THE LATER CHRISTIAN FATHERS. 375 entreaty, to have family prayers, and live according his fathers, but the loose state of order which to the Christian faith. prevailed in those days, and the vagueness of most He Shortly after that time the civil war broke out, and Baxter was anxious to remain neutral. "I make no doubt," he says, "but that both parties were to blame, as it commonly falleth out in most wars and contentions, and I will not be he that shall justify either of them." He wished to support the constitutional government of the State; and, though he had some scruples of conscience with regard to certain practices in the Established Church, he did not wish to see it overthrown. However, he was not able to continue at his post in peace, and so he removed to Coventry, where the minister was an old friend of his. There he lived for about two years, in the Governor's house," if he had not meddled with too many things, he pursuing his studies, and preaching once every week to the soldiers, and once to the people, with no emolument beyond his food and lodging. After the battle of Naseby, he discovered the intention of Parliament to subvert both Church and State, and he resolved "to repair instantly to the army, and use his utmost endeavours to bring the soldiers back to the principles of loyalty to the king and submission to the Church." This he did, not without risk to his life, and accompanied them throughout the remainder of the campaign in the West of England. The fatigue and hardship which he had to endure brought on a dangerous illness, which compelled him to leave the army, and before his health was sufficiently re-established to admit of his returning to it Cromwell's party was in the ascendant. We cannot here attempt to follow the course of that eventful life through all the vicissitudes of those troubled times. Baxter is described as a person of tall figure, slender, and bent. His face was composed and grave, his speech clear and distinct, his carriage plain, his conversation fluent and to the point; his mind was strong, his temper bold and intrepid enough to rebuke Cromwell, and to expostulate with Charles II. as freely as he would preach to the most humble congregation. His spirit was heavenly, elevated by Christian principles and hopes above the world and its affairs. And, with all this, he was benevolent in the extreme. At one time he had laid by a hundred pounds for the purpose of building a school, but being unfortunate enough to lose it, he blamed himself for negligence in the care of it, and often afterwards referred to the circumstance as an incitement to be charitable while God gives the power, and never to put off a good action, lest the opportunity of performing it should be withdrawn. It is not surprising to find that such a man was involved in many controversies; and it is said that no less than sixty treatises were written in opposition to his teaching. It was no part of his original intention to separate himself from the Church of would have been esteemed one of the most learned men of the age; he had a moving and pathetical way of writing, and was his whole life long a man of great zeal and much simplicity, but was, unhappily, subtle and metaphysical in everything." The "Call to the Unconverted" was written at the earnest request of Bishop Usher, and in one year it reached a sale of twenty thousand copies. The "Saints' Everlasting Rest" was composed at a time when he had access to no other books but the Bible and a Concordance, and the author says that he filled in the references in the margin after he had regained the use of his library. Of the extent of his reading some idea may be formed from the fact that a list of the books which he considered necessary in the "poorest and smallest library that is tolerable" for a minister to possess, given in the third book of his "Christian Directory," comprises upwards of a hundred, the bare titles of which, printed closely, fill more than four folio pages. As a speaker, he was gifted with a ready utterance; he is said to have excelled as an extempore preacher, but his general practice was to preach from notes. The "etcetera oath," as it was called, by which the clergy were required to swear that they would never consent to the alteration of the present government of the Church by archbishops, bishops, deans, archdeacons, &c., was the chief cause of Baxter's becoming a Nonconformist. He was one of the commaissioners who took part in the Savoy Conference in 1661; and he drew up a reformed liturgy, which Dr. Johnson pronounced to be one of the finest compositions of the ritual kind he had ever seen. The absurd laws against Nonconformists interfered repeatedly with his ministrations. After the great plague in 1665, he retired to Acton, where he formed the friendship of Sir Matthew Hale, and where he himself tells us that he preached at his own house between the hours of Divine service on Sundays, "taking the people with him to church (to common prayer and sermon) morning and evening." His con gregation soon became so numerous that they lously, refusing to hear the counsel for his defence, and sentenced him to imprisonment and fine. He had married, in 1662, Margaret, daughter of Francis Charleton, Esq., a magistrate of Shropshire; and his wife died, leaving him childless, in 1681. The many Christian people of every shade of opinion who read and admire the writings of Richard Baxter would value them all the more highly if they could form some idea of the living man, whose conduct was as devout as his words. The few particulars we have now set before our readers can only serve to suggest the result of a careful study of so long and eventful a life, which closed December the 8th, 1691. A HOPE FULFILLED. KNOW not why it is so, but my heart is as. light as a girl's; I could fancy the winter hedgerows were purple, and green, and red; Indeed, I could almost fancy the