“‘I can fancy how your mother will enjoy this!’ he exclaimed one evening, as I walked home with him to his chambers in Piccadilly. ‘She will be beside herself with pride in you, old fellow. Fancy what it will be the night of your first public representation! I expect a seat in her box, mind!’

“It was just two days before the grand night, and we were having our last rehearsal—the final one—in the theatre at B—— House, which was lighted up and filled with a select few, in order to judge of the general effect for the following night. I was in great spirits, and acted better than I had done yet. The audience applauded warmly, the ladies clapping their white-kid hands and shaking their handkerchiefs, that filled the air with the perfumes of Arabia, while the gentlemen, more audible in their demonstrations, cheered loudly.

“When it was over, we sat down to supper, about a hundred, of us. I sat next the duchess, and my beautiful Katharina on the other side of me. She was a lovely girl of twenty, a cousin of the duchess. I had been struck by her beauty at the first, but the more I saw of her the less she pleased me; she was a vain, coquettish young lady, and only tolerated me because I was useful as a good set-off to her acting, which, to be just, was excellent. I never saw anything so good off the stage, and very seldom saw it equalled even there. Flushed with her recent triumph, which had borrowed additional lustre from mine she was more gracious and conversational than I had yet known her. I was flattered, though I knew perfectly how much the caprice was worth, and I exerted myself to the utmost to be agreeable. We were altogether a very merry party; the champagne flowed freely, and with it the spirits of the guests rose to sparkling point. As we rose from the table, some one called out for a dance before we broke up. The musicians had gone to have refreshments after the rehearsal, but they were still in the house. The duchess, a good-natured, easy-going person, who always agreed with everybody all round, at once ordered them in; people began to engage partners, and all was laughing confusion round the supper-table. I turned to my pretty neighbor, and asked if she was engaged; she replied, laughing, that being neither a sibyl nor a clairvoyant, she could not have known beforehand that there was to be dancing. ‘Then may I have the honor of claiming you for the first dance, whatever it may be?’ I said; and she replied that I might. I offered her my arm, and we took our way back into the theatre, which was still brilliantly illuminated. We were to dance on the stage. As we were pushing on with the crowd, I felt a strong hand laid on my arm, and, before I had time to prevent it, Lady Caroline’s hand was withdrawn, and the intruder stood between us. He was a square-built, distinguished-looking man, not very young, but handsome and with the beau stamped all over him.

“‘Excuse my want of ceremony,’ he said in an easy, supercilious tone to me. ‘I claim the first dance with Lady Caroline.’

“‘On what grounds?’ I demanded stiffly. We were still moving on, carried with the crowd, so it was impossible to make him stand aside or to regain my post next Lady Caroline.

“‘On the grounds of her promise,’ he replied haughtily.

“Lady Caroline uttered a laughing ‘O Lord George!’ but did not draw away the hand which he had so unceremoniously transferred from my arm to his.

“‘Lady Caroline made no engagement before she came here to-night,’ I said, ‘and she promised this dance to me. I refer you to herself whether this be true or not.’

“‘Gentlemen are not in the habit of catechising ladies as to their behavior—not, at least, in our set; and while you happen to be in it you had better conform to its customs,’ observed Lord George, without looking towards me.

“I felt my blood boil so that it was an effort not to strike him. Two ladies near me who had heard the passage between us cried, ‘Shame! No gentleman would have said that!’ This gave me courage to maintain my self-command. We were now in the theatre; the orchestra was playing a brilliant prelude to a waltz, and Lord George, as if he had forgotten all about me, prepared to start. I laid my hand peremptorily on his arm.

“‘In my set,’ I said, and my voice shook with agitation, ‘gentlemen don’t tolerate gratuitous impertinence; you either make me an apology, or I shall exact reparation of another kind.’

“‘Oh! indeed. I shall be happy to hear from you at your convenience,’ sneered Lord George, with a low bow. He turned away, and said in a voice loud enough to be heard by me or any one else near, ‘The puppy imagines, I suppose, that I would meet him in a duel. The next thing will be we shall have our footmen sending us challenges. Capital joke, by Jove! Come, we are losing time, Lady Caroline! The waltz is half over.’

“They were starting this time, when a voice behind me called out imperiously: ‘A moment, Lord George Halberdyne! The gentleman whom you have insulted is a friend of mine and a guest of the Duchess of B——; two conditions that qualify him, I think, to be an adversary of yours.’

“‘Oh! he’s a friend of yours, is he?’ repeated Lord George, facing around. ‘That’s a natural phenomenon that I shall not stop to investigate just now; but it certainly puts this gentleman in a new light. Good-evening, sir. I shall have the pleasure, probably, of seeing you to-morrow.’

“‘You shall, my lord,’ I replied; and allowing Hallam to link my arm in his and draw me away, I turned my back on the brilliant scene, and hurried out of the house, feverish, humiliated, desperate.

“‘The idiot! The snob! You shall give him a lesson that he’ll not forget in a hurry,’ said Hallam, who seemed nearly as indignant and excited as myself. ‘Are you a good shot? Have you ever stood fire?’

“I answered both questions in the negative. He was evidently put out; but presently he said in a confident tone:

“‘Well, it does not so much matter; you are the offended party, and consequently you have the choice of weapons. It shall be swords instead of pistols. I suppose you’re a pretty good swordsman?’

“‘My dear Hallam,’ I said, ‘you forget that these things are not in my line at all. I never handled a sword since we flourished them in the fencing hall at Oxford. In fact, if the choice be mine, as you say it is, I think I would do better to choose pistols. I have a chance with them; and if Lord George be a swordsman, I have none with the other.’

“Hallam seemed seriously disconcerted.

“‘It’s not quite such an affair of chance as you appear to imagine,’ he said. ‘Halberdyne is one of the best shots in the service; he never misses his mark; and he is a first-rate swordsman. ’Pon my honor I don’t know what to advise you.’

