, viz.—true happiness. Yes; I was happier during severe illness, as I now am under partial restoration to health, than I have ever been at any other period of my existence. Why? Because I trusted more in God and less on man. By the latter I have often been deceived. By the former—never. He has given me all and more than all I ever asked, for he has given me the present extension of life which I now enjoy—and that I did not ask. Oh, how poor and how light are the favors of this world, in comparison with the tender mercies and inestimable love of God! Almost as light as air, yet hardly heavy enough for their mother earth—the former are like flimsy little flakes of chaff, while the latter resembles a full-grown ear of corn. The corn reflects the never-failing goodness of Heaven, and the world is merely the external chaff.

But I am not going to sermonize on the subject. If by the grace of God I have at length discovered in his Son Jesus Christ the great and only source of real happiness, it is enough for me simply to record the fact. It is not needful that every recipient of a spiritual draught should expatiate on the exact manner in which each drop from the living stream of life has been sought or received. Myriads of brother believers have already drunk and are now drinking, while all are invited to drink, at the great fount which the Saviour of mankind in his own body page 296opened to the whole world. And in heartfelt gratitude to the Almighty for the light that has guided one so unworthy as myself thus far towards the path of eternal peace, this heart—while life itself shall therein find a dwelling place—can never cease to thank God for the severe affliction that opened the way to a never failing antidote. But without dwelling on a subject in which I feel more than I can express, let me now recount the leading incidents of the three years in which the darkest clouds of present life were all dispelled by brilliant rays of hope in the future.

Next to a monetary test, a long fit of illness is the very best of all earthly proofs for correctly estimating the value of friends and friendship. Sickness is a blast that makes the light of friendship quiver in the distance. When that friendship is composed only of base mailer, poverty is its extinguisher. When I fell sick, by how many old friends was I visited? Let old friends, if any still survive, answer the question. I will merely observe that capon and claret proved more attractive than blisters and black draughts, and that friends were ever at hand to discuss the merits of the one, though few indeed made their appearance to dwell on the miseries of the other.

Oh, what a strange picture of the way of the world is shadowed forth under mental or bodily affliction! To any person with a precarious income a passport to fashionable society may be regarded as a faithful index to future sorrow. I had mixed with, and had been courted by superiors both in wealth and station. Welcomed by them while I was in health and prosperity, I was now forsaken and forgotten in adversity. Even those who had feasted at my table, danced at my soirées, or taken part in my private entertainments, omitted, after one or two formal calls, either to visit or enquire after the poor sufferer who had wasted time and money in contributing to their pleasures.

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"A good sort of fellow enough, and not bad company, but he has been a great fool to himself."

This or a similar judgment from once-welcomed guests was soon found to be the only return for prodigal hospitality—the only comforter contributed by society for the repose of the host whom his late visitors truly described as "a great fool to himself."

Yet, in addition to my immediate social circle, there was, and still is, one friend—beside the Heavenly One—that never forsook me. Next to my own family, that friend is my largest social creditor. The gratitude due to him may be compared to our national debt—something beyond all hope of liquidation. And the obligations still increase. Yet a warm embrace from the hand of friendship is the only return I can offer which proves acceptable to the heart that asks no favor but that of adding to those already granted by itself. I will say no more of one to whom I briefly alluded in the preceding chapter, except that I again thank God for the affliction that proved the value of such a friend. Let no man rail at fortune, if among a multitude of counterfeits he can only find one prize like this.

If then the unselfish acts of private friendship, benevolence, and love are inestimable, who shall estimate the noble deeds of a public benefactor? As a connecting link with the leading incidents in this chapter, it is necessary to say a few words on a subject which will survive when present readers and writers shall cease to be. That subject may be found in

A Faithful Christian Minister.

"A man's good deeds will prove his noblest monument."

It is thus with the dear departed one of whom I am about to speak. I reside, as I have long resided, in a page 298suburban district—one that is thickly peopled, though, so far as spiritual matters are concerned, it had long been one of the desert appendages of the English metropolis. About fifteen years ago the sad state of the locality came to the knowledge of a gentleman who was then an entire stranger in the district. The Rev. David—, F.R.S., is no longer of this world, and his name—one destined to outlive the present generation—must rather confer honor on, than be honored by, a few pages that will be read and then thrown aside. Well. Like a pilgrim in a heathen land, the gentleman entered on a voluntary mission in a desolate district. I had the privilege of making his acquaintance. His self-imposed task appeared at first to be an impossibility. But his task was a labor of love, his only object being to do good where good was so much needed. What a life of practical Christianity was here displayed! Never did fallible mortal, in daily solicitude for the poor and needy, more frequently remind others, by personal example, of the great work of our blessed Saviour.

In the humble room of an humble dwelling the Rev. David — entered on his sacred mission. His opening service and first sermon were delivered to a congregation of twenty-three persons only! Nothing daunted, he continued his weekly services and daily visitations till his little room was unable to accommodate all who desired to enter. A temporary church was now erected. But this building, like its predecessor, was soon found inadequate to the wants of the inhabitants. So far gratified by the result of his individual exertions, the reverend gentleman on his own responsibility—aided only to a moderate extent by a small number of friends—and at the cost of the whole of his private fortune, built a church capable of accommodating fifteen hundred persons. The cost of the building, together with the adjoining schools, page 299having exceeded the original estimate by about four thousand pounds, the founder was compelled to insure his life as security for the debt. Having expressly stipulated with the proper authorities that five hundred of the sittings in his church should be free, the stipend arising from the incumbency was barely sufficient to cover the expense of insurance on the life of the incumbent. This debt proved a heavy drag on one of the noblest hearts that was ever filled with heavenly emotions. Still, the bearer continued, without a murmur, on his—to him—sunny path of love and duty, working day and night for and among the poor and needy. The good man's deeds, as well as his pecuniary responsibility, eventually came to the knowledge of the present Bishop of London. It was only after considerable persuasion that this worthy prelate induced Mr.—to leave his own family—as he called his congregation—for a living in the city, which in a little while would enable him to leave free from debt the sacred temple in which he had gathered his family around him.

