all that, and was not in truth so selfish as to want so many good things and so much praise and prosperity all for herself. The bright thoughts, however, generally came when the fingers were idle. Work, unless it was very pretty work, had rather a depressing effect on Lesbia's spirits, and on that day there were several reasons for her thoughts taking the sombre hue of the dull

grey material she was forced to look at. She had got up in the morning expecting something very pleasant to happen that afternoon, and oh, what a dull, trying day it had been! How leaden the sea and sky looked, seen through the dusty, cobwebby glass panes! How melancholy the wind sounded, and the flap, flap of the untrained briar-rose branches against the conservatory roof! When she and the young Dalys parted last night at the garden-gate, she had said to herself that she would enjoy one more merry day with her friends, and not allow herself to think once of what was coming, but the rain had cheated her of her respite. Of course there would be fine days after this. Even at Whitecliff it could not rain for ever, and she and Ellen and Connor would walk and sail again together; but it would not be quite the same as it had been. It never was the same in a party when one member of it had gone away. Mr. Pelham Daly's departure was the beginning of the break-up of all that had made this summer so different from every other. The end would come very soon. Other people left Whitecliff when the dreary autumn and wild winter days set in, but she, Lesbia, had to stay there always. The Dalys would go certainly. The house opposite would be shut up, or some stupid people would take it, and she would walk down the parade or along the sands with Bobby and Watty, when there would be no possibility of those three figures looming upon her in the distance, whose approach changed the dullest and most monotonous walk into something fresh and pleasant. She might never again hear a word about them through all her life, or perhaps some day Dr. Maynard would read the

marriage of one of them from the newspaper at breakfast, and say to his wife, "That Mr. Pelham Daly, who has made such a grand marriage, must surely be the eldest brother of the young lady who once, a good many years ago, took a sort of fancy to Lesbia." That would be the way they would put it, and that I would be the truth. Changes would come to others, but she must go on living just here, through long summers when the parade was hot and crowded with strangers who never came to be friends, and through windy winters when the place was a desert, teaching Bobby and Watty, and darning their socks on rainy days among the broken flowerpots till-till-she was thirty perhaps, or even forty, and had deep hollows under her eyes and grey streaks in her hair, and had grown silent and sourlooking like the Miss Johnstones next door. Lesbia could not bear the picture she had conjured up one moment longer, it was too dreadful; she snatched the sock she was darning from her hand with a childish gesture of despair, and, turning round, threw her arms on the upper step of the flight she was sitting on, and, leaning her forehead against them, groaned aloud. Down fell the work-basket by her side, hopping from step to step in its fall, and scattering its miscellaneous contents all around. Lesbia sprang up to arrest its progress, and there staring her in the face on the top of a pile of stockings, lay the two letters Walter had kept back in the morning. She seized them with a cry of joy, hardly caring to consider how they came to be there, and tore open the uppermost envelope. A sheet in her brother's handwriting caught her eye first. The sight caused a thrill of alarm, for it was not often John wrote to her. Oh! if while she had been groaning over imaginary troubles bad news from him awaited her. If Bride should be ill. Away flew her self-occupation and little vanities, dispelled by a tumult of tender fears.

"My dear little sister," she read, "I flatter myself, as a letter from me is rather a rarity, that you will take my

sheet and read it first. You had better do so, for I have some important news to tell you, and you will understand it in my plain words sooner than if you get it first wrapped up in all the loves and cautions and congratulations that Bride is busy just now putting into her sheet. Of course you have often heard of our old grand-uncle John Maynard. I think you saw him four years ago when he spent a day at Whitecliff, and I hope he left a sufficiently pleasant impression of himself on your mind for you to feel some sorrow when I tell you he is dead. Call back and cherish any kind recollection of him you can, little Babette, for he was very good to you in his last thoughts. He has left all his fortune to you, so that in reading these words in my letter a new sort of life opens out before you. May you be thoroughly happy and act worthily in it, little one! You will hardly understand at first all the change it will make, but one immediate consequence of what has happened is, that there is no longer any need for us three to live apart. We are setting our wits to work to devise a speedy method for transporting you here, so be prepared to take a journey to Ireland soon. Be sure that Bride and I rejoice utterly in your good fortune, and mentally shake hands with you on it from across the sea. If any one else says anything, satisfy your conscience (you see I am giving you credit for being too scrupulous concerning other people's rights to be over elated with your own luck) by reflecting that old John Maynard had a right to do what he pleased with his own money; he got very little pleasure out of it while he was alive, and that he has chosen you to enjoy the benefit of his savings and his labours because you are the youngest pet child of our mother, who was a daughter to him once, and the most like her. If those two have met up there after their long estrangement, Bride and I think that she will be glad of what he has done for you. I am writing to explain it to all the Maynards. By the way, one clause of the will enacts that you are to take the name of Maynard, and give it to your husband if—or shall

I say when you marry-so you will keep our dear mother's name, Lesbia Maynard, to the end of the chapter. "Your affectionate brother and faithful guardian, JOHN THORNLEY."