“‘I must stand advised by myself then, and here goes for pistols,’ I said, trying to put a bold face on it, though I confess I felt anything but cheerful at the prospect. ‘You will stand by me, Hallam, will you not?’

“‘Of course I will! I’ve committed myself to as much already,’ he answered cordially; but I saw he was uncomfortable. ‘I shall take your card to the scoundrel to-morrow morning. I wonder who he’ll have for second—that bully Roper, very likely,’ he went on, talking more to himself than to me.

“‘Is the meeting to take place to-morrow morning?’ I inquired; and a sudden rush of anguish came on me as I put the question. I thought of my mother, of all that might be in store for her so soon.

“‘We must try and put it off for a day,’ said Hallam. ‘It is deucedly awkward, you see, if it comes off to-morrow, because of the play. You may get hit, and it would be a terrible business if you were hors de concours for the evening.’ There was something so grimly comical in the earnestness with which he said this that, though I was in no merry mood, I burst out laughing.

“‘A terrible business indeed!’ I said. ‘How exceedingly unpleasant for Lady Caroline particularly to be left in the lurch on such an occasion! However, if I go to the wall, and Lord George comes off safe, he might get up the part in a hurry and replace me, eh?’ I had hit the mark without knowing it. It was jealousy that had provoked Lord George to the gratuitous attack. I suppose there was something sardonic in my voice that struck Hallam with the inappropriateness of his previous remarks. He suddenly stopped, and grasping my arm warmly—

“‘I’m used to this sort of thing, my dear fellow,’ he said; ‘but don’t fancy from that that my feelings are turned to stone, or that I forget all that is, that may be, unpleasant in the matter. But there is no use talking of these things; they unman a fellow, and he wants all his nerves in working order at a moment like this. Take my advice and go home now, and cool yourself by a quiet night for to-morrow’s work, if it is to be to-morrow. You may have some letters to write or other things to attend to, and they had better be done at once.’

“I replied that I had no letters to write and no business instructions to leave. The idea of facing my home, passing my mother’s door, and then going to bed as if the world had not turned right round; as if all life, the present and the future, were not revolutionized—this was what I did not, at this moment at least, feel equal to, and I said so.

“‘I would rather go for an hour to the club,’ I said, ‘if you don’t mind, and we will have a game of billiards. I don’t feel inclined to go home, and I should not sleep if I went to bed.’

“‘Just as you like,’ he said; ‘but the night is so fine we may as well take a few more turns in the open air. It does one good after those heated rooms.’

“It did me no good. I felt the most miserable man in this miserable world. I would have given any happiness the world could have offered me to undo this night’s work, to be as I was an hour ago, free, guiltless of projected murder or suicide. I repeated to myself that it was not my fault; that I had been gratuitously provoked beyond endurance; that as a gentleman I could not have done otherwise; but these sophistries neither calmed nor strengthened me. Truer voices rose up and answered them in clear and imperious tones that drowned the foolish comforters. Why had I ever entered the society where my position exposed me to such results? What business had I there? What good could it do myself or any one else to have been tolerated, even courted, as I fancied I was, by these fine people, who had nothing of any sort in common with me? I had forsaken my legitimate place, the profession that my mother had made such heavy sacrifices to open to me. I had deliberately frittered away my life, destroyed my prospects of honorable success; and this is what it had brought me to! I was going either to shoot a man who had done me no graver injury than offend my pride and punish my folly, or to be shot down by him—and then? I saw myself brought home to my mother dangerously wounded, dead perhaps. I heard her cry of agony, I saw her mortal despair. I could have cried out loud for pity of her. I could have cursed myself for my folly—for the mad, sinful folly that had rewarded her by such an awakening.

“There is an electric current that runs from mind to mind, communicating almost like an articulate voice the thoughts that are passing within us at certain moments. I had not spoken for several minutes, as we paced up and down Pall Mall, puffing our cigars in the starlight; but this current I speak of had passed from my brain to Hallam’s, and informed him of what my thoughts were busy on.

“‘Don’t let yourself down, old boy,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘No harm may come of it after all; I’ve known a score of duels where both sides came off with no more than a pin-scratch, sometimes with no scratch at all. Not that I suspect you of being faint-hearted—I remember what a dare-devil you were at Oxford—but the bravest of us may be a coward for others.’

“I felt something rise in my throat as if it would choke me. I could not get a word out.

“‘Who knows?’ continued Hallam in his cheeriest tone; ‘you may be bringing down the house to-morrow night, and your mother may be the proudest woman in London, seeing you the king of the company, cheered and complimented by “fair women and brave men!” I feel as sure of it, do you know, as if I saw it in a glass.’

“He spoke in kindness, but the levity of his tone, the utter hollowness of his consolations, were intolerable. They mocked my misery; every word pierced me like a knife. What evil genius had led me across this man’s path? Only a few weeks ago I said it was the work of an angel, a good fairy, or some absurdity of the sort. It was more likely a demon that had done it. If I had never met him, I said to myself, I would never have known this hour; I should have been an innocent and a happy man. But this would not do either. I was neither innocent nor happy when I met him. I was false to my duty, wasting my life, and sick to death of both; only longing for the opportunity which Hallam had brought me. If I had not met him, I should have met or sought out some other tempter, and bitten greedily at the bait when it was offered. Still, I felt embittered toward Hallam. I accused him, as if he had been the sole author of my misfortune; as if I had been a baby or an idiot without free-will or responsibility.

“‘Come into the club,’ I said, dropping his arm and throwing away the end of my cigar.

“He did not notice the impatient movement, but readily crossed over, and we entered the club. The lofty, spacious rooms were blazing with light and filled with groups of men. Some were lounging on luxurious couches, reading the evening papers, some were chatting, some were playing cards. An air of easy grandeur, prosperity, and surface happiness pervaded the place. I felt horribly out of keeping with it all. I had no business amongst these wealthy, fashionable men; I was like a skeleton stalking into the feast. I believe it was nothing but sheer human respect, the fear of making myself ridiculous, that prevented me from turning on my heel and rushing straight out of the house. I mechanically took up the Globe, which a member tossed on to a table near me, and sat down as if I were going to read it.