sunny and waving curls I once was so vain of were shining again on this old grey head. I have waited for twenty long years, and he never has sent me a line, And I fear that before this he sleeps in his grave in the perilous West. And yet there is something that tells me-a whisper, a token, a breath I shall see him again before long, and the hope is a joy to my heart. For now I am old, and sorrow has withered my heart Will it be in this world or the next? and my face Has it withered my heart, I wonder? I think it is scarcely so, For I hardly remember in girlhood the world ever wore such a grace As I find in it now in its winter, in spite of the frost and the snow. him in life or in death? Shall I join Shall I bid him good-bye on the threshold of Shall we meet in the ways of gold, by the shores of In the light of the noonday sun, that stands for ever at noon? If the past were a dream, it was pleasant. I think of Ah! surely if he were there his heart would draw the love of my youth. He has gone, but it cannot be long ere he stretch out a hand from the gloom. If it were but a dream it was sweet, but I know that his love was a truth, And I know that he waits for me now, as it were, in the uppermost room. him to me, And if he were not there, surely the harps would be out of tune? A voice at the door! A letter! And writ in a stranger's hand! It's an old woman's foolish fancy, and wishes are never too wise; There is but one thing I can wish for-the end of And yet I can see by the post-mark, it comes from a THE PENNANT FAMILY. BY ANNE BEALE, AUTHOR OF "FAY ARLINGTON." CHAPTER XLIII. THE EARL'S HEIRESS. HE Harvest Home went off unusually well. When it was known that Sir George Walpole was a friend of the Master's, he was loudly cheered, and made a long speech in return, translated into Welsh by Caradoc. He had picked up a few Welsh words, which he used with effect, although he pronounced them villainously, and his kindly listeners applauded with genuine polite ness. He joined in the games that succeeded the feast; and made himself so much at home, with young and old, that the peasants could only wish that the earl was such a one as the baronet. David Pennant had in part recovered his spirits; and when Big Ben rose to express the general hope that so long as Brynhafod stood the Pennants should stand and dwell therein, he seconded it, but added, that the blow which had fallen upon the earl had been a warning to him not to set his heart on this world. He now trusted that if it was his lot to seek a new home he should do so in faith. When old Mr. Pennant, according to his time-honoured custom, concluded the evening by giving out a harvest hymn, and Daisy led it, feelings of gratitude and resignation to the Divine will were uppermost. Early the following morning Daisy went alone to the castle. It seemed strange to her to be ushered into Lady Mona's old rooms, and to see her reclining, as usual, on a sofa. Miss Manent was with her, and, but for the mourning dress, both looked much as in former days, only Miss Manent's face was brighter, her ladyship's a shade sadder. The latter shook hands with Daisy, and seemed pleased to see her again. She began to speak on indifferent subjects, and Daisy wondered at her calmness, remembering their parting, and her mother's and brother's subsequent death. By degrees, how ever, she turned the conversation to her brother, and asked Daisy, with a shudder, to give her an account of what she had witnessed. It was, in fact, for this that she had sent for her. Daisy could never think of the drowned lord without terror, and the request brought the nervous tension back to her eyes, which Caradoc had remarked. She complied with it, nevertheless, and related, as calmly as she could, what she had seen on the beach. Lady Mona was evidently affected, though she made a great effort at composure. Then her ladyship inquired concerning Daisy's inter view with her father, and why it had taken place. This was more difficult to tell, and Daisy glanced at Miss Manent, who discreetly left the room. Then she confined herself to the episode of the Bible she had given Lord Penruddock, and the earl's desire to know who had written her name in it. She did not allude to their previous tumultuous encounters, nor to Lord Penruddock's attachment to herself. When she had ended, Lady Mona inquired to what influence she owed her summons to the castle? Daisy replied, that seeing the earl bowed down with sorrow, she had ventured to speak her ladyship's name. 'What did the earl say?" asked Lady Mona. 'Let her come!" replied Daisy, timidly. "And now he will not see me," said Lady Mona. "His lordship is in the slough of despond, and perhaps if your ladyship went to him uncalled you might gently draw him out," said Daisy, simply. 66 66 He is not one to be helped unasked," returned Lady Mona; "and you know I have offended him. Still, I am his heiress, and he must consider me!" Daisy now understood what Carad had meant by Lady Mona's selfishness, but she neither understood nor liked the tone of her last words. She replied, however, quite naturally, "I think he would love you if you were kind and gentle with him." Lady Mona glanced at Daisy, but the girl's look and thoughts were far away with the sinful, solitary earl. A long silence ensued, during which Lady Mona continued to look at Daisy, in whose eyes she saw a tear. Her own softened, for she remembered that the earl had disliked Daisy from the very day that she had been cast upon the beach, and yet the foundling wept for him. "Do you recollect your first visit to the castle, Daisy?" she asked, abruptly. "I think not, my lady," replied Daisy, roused from her reverie. "I do; but I am older than you. You lost a locket. Let us ask Miss Manent about it." As Lady Mona rose to recall Miss Manent her face flushed and her manner changed. Something had suddenly troubled her, apart, seemingly, from personal grief, for she asked Miss Manent, hurriedly, the particulars of Daisy's first visit to the castle. Miss Manent detailed them. Every minute circumstance was stamped upon her memory, since that day had been the one of her introduction to Brynhafod, and her dawn of love for Mr. Tudor. She said that she had herself carefully searched every corner of the rooms for the missing locket, but in vain. "Was any one suspected of stealing it?" asked Lady Mona. "Oh no, Lady Mona!" replied Miss Manent, horrified at the idea. THE PENNANT FAMILY. 