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wanted ears to hear it. I will honour her in her plain trim: but I would desire her in her graceful jewels : not that they give addition to her goodness, but that she is thereby rendered more persuasive in working on the soul she meets with. When I meet with worth which I cannot over love, I can well endure that art which is a means to heighten liking.
Of all commentators on preachers, however, commend us to Milton. What can be more beautifully traced than the following? To be sure, the Puritan breaks out towards the end, and rides ‘his fiery chariot’ like Zeal himself—but with what a tenderness and discrimination he dwells on the variety of gifts imparted to Christian preachers !
Our Saviour, who had all gifts in him, was Lord to express His indoctrinating power in what sort him best seemed : sometimes by a mild and familiar converse; sometimes with plain and impartial home-speaking, regardless of those whom the auditors might think He should have had in better respect; otherwhile, with bitter and ireful rebukes, if not teaching, yet leaving excuseless those His wilful impugners. What was all in Him, was divided among many others, the teachers of His Church; some to be severe, and ever of a sad gravity, that they may win such, and check sometimes those who be of nature over-confident and jocund. Others were sent more cheerful, free, and still, as it were, at large, in the midst of an untrespassing honesty; that they who are so tempered may have by whom they might be drawn to salvation, and they who are too scrupulous and dejected of spirit might be often strengthened with wise consolations and revivings: no man be forced wholly to dissolve that ground-work of nature which God created in him ; the sanguine to empty out all his sociable liveliness, the choleric to expell quite the unsinning predominance of his anger: but that each radical humour and passion, wrought upon, and corrected as it ought, might be made the proper mould and foundation of every man's peculiar gifts and virtues. Some were also endowed with a staid moderation and soundness of argument, to teach and convince the rational and sober-minded : yet not therefore that to be thought the only expedient course of teaching; for, in times of opposition, when either against new heresies arising, or old corruptions to be reformed, this cool, unpassionate, mildness of oppositive wisdom is not enough to damp and astonish the proud resistance of carnal and false doctors, then (that I may have leave to soar for awhile as the Poets use) Zeal, whose substance is ethereal, arming in complete diamond, ascends his fiery chariot drawn by two blazing meteors, figured like beasts, (but of a higher breed than any the Zodiac yields,) resembling two of those four which Ezekiel and St. John saw—the one visaged like a lion, to express power and authority, and indignation ; the other of countenance like a man, to cast derision and scorn upon perverse and fraudulent seducers : with these, the invincible warrior, Zeal, shaking loosely the slack reins, drives over the heads of scarlet prelates, and such as are insolent to maintain traditions, bruising their stiff necks under his flaming wheels.- Apology for Smectymnuous.
Who can resist supplementing this noble passage by the following, from the same source ?
True Eloquence I find to be none but the serious and hearty love of Truth: and that whose mind soever is fully possessed with a fervent desire to know good things, and with the dearest charity to infuse the knowledge of them into the minds of others, when such a man would speak, his words (by what I can express) like so many airy ard nimble servitors, trip about him at command, and in well ordered files, as he would wish, fall aptly into their proper places.
As we glance over these and other passages, how rich does our own old England appear!
Cleave to her, sons and daughters of her soil! Wander as you will, for a while, in other lands and among other languages, but remember, as Feltham
you go or stay, keep to your God and friends unchangeably. Howsoever he returns, he makes an ill voyage, who changes his faith (and love) with his tongue and garments.'
THE ABBEY FARM.
BY AUGUSTA HAYWARD.
ANNIE woke the next morning with a start from an uncomfortable dream. She had been sitting up in her dream-with Miss Clune, and in the middle of the night both nurse and patient had been disturbed by a loud knocking at the boudoir door; and Isabella had jumped up in quick terror, crying that she knew who it was, and that he would kill her if he came in. Then the knocks came louder and more frequent, and Annie, in a kind of horror, saw Isa's face grow whiter and whiter; and as she heard the handle of the door turn, cried out, and with the effort of calling woke to the consciousness that the knocks had been no dream, and that somebody was battering at the back door, just below her window. The dream would have been enough to account for her impression that those knocks had something to do with the Park. The feeling was so strong, that she jumped up in a hurry, and rushed to the window to satisfy herself that nothing unusual was going on.