“‘Leave that alone, and come into the billiard-room,’ said Hallam. And he whipped the paper out of my hands with brotherly unceremoniousness.

“I rose and followed him like a dog. I would have gone anywhere, done anything, he or anybody else suggested. Physically, I was indifferent to what I did; my brain on fire, I felt as if I were walking in a dream.

“We were passing into the billiard-room when a gentleman who was seated at a card-table cried out to Hallam to come and join them. It was Col. Leveson, a brother officer and great friend of his. Hallam replied that he was going on to have a pull at the balls; but he strolled over to see how the game was going. I mechanically followed him. Some of the players knew me, and greeted me with a friendly nod. They were absorbed in the game; it was lansquenet. I knew very little about cards; but lansquenet was the one game that interested me. I had lost a few sovereigns a night or two before at it, and, as the luck seemed set in against the banker, it flashed over me I could not do better than to take a hand and win them back now. I did not, however, volunteer to join the game. In my present state of smarting pride I would not run the risk of being made to feel I was an intruder. Unluckily, Hallam’s friend, reading temptation on my countenance perhaps, said, holding up his cards to me: “I’m in splendid vein, but I must be off. I’ll sell you my hand for half a sovereign, if you like.”

“‘Done!’ I said; and paying the half-sovereign, I sat down. I had scarcely taken his place when there was a noise in the adjoining room announcing fresh arrivals. I recognized one loud, domineering voice above the others, and presently Lord George Halberdyne came in.

“‘Going, Leveson?’ he said. ‘Luck against you, I suppose?’

“‘On the contrary, never was in better vein in my life,’ replied the colonel. ‘I sold my hand for a song, because I have an appointment that I can’t forego.’

“‘Who’s the lucky dog you sold it to?’ asked Lord George.

“‘Mr. Botfield,’ said Col. Leveson. (My real name is Botfield; I only took the name of Baines when I fell into disgrace and misery.)

“Lord George muttered an exclamation of some sort—whether of surprise or vexation I could not tell—and advanced to the table.

“‘Do you mind my joining you?’ he said, appealing to nobody in particular. There was a general assent, and he sat down. Hallam would not take a hand. He hated cards; his passion was for billiards, and he played nothing else. He came and stood behind me to watch the game. I felt him lay his hand on my shoulder, as if to encourage me and remind me that he was there to stand by me and take my part against my late bully, if needs be. It did not seem as if he was likely to be called upon to do so. My late bully was as gracious as man could be—at least he intended to be so; but I took his familiar facetiousness for covert impertinence, and it made my blood boil quite as fiercely as his recent open insult had done. I was not man of the world enough to understand that Lord George was only doing his duty to society; that he was in fact behaving beautifully, with infinite tact, like an accomplished gentleman. I could not understand that the social canons of his ‘set’ made it incumbent on a man to joke and laugh and demean himself in this lively, careless fashion towards the man whom he was going to shoot in a few hours. I grew inwardly exasperated, and it was nothing but pride and an unprecedented effort of will that enabled me to keep my temper and remain outwardly cool. For a time, for about twenty minutes, the luck continued in the same vein; my half-sovereign had been paid back to me more than fifty times. Col. Leveson was right when he said he had sold his hand for a song. Hallam was all this time standing behind my chair, smoking his cigar, and throwing in a word between the puffs. The clock struck two.

“‘Come off now, Botfield,’ he said, tapping me on the shoulder—‘come off while your star is shining; it is sure to go down if you stay too long.’

“‘Very likely, most sage and prudent mentor,’ retorted Lord George; ‘but that cuts both ways. Your friend has been pocketing our money up to this; it’s only fair he should give us a chance of winning it back and pocketing a little of his. That is a law universally recognized, I believe.’ As he said this, he turned to me good-humoredly enough; but I saw where the emphasis pointed, and, stung to the quick, I replied that I had not the least intention of going counter to the law; I would remain as long as the game lasted.

“‘Halloo! That’s committing yourself somewhat rashly,’ interposed Hallam. ‘You don’t know what nefarious gamblers these fellows are; they’re capable of keeping it up till morning!’

“‘If they do, I shall keep it up with them,’ I replied recklessly. I was desperate, and my luck was good.

“Hallam said no more, but sauntered to the other side of the table, where I felt his eyes fixed on me warningly, entreatingly.

“I looked up at last, and met them fastened on me in a mute, impatient appeal. I answered it by a peremptory nod. He saw I would not brook farther interference, so he took himself off to the billiard-room, and did not reappear for an hour.

“I cannot recall clearly what passed during the interval. The luck had turned suddenly against me; but, nothing daunted, I went on playing desperately, losing as fast as I had been winning, only in much heavier sums; for the stakes had risen enormously on the change of luck. There was a large pool, immense it seemed to me—some two hundred pounds. I lost again and again. At last terror sobered me. I began to realize the madness of my conduct, and wanted to withdraw; but they cried out against it, reminded me that I had pledged myself to remain and see the game out. Lord George was loudest in protesting that I must remain. ‘One can’t have luck always,’ he said, ‘A man must put up with it when the tide turns. It is of good omen for you, Mr. Botfield,’ he added pointedly; ‘you will be in splendid luck to-morrow.’