The most sinful of mankind cannot but admire in others the virtues of which they are themselves deficient. I have ever held noble spirits in the greatest veneration, without myself being one of the number. I deem it impossible for any human being to entertain for another a more profound love than that kindled in this bosom by the daily acts of my friend and pastor, David—. Yet, somehow or other, I was for many years a friend and admirer of the man I failed to imitate. I loved the precepts and lauded the example both of Honest John and David—, while I was at the same time driving free and fast in the way of the world. Whatever progress I may now have made in the right direction, Christianity with me was certainly not a thing of sudden impulse, or even rapid growth. Yet association with, page 300and love for good men may have had some influence on the future action of the heart.

Poor David—! Even under his heavy monetary bur den, he was one of the happiest and most cheerful men in England. His whole life affords a striking illustration of the fact—of which I am now more than ever convinced—that true Christianity and real happiness are synonymous terms, that it is impossible for any one to possess even a little of the one without having as much of the other, and that any person under any condition and in any sphere of life may—without any recommendation or certificate of character from his brother man—obtain a free grant from the Divine Benefactor, simply by seeking it in the proper way. Mr.—held his new and lucrative living in the City only for a very short period. A dangerous illness soon terminated fatally and brought the glorious career of this good man to a close at the age of fifty-nine. Though he was not spared to discharge with his own hands the remaining debt on the noble temple he had erected,

"He died and left that Temple Free!"

his life having been insured for the full amount that was left unpaid. His unexpected death caused a profound sensation, especially among the poor, by whom he was universally beloved in the district of Holy Trinity. It was the intention of his family to have had his remains interred in the country, but an urgent appeal from a body of late parishioners induced his bereaved and respected widow to allow the last sad service due to a deceased pastor to be discharged in the church he had himself founded. Some idea may be formed of the reverential regard in which the memory of the departed founder was held from the simple fact that hundreds of persons were page 301unable to gain admittance to the church at the time of the funeral service, and that every shop in the entire district was either entirely or partially closed on the occasion, while nearly seven thousand mourners followed the body of David—to the grave. This may be found recorded on his tombstone in Highgate cemetery.

A word or two in conclusion. On the subject named above I wish to prevent the possibility of a false conclusion on the part of the reader. The Rev. David—won and reigned in the hearts of thousands of his fellow creatures. Men and women looked on him not only as a pastor but as a friend and brother, while little children loved and regarded him as an affectionate parent. How, it may be asked, was all this accomplished? Some persons may suppose that the object of so much esteem, being a clergyman, must have been always sermonizing; that the bell of his church must have been for everlasting sounding an invitation to formal services, to hymns from surpliced choristers, to daily or hourly prayer meetings, to morning and evening lectures and the like. Not so. Though at the duly appointed periods the church bell summoned people to hear the gospel in its pure and potent simplicity, rather than to see the gospel dressed in theatrical costume, David—not only preached but practised that gospel—not only distributed from the text of the One Great Master the various parts to be performed by others, but took the leading character himself. And that character was not only adapted to the pulpit or platform, not only to the bedside of the sick and dying, not only to the cottage with a vacant chair, near which sit fatherless or motherless children, not only to the desolate and foodless hovels of hunger, crime, and want, but also to the social circle of his equals or the gilded chambers of the great. He loved good page 302society but had little time to enjoy it. One of his good deeds will illustrate hundreds, and it will show at the same time a cause why the doer had so little time to accept and take any part in the mansions of the great, whither he was often invited.

In a wretched lodging, at the remote corner of a court, which none but misery-hunters and friendly-relief bearers would have found, Mr.—discovered a family on the brink of starvation. A poor woman with her three children had been thus reduced to want by a drunken husband, who for the second time had been discharged from a good situation through his intemperate habits. The loss of work and subsequent pangs of poverty had in this instance found a successor in a severe attack of illness, which the drunkard had himself suffered. But from this illness he had nearly recovered.

The only point in the present narrative on which I am in doubt is,—whether the patient recognised in his visitor the minister by his dress, or whether he had a previous knowledge of Mr.—through having resided in the district of his ministrations. That the title with which in his vulgar salutation he addressed his benefactor was a correct one may be seen by the opening dialogue.

"Sal, here's a parson," said the unwashed and sickly-looking husband to his wife, who, with an infant in her arms and a child on either side, completed the sad picture of misery which confronted the minister as he entered the wretched abode. "We want no parsons here," he gruffly muttered in a voice like that of a bear growling at an intruder. "I say again, sir, we want no parsons here," he repeated in a still louder snarl.

"I presume you do not, my good man," replied the minister; "but hearing from one of your neighbours that page 303you were in want of bread, I thought a few shillings might perhaps be acceptable."

The hungry man appeared to be struck dumb with surprise. Without raising himself from the chair on which he was seated, he slowly turned the back of both towards his visitor, inclined his head forward, and remained mute. The minister, with a look of compassion, but without a word of admonition to hungry mortals, simply handed his contribution to the poor woman, who in a flood of tears evinced by a few broken sentences her gratitude for an unexpected boon. After a few words of sympathy, expres-siveof a hope that the distress of the family might soon receive more than temporary relief, Mr.—took his departure, promising to call again on the morrow. He did so call, but was honestly informed by the woman that her husband being ashamed to face his benefactor, had purposely absented himself at the time of the expeoted visit.

Some persons might think this intentional absence, through shame, betrayed anything but a sign of improvement on the part of the absentee. The reverend visitor thought otherwise, and declared—a declaration I heard from his own lips—"that a man must be ashamed of his doings before he is likely to do better." It is evident the poor man was ashamed of himself, not of his benefactor. In return for insult he had received kindness, though he wanted moral courage to acknowledge or ask forgiveness for his fault. Better this feeling than the false guise of that sneaking hypocrite who would readily acknowledge his faults or confess his crimes, if by so doing he could obtain silver or gold to commit other crimes.

A few days after the minister's last visit to the seat of poverty, the chief cause of that poverty was agreeably surprised on receiving from his late employers a message page 304to the effect that, "owing to the intercession of the Rev. David—, the firm were disposed to give an intemperate workman one more trial." About a month after this, the minister—taking his accustomed survey of, and talk with, little children before service on the Sabbath day—saw on one of the free seats in his church, not only the late drunkard, but also the wife, and three children whom he had previously visited. In answer to the minister's kind welcome of, "I am pleased to see you, and hope you have recovered from the effects of your late illness," the man replied to his pastor in a respectful manner for the first, but not for the last time. No; but the story may be closed in another sentence. From that hour of friendly recognition to the present—a period of many years—the late slave to intemperance has not only been one of the most temperate and respectable artizans in the district, but both himself, his wife, and his children have ever been regular in their attendance at the church founded by David—

Let me simply add that the character of this good man is not mentioned as an isolated one. It is merely a type of hundreds of Gospel ministers who, in devoting their lives in various ways—often under personal discomforts, trials, and revilings—to a faithful discharge of their laborious and ill-requited duties, look only for their reward in the future fulfilment of that heavenly promise of which they are themselves but messengers to those below.