There stood old Andrews, the sexton, in eager discourse with Cook, evidently communicating some astonishing piece of
Annie drew back, and woke up little Edith. “Put on your slippers, dear, and that shawl, and run to the top of the stairs for me, just to ask what Andrews is here for; quick !'
The little girl obeyed sleepily, and Annie sat down, leaning against the bed-post, to wait for her tidings. Edith came back in a moment with an important look.
'What do you think, Annie? Miss Clune died in the night, and he's come for the church key, to toll the bell for her.'
It was exactly what she expected; but she crept back to bed entirely overcome, and cried as she had not done since her mother's death. Not from sorrow alone, but from hot passionate anger against that visitor of yesterday.
'He killed her ! she said to herself ; ‘he murdered her! if he hadn't VOL. 6.
come I should have seen her again! Oh, why are people allowed to do such things ?'
There was no answer to the question—the same question that rises up to Heaven in thousand differing forms, from thousand suffering mortals no answer yet! By degrees she soothed herself into a better sorrow, by the recollection of her last interview ; Isa's words did much to calm her. Isa was in the quiet rest she had spoken of; her trouble and her sickness could not reach her there. And the bitterest part of her sorrow was over when she went down to breakfast, pale and heavy-eyed.
Her father kissed her even more tenderly than usual. “You were shocked at the sad news, I am sure, my dear. It must have been a great surprise to you.'
'I don't know, Papa; I thought her worse last night,' said Annie ; and then Aunt Catherine's voice began, in the shrillest of tones,
'I have been telling your Papa, my dear, that the blinds really must be put down. What would people think if we were to take no notice ? and a connexion, too! Why, I was making it out; let me see-Sir Edward So-and-So, I forget his name-'
And then came the whole genealogical history. Annie used to gloat over it, now it sickened her.
*Please don't talk about it! she interrupted snappishly; 'I hate it. As if I thought of that now! But as soon as she could get a moment's talk with her father alone, she said, 'I should like the blinds down, Papa! I couldn't bear not to do something, she was so kind to me!
“You shall do just as you like, my dear. I am sure you want it for a proper motive, not
Annie interrupted him. “Not for Aunt Catherine's reason! oh, Papa, don't think that! I know I used to be very silly about it, but I ought to be cured by this time; and I do think I'm better than I used to be !
'I am sure of it, my dear child,' was the answer to her childish confession; "it shall be just as you like.
So Annie with her own hands drew down every blind in the Vicarage; and Isabella Clune had no sincerer mourner than was in those small darkened rooms.
It was a great aggravation of her trouble that she was so cut off from knowing any of the particulars. Only yesterday she had been one of the privileged visitors to the boudoir; now all connection with the Park seemed at an end, for the time being. The formal answer to the message of inquiry, “Mr., Mrs., and Miss Salterne were pretty well,' was as unsatisfactory as anything could well be; and Annie had serious thoughts of plucking up courage enough to write a note to Ada herself, and only gave up her idea on the uncomfortable reflection, that if Miss Salterne did send a reply, it would be too polite to be of much comfort to her.
How thankful she was that she had refrained, when, that evening, a note from the Park was brought to her. “From Miss Salterne,' she said, opening the envelope, and instead of the note of three or four lines, which she expected, discovering a closely-written sheet of large note-paper. Well, it is kind ! reading the letter with tearful eyes ; ‘Miss Salterne has told me all about it, Papa. She says that being her “ little nurse;" I ought to know it all; isn't it kind ?'
That piece of attention on Miss Salterne's part was not thrown away; Annie brightened up visibly, sad though the details must necessarily be. They were much what she had fancied they would be. Isa had been restless and excited through the evening, and Ada had stayed in her room longer than her usual time, hoping to see her settle quietly to sleep. She was saying "Good-night' to her, fancying that there was some inclination to sleep, when Isa started up with a little cry; that was all ; in a moment the change came, and she fell back on Ada's arm- 2-dead. The medical men had been sent for, only to confirm what was well known already; Mr. Clune had been telegraphed for, and was hourly expected. The letter closed with expressions of gratitude to Annie, for the loving services that—wrote Ada—had been very dear to the invalid, and would never be forgotten.
