VOL. VI.

Thoughts on the Marriage Service.

D

BY THE EDItor.

INTRODUCTION.

ID you ever think, dear girls, what

a true home-book is our Book of Common Prayer, and how all its Services seem to mingle themselves with our daily lives in their simple, homely events and circumstances?

There is the Morning and Evening Prayer, in which we pray not only for the needs of our souls, but for the needs of our bodies. Our Litany, in which no one seems forgotten; mothers and little children, and the widowed hearts, and the sick people who cannot come to church; our beloved Queen, our Bishops and Clergy, and all sorts and conditions of men.

Then we have the holy words of our Baptismal Service, with which each little one is welcomed into the family of our heavenly Father, and the beautiful Thanksgiving in which the mother's heart pours forth its gratitude for God's blessed gift of children.

Next comes the Catechism, which the lips of the little ones thus given by God, are to be taught to frame, and in which it is provided that they shall be instructed even within the walls of the church itself. sweet and touching picture-but one, alas! too seldom realised in these days-is sug

What a

No. 59.

gested to us by the Rubric of our PrayerBook; for, according to this instruction, all children of whatever class, and servants and apprentices of whatever grade, were intended to assemble together in God's own temple, there to be taught the blessed truths which should make them in the best and highest sense one family in Christ.

Then we go a step further, and the young soldiers of Jesus are met together to renew the promises of their baptism, and presently to join in the blessed Communion of Christ's Body and Blood.

Again the scene is changed. Not a multitude, but two only are kneeling together at the altar, and the Prayer-book service is being said while they plight their troth to each other in the 'pure espousals of Christian man and maid.'

And as in joy, so in sorrow, the words of our 'home-book' are ever ready. In that still chamber, where life is ebbing fast, the words of the Visitation of the Sick fall sweet and calm, as they tell of trust in the Father's hand, chastening because He loves. And as the last scene closes, and the Christian's body is laid to rest in the quiet graveyard, our Prayer-book echoes forth, clear and strong, the glorious promise of the Redeemer to the sorrowing sister at Bethany, 'I am the Resurrection and the Life.'

Even the sailors are not forgotten, but

have a special service to themselves, to be used when the stormy winds are rising, or the perils of the fight are close upon them, and I think these prayers from the home-book must indeed 6 come home' to them with a very touching power as they think of the dear ones they may never see again, unless God's word be sent forth to say unto the waves, 'Peace; be still.'

The special part of the Prayer-book I am going to talk to you about now is the Marriage Service, and I want you to see how here also 'the blessing of God, which maketh rich' is asked to hallow this beginning of a new home-life, and how many holy and beautiful lessons are taught us for that life by a prayerful study of this Service. You will remember how our blessed Lord's first miracle was wrought at a wedding-feast; and if you will carefully compare your Prayer-book with the Gospels, you will see how the simple, domestic character of our Services harmonises with the Gospels themselves and our Saviour's own example; you will remember how He went about amongst the people in their common daily work, and what lessons He drew from the simplest things-birds, and flowers, and sowing and bread-making; how even for the Holy Sacrament of His Body and Blood He blessed and used such common and ordinary things as bread and wine, and how He hallowed, as it were, every meal we take, by His eating and drinking with His disciples after He rose from the dead. So teaching us that we must never call anything common which God hath cleansed, but that whether we eat or drink, whether we are working or resting, at home or abroad, we may 'do all to the glory of God.'

(To be continued.)

Wedding Song.

'A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband."

WAKEN, Christian maiden,

'Tis thy wedding morn; Through the eastern heavens Breathes the happy dawn.

Now within thy chamber, Kneeling low in prayer, Offer all thou lovest

To thy Father's care.

Bid the dear Lord Jesus As thy wedding-guest, So thy choicest blessings Shall of Him be blest;

So His holy presence
Shall make all things shine,
Turning earth to glory,
Water into wine.

Pray Him still to tarry

In thy married home, Sweetening joys and sorrows That will surely come.

Ask Him still to keep thee

As thy husband's crown; Pure, and bright, and faithful, Evermore his own.

Not for this life only

Serving hand in hand;
Setting both your faces

Toward your Father-land,
Where what God hath joined
Shall be one for aye,
In the blessed sunshine
Of th' eternal day.

M. E. TOWNSEND.

PLEASANTNESS of disposition is a great key to do

good.-GEORGE HERBERT.

Esther Tregarthen's Faith.

By E. M. L.

Author of How John Merrivale chose his Wife,' &c. CHAPTER I.

T

'By rains and dews and sunshine fed,
Over the wall the ivy spread,

And in the day-beam waving free,
It grew into a stately tree.'