To proceed with the account of my own "ups and downs" in life, it is necessary to observe that my work on the Australian Colonies proved a commercial success, and that the proceeds arising from this success not only freed me from past and present embarrassment, but served during the early part of a protracted illness to keep a feeble patient at least out debt, if not out of pain. The heavy page 305liabilities which had been incurred in mounting the entertainment with which I had intended to make—but did not make—a fortune were all discharged, and I was truly thankful to find that the anticipated danger to an invalid's comfort, through the dreaded sale of family trinkets and treasures, was for a time suspended, if not entirely dispelled. It will be unnecessary to dwell on the success of the book, beyond the simple statement that previous to the disposal of the copyright, and within a period of about fifteen months, nearly four thousand copies of the work had been sold; that it was favorably received by sixty-six newspapers and magazines, and that a copy of the second edition—three more have since been published—was graciously accepted by Her Majesty, as will be seen by the following communication:—

"Major-General Grey has had the honor of receiving Mr.—'s letter of yesterday, and having submitted it to H.R.H. the Prince Consort, is now commanded to acknowledge, with many thanks, the second edition of the work which Mr.——has been good enough to send, and which Her Majesty has much pleasure in accepting for the Royal Library. "Windsor Castle, Nov. 17, 1857."

"A ready sale and exalted patronage!" Pleasing sounds to an author's ear. But there are clouds and casualties in life which may in the course of time overshadow even these sunny rays of fortune. An illness which opened with fever, was followed by one of the most painful operations in surgery, and finally, after raging for two years with more or less severity, left with the patient a pulmonary complaint supposed to be incurable, proved altogether like a circuit of insatiable quicksands that swallowed up all the golden store that rested on its shallow waters. Every coin, whatever its size, complexion, or value, page 306no sooner entered the unsubstantial circle than it disappeared; and it was only by the good housewife's skill in matters of finance, and by the most rigid observance of economy in the use of material matter, that an auctioneer's hammer was prevented from falling with a terrible crash on the grand piano, at the same time inflicting a heavy blow on its owners. Yet, even in sickness, there are but few persons in the world who are too poor to aid the cause of charity in some way or other—either in word or act.

Charity! Type of heavenly grace, that shoots from the very soul of man for the good of others. I speak not of spurious charity, of which there is so much in the way of the world, but of that which springs spontaneously from a sensitive and willing heart, without the influence either of force or fashion. I speak of the penny given with the wish that it could be made a pound, not of the pound given with a secret desire that it could be reduced to a penny. The one is like those gentle and refreshing streams—symbols of divine love—which run their daily course throughout the length and breadth of the land for the benefit of mankind; the other is like inanimate pools of stagnant water—pumped from acrid human wells by the aid of high-pressure engines.

But the cause of charity is sometimes, no doubt, largely served from sources in which charity itself—if it has any existence at all in the human heart—may occupy but a very small space. It is not long ago that in an almost incredible brief space of time, contributions to the amount of twenty-four thousand pounds were collected for the London Hospital. This large sum was obtained in the course of a few days, by a few gentlemen, and from a few contributors only! But how and by whom was the thing accomplished? Who were the collectors, and who were the subscribers?

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The subscribers were extensive merchants, and the collectors, by whom those merchants were personally waited on, were their bankers. The directors of the London Hospital exercised a sound discretion in appointing such a committee of canvassers. But, instead of a polite visit from his banker, had each merchant been waited on by the secretary of the hospital, would the monetary result of the application have been the same? It is well that in the way of the world the hand that tenders a gift is not always guided in its movement by the heart of the giver—otherwise the cause of charity might seriously suffer.

But can there in the life of man be any feeling more delightful or gratifying to the soul than that which emanates from an act of real charity? I firmly believe that for every such act the actor is rewarded four-fold; that the recipient of charity, in fact, receives in material aid something of far less value than the award accorded to the donor in a blessing which can never decay. In such things the heart is its own paymaster, and seldom forgets the peaceful and pleasant feeling due to its master for the means of doing good.

The following incident happened more than twenty years ago. Though a trifle in itself, it is perhaps worthy of record, owing to the lasting impression such a trifle is capable of making on the mind. In this instance the impression, which has never been, and can never—till death—be erased from the memory, was rendered doubly impressive from the effect produced by two opposite senses—first, through the pain occasioned by selfishness; and secondly from the pleasure arising through the defeat of that selfishness in the heart wherein the struggle took place. Its origin might be traced to an early acquaintance with—

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A Fast Young Gentleman.

A young officer, who was far more skilful in the practice of contracting debts than in that of discharging them, had for some time been my debtor to the extent of ten pounds. Although the loss of his companionship—for he never called on his friend after he had left him a type of his character in an I.O.U.—was cheap at such a price, I considered it would be still cheaper if I could get back my money. As written communications on the subject had proved of no avail, I at length resolved to try the effect of a personal application. My late companion, the red jacket, was now quartered at Chatham. At this time there was no railway in that direction; and, taking the usual conveyance, I started by steam-boat for Gravesend, with the intention of proceeding to Chatham by omnibus.

Before the steamer had reached her destination I saw, in a secluded corner behind the paddle-box, a poor man, his wife, and three children, who were making an attempt to allay hunger with a few pieces of dry bread which had been withdrawn from a small cotton wrapper. Previous to their humble repast they must have solicited a supply of water, for it was the reluctant, grumbling way in which a jug of this fluid was furnished by the steward that first attracted my attention towards the little family circle. They were evidently very poor; they were also very ragged; but they were at the same time very clean and very quiet. I don't know what it was that made me suddenly regard these "ragamuffins," as the cabin-boy called them, with more than common interest; I only know that I did so regard them, and watched their movements with as much attention as if they had been related to me by some family tie.