“I shuddered. I can remember the horrible, sick sensation that ran through me as he said this, lightly, pleasantly, as if he alluded to a rowing-match I had in view. I saw my mother’s pale face beckoning me to come away—to stop before I ruined her utterly. I almost made a movement to rise, but something glued me to the chair. The game went on. I again held the bank, and again lost. I had no money about me except the forty pounds or so I had won at the outset; but several leaves out of my pocketbook were strewn about the table bearing I. O. U.’s for nine times that sum. I suppose by this time I had quite lost my senses. I know that I went on betting like a maniac, with the feverish, triumphant impulse of a man in delirium. I was losing tremendously. I remember nothing except the sound of my own voice and Lord George’s calling banco! again and again, and how the cry ran through me like a blade every time, and how I hastily tore out fresh leaves and wrote down the sums I lost, and tossed them to the winner, and went on. All this time we had been drinking deeply of brandy and water. I was naturally abstemious, but to-night I drank recklessly. The wonder was—and I was going to say the pity—that it had not stupefied me long ago, and so made me physically incapable of continuing my insane career. But excitement acted, I suppose, as an antidote, and prevented the alcohol from taking effect as it otherwise must have done. At last Hallam came back. I have a vague recollection of hearing him exchange some remarks in an undertone with one of the players, who had given up and was now watching the game with a number of others who had dropped in from adjoining rooms. I then heard him say, ‘Good God! he is ruined twice over!’ I heard nothing more. I had fallen back insensible in my chair. Everybody started up; the cards were dropped, and all was confusion and terror. It appears that at the first moment they thought I was dead. A young guardsman present declared I was, and that it was disease of the heart; a young kinsman of his had dropped down on parade only a month ago just in the same way. There was a cry for a doctor, and two or three ran out to fetch one. Before he arrived, however, I had given signs of returning consciousness. Up to this moment Lord George had been anxiously looking on, silent and pale, they said. He had borne me with Hallam to a couch in the next room, where the air was free from cigar-fumes, and had opened the window to admit the fresh night-breeze. He had done, in fact, what any humane person would have done under the circumstances; but he had done it in a manner that betokened more than ordinary interest. He drew an audible breath of relief the moment he saw my eyelids quiver and heard me breathe like a man awaking to life. Hallam signed to him to leave the room; he did not wish his face to be the first I saw on opening my eyes. Lord George no doubt understood; for he at once withdrew into the card-room. He drew the door after him, but he did not quite close it, so that I heard dreamily, yet distinctly, all that was said. Lord George’s second for the morrow’s meeting, the Hon. Capt. Roper, inquired eagerly how I was going on. ‘Oh! he’ll be all right presently,’ was the reply, spoken in Lord George’s off-hand way. ‘There was nothing to make such a fuss about; the poor devil was scared to see how much money he had lost, and fainted like a girl—that’s all.’

“‘Hallam says he is quite cleared out by to-night’s ill-luck,’ observed some one.

“‘Served him right,’ said Lord George; ‘it will teach puppies of his kind not to come amongst us and make fools of themselves.’

“‘And do you mean to shoot him to-morrow?’ inquired the same voice.

“‘I mean to give him a chance of shooting me; unless,’ he continued—and I saw in imagination, as vividly as if my bodily eyes had seen it, the cold sneer that accompanied the remark—‘unless he shows the white feather and declines fighting, which is just as likely.’

“While this little dialogue had been going on in subdued tones close by the door which opened at the head of the sofa where I lay, Hallam was conversing in animated whispers with two gentlemen in the window. He was not more than a minute absent, when he returned to my side, and, seeing my eyes wide open, exclaimed heartily: ‘Thank God! he’s all right again!’

“I grasped his hand and sat up. They gave me some sal-volatile and water to drink, and I was, as he said, all right again. But it was not the stimulant that restored me, that gave me such sudden energy, and nerved me to act at once, to face my fate and defy it. I took his arm, and led him, or let him lead me, to some quieter place near, and then I asked him how much he thought I had lost.

“‘Don’t think of that yet, my dear fellow,’ he said; ‘you are too done up to discuss it. We will see what can be done to-morrow.’

“‘Five thousand pounds!’ I said. ‘Do you hear that? Five thousand pounds! That means that I am a beggar, which an’t of much consequence; and that I’ve made a beggar of my mother. She will have to sell the bed from under her to pay it, to save my honor. A curse upon me for bringing this blight upon her!’

“‘Tut! tut! man, don’t take on like a woman about it!’ said Hallam. ‘These things can be arranged; no need to make matters out worse than they are. I’ll speak to Lord George, and see what terms we can make with him.’

“He made me light a cigar, and left me alone, while he went back to parley with the man who held my fortune, my life, my all in his hands. I never heard exactly all that passed between them. I only know that in answer to Lord George’s question, put in a tone of insulting haughtiness, ‘Has the fellow pledged himself for more than he’s worth? Can’t he pay?’ Hallam replied: ‘He can, but it will ruin him’; upon which the other retorted with a laugh, ‘What the devil is that to me?’ and turned his back on my second, who had nothing left but to take Capt. Roper aside and arrange for the morrow’s meeting. He came back, and told me all was settled; that Halberdyne was behaving like a brute, and would be tabooed in the clubs and every decent drawing-room before twenty-four hours. This thought seemed to afford him great satisfaction. It gave me none. Anguish had drowned resentment. I could think of nothing except that I was a ruined man, that I had beggared my mother, and that I was going to fight a duel in a few hours. Richmond Park—6 A.M.—pistols at thirty paces! This was how the appointment was notified by our seconds to both of us. Suddenly a light burst on me—a ray of hope, of consolation: I might be killed in this duel, and, if so, surely my honor would be saved and my debt cancelled. Lord George would not pursue my mother for the money. She should know nothing of this night’s work until after the meeting. If I escaped with a wound, I would tell her; if I died, who would have the cruelty to do so? I told Hallam of this sudden thought as he walked home with me. He approved of it, and cheered me up by almost assuring me that I should be shot. Halberdyne was a dead-shot; it was most likely that I should not leave the field alive.