'I never read such a kind letter! sobbed Annie, divided between the pain of reading the particulars of the last few hours in the sick-room, and the pleasure of receiving such acknowledgement from the impassive Miss Salterne; she says I may go up to the Park if I like; I know what for. I should like to take some flowers, I think.'
So when the funeral day came, Annie's loving hands laid a cross of the simple wild flowers that Isa had often asked her to bring her, on the quiet breast; and when the stately procession of plumed hearse and carriages had left the portico, and was winding down the long avenue under the many-tinted elm branches, Annie crept away through the Park, and stole into the little church, to hide herself behind the curtains of the organ-loft, and listen with wet eyes and a full heart to the great Resurrection chapter.
That was the last she could do. She had been spending two or three days in re-trimming her old black dress, with crape begged from some of Mr. Marvin's hat-bands; nobody noticed the clumsily-added tucksAnnie was notorious for her had needle-work !—but it gave her a feeling as if she had really gone into mourning, and had still some little share left in the memory of the dead. From the open door of the organ-loft she watched the small group
of mourners standing round the grave, and now and then caught some of the well-known words, in her father's voice; then, when the last Benediction had been said, ran home unseen by the private walk, and watched anxiously for Mr. Marvin's return, trying to realize it all.
Aunt Catherine's presence was enough to bring down any overstrained feelings to the lowest level of commonplace, especially on an occasion like this ; and poor Annie tried in vain to keep her temper through the discussions and wonderings about every trifle connected with the ceremony, which the old lady had scrutinized carefully from behind the
'I believe the little boy we noticed, my dear, must have been that young lord-you know who I mean, dear me! nephew to poor Miss Clune. I saw his name in the Peerage.'
*Don't! Aunt Catherine !' burst out Annie; 'I won't listen to all that now !
• Dear me! I thought you would be pleased to hear it, my dear! I am sure Mr. Hatherly'-with a very strong emphasis — never was in such society before! I wonder what he thought of walking with a lord !
'He never thought of it at all !' said the indignant girl ; and you know it!
Mr. Hatherly's presence at the funeral had been Aunt Catherine's constant topic for the last three days, and Annie's patience had given way. She herself had been as much surprised as anyone when Mr. Hatherly showed her the short but cordial note from Mr. Clune, that had accompanied the funeral invitation; and nothing could have gratified her more than the few words which said that the request was made in consequence of his sister's particularly expressed wish.
Just like her!' repeated Annie, wonderfully comforted by this last act of thoughtfulness; and she looked out anxiously for Mr. Hatherly's evening visit, in hopes of hearing some more particulars of the Park.
It was nine o'clock before he appeared, still in his deep mourning dress; he had only just left the Park, he explained, and had not even had time to return to the Abbey; ‘But I knew you would like to hear about the Salternes, and I have something to tell your father.'
'I guess!' Annie had almost said, as she ran impatiently to call her father. ‘Was it very sad ?' she asked; 'you look so dull. Were the Salternes in great trouble ?'
“Yes. But I have been thinking more of Mr. Clune. I don't think I ever saw such sorrow, and so well borne. One felt so helpless in having to watch it, and to be able to do nothing. If he were not a very good man, it was the kind of grief one would call hopeless.'
'It must be bad for him !' said Annie, crying again ; 'tell me something more.
'I am going to, but I want your father to hear it. It concerns him very much.'
“Then I know what it is !' cried Annie, 'I am sure I do! Here is Papa. Tell me, quick !
After the funeral, Mr. Clune spoke to me, and asked me to be present at the reading of his sister's will. She wished it, he said, and I was a party concerned.'
Ah! I knew it!' murmured Annie.
And,' continued Mr. Hatherly, 'I never had a greater surprise. The sum I had offered for the endowment of the church is left in the hands of two trustees, to be applied as the Ecclesiastical Commissioners have