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At the close of their bread and water meal, when they were quietly strolling a little farther aft, but without the most remote idea of the penalty incurred by the movement, they were suddenly waited on by the collector of passenger fares. At this period two shillings was the charge in the saloon, and one and sixpence in the fore-cabin, the usual half-fare being charged for children under twelve years of age. Taking from the corner of her handkerchief the correct amount—as she, in blissful ignorance of anything to the contrary, imagined—of passage money for the family, the poor woman handed the same to the collector.

"Two of ye are there, and three children?" said the collector, on counting the money. "I want one and nine-pence more."

"One—one and—and ninepence more?" said the poor woman, casting a look of dismay towards her husband. "We was told one and sixpence each, and half-price for the youngsters, wasn't us, John?"

"Yes, that we wor," replied John, as the features of both gave evidence of the greatest alarm.

"The fare's two shillings ' baft the funnel. You should a kept forrad if you wanted to go for less. I want one and ninepence. Come, look sharp," said the collector, in a manner as sharp as his words.

Without further comment or complaint, the bewildered pair evinced a ready desire to submit to the unexpected tax, by immediately searching their pockets for the amount. Unable to muster more than one and eightpence between them, they made an appeal to their eldest child (a girl about twelve years of age) who at once furnished the required penny. So soon as the collector had taken her money and departed, the poor child, with tears in her eyes and an indescribable look of affectionate compassion on her page 310countenance, tendered to her distressed parents another penny—evidently the last coin in the world in which this poor family had a joint interest.

My heart was suddenly pierced to its very centre. I was not aware, till now, that sympathy, even in her most powerful touch, could inoculate her subjects with a pang so poignant. I had never before, and have not, I believe, since, been so suddenly overcome by other people's distress. The feeling was too acute for anything but a desire for a speedy deliverance therefrom. My hand was already in my pocket—but, on turning aside for a moment's reflection and relief, it was withdrawn empty. The painful feeling had already lost a little of its intensity. While it existed I thought only of the wants of others; I now began to think chiefly of my own. Ten shillings represented my cash personality. From this amount I had to pay carriage fare to Chatham, and also discharge the expenses of the return journey to London. How, then, could anything be spared for the poor family whose moneyless and foodless—perhaps bedless—position I commiserated?

It was this question that provoked a sudden conflict between self and self-sacrifice. The contest was a severe one. Had the money which self wanted out of the pocket of the red jacket at Chatham been reclaimed, a few shillings might have been spared for the foodless family of five. This was a strong argument on the part of self; yet feeling was all in favour of self-sacrifice. But while the heart was engaged as umpire in the struggle, the steamer had been moored, and her passengers were rapidly moving towards the shore. Foremost in the crowd were the objects of my solicitude. In a few minutes they were on their way up the High Street of the town; in a few minutes more they were lost to my view. Self had won the victory—no page 311—yes; still, a desire to know whether the spirits that provoked contention between two opposite senses had reached their destination, or whether they had to journey beyond the town before there would be a chance of their obtaining relief, induced me to follow in the direction they had taken. Sight of the poor travellers was soon regained, and I followed in their wake to a road leading to the country. Their live stock—the only stock they possessed—was now re-adjusted, the youngest child being suspended to the back of its mother, the second taken to its father's arms, and the eldest left to tramp her way with her parents. Seeing they had now prepared for a journey, the very thought of which was quite enough for their present follower, a determination on my part, to satisfy curiosity—if nothing more—induced me for a few moments to advance with double-quick step abreast with the travellers.

"Fine day this for travelling," I remarked.

"Mighty fine day, indeed, master," said the head of the travelling family.

"Have you far to go?" I enquired.

"About a matter a twelve miles, I reckon," was the reply.

"To your own home, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the wife." These parts is quite strange to us, sir."

"Hounslow's our parish," added the husband.

"And did you walk from Hounslow to London, before taking the steamer for Gravesend?"

"Me and my missus did, sir; but a man in a cart took the youngsters a goodish way for the matter of a drop a beer."

"I suppose you were surprised at having to pay two shillings each for your passage by the steamer?"

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"We wor, indeed, master," said the poor man, without complaining of the advantage that had been taken of his ignorance on the subject.

"I was very thankful we had enough to pay the charge, sir," added the wife.

"I paid a penny, sir," said the good-tempered child at her side.

"Hold your tongue, Jane," said the mother.

"Do you expect to find good employment in the part of Kent to which you are going?" I enquired.

"Pretty good, I reckon, sir. They tell us that hop-pickers is right well paid."

"And my husband has gotten a letter of recommendation to the minister of——. Would you like to see it, sir?" said the poor woman.

"I should very much like to see it."

The letter, which was carefully wrapped in a large piece of brown paper, was handed to me for perusal. It ran thus:—

"The Vicar of——presents his compliments to Mr.——, and has much pleasure in recommending for employment in Mr.——'s district the bearer, John——, whom the Vicar has known for many years as a sober, industrious man, whose praiseworthy and constant endeavour to keep from the workhouse an aged mother has been the chief cause of his being so poor himself."

Enough. The letter was returned, without comment, to its owner. And now the right arm of brotherly love was not raised from the pocket of the sympathizer empty handed. Nothwithstanding the long and unequal contest—all in favor of self—that had previously taken place in the heart, this umpire now assigned the victory to self-sacrifice, while that human monster, number one, was defeated without a blow.

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But who can truly picture the joyful sensation arising from such a victory? "The victor"—some may say. Let none believe it. It is something beyond human power. Man is capable of much; but till he is able to breathe into his own soul that breath of hallowed love which can share the distress of another, and find pleasure in the task—till he can infuse into his heart the pure spirit of charity, which is the peculiar gift of God, he cannot paint the image of a sense, Immortal! What! Attempt to describe the sensation that ran through every vein when the heart was suddenly relieved of a burden, by the absence of which its bearer was changed to another being? No. I take no credit to myself for the change so quickly effected, and will not attempt to describe what was accomplished by the agency of some ministering angel. I may give the external or business features of the case, by simply stating, that with the poor family who were reduced to their last penny I divided the contents of my own purse; that for the two half-crowns with which they were thus astonished from the hand of a stranger they gave me looks and tears which were far more eloquent than words; and that when I had parted from them I felt that, in reality, I was their debtor, and that no amount of money—had not the heart accompanied the gift—could have purchased the blessing I received in return for the small sum of five shillings! Did I over estimate the value of what had been given me in exchange for such a trifle? No. An unseen hand had infused at least twenty-five per cent; of purifying matter into a selfish nature. There was now a permanent link of sympathy between my own soul and suffering humanity. From that hour to the present I have entertained for the uncomplaining and deserving poor a genuine spark of unselfish love—love which could never have been created in the page 314same breast by golden treasures, polished courtesies, or exalted patronage from the hands of the high and mighty in the way of the world.