“The night passed—the few hours of it that must elapse before the time named for the meeting. 0 God! how did I live through them? And yet this was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to what was yet in store for me.…

“The duel took place. Lord George wounded me in the hip. He escaped unhurt; I fired in the air. I was carried home on a door, insensible. Hallam had gone before to prepare my mother. For some weeks it was feared I would not live. Then amputation was talked of. I escaped finally with being a cripple for life. Before I was out of danger, Hallam’s leave expired, and he went to rejoin his regiment. He had been very assiduous in calling to inquire for me, had seen my mother, and, judging by her passionate grief that I was in a fair way not to recover, he had forborne mentioning anything about the five thousand pounds. She promised to write and let him know when any change took place. Meantime, she had found out my secret. I had talked incessantly of it in my delirium, and with an accuracy of iteration that left no doubt on her mind but that there was a foundation of truth in the feverish ravings. The doctor was of the same mind, and urged her to give me an opportunity of relieving my mind of the burden, whatever it was, as soon as this was possible.

“The first day that I was strong enough to bear conversation she accordingly broached the subject. I inferred at once that Hallam had told her everything, and repeated the miserable story, only to confirm what I supposed he had already said.

“My mother was sitting by my bedside. She busied herself with teaseling out linen into lint for my wound, and so, purposely no doubt, kept her face continually bent or averted from mine.

“Seeing how quietly she took it, I began to think I had overrated the misfortune; that we had larger resources in some way than I had imagined. ‘Then it is possible for us to pay this horrible debt and save my honor, and yet not be utterly beggared, mother?’ I said eagerly. She looked at me with a smile that must surely have been the reflex of some angel near her whom I could not see. ‘Yes, my boy; he shall be paid, and we shall not be beggars,’ she said gently, and pressed my hand in both her own. ‘You should have told me about it at once; it has been preying on your mind and retarding your cure all this time. I will see Mr. Kerwin to-day, and have it arranged at once. Promise me now, like a good boy, to forget it and think no more of it until you are quite well. Will you promise?’

“I did not answer, but signed with my lips for her to kiss me. She rose and twined her arms around me, and let me sob out my sorrow and my love upon her breast.

“It was about three days after this that she handed me a letter to read; it was from Lord George to Mr. Kerwin, and ran thus:

“‘Mother! mother!’ I cried out, and opened my arms to her in a passion of tears. But she laid her finger smilingly on my lips, and made me be silent. In a month hence, when I was well, we should talk it all over, but not now.

“Before the month was out, she was dead!”…

Marmaduke started to his feet with a cry of horror, and Botfield, unable to control the anguish that his own narrative evoked, dropped his head into his hands, and shook the room with his sobs.

“O dear God! that I should have lived to tell it!—to talk over the mother that I murdered! Brave, tender, generous mother! I killed you, I broke your heart, and then—then I brought shame upon your memory! O God! O God! why have I outlived it?” He rocked to and fro, almost shouting in his paroxysm of despair. Marmaduke had never beheld such grief; he had never in his life been so deeply moved with pity. He did not know what to say, what to do. His heart prompted him to do the right thing: he fell on his knees, and, putting his arms around the wretched, woe-worn man, he burst into tears and sobbed with him.

Botfield suffered his embrace for a moment, and then, pressing his horny palm on the young man’s blond head, he muttered: “God bless you! God bless you for your pity!”

As soon as they were both calmed, Marmaduke asked him if he would not prefer finishing the story to-morrow. But he signed to him to sit down; that he would go on with it to the end.

“What is there more to tell?” he said, sadly shaking his head.

“I was lying a cripple on my bed when she was carried to her grave. I was seized with a violent brain fever, which turned to typhus, and they took me to the hospital. The servants were dismissed; they had received notice from my mother. She had foreseen everything, taken every necessary step as calmly as if the catastrophe I had brought upon her had been a mere change of residence for her own convenience. All we had was gone. That brave answer of hers to my question about our resources was a subterfuge of her love. If ever a sin was sinless, assuredly that half-uttered falsehood was. She had directed the lawyer to raise the money immediately, at every sacrifice. She meant to work for her bread, and trusted to me to make the task light and short to her. I would have done it had she been spared to me. So help me God, I would! But now that she was gone, I had nothing to work for. I left the hospital a cripple and a beggar. I did not even yet know to what an extent. I went straight to our old house, expecting to find it as I had left it—that is, before all consciousness had left me. I found it dismantled, empty; painters busy on scaffolding outside. I went to Mr. Kerwin, and there learned the whole truth. Nothing remained to me but suicide. Nothing kept me from it, I believe, but the prayers of my mother.”

“You were a Christian, then?” interrupted Marmaduke in a tone of unfeigned surprise.

“I ought to have been. My father was, and my mother was; I was brought up as one, until I went to the university and lost what little belief I had. For a moment it seemed to come back to me when I found myself alone in the world. I remember walking deliberately down to the river’s side when I left the lawyer’s office, fully determined to drown myself. But before I reached the water, I heard my mother’s voice calling so distinctly to me to stop that I felt myself arrested as by some visible presence. I heard the voice saying, ‘Do you wish never to see me again even in the next world?’ Of course it was the work of imagination, of my over-wrought feelings; but the effect was the same. I stopped, and retraced my steps to Mr. Kerwin’s.”

“It was your guardian angel, perhaps your mother’s, that saved you,” said Marmaduke.

“Oh! I forgot,” said Botfield. “Your brother is a Catholic; I suppose you are too?”

Marmaduke nodded assent; he felt that his Catholicity was not much to boast of. Like the poor outcast before him, he had lost his faith practically, though he adhered to it in name.