Lesbia read the letter twice over before the full meaning of the words forced itself on her mind; and then it was not elation, nor joy, nor regret for other people's disappointment, that rushed in with it. The tender little heart swelled first, with a pang of remorseful shame, such as a little child feels who has been angry with its mother for leaving it alone, and been surprised on her return by the present of a fine new toy. She had been discontented with her lot, thinking herself hardly used, and all the while God and that old man had been preparing this wondrous change for her. She bent her head down humbly on her clasped hands, and tried to shape a prayer out of the tumult of thoughts and emotions that welled up. Had the old life really gone from her in that moment? The stocking-darnings, Mrs. Maynard's perpetual fault-finding, Bobby's fits of sulks over his lessons, the shabby clothes, the grumblings she used to hear against Bride and John for not sending more money? Was it all over, and in its place a dazzling vista of prosperity and joy opening out before her? How much easier it would have been to bear patiently all the little pains of the old life, if she had only known they were not to last for ever! She certainly would not have given Bobby that box on the ear last night when he overthrew her work-box, or have refused to cover Johnny's books when he last went back to school, because he had teazed her so all the holidays. For five minutes, instead of looking forward, Lesbia was absorbed in wishing vehemently that she could have two or three of the last years over again, that she might so comport herself in them as to make them a worthy background for what was to come. Well, it would be easy to make up for every shortcoming now. She would forgive all little wrongs, and make everyone in the house a splendid present the very

first thing. Mrs. Maynard should have a velvet dress, and the Doctor a new carriage, and Bobby and Walter every toy or story-book they had ever mentioned with longing. She would be a benevolent fairy, divining everyone's wishes, and scattering gifts in their path. A great wave of intoxicating joy rushed in now, swallowing up all soberer thoughts. She seized Bride's closely written sheets and began to read, only pausing now and then to press eager kisses on the affectionate words. As she reached the last sentence, a bell in the house rang, and she started up with exactly the same feeling she had had a hundred times before, when that sound had called her back from a brilliant day-dream.

The tea-bell-was it possible that this was a common day, and that people were going to take their meals just as usual? The news John's letter had brought faded and lost all significance for herjust as a castle-in-the-air would have faded. She did not believe a word of her change of fortune. Life was going on just as usual, and there was she, her work undone, and the contents of Mrs. Maynard's work-basket scattered all over the conservatory floor. She began to collect the socks and replace them in the basket with trembling fingers; the last thing she took up was Connor's letter. More news on that wonderful day. Curiosity conquered fear, and she opened and read. The rhymes seemed to ring in her head and make her giddy. Did they belong to the old Lesbia, who sat down on the steps with her work two hours ago? or to the new one that was coming? She felt like a person standing on a bridge, leading from one country to another, who can only hear the swell of the dividing waters rushing below. "Yet, oh! she wears the plainest gown." A little smile came to her lips, as she paused over that line, on her third reading, and before she had made up her mind whether she was glad or sorry that the person who wrote it

would have to change his description of her in the future, the conservatory door half opened, and the parlour-maid, with a very satirical expression of face, poked her head in.

"Mrs. Maynard desires her respectful compliments, and wishes to know how much longer it is Miss Lesbia Thornley's pleasure to keep them all waiting for tea."

Lesbia drew up her head, and mounted the steps slowly. John's letter had grown perfectly real again; but the warm pleasant thoughts about good-will to all, and splendid presents, had received a painful check. She understood quite well that Mrs. Joseph Maynard had sent her a declaration of war, and that she must not expect anyone in that house to be glad with her to-night. It was hard to have to bring her tumult of feeling under the ken of cold unsympathising eyes-hard to have no kind shoulder near to lean her throbbing head against, while she talked out her wonder and excitement. John and Bride were far out of reach, and she felt very lonely. There was that second letter in her hand, perhaps after all it told better news than the first. It was balm to her wounded heart to know that someone had been feeling all those fine things about her, while the Maynards loved her so little. She thought she should always feel very much obliged to Mr. Connor Daly for writing her that letter, even though he had remarked upon the poorness of her gowns. She paused

under the gas-burner in the hall, for it was already dark in the house, to study once more the handwriting on the outside of the letter, and as she held the envelope up to the light her eye fell on the monogram outside-P. D. All at once a vivid crimson flushed her face, and after a furtive glance round to see that no one was near, she raised the corner of the paper to her lips, and then thrusting it deep into her pocket, walked boldly into the parlour to confront her angry cousins.