379 "Was anything else saved that would prove your parentage?" asked Lady Mona. "Only my battered doll," replied Daisy, smiling, "and she would be a poor referee. But I am not likely to need one, for they seem to think my real parents were drowned, and- -"here a vision of Lady Mona's father checked her further speech-for had he not been the instrument of their destruction? "I will have a search now that the castle is at my command," said Lady Mona, half proudly, half hurriedly. "I should like to return to you the favour you have so strangely done me; though I cannot yet understand how you prevailed on Lord Craigavon to permit my return." The words "the castle at my command" struck both Miss Manent and Daisy as peculiar, knowing, as they did, that no one had ever given a command there but the earl. Nevertheless, strange as it may seem, Lady Mona was suddenly its mistress. Mr. Tudor gladly resigned to her his assumed authority, and the earl gave no sign of interest in any outward thing. Doors were unlocked, people came and went, and the gloomy place seemed to have found a new spring of life. But every one said that his lordship would require a strict reckoning when he once more came forth from his tower. Lady Mona's object was, however, to maintain the power with which she found herself unexpectedly endowed, and to ensure her husband's presence at the castle. This might be achieved if the earl continued his present life; and she speculated on the possibility of Captain Everard and herself reigning, while her father abdicated. They had been sufficiently happy during their short term of married life; and, but for the death of the countess, Lady Mona would have had little to complain of. Although she did not attribute her mother's death to her own elopement, she had yet mourned for her sincerely. Indeed, it was scarcely attributable to that event, though doubtless accelerated by it, for the countess had held to life at best by a very frail thread. When Lady Mona found that she could gain no further information from Daisy she turned her attention to Miss Manent, for she had not lost the insatiable curiosity of her girlhood. She inquired concerning Miss Manent's interview with the earl after her flight, and assured Miss Manent that Lady Thomas had as good as promised to engage her as governess, and that she was grieved to find that she had not fulfilled her engagement. This was not, however, true, since only a provisional promise had been given. "It was all for the best, dear Lady Mona," said gentle Miss Manent. "Had I gone to Plâs I should not have spent that happy time at Brynhafod, and not have made the kind new friends I have found at Liarpeter Rectory. I am quite at home there, and my pupils, I think, really love me." And some one else also I hear," returned Lady Mona, half sarcastically. "When is the wedding to take place?" "That seems to depend upon the carl," replied Miss Manent, blushing. Then you will die an old maid, for his lordship disapproves of matrimony, Daisy and I have experienced that," said Lady Mona, casting a searching glance at Daisy, then changing her tone as she recollected her dead brother. "But I am married, and perhaps you may be in the course of years. And what of you, Daisy? Morris says that old Sir George Walpole has located himself at your farm on your account. As mis-alliances are preferred by certain men, the old nabob may fancy you. If I can find your locket, you can show it to him, and he may think you were born for a lady.” "Your ladyship forgets who and what I am, and why you sent for me!" said Daisy, with dignity; perhaps, if you have no further need of me I may go." 'A few words more, Daisy," said Lady Mona, more seriously; "I do not forget our parting at the rock gate, nor the comfort you were to me when I had no other. I hope you will settle at the farm, so that I may be of use to you by-and-by, when I am established here. I am glad you did not accompany me to London, for I did not really want either companion or maid. Will you tell Sir George Walpole that I will make arrangements for his coming here whenever he likes, and say I shall be glad to see him soon. I wish your harpist foster-brother would come and play beneath the earl's windows. He loves music, and it might soothe him and bring him from his solitude, for indeed I dare not approach him. If Michael Pennant would take his harp to Ton Bay, beneath the tower, he would be heard and not seen by his lordship, who would think him some wandering harper, and would not be annoyed. Blind Owen is too old for the task." "Blind Owen is dead, my lady," said Daisy, sadly; "father offered him a home, but he did not need it; he was found dead with his arms encircling his harp. He must have fallen asleep while playing. Was it not a happy end?" "To play your own requiem!" sighed Lady Mona, startled. 'Suppose the earl should be found so? Daisy, I will go to him. Can you help me?" "I will pray for you and him, my lady; pray also, and the Lord will be your guide." So saying, Daisy quietly rose to take leave; and Lady Mona said, hurriedly, "Send your foster-brother the harpist, to the bay. Let it be this afternoon, if possible." CHAPTER XLIV. HIS LORDSHIP'S SOLITUDE BROKEN. "DAVID, the sweet psalmist of Israel, played upon his harp to King Saul when he was troubled in spirit," said old Mr. Pennant to Michael, when Daisy |