After I had parted for ever from the grateful family of five, I felt—I don't know how I felt. But all the faculties of mind, body, and soul seemed wonderfully pleased with each other. Did the reader ever make or hear the remark of, "that gentleman appears to be on very good terms with himself?" If so, he has made or heard what would have been applicable to me on the occasion referred to. Or—should the reader be a lady—has the lady, during a residence at school or elsewhere in a Catholic country, seen with what buoyant hearts young persons return from a confession box? If so, the fair reader may form some idea of my feeling, after the conscience had been relieved of something heavier than it was able to bear. So happy was I, that, during my return walk through the streets of Gravesend, neither the red jacket defaulter, nor his miniature I.O.U., which filled an otherwise empty space in my purse, ever for a moment floated on the memory. It was only when I reached the spot where an omnibus cad saluted the passers-by with the question of "Going to Chatham?" that the cause of my not going became apparent.

The sum of five shillings being merely enough to pay the passage of its owner to town, and provide him with a little refreshment on the journey, I took a walk in the vicinity of Gravesend till the hour appointed for the departure of the next steamer for London. On entering the vessel a few minutes before four o'clock, I proceeded at once to the cabin, being quickened in this movement by a sharp appetite, and by the supposition that the balance of cash in hand—after deducting passage-money—might be expended on a cold collation, much to the comfort of the page 315passenger concerned, and as an agreeable way of applying a portion of the time to be occupied in the passage to London.

The repast over, I was reclining in the corner of the cabin couch, in that drowsy state of repose usually designated, "between sleeping and waking;" and while thus engaged in dreamy foreshadowings of a trip to Chatham on some future day, I was suddenly startled by the sound of a familiar voice from a person on deck—"I say, steward, why the d—l don't you bring up the cigars we ordered?"

To this question there was no reply, owing to the steward's absence. But in a few seconds a rattle of swords on the cabin-stairs announced the descent of the inquisitor and a pair of companions. First to enter the saloon was the veritable red jacket whom I was in search of.

"Fire and fury!" exclaimed the astonished lieutenant, on beholding his old acquaintance; "why, Frank, who on earth would have thought of seeing you here?"

"Not you, Reynold, that's quite certain," I replied.

"By St. George, no! But give us your hand, old fellow, for I am delighted to see you again—I am really, Frank."

"Believe me, Reynold, I am equally pleased to see you. Indeed, I was thinking about two hours since of going down to Chatham, but——."

"It's just as well you didn't. We bade a final adieu to that dull hole this morning, and fired over it a volley of anything but affectionate farewells. We've been dining with a few friends in Gravesend, as we take our departure in a few days on foreign service. Allow me to introduce my friends, Captain——and Lieutenant——. You must know, gentlemen, that Frank is an old acquaintance of mine; and the unexpected pleasure of meeting a friend to whom I—I am indebted for many a kind—here, steward, bring a bottle of champagne!"

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"I beg, Reynold, you will not think of ordering champagne on my account."

"By St. George, no! I'll order it on my own account, but I expect you to partake of it. You must know, gentle-men, that Frank and I have often played together in amateur performances, though I'm inclined to think the fool was the only character in which I succeeded."

"Permit me to say, Reynold, that you always played your own character well."

"Ah! I find you are as satirical as ever. By-the-bye, Frank, if you call on me at the United Service Club on Monday morning, I'll——."

"Pardon me, Reynold," interposed his friend, Captain——, "you forget that we sail for Calcutta on Saturday."

"Sat——, is Saturday the day?" confusedly enquired

Reynold. "Well, Frank, if you call on Friday I shall be happy to exchange notes with you. You understand? Bring that bit of paper of mine in your pocket."

"Do you know, Reynold, it happens to be there at this moment."

"The deuce it does? Well, let's have it at once. There, my boy!" he continued, throwing on the table a bank note for one hundred founds! "Give me change out of that!"

"You are very kind; but how to deduct the trifle you owe me from such a giant as this I am somewhat at a loss to know."

"How much do you want, Reynold?" enquired his friend, Captain——.

"It's only ten pounds, sir," I said, before the lieutenant had time to reply.

"But I must have change," said Reynold.

"We can easily get the note cashed at Cox's. There's a page 317ten-pounder," said the captain, as he handed me the money and returned the larger note to his friend.

"Pop! Here's the wine!" said Reynold, as he tore up the I.O.U. which I had kept for him for more than two years. "Come, boys, let's drink to the good taste of those that love us, and better taste to those that don't!"

I will not now tire the reader with the small talk which took place over the first or second bottle of champagne, but will simply observe, in reference to the subsequent career of Reynold, that about twelve months after his arrival in India he fell in action; and that the commanding officer paid a much higher tribute to his bravery than could be accorded by a numerous staff of creditors to the actions of a fast lieutenant in the United Kingdom.

By the peculiar events disclosed in the foregoing incident it will be seen that a simple act of charity, at the cost of five shillings to the performer, was the means of bringing about a meeting between debtor and creditor, and thereby securing to the latter a debt which would otherwise, in all probability, have remained a debt to the present day. But let no one for a moment suppose that this fact is adduced to show the natural or invariable tendency of every kindred movement, or to prove to the unfortunate holders of I.O.U.'s and other creditors that sixpence in the pound invested on charitable objects would be attended with similar results. When charity becomes a matter of business or a subject of pain, the performer had better consult his lawyer or his doctor.