And

Ir may be thought by some that this paper contains nothing more than a mere dream of Church Reform, so visionary and impossible will the suggestions made in it at first sight appear. yet, if we go on to inquire in what the apparent impossibility consists, we shall quickly discover that it is due to nothing in the suggestions themselves, but to the present tone of public opinion upon Church affairs; a tone which varies from time to time, and may be made to vary in any given direction by resolute efforts founded upon common sense and reasonable argumentation. To use a word which happily lends itself to two shades of meaning, there is nothing impracticable in Church Reform, though much in the popular mind concerning it. To those who may do me the favour of reading this paper I will give an assurance at the outset that the plans suggested shall be such as Parliament is perfectly competent to discuss and decide upon : they shall be constitutional, that is, in strict harmony with the traditions of English political life: they shall be financially possible, and pay due regard to vested interests: they shall draw the connection between Church and State closer than it is at present, and, while preserving the control of the latter, shall bestow upon the former a larger freedom for doing its proper work: they shall attempt to deal with all proved abuses and, finally, shall require no incredible condition, unless indeed it be deemed incredible that an English statesman should be found willing in part to retain, and in part to revive, the old English instinct of dealing with the Church as with the professions of arms, law, medicine, and the civil service. What this means and what it will lead to I shall now proceed to discuss, not with any thought of being No. 176.-VOL. XXX.

able to exhaust the subject, but by way of brief and rapid suggestion.

The difficulty, indeed, of dealing with this immense subject within the necessary limits of magazine articles is so great, that I must ask the forbearance of my readers for many omissions and much incompleteness of treatment. In the first place, I shall confine myself entirely to those reforms which may be termed ecclesiastical, rather than doctrinal or ritual, and which aim at improvements in the constitution or government of the Church. In the second place, I shall abstain, as far as possible, from minute details, contenting myself with just so much as shall prove Reform to be possible and indeed easy. It must not be supposed, for instance, that I have not foreseen objections and difficulties merely because I have not been able to notice all of them. And, thirdly, I must content myself at the outset with the very briefest description of the present position of the Church of England as regards the necessity and the possibility of a thorough Reform. It is indeed obvious that some description is necessary to the adequate treatment of our subject.

The present position of the English Church may, I think, be expressed in some such words as these:-The Church is in no danger of being disestablished, because it inflicts no appreciable harm or injustice upon any human being or any single class in all England. And yet the Church is, or at least ought to be, in imminent danger of disestablishment, because it is not doing the work which the nation expects at its hands, and for which it holds its endowments in trust.

The first half of this proposition does not require many words of proof. It is a matter of historical fact, so often repeated, indeed, as to become some

K

what wearisome, that Englishmen occupy themselves with the removal of admitted wrongs, and care very little for abstract rights or for theories of what an ideal state should be. And so the simple reason why the disestablishment cry, with so much of passing chance and popular prejudice in its favour, has made so little progress, is that no actual grievance can be with any plausibility laid to the existence of the national Church. No one suffers in any of the rights and liberties of a citizen from the fact that a considerable amount of property, privileges, and even authority remains in the hands in whose possession they have been for say 1,000 years; the understanding being, as it has always practically been, that this possession is held in trust for the common good, and a share in it, or rather in the exercise of it, is open to all on easy and liberal terms. Grievances the Dissenters indeed have; to deny this would be to add a crowning grievance to the list. But then they are precisely the grievances that disestablishment would intensify, instead of removing. The removal, for instance, of the Bishop of Lincoln from the House of Lords would not prevent that well-meaning prelate from insulting, with the best and most pacific intentions in the world, the whole body of Wesleyan Christians. Separation of Church and State would not prevent ardent young priests, fresh from their pass degree, from expounding the sin of schism, and the necessity of Apostolical Succession, from the pulpit of the principal place of worship in the parish,-to the great discomfort, let it be added, of the ordinary, quiet church-goer, to whom the Apostolical Succession is by no means necessary to make him love, respect, and defend his Church. Reform might cure this: the Reforms that I advocate would, I think, rapidly tend to cure it; but disestablishment would only make matters tenfold worse by intensifying the sectarian spirit from which these evils flow.

In short, all our national traditions of the art of good government will have to be changed before a revolution so vast

can be accomplished merely because a number of excellent, but, politically speaking, rather narrow persons do not like the Church of England. The men who have got to govern the country, will naturally ask for some good reason before they take a step which may end, and which, upon the face of it, is intended to end, in the virtual establishment of a Church in the midst of England, flushed with sectarian zeal and priestly arrogance, united by the memory of political defeat, rich, powerful, and obstructive, lording it in the churches and cathedrals, to which it would have, either in whole or in part, succeeded. And the real state of the case is simply this-that hardly any ordinary Englishman, except some ardent partizans among the Dissenters, desires in his secret mind to see the Church overthrown; while statesmen who have not the heart to initiate Reforms do very heartily protest that theirs shall not be the hand to do the deed of destruction. And a further curious result follows. The Dissenters are stopped from taking what would be their natural and legitimate course, namely, to insist upon the manifold defects in the actual working of the Establishment, because the immediate result would be to increase the desire for Church Reform. Their line now is rather to give credit to the Church for its voluntary action and effectiveness, and to insist that the sight of so many good works being accomplished afflicts them with sincere regrets that the Church is not set free to accomplish her mission more effectually still. But most assuredly they will have to change this line before long, if they mean to prevail, and, dropping all unmeaning formulas about religious equality and state control, to set themselves to work to prove that the Church is not doing the work for which she is established, and is not in harmony with the national feeling. feeling. And this contention, whether we believe it ought to be met by disestablishment, or by reform, is, unhappily, only too capable of proof, and too powerful an argumentum ad invidiam.