MacIlwaine 221 202 ... 133 177 Wives, A Friendly Letter to. By Miss Skinner 236 YOUNG FOLKS' PAGE, THE...I.-III., 23; IV.- VII., 47; VIII.-XI., 71; XII-XVII., 95; XVIII.-XX., 119; XXI.-XXII., 143; XXIII.-XXIV., 167; XXV.-XXVII., 191; XXVIII.-XXX., 215; XXXI.-XXXIV., former curate testifies-" His face, to my knowledge, never wore but two expressions, one of love, the other of self-consecration;" and Lord Shaftesbury well described him as "the gentle, the pious, the good, and one of the most amiable of mankind." In the Islington parish of St. Jude's, in which he laboured, the eye has but to look around, and his monument is everywhere. Orphanages, Homes, Missionrooms, Workman's Hall, Conference Hall, Schools, Mothers' meetings, classes of all kinds established and flourishing, testify to the exemplary zeal and devotedness of the faithful pastor. Although not a voluminous writer, he was the author of several valuable experimental books; and his Hymns entitle him to be regarded as a true poet of the Sanctuary. But he was preeminently the pastor in action. His path was ever onward; new plans of usefulness, new openings for Christian work, seemed constantly occurring to him. Claiming no remarkable or special intellectual gifts, he was spiritually "great in the sight of the Lord;" and in the Lord's strength he aimed at-and he accomplished -great things. Gifted with an amiable and buoyant temperament, he loved to work amongst the masses; and the special need of any sphere of labour was to him its chief recommendation. The real secret of his power-to quote his own words, so applicable to himself was found in "the calm dignity of one, who, while grasping an Almighty hand, exclaims, 'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.'" knew, in fact, what it was to "rest in the Lord," whilst he worked for the Lord. He His biography is best summed up, as that of Enoch is summed up by the word of Inspiration, in the single, emphatic sentence, "He walked with God." The Power of a Godly Life made him what he was. "Walking with God" as a forgiven child walks with a loved parent, he became more and more" of one mind with God; and he witnessed "more and more," by a life of holy joy and spiritual service, to the transforming and sanctifying “grace that is in Christ Jesus." Thus living, he gained the love and esteem of tens of thousands; and it was said with truth on the day of his funeral, that it might have been "the funeral of a king." It was assuredly the funeral of a pastor who reigned, as few have reigned, in the hearts of his people. "Being dead," he "yet speaketh." What he was, bids us "Go and do likewise." "There is not one of us who knows what he may be able to do for God, if only he will walk in the path God marks out for him, and cast himself for strength on the Lord his God. There is not one of us who can tell what a field of usefulness may be opened to him, if he but say, Master, here am I, to die, and live, and work for Thee."" Let our watchword for the New Year be the watchword he himself so earnestly commended and exemplified" More light from my Saviour's face, that I may shine the brighter; more knowledge of God, that I may instruct others; more holiness of walk, that the world may learn that there is a power which crucifies self, and enables the possessor to live 'as seeing Him who is invisible.' Then will others take note in us of the Power of a Godly Life. Specimens of these Hymns will be given in the first of a series of papers, entitled "Modern Hymn Writers, Specimen Glasses for the King's Minstrels," by the late Frances Ridley Havergal, which will commence in our February Number. "Funeral Address," by the late Rev. C. D. Marston. 66 NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOURS. Next-Door Neighbours. BY AGNES GIBERNE, AUTHOR OF THE RECTOR'S HOME," "TIM TEDDINGTON'S DREAM," ETC. CHAPTER I. PHIL AND I. WON'T stand it, and I can't, and that's a fact," says Phil angrily. "So you needn't talk, Sue." And he looked me straight in the face with the sort of glowering frown that a man will put on even to the wife that he loves when his temper is up to white heat. He gave a stamp too, and the dust fell off his boots, making a grey mark on the carpet. "You're not going to come over me with soft words this time," said he. "It's past mortal patience. I've borne and borne and borne as much as a man can bear, and I'll put up with him no longer. A cantankerous, cross-grained, illnatured chap! I'll have no more of such ways. I'll give it him before I'm one hour older. He shall have a bit of my mind this time, and no mistake." I didn't try any arguing just then. My Phil was always one of the best of husbands, but he had a sharp temper, and anybody knows that to argufy with a man out of temper is like pulling a pig by the tail. The more you pull one way, the more the pig will go the other. "Very well, Phil," said I, quite mild-like. "You ought to know best what is right to be done." "Right! Of course it's right," says Phil: for, you know, a man in a passion always counts himself as infallible as the Pope makes believe to be. "And I won't say one word more against it if you'll just promise me one thing," said I. "Promise what ?" says he. "Only, Phil, please don't go and give Gilpin the scolding he deserves, for just threequarters of an hour." "Three-quarters of an hour! What on earth should I wait three-quarters of an hour for?" says he. "Because I want it," says I, smiling up in 5 his face; and, there's no doubt of it, a smile has a sort of soothing way over a man. "Women have their little fancies, Phil, and that is one of mine. You say the scolding has got to be over in an hour, but if you begin in three-quarters of an hour you'll have lots