In continuation of the narrative of my own life, I may observe that at the expiration of about eighteen months from the commencement of a severe illness, a gradual fall in the quicksilver of a monetary barometer again indicated coming clouds on the social horizon—clouds which might page 318soon extinguish the golden rays of a drooping exchequer. Though the success of a recent publication had brought a good deal of money to the family circle, that circle—with children just formed in line with one head above another on the staircase leading to the grand hall of knowledge—is just the place where a good deal of money is wanted. Besides which, a book, unlike a bank, is seldom a source of permanent revenue to its proprietor; and I also discovered that the diminished sale of my pen-ink-and-paper commodity failed to produce a corresponding diminution in the bread and butter wants of those whose cares in life were not yet of a character to affect their appetites. Still—thanks to a merciful Providence—our cupboard was never entirely empty, though the exchequer has often been in that unpleasant condition.

If "charity begins at home," it may be fairly assumed that she would be unable to leave home at a time like that denoted by the preceding remarks. Yet at this more than at any other time since the death of David—, aid was required of his friends for the purpose of extending the noble schools he had founded, but which were now inadequate to the wants of the district poor. Money I had none to give, while little value could attach to the labors of one who was not only a prisoner in his own dwelling, but an object of solitary confinement, on anything but a soft bed, about eighteen hours out of every twenty-four. But can I do nothing to advance the glorious cause of education for the poor? This was a question which for several weeks found no reply. At last came the answer—"I'll try." At this period a daily draught from the "little legacy"—the Bible—left me by Honest John, was by no means a thing so nauseous to the palate as it proved to be when the divine composition was first prescribed for an ungrateful patient.

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Instead of uneasiness, as heretofore, the book now brought consolation and comfort. This effect being the result of reading it, might not a corresponding result be produced in writing on it? And might not other readers who felt an equal interest in the volume, favor a little subject thereon, having for its object the spiritual welfare of poor children? These thoughts, leaning towards a desire for the solution of the original question, were instrumental in bringing about the final determination of—"I'll try."

About twelve months after the foregoing resolve, more than one hundred short poems on Holy Writ had been composed by the bed-ridden author. So far, therefore, as the writer was concerned the question was practically solved. The pleasure I had derived in the composition of these poems—although the majority had been written while on a bed of sickness—had proved an ample reward for the self-imposed task of the writer. But the pleasure derived by the author in writing them was one thing, while that which might be derived by others in reading them was another thing. The latter embraced a portion of the subject which had not been solved. And this part would have still remained in its happy state of uncertainty had not the private feelings of the writer given way to a desire to aid the object for which the work was in the first instance undertaken. With every wish to benefit the schools, I had no wish whatever to make a futile attempt in that direction, by printing an unsuccessful work. It was now a question between hope and fear. Which had the most probable chance of realization? A keen recollection of the fate of the only unsuccessful book I had previously written—a volume of poems—inclined my opinion towards the gloomy side of the subject. Kind friends entertained opposite opinions, and advised accordingly. One especially, a leading man among dis-page 320senters, said that if he were allowed to publish the poems in a cheap form, for the benefit of the church of which he was a member, he would insure the sale of a thousand copies among the congregation in less than a week. "What?" he continued, "have you not at your church a congregation of fifteen hundred, and can you for a moment doubt the sale of a book of original poems—however little you may regard their merits—if published at one shilling, and for the special benefit of your free school?" These and similar questions were persuasive, if not convincing, and I resolved to test them. Without asking the school committee to incur any liability, I allowed all risks to rest on my own shoulders, although at this time it would have been unwise to place a heavy weight thereon. The book was printed, and, by the following statement which appeared on the fly-leaf of the volume, it will be seen that a ready sale of the edition would have yielded to the schools the sum of £28 6s. 6d.

"In preparing for publication one thousand copies of this little work, the following expenses have been incurred:—
"W.H. & Co. (for printing) £10 3 3
" Ditto (paper) 6 0 3
"B. & Son (binding) 5 10 0
"Total 21 13 6
"Thus every copy that may be sold at the published price of One Shilling will leave Sevenpence for the object stated in the Preface."

An announcement was thus duly made to the leading seat-holders of the congregation of a little book "by one of the members." At this time a resident governess in the family of the author—a young lady who, apart from her educational duties, took a warm interest in advancing the cause of charity—had intended making a voluntary call page 321on some half-dozen of the "grandees" of "our church flock." One call was enough, if not to satisfy the lady, at least to satisfy the author of poems "by a penitent," who was neither disposed to become his own book hawker, nor to allow his friends to be insulted on his account. Hero are the parties and substance of the interview alluded to:—The Chilly family formerly resided in a small and very humble dwelling in the parish of St. Pancras. But, having made their way in life with railroad speed, they now occupy one of the best houses in their immediate district. People who thus rapidly get on in the world have a perfect right to do as the Chilly's have done, by moving from third to second, and from second to first-class carriages, as circumstances may justify. Mr. Chilly is considered by everybody—therefore by the writer—to be a very quiet, gentlemanly, nice kind of man. It was on the Chilly family "our governess" made her first and last call on the subject before referred to. But it was Mrs. Chilly, not Mr. Chilly, with whom she came in contact.

On entering the well-furnished drawing-room of the family in question "our governess," Miss Prudence, was received with becoming courtesy. But so soon as the subject of her mission was made known, she found it was not an impossible thing even for a member of her own sex to change gentle words and gracious smiles into discordant sounds, and looks like any but those of an angel.

"Oh! I was not aware of the purport of your visit. I have not read the book, although I have certainly heard of it; but I think nothing of it," said Mrs. Chilly.

"Possibly so, madam. It is not the merit but the object of the publication to which I would call your attenion," said Miss Prudence.

"But we have already subscribed to the schools; and page 322with regard to poetry, I'm quite sure there's no member of our congregation who can write poetry. For my part, I can read nothing but Tennyson, and not much of that."

"You have, no doubt, read Coventry Patmore's 'Angel in the House?'" enquired Miss Prudence.

"Oh, dear, no. It's all very well for young people to write about such things as angels, but I should like to know where they are to be found?"

"I fear there are not many in London," said Miss Prudence, with a smile.

"You are quite right, young lady. And what nonsense it is for writers attempting to describe what they know nothing about."

"I hope, Mrs. Chilly, you will pardon me for the liberty I took in calling on you. Good morning," said Miss Prudence.

"Good morning, Miss, good morning. I am afraid I've said too much. Of course I know nothing of the author of the work you mention, and have no wish to offend him; though we shall not require any of his books. Good morning, Miss."