“Yes, it was an angel of some sort that rescued me,” said Botfield; “it was no doubt my own fault if the rescue was not complete. I went back to Mr. Kerwin, and asked him to give me, or get me, something to do. My chance on the stage was at an end, even if I could have turned to that: I was dead lame. He got me a situation as clerk in an office; but the weariness of the life and the pressure of remorse were more than I could bear. I took to drink. They forgave me once, twice; the third time I was dismissed. But of what use is it to go over that disgusting, pitiable story? Step by step I went down, lower and lower, sinking each time into fouler depths, drinking more loathsome draughts, wallowing in mire whose very existence such as you don’t dream of. I will spare you all those details. Enough that I came at last to what you see me. One day when hunger was gnawing me, and even the satanic consolation of the public-house was shut against me for want of a sixpence to pay for a glass of its diabolical elixir, I fell in with a man of the trade; he offered me work and bread. Hunger is not a dainty counsellor. I closed with the offer, and so sank into the last slough that humanity can take refuge in.…

“Now, Mr. Walpole, you have heard my history; it was a pain, and yet, somehow, a relief, to me to tell it. It has not been a very pleasant one for you to listen to; still, I don’t regret having inflicted it on you. You are very young; you are prosperous and happy, and, most likely, perfectly free from any of the temptations that have been the bane of my life; still, it never hurts a young man starting in life to hear an older man’s experience. If ever temptation should come near you, dash it from you with all your might; scorn and defy it from the first; hold no parley with it; to treat with perdition is to be lost.”

“You have done me a greater service than you know of,” said Marmaduke, rising and preparing to take leave of his singular entertainer. “Perhaps one day I may tell you.…” He took a turn in the narrow room, and then, coming back to Botfield, resumed in an agitated manner: “Why should I not own it at once? You have trusted me with all; I will tell you the truth.”

Botfield looked up in surprise, but said nothing.

“I stand on the very brink of the abyss against which you warn me. Like you, I am a barrister; like you, I hate my profession, and spend my time reading poetry and playing at private theatricals. They are my passion. A few nights ago I tried my luck at cards, and won. This tempted me; I played last night and lost—precisely the sum of twenty pounds.”

Botfield started and uttered a suppressed exclamation.

“I am in debt—not much—a mere trifle, if it lead to no worse! You see now what a service you may have done me; who knows? Perhaps my mother’s guardian angel prompted you to tell me your story as a warning, to save me before it was too late! I know that I came here to-day at the bidding of an angel; and reluctant enough I was to take the message!”

“I never thought to be of use to any one while I lived,” said Botfield with emotion. “I bless God, anyhow, if my wretched example proves a warning to you. Who sent you to me? I understood it was your brother?”

“So it was; but it was to please my sister that I consented to come. She is one of those angels that people talk about, but don’t often see. You will let her come and see you, Mr. Botfield, will you not?”

He held out his delicate lavender kid hand, and pressed Botfield’s grimy fingers cordially.

When Marmaduke got home, he inquired at once where his sister was, and, hearing she was in her room, he crept up quietly to the door and knocked. He entered so quietly that Nelly had scarcely time to jump off her knees. Marmaduke saw at once that he had taken her by surprise; he saw also that her eyes were red.

“What is the matter?” she asked, with a frightened look. “Has anything happened? You have been away so long! What kept you, Marmaduke? Where have you been?”

“Where you sent me.”

“To Stephen’s poor man? Why, you have been out nearly two hours! It did not take all that time to give your message?” said incredulous Nelly, and her heart beat with recent apprehension.

“No; but Stephen’s poor man had a message for me. Sit down here, and I will tell you what it was. But how cold you are, darling! You are positively perished! Where have you been?”

“Here,” said Nelly.

“Ever since I went out?”

“Ever since you went out.”

“What were you doing?” he persisted, fixing a strange look on her.

She blushed, hesitated, and then said simply, “I was praying for you, Marmaduke.”

He folded her in his arms, and whispered, “I was right to say it was an angel sent me.”

Then, taking a warm shawl that he saw hanging up, he wrapped her in it, and sat down beside her, and told the story as it had been told to him. When it was over, Nelly’s head was on his breast, and the brother’s tears of penitence were mingling with the sister’s tears of joy.

“Let us go down now and tell Stephen,” said Marmaduke, when he had finished.

“Will you tell him everything?” asked Nelly.

“Yes, everything.”

“Dear Marmy! I am so happy I could sing for joy,” she said, smiling through her tears. “Let us kneel down here and say one little prayer together; will you?”

And he did.

“How did you thaw the man and break up the ice he seemed to be buried under?” was Stephen’s amazed inquiry when other more precious and interesting questions were exhausted.

“I merely did what Nelly told me,” said Marmaduke: “I listened to him.”

On Christmas morning Marmaduke announced his intention of dining out. It was a sacrifice to all three, but no one opposed him. Nelly made up a store of provisions, including a hot plum-pudding, which was put with other steaming hot dishes into the ample basket that the gay young man carried off in a cab with him to Red Pepper Lane. There he found a clean hearth, a blazing fire, and a table spread with a snowy cloth, and all necessaries complete. Some fairy had surely been at work in that gloomy place. The host was clean and brushed, looking like an eccentric gentleman in his new clothes amidst those incongruous surroundings. He and Marmaduke unpacked the basket with many an exclamation at its inexhaustible depths. That was the happiest, if not the very merriest, Christmas dinner that ever Marmaduke partook of.

When it was over, and they were puffing a quiet cigar over the fire, steps were heard on the rickety stairs, and then a knock at the door, and a silvery voice saying: “May we come in?” It was Stephen and Nelly.

“I don’t see why you should have all the pleasure to yourself,” said Nelly, with her bright laugh; “you would never have been here at all if I had not teased you into taking the message!”

If this were a romance instead of a true episode, the story should end by the some-time rag-and-bone man becoming a Catholic, rising to wealth and distinction, and marrying Nelly. But the events of real life don’t adjust themselves so conveniently to the requirements of the story-teller. Stephen Walpole got Mr. Botfield a situation in the post-office, where, by good conduct and intelligent diligence, he rose gradually to a position of trust, which was highly paid. He never married. Who knows? Perhaps he had his little romance, and never dared to tell it.

THE PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL CHURCH CONGRESS.