O drive a pair of spirited ponies among the beautiful, but precipitous hills of South Herefordshire, requires both nerve and skill. For this reason, Harold Conway paid more attention to Pearl's desire for a loosened rein, and to Presto's too cautious content with the restraint, than to the marvellous variety of the scenery, which unfolded itself anew at each turn of the road, or from each steep ascent which he gained. It was not, indeed, until he had reached the wild upland district of the Llydiatt, where the road becomes comparatively level, that he turned to his companion, and said, with a pleasant smile,—

'I thought my wife would enjoy this part of our county. It has always appeared to me unequalled for beauty; and owing, I suppose, to the steepness of its roads and the lonely situation of its villages, it is much less known than it deserves to be. The Pengethly hills alone are worth some effort to see, with their pleasing variety of outline.'

'They are, indeed,' replied Ethel. 'Sometimes they appear to touch, and even to overwrap, each other, and presently they open out and reveal a still bluer group beyond. There was one point from which I saw the most wonderful effect of light and shade; but before I could even ask you to look round, we were plunging down our last hill between those deeply-cut banks. Of course you saw nothing of the ferns, Harold. Oh, such ferns and foxgloves !'

'How so?' asked Harold. 'Do you think I did not see the road, and Presto's efforts to avoid its roughest stones, and the ferns, and all the rich gold-leaf work of autumn, at the same time? I saw it all, Ethel.'

As he spoke, a gorgeous pheasant got up, and frightened Pearl, so that talking was out of the question; and Ethel had to keep as quiet as a mouse, until the runaway had slackened speed; by that time they were driving through a dark plantation of Scotch fir-trees, and when Ethel looked out for her view, it was gone. 'I am so sorry,' she said regretfully; it was the sweetest picture of all! It is hidden, I suppose, by that nearer wooded hill to our left.'

'You shall see it again presently,' said Harold; but meanwhile, look carefully at that same wooded hill, and try to find Llanarth Church. It is to be seen somewhere, Ethel; for although you will scarcely believe it, there is a village-rather a large one too-nestling down under the hill. I fancy I can see smoke curling up here and there, but scarcely a roof is visible. Now the church comes to view; the steeple is a new one, or even that might have kept itself in hiding.'

'What a sly little village, Harold. I wonder whether that narrow, and particularly muddy road, leads down to it; we have seen no other.

'Very likely,' replied Harold. 'I remember my father telling me that the Llanarth roads were indescribably bad, and that in winter the only means of communication between that sequestered village and the outer world was a kind of "Noah's Ark," calling itself the Llanarth Van. This used to travel once a-week into the neighbouring town, and was as eagerly waited. for by the villagers as the boat that steers towards a shipwrecked crew on a desolate island.

'At all events,' said Ethel, 'we can certify that Llanarth is most carefully hidden, even in autumn; but, Harold, you certainly told me the Llydiatt Farm was close to Llanarth, and I can see nothing but a low stone cottage here and there in the fields-nothing approaching to a farm-house.'

Harold smiled. 'Don't raise your expectations too high. Martin Heath's home is better seen than described. Look, before we turn, at those green swelling hills crowned with larches. What could be more beautiful? And now,

Ethel, for another view of the Pengethly Hills; I promised you should see them again.'

'Ah, yes; but I cannot even glance at the hills, Harold, lovely as they are at this moment; for there is before us now the most singular tree I ever beheld!'

'Is it a tree?' inquired Harold.

'Oh, yes, certainly. Look at the branches, and at the curious straight trunk, completely covered with ivy; it is not a pollard oak or an elm.'

'Is it a tree?' again asked Harold. 'The road takes a turn here, so you will see it nearer. Look at your tree, now, Ethel.'

'Why you are driving straight to it; and, oh, Harold, it is joined to that old stone cottage! It is a chimney, and there is smoke curling through the branches! that ivy must have been there for ages!'

Harold laughed.

'You were rather determined to make it into a tree though, Ethel! And now you shall take a very near view of it, for this is the Llydiatt Farm, and Martin Heath's muchvalued home. I expect he would break his heart if we gave him notice to quit, though I suppose he is doing very badly here, from what I am told, and, indeed, from the general appearance of things at the farm. You must talk to him, Ethel; he is a straightforward, kind-hearted fellow, and I only wish he had a good wife, and some home-comforts around him.'

'Then he is not married,' said Ethel, rather dolefully. I had pictured to myself such a bright fire this cold morning, and such a pleasant Mrs. Heath to boil the kettle and make my tea; and now

'Now you find there is no Mrs. Heath, and only a very lonely and rather sad-looking tenant at the Llydiatt! What shall I do to make up for the disappointment?'

Ethel smiled.

'There he is, I suppose,' she said, 'standing in the doorway of that dilapidated building. Must I call it a stable ?'

'I suppose that Pearl and Presto would have no objection to my giving it that name,' replied Harold, especially if we show them some beans and a manger.'