It was soon made manifest that the undisguised and—so far—honest expressions of Mrs. Chilly fairly represented the feelings of a large number of persons who said nothing. That others of the congregation had, no more occasion for the book than the outspoken Mrs. Chilly may be inferred from the size of the brown paper parcels which (for anything I know to the contrary) remain to this day in their original place on the vestry shelves—unless, perchance, their uncut leaves have been removed for practical use to the counter of some butter shop.

Had I been a young author instead of an old one, disappointment at this cold reception of a literary offspring page 323might have assumed something of a personal character. But, having no vanity to gratify in the success of the work, there was none to be wounded by its failure. For the monetary loss and temporary inconvenience occasioned by that failure, I was also more than repaid by tokens of friendship from those whose sympathies were of greater value than a few ounces of gold. Yet I cannot confess to the entire absence of disappointment on the subject. In addition to that created by the failure of the object of the book, the cause of that failure was a source of still greater surprise and sorrow. It was the verification of a remark made by an observant pew-opener that imparted pain to the heart of the writer:—"Ah, Mr.——, that's a nice little book of yours, and it's very kind of you to write it for the good of our schools; but it's only religious people as will buy that book, and we haven't many of them in our church."

What? Not many religious people in a congregation of fifteen hundred souls? Then, where are religious people to be found, if not in church? Or what is it, if not religion that takes people there? Millions upon millions are weekly visitors of places of worship—upon what errand, if not on that of religion? Does the way of the world extend beyond the portal of a temple consecrated, if not devoted to the service of God? Within these holy sanctuaries there are many turnings; are the majority of them only footpaths or branches of the outer world? And are the majority of those who tread thereon as busily engaged—in spirit, if not in action—as the money-changers whose tables our Saviour upset? These queries created a temporary feeling of pain, inasmuch as they tended to lessen the standard I had formed of church-going people, during the life, and by the life of Honest John. And an incident that almost immediately followed the pew-opener's page 324remark served as another drop in the drooping side of the scale by which I had weighed number ones of the first class.

The book proved a failure. Out of about two hundred and fifty copies that were sold nearly two-thirds of that number were purchased by non-residents of the district, and strangers to the schools, for the benefit of which the work was written. But the ministers of the church knew the particular tastes and inclinations of their flock far better than any lay member—excepting, perhaps, a couple of experienced and active churchwardens. They also knew how far—under their own guidance and protection—to allow their flock to wander from their spiritual domain in order to effect an object which could not be accomplished at home.

And what was the nature of the attractive card or compound which could enlist the sympathies of this great flock? What bait could draw from their silvery stream or rich preserve that mental and spiritual food which unenticed affection had failed to supply to those dear little lambs that stood, homeless and friendless, at the very gates of plenty? Was it a charity sermon by bishop Faithful? Nothing of the sort. Twenty-five pounds would have been the outside yield of such a call. It was something more attractive than that—ay, and more productive too! It was nothing more nor less than—a concert! Was it a concert of sacred music given in church? No. It was a miscellaneous concert given at Hanover Square Rooms. Having obtained the gratuitous services of a few fiddlers and songsters, the sagacious church wardens knew perfectly well how to secure the fish for which they had baited their hooks:—

"A full dress private Concert, at the Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, at the uniform charge of two shillings and sixpence each person."

Such was the substance of the communication made to page 325a congregation, the male members of which were, one and all, invited to become stewards for the occasion. The appeal was irresistible. Each lady on that occasion would be able to hear something—never mind what—in the way of music; would be able to see others and be seen herself; and all in full dress, at the Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, for the small sum of two shillings and sixpence! "Would not such an exhibition, apart from the musical display, be worth all the money? As for the male part of the audience—they were like those that attended that celebrated dinner, at which all were stewards but the chairman and his deputy. Each therefore had the gratification of seeing his name at the head of the programme, while as many as were disposed to exercise their full privilege, might wave their wands of office and display white favors in their coats. Was not this also worth half—a—crown? The question is answered in the simple fact that every ticket for the full dress musical exhibition was sold long before the exhibition took place.

The financial success of the entertainment proved most gratifying to the promoters, who were enabled by this, their first musical venture, to benefit their schools to the extent of nearly one hundred pounds! Since that period a full dress private concert, for the like laudable object, has been an event of almost annual occurrence—the originators having established the fact that with music and white kids charity may be served by those whose otherwise uncovered hands and uninspired hearts would remain inactive in the good cause.

Many persons would object to see the cash-box that supplies funds for spiritual instruction or bodily want thus enriched by secular means. For my part, I have no scruples of the kind. The world contains but little of any- page 326thing that—being tested—"would be found entirely free from adulteration. And when the poor and needy cannot get the bread of charity without alloy, they should be content to take it as pure as it can be obtained. And when the human heart can only be made charitable by external pressure, it is surely a commendable thing to take its owner to a concert, or to Brighton and back—Sundays excepted—or to any other harmless region, the atmospheric influence of which would effect the desired object, either by curing the patient of a selfish disease, or making him pay for the attempt to do so.

How often the objections that are raised in reference to the dispositions and doings of strangers or neighbours would be at once silenced by a little self-examination on the part of the objectors. Self-examination is the gentle handmaid to those charitable feelings which sweeten or subdue a bitter thought, and prevent many an unfriendly thrust at others. Brother mortal, look, as I have looked, at home—that is, within the secret chambers of the heart—and take a retrospective view of thy own life, before passing sentence elsewhere. This inward inspection of all that is registered on the pages of the memory will materially modify, if not entirely arrest judgment on the acts of others. When filled with surprise and disappointment at the failure of the little work I had written for a charitable object, a few moments' reflection proved sufficient to point the arrow at my own heart. I remembered the time when any book on the subject of religion would have been spurned by me in the like manner that my book was now spurned by others. At the time when I was grieved to hear from the lips of an intelligent pew-opener that "there were not many religious people in our church," I soon remembered that a few years ago I attended church chiefly page 327for the purpose either of being entertained by powerful declamation and brilliant oratory, or excited by the extraordinary gestures, remarkable action, or fiery perorations of some popular preacher. And when, with a mixed feeling of pleasure and pain, I heard of a "great rush for concert tickets" by an entire congregation of christian worshippers, a reference to the mind's memorandum book told me of a period in my own life when a dance or a song would have proved far more attractive either than psalm-books or sermons.