The second annual Congress of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States was held at Philadelphia during the early part of November. Church congresses are new things in this country, and the Episcopalians are not yet quite at home in them. Their first experiment, made at New York in 1874, was not wholly successful. Some of their leading bishops and presbyters treated it rather cavalierly, apparently in the fear that it was going to weaken the bonds of ecclesiastical discipline, and open vexatious questions which the church for years had been expending all its learning and ingenuity in trying not to answer. But church congresses seemed to be very proper and respectable things for every denomination which laid claim to antiquity: they are common in the mother-church of England; they are efficient and interesting organizations in what our Anglican friends are pleased to call the Roman branch of the church of Christ; Dr. Döllinger has them regularly in the Old-Catholic “branch”; and so the originators of the movement in the American “branch” have persevered in their attempt to establish them here. The meeting in Philadelphia appears to have been all that its promoters could have reasonably expected. The denominational papers of various shades of opinion concur in believing that the permanency of the Congress as an annual institution is now nearly secured; and we find one of these journals rejoicing that the meeting passed off with “entire cordiality,” and that nothing in the proceedings “elicited prejudice or excited hostile action.” This indeed was something to boast of. Perhaps it would have been still more gratifying had not the same paper explained that this unexpected peaceableness of the Congress arose “from the fact that no resolutions were adopted, no legislation proposed, no elections held. When any of these are distinctly in view, those who participate range themselves into parties, and it is almost impossible not to resort to measures to ensure victory which generate unkind feelings and provoke exaggerated statements.” All which gives us a queer idea of the manner in which the Holy Ghost is supposed to operate in the councils of the Protestant Episcopal Church. But no matter. Let us be glad, for the sake of propriety, that this was merely a meeting for talk, and not for action. The strict rules applicable to conventions, synods, and other business meetings were not in force. The topics of discussion were not so much points of doctrine as minor questions of discipline and methods of applying the machinery of the church to the every-day work of religion. And with the knowledge that no vote was to be taken upon any subject whatever, the Congress unanimously agreed to let every man say what he pleased. The great variety of irreconcilable things which it accordingly pleased the gentlemen to say seems to have attracted remark, and denominational papers point to it with pride as a proof of the large toleration allowed within the bosom of the church. If they like it, far be it from us to interfere with their enjoyment.

The Episcopal Church is one of the largest and richest of the Protestant sects. Its clergy are popularly supposed to boast of more general culture and enjoy fuller opportunities for study than those of the other religious bodies, and its people are found in large numbers among the educated and well-to-do classes. A congress of this church, gathered from all parts of the country, representing all shades of opinion, and possessing almost unbounded facilities for talk and deliberation, ought therefore to have elicited a great deal that was worth remembering. The programme of the sessions was stated in an alluring manner by Bishop Clarke, of Rhode Island, who made the introductory address. “We come,” said he, “to consider how the doctrine and organization of the church can be brought most effectually to sanctity”; and then he went on to speak briefly of the particular things, in our daily experience, which the church ought to purify and bless—our business affairs, our amusements, our care of the poor, our family relations, the marriage tie—practical points all of them, and points, too, in which the church and the state are more or less in contact.

Well, having laid out this plan of work, how did the Congress address itself to it? The first session gave a rather curious illustration of the practical spirit of the assemblage; for the reverend gentlemen, by way of “bringing the doctrine and organization of the church most effectually to sanctity,” rushed straightway with hot haste into the subject of “ultramontanism and civil authority,” and pounded upon the doors of the Vatican the whole afternoon. The Rev. Francis Wharton, D.D., of Cambridge, Mass., was careful in the outset to distinguish between ultramontanism and the Roman Catholic Church in the United States. The mass of us, he believes, have always been loyal to the territory of whose population we form a part, but our loyalty has no connection with our religion. If we followed the teachings of our church, Dr. Wharton thinks we should be a dangerous set of people. “Ultramontanism teaches that the Pope, a foreign prince, deriving his support from a foreign civilization, is entitled to set aside governments which he considers disloyal, and to annul such institutions as he does not approve.” We confess that we do not know what Dr. Wharton means by the Pope deriving his support from a foreign civilization. If he means his physical support, then the doctor is both wrong and right; for that is derived from the faithful of the whole world. If he means that his authority is derived from a foreign civilization, then the doctor is apparently irreverent; for the papal authority is derived from the institution of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and surely a respectable Cambridge divine would not call that a foreign civilization.

As for the distinction which is drawn between American and ultramontane Catholics, let us repudiate it with all possible warmth before we go any further. Ultramontanism is an objectionable word, because it was invented to localize a school of religious doctrine which is the only catholic school—the school acknowledged all over the world; but if it be understood as defining that spirit of faith and piety which yields all love and obedience to the Vicar of Christ, accepts all the Vatican decrees gladly and without reserve, is not afraid of paying too much respect to the Holy See, or showing too much humility before God, or believing one little particle more than we are commanded to believe under pain of anathema, then the Catholics of America are ultramontane Catholics to a man. Probably there are no Catholics in any country of the world less disposed to compromise in matters of religious duty, and more thoroughly imbued with filial reverence and love for the Head of God’s church on earth, than the Catholics of the United States. The spirit of the church in Rome is the spirit of the church in America; and when Dr. Wharton asserts that “the political tenets of ultramontanism are repudiated by the leading Catholic statesmen of our land,” he makes an utterly erroneous statement, against which American Catholics will be the first to protest. It is very true that with the fictitious ultramontanism conceived of his fears and prejudices neither Americans nor any other sensible people have the slightest sympathy. But show us what Rome teaches, and there you have precisely what the church in the United States accepts. If it is true, therefore that the Pope claims authority “to set aside governments which he considers disloyal, and to annul such institutions as he does not approve,” it must be true that America upholds his pretensions. Dr. Wharton may live in the fear that His Holiness will some day send the Noble Guard to set aside the government of Gen. Grant whenever it becomes “disloyal”; while he may well feel an absolute certainty that our common-school system, our constitutional prohibition of the establishment of a state church, our laws against sectarian appropriations, and various other wicked and heretical provisions found on our statute-books, will sooner or later be “annulled” by a decree from the Vatican. He need not flatter himself that any superior enlightenment among the Catholics of America will save the Protestant community from the miserable fate in store for it. We are not a bit wiser or better than the Pope.