of time. It don't take a man longer than a quarter of an hour to give a bit of his mind, does it ? " "Well, no, I suppose not," says Phil: and he sat down by the table, and put on a downright determined sort of look. "I suppose not, and I'll wait because you want it, Sue; but you needn't suppose I'm going to change my mind and give over speaking to Gilpin. It is only just and right I should." "I wouldn't for anything have you leave undone what is just and right to be done," said I. We were sitting, I remember, on opposite sides of the round table, and I was mending one of Philip's shirts. "If it was anybody but you, I'd think you were asking me to put off, just because you knew that Gilpin would be out of the way in three-quarters of an hour," said Phil. "But that sort of underhandedness isn't your sort." "No," I said. "Gilpin's more sure to be in then than now, to my thinking." "Then it's only because you're in hopes I'll cool down. But I shan't," says he. "It'll take a deal longer than three-quarters of an hour to cool me down, I can tell you. All the pains I've taken with them plants, and everybody saying I was as sure of a prize as if it was mine already; and now to have a smashup like that, just because a cantankerous chap can't stand a child throwing a stone into his garden; it makes a man's blood boil! Why, I'd set my heart on getting you a nice new gown to go to church in, and no chance of that now, -not if it's to come out of the prize, anyhow." "I'll do without the gown a bit longer; thank you all the same, Phil, for thinking of it," said I. "I've spoken to Jamie, and told him he was naughty to throw stones: for so he was." Jamie came in while we were talking. I don't think anybody would ever have guessed our little Jamie to be near upon nine years old. He was always such a white-faced, puny, mite of a child. I used to be very proud of his goldy-looking hair, all curling over his head, and as fine as silk, and he was a good, gentle child; but he gave Philip and me many a heartache, for he had scarce all his life long known a day of really good health. One thing and another thing was always wrong with him. Not but what he was a merry boy commonly, though just then his little lips were trembling, and his blue eyes were running over. "Eh, Jamie, what's the matter?" asked Philip, for he was dearly fond of the child: and Jamie threw himself right into Philip's arms, with his head down on his shoulder, in a way I like to see a little one cling to his father. For a father's love ought to be a little picture of the great deep love of our Father in heaven for His children on earth, and the trust and clinging of the children to their father ought to help them to trust and cling to their heavenly Father in every trouble. But, after all, it seems to me that nothing comes so near that love as a mother's love. And oh me, there's many a father and many a mother too, whose children can't cling to them at all, and would run anywhere rather than to them for help. It's a poor notion of a father's love that Gilpin's children could ever learn from him. "O father, he's gone and smashed 'em all up, quite all up," sobbed Jamie. "And the beauty white rose has a lot of earth on it-and not one of them is fit to be seen-and mother says it's all my fault." Philip looked across at me a bit fierce when he heard that. 66 'No, Jamie, not all," says I, " only partly. It wasn't right to throw stones in Gilpin's garden. We shouldn't like to have him throwing stones into ours." "It wasn't your fault a bit, Jamie, so don't you mind mother," said Philip, who was a deal too much out of temper to be wise. "Not one bit. It was all Gilpin. Mind you never have a word to say to him again.” Jamie looked up in a wondering sort of way. "Mustn't I speak to Gilpin again, father?" 'No," says Philip, quite determined. "Never,-never at all ?" Never," says Philip. “I'll give him my mind the moment the clock is on the stroke of half-past four, and I'll never exchange one word with him after." It was easy to see how puzzled Jamie felt. "Mother said I was to forgive old Gilpin," he murmured. "Mother said I was to forgive him when he broke my little wheelbarrow, and father made me learn a text, and said I was to be kind to him back. And I did mean to try. Needn't I be kind to him any more, father?" I knew Philip gave a wince, and I spoke up quick to leave him time for thought. "Why was it father said you were to be kind to him, Jamie ?" said I. "'Cause he's such a dreadful bad unhappy old fellow, mother, and don't know the way to heaven. And if he don't learn it quick, he'll be a deal unhappier when he dies. And father said if we weren't gentle and kind to him, like the Lord Jesus is, he'd maybe never learn to be better." 66 'Well, you're a good boy to remember what you're told," I said to him. "And I dare say you haven't forgotten the text too, Jamie." "No," said Jamie, and he repeated it straight off,-"For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.' And I know what trespasses means, 'cause father told me," Jamie went "It's when the neighbours do nasty spiteful things, like old Gilpin." on. "Or when little boys throw stones into their neighbours' gardens," I said. 66 'Well, but, mother, why don't Gilpin forgive me?" asked Jamie very quick. "I'm afraid he isn't one that cares much about what the Lord Jesus tells us," I said softly. "But father and you and I care, Jamie: so we've got to attend, and we've got to forgive old Gilpin: only father means to tell him that he mustn't do such things again. And you needn't speak to Gilpin till father gives you leave. You can go and play in the garden now." Jamie went off, and I sat and worked, and Phil looked hard at me. I knew he wanted |