As he spoke, they drove through an open gateway into a rough kind of yard before the farm itself—a straight long building, above the stone roof of which peered the strange weirdlooking chimney.

'Good morning, Martin,' said Harold, with the cheerful voice that always won him a smile and a welcome. You did not expect me, I daresay?'

'No, sir; I should have been gone to the Dyffryn in half-an-hour. Benjamin and Tim were getting the drill out of the barn, and I was putting the seed-wheat ready.'

'Well, I am come in answer to your letter, and Mrs. Conway will take possession of your house, Martin, if you will allow her, while we look for those pheasants, and talk over the repairs you want done before winter.'

A singular expression-half-comical, and more than half-doubtful-came over Martin's face as he replied,

'Mrs. Conway is quite welcome, sir, if she pleases to make use of it. I will stir up the fire with some fresh wood, and fill up the kettle.'

'Yes, that I can do,' said Martin to himself, as with a few strong blows he cut up the boughs of an old ash-tree which lay near. 'That I can do; but for the rest, I must leave it, only it is a pity!'

The letter which Harold had received not many days before, and which had brought him to the Llydiatt Farm, was as follows:

'DEAR SIR, I have seen some "phaysons" and "partregs" on your ground by the Dyffryn, and I am afraid if you do not come sune they may get cleared off. Likewise, Mr. Presteign, he wishes to know whether you be willing to mend the fence on the hither side of the wood by Longacre, if he will do his part of same. And there is a crack come since the gale by the west

corner of the house, which, if it is not soon repared, I do think the window will fall in. I have propped it up, and my rent is ready when you come. 'Yours faithful,

'MARTIN HEATH.'

'Now, Martin,' said Harold,' you must lead the way to these pheasants you promised me. But what about that individual who seems inclined to clear them off? You must look after him a bit. I suppose you have some notion who he is.'

'Well, I have that, sir,' Martin replied, rather gravely; ‘but I have only a belief in my own mind, so that I should not do right to name no names. However, you may be sure I shall keep a good look-out, both for your sake and his.' They were passing the open doorway as Martin spoke. Harold stayed to look within.

'You have a bright fire, I see, Ethel, and a kettle in full song; so I shall think of you very soon enjoying your tea, even without a pleasant Mrs. Heath to get it ready for you.'

Ethel's smile, in answer, was a satisfactory one to her husband, who was soon out of sight, followed by Sandy' and 'Grouse,' all of them in the best of spirits; but the smile had nothing to do with her surroundings, which at that moment appeared to her to be of the most dismal kind.

The party had disappeared over the hill; she could see them through the wretched little window no longer. Then poor Ethel, looking round her, exclaimed in dismay,—

'Two hours or more, and to wait here! Harold cannot have had an idea of this dreadful room!'

The old clock ticked dismally in the corner, and made an effort to strike eleven.

'Yes,' said Ethel; 'I daresay you would get on a bit faster if you could, just to oblige an unaccustomed guest; but you cannot, my venerable friend. So take your own time, and I will do my best under the circumstances; only what a miserable home, and how utterly void of comfort Martin Heath must be!'

At this moment the kettle boiled over, and Ethel, with an effort, lifted it off. The result was startling. An unearthly noise, high up in the chimney! a rattle! and then the long line of black links, and the giant hook they bore, swung heavily back, nor would they by any means be induced to come forward again, or hold the kettle, or do anything useful.

'I must give it up,' said Ethel at last, 'and rekindle my fire, which the water has nearly put out. Well, it shall not put me out; I have plenty of time, and can "watch it," as Harold says. Meanwhile if I could find a brush I might sweep a pathway to the arm-chair; and then, if there were but a clean cloth I might cover the table-or, stay!—I must fancy myself a settler in the back-woods, under difficulties, and invent a remedy. In the first place, I can tuck up my dress, and take this wisp of straw— laid ready for fire-lighting, no doubt-and so make my path. That is better here is clean boiling water; I will wash that basin, and in the clean basin wash a tea-cup, and saucer, and spoon. And now for the tea! Ah me! it is no use to say I enjoy it, the general blackness around me seems to flavour everything; my tea tastes of wood-smoke, and my bread and butter might have been spread with a burnt stick. I will go out and sketch that quaint old chimney -my "tree," as Harold is sure to call it-unless Martin has an interesting book in the window among that heap. Let me see: Zadkiel's Almanack, Johnson's Dictionary, How to Farm with Profit, bills, advertisements, leather bootlaces, two candle-ends, and a piece of soap. What a collection! and thick dust over all! -ah, but not on the Book! I am glad of that! Martin's Bible is read, I am sure? and there is his marker, worked with a dove, and the word "Peace!" Yes, I think there is peace in Martin's face. Peace!' Ethel repeated the word wonderingly, as she left the house, just pausing to look once again at the general disorder and confusion around her. She carried off one of the chairs into the garden and began her sketch.