The possible interference of the Vatican with our Congresses and ballot-boxes Dr. Wharton evidently regards as a very remote danger. There are points, however, he thinks, where the Vatican clashes every day with the civil power, and where it ought to be resisted with all the energy at our command. And just at this part of the reverend doctor’s address we should like very much to have seen the face of Bishop Clarke. In his introductory remarks Bishop Clarke told the Congress that one of the most important subjects for churchmen to consider was the influence or authority of the church over the family relations. “The Gospel obtained hold of the family before it touched the state. How does the condition of the marriage bond stand to-day? In some of our States it is as easy to solve it as it is to join it. Is this the religion of which we have made such boast?” But here, before the echoes of the bishop’s words have fairly died away, is the Rev. Dr. Wharton on his feet denouncing as a crime the very interference which Bishop Clarke inculcated as a duty. It is one of the usurpations of ultramontanism, says the Cambridge doctor, to annul civil marriages which the state holds binding, and to treat as invalid divorces which the state holds good. This is one of the most serious conflicts between the state and the Vatican, and it is one, if we understand aright the somewhat imperfect report of his remarks, in which Protestant Episcopalians must prepare themselves to take an earnest part, remembering that, while their church is free, it is “a free church within a free sovereign state, and that this state, in its own secular sovereignty, is supreme.” Here, then, we have a distinct declaration that the family relation is not a proper subject of religious regulation. If the state sees fit to make it as easy to loose the marriage bond as to tie it, the church has no right to object; it is a secular matter, and the free sovereign state is supreme in its own secular sovereignty. If the state sanctions an adulterous connection, the Protestant Episcopal Church must revise its Bible and bless the unholy tie; it is a secular matter, and the free sovereign state is supreme in its own secular sovereignty. The sanctity of the family relation is under the protection of the church, says Bishop Clarke. No such thing, replies Dr. Wharton—that is an insolent ultramontane pretension; the Protestant Episcopal Church knows its place, and does not presume to interfere with the legislature. “The Gospel obtained hold of the family before it touched the state,” says the bishop. “Oh! well, we have changed all that,” rejoins the doctor; the glory of the Protestant Episcopal gospel nowadays is that it lets the family alone. In point of fact, Episcopalianism is not quite so bad as this hasty advocate would have us believe; for it does censure, in a mild way, the laxity of some of the divorce laws, and does not always lend itself to the celebration of bigamous marriages. But Dr. Wharton is correct in his main position—that his church leaves to the state the control of the family relation; and if she shrinks from the logical consequences of her desertion of duty, that is only because a remnant of Catholic feeling remains to her in the midst of her heresies and contradictions. The time must come, however, when these illogical fragments of truth will be thrown away, and the Protestant Episcopal Church will take its place beside the other Protestant bodies in renouncing all right to be heard on one of the most important points of contact between the law of God and the concerns of every-day life. It is impossible to allow the civil power to bind and loose the family tie at pleasure, without admitting that the subject is entirely outside the domain of ecclesiastical supervision. The attempt of the Episcopal Church to compromise on adultery is an absurdity, and in the steady course of Protestant development it will surely be abolished.

Is there any particular in which the Protestant Episcopal Church fairly takes hold of the family? We have seen that she abandons to politicians the sacred tie between the parents; what has she to do with the next domestic concern—the education of the child? Dr. Wharton holds it to be one of her distinguishing claims to public favor that she abandons this duty also to the secular power. The right to control education, according to him, is, like the right to sanction the marriage tie, one of the insolent pretensions of the Vatican usurper. The state, he thinks, is bound not only to educate all its subjects, but to decide what points a secular education shall cover, while the church may only add to this irreligious training such pious instruction as the child may have time and strength to receive after the more serious lessons are over. “The church,” he says, “concedes to the state the right and duty to require a secular education from all, while for itself it undertakes, as a free church in a free state, the right and duty to give a religious education to all within its reach.” Expressed in somewhat plainer English, this means that thirty hours a week ought to be given to the dictionary and multiplication table, and one hour to the catechism and the ten commandments. Send your children to schools all the week where they will hear nothing whatever of religion, where that most vital of all concerns will be a forbidden subject, where the idea will be practically, if not in so many words, impressed upon their tender minds that it is of no consequence whether they are Christians, or Jews, or infidels, so long as they master the various branches of worldly knowledge which promote success in the secular affairs of life; and then get them into Sunday-school if you can, for a wild and ineffectual attempt to counteract the evil tendencies of the previous six days’ teachings. This is trying to give a Christian education without the corner-stone of Christian doctrine; building a house upon the sand, and then running around it once a week with a hatful of pebbles and a trowel of mud to put a foundation under the finished structure. Dr. Wharton seems to embody in his own person a surprising variety of the inconsistencies for which the Protestant Episcopal Church has such a peculiar celebrity. For here, after he has claimed credit for his church as the champion of a secular education, he tells the Congress that secularism is one of the great dangers of the age, against which the church must fight with all her strength. “The battle with secularism has to be fought out.” It must be fought “by the church, and eminently by our own church. Our duty therefore is to fit ourselves for the encounter, and we must do this with the cause of religion, undertaking in its breadth and embracing all branches of religious, spiritual, and ethical culture.” Well, but, dear sir, you have just said that during the most important period of man’s intellectual development, when the mind is receiving impressions which are likely to last through life, the church ought to stand aside and let the state teach secularism without hindrance. Are you going to cultivate secularism in the young until it becomes firmly rooted, and then fight against it with sermons and essays which