Speaking of self-examination, I would finally observe that every evil, whether in thought, word, or act that has befallen me, through the fallibility of a sinful nature, I attribute entirely to the weakness of my own heart; but all the good which has been vouchsafed to me through life—through whatever channel it may have passed hither—I can distinctly trace to the protecting providence and guiding hand of God.

Conclusion.

The world again! How many and great have been the changes that have passed over an already eventful life during the last three years! To my former experience in the world, and imperfect knowledge of mankind, at least ten years have been added in less than one-third of that time. At present I can only briefly refer to one or two incidents which—should my life be spared—may be fully embodied at a future period. A large fleet of events, the origin of some of which may be traced to the Antipodes, to America, and to other parts of the globe, have each and all been duly noted, though they are not yet ripe for publication. A few words on one or two points, a mere reference page 328to which may serve as a connecting link between the pre-sent and future narrative, must, for the time being, bring the subject to a close.

The chief feature or object of this work has not—like the leading character in a play—been made to dwarf every-thing except its own self-sufficient and ever-forward image. That human monster, Self, has at present been faintly shadowed, rather than strongly marked. But recent notes on passing events will, I fear, compel me in any future volume, to give a little more prominence to the principal figure—Number One. Friends—if none beside—know that, in taking the various portraits that appear herein, I have endeavored to walk in nature's steps, even though I should have failed to re-produce or reflect impressions worthy of the originals. Number One, both of the first and second class, now confronts me—in my note book—in a variety of forms. As the figures appear, so I will endeavour to present them to the public. Whether bright and warm as a summer sun, or cold and uninviting as a wintry blast; whether noble-hearted and generous like a true patriot, or selfish and mean like a false friend, each figure—so far as the ability of the artist will permit—shall be presented in its true colors. Of one thing the painter may speak with certainty —in his own figure will probably be found as many, if not more blemishes than in any other. Of these blemishes the difficulty of restraining what was once a very hasty, and is still an irritable temper will be one. And, be it observed, the present work is not made up merely of imaginary sketches, either of persons or places. Each sketch, however feebly or imperfectly drawn, is founded on a living reality. It will be even so—if my life be spared—in a future volume. Among a number of small changes and presentations during a long and varied career, page 329Fortune, at an early period in life not only placed in my hand the pen of a hard working and humble author, but she has since that time wheeled me to and fro through the very scenes which—by God's blessing—I have been permitted to describe. My own study has not been some secluded and charming spot, occupied merely for drawing pretty pictures from the imagination. No; it has simply been a quiet little corner in any locality—where, as time and opportunity offered, I have been able to make a hasty transcript of those scenes in which I had either played, or was then playing a part.

In a monetary point of view, authorship is, perhaps, more precarious than any other profession, whether scientific or commercial. A merchant or shopkeeper generally finds his business and his income increase with his years. Having, in the spring of his career, worked hard to establish the one, he is enabled, during the summer or autumn of life, to take his repose in the enjoyment of the other. But the stock-in-trade—the brains—of an author cannot, after this fashion, be drawn on or made a bank in the absence or declining years of the proprietor. The revenue arising from literary property cannot be made continuous, except through a regular supply of stock from the mental store of the proprietor. Articles from the hands of a deputy fail to satisfy customers who expect to have their tables furnished direct from the "fountain head." Work, work, work; there is nothing but work for an author. Whatever may be conveyed to the lofty chambers of his brain from the literary garners of brother authors, or however much he may be indebted to other people for materials with which to shape new ideas, his own mill must be kept continually going, in order to supply him with daily bread therefrom. Yet, there are a few exceptional cases, in page 330which the work of an author becomes like the business of a shop or warehouse that may be conducted without the personal superintendence of the original founder. But a work of this kind is usually of a commercial character, while its bearings on some important branch or branches of commerce impart to it a permanent value. In pen-ink-and-paper property there is nothing that bears so near a relationship to a sound banking establishment as a standard work of reference. In its commercial or monetary value, would not the most celebrated or intellectual book that was ever written fall into utter insignificance by side of the London Directory? If it were possible for the author of the former—if alive—to become suddenly possessed of the revenue arising from the last named work, he would, no doubt, answer the question in the affirmative.

An idea on the dry subject of facts and figures had for a considerable period occupied a small space in one corner of my mind. After several unavoidable delays, this idea was partially embodied. A commercial annual of reference which I had projected previous to my illness was subsequently given to the world. Taking into consideration the crude and unfinished state of the first issue, the work proved a decided success; and I deemed myself fortunate in having, as I then thought, laid the foundation stone of a structure from which the founder might derive permanent benefit. The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone (Chancellor of the Exchequer) in a kind and considerate letter of 20th March, 1860, in which he makes some valuable suggestions for the improvement of the work, consented to become sponsor to the third edition in the following words:—

"If you think fit to inscribe the next edition to me, you will kindly do me a great honor, and I must always be page 331glad to see it associated with the pursuits in which my family have largely shared."

But the third edition has not yet made, and will probably never make its appearance. It is no less strange than true that the success of the work was the primary cause of its early suspension. This was occasioned by my introduction into scenes and subjects with which I should not otherwise have been concerned. Reference may be made to these things hereafter. At present I will simply observe that since my severe illness, for which I shall never cease to be thankful, I have been ten times happier than I was before, when I was ten times richer. But heavier, far heavier than the worldly losses of an entire life is the domestic blight which has now deprived me of one-half of my own heart. I cannot at this moment speak of the fearful weight of such a blow, except to say that God has given me strength to bear it; not only to bear it, but to join with the dear departed one in her last prayer that "the Lord would grant her a peaceful passage to eternity." That petition has just been granted. The proclamation of this heavenly truth each sorrowing survivor heard from the lips of the christian voyager, whose last words, as she quitted this earthly shore softly communicated the joyful tidings of—" I go to Jesus."

Turning the mind for a moment from heaven to earth, let me say in conclusion about half-a-dozen words in keeping with the text on which the subject of this work was started. During the last twelve months my position as amanuensis or secretary to—has placed me in personal contact and communication with a large number of the most distinguished personages in the United Kingdom, from the highest downward. This extended knowledge of the human race has more strongly than ever confirmed the page 332declaration made by Honest John, that "in every station of society, whether in social, commercial, or political life Number One is still the leading feature in The Way of the World."

End of Volume One.

Note.—Should the Author's life be spared, this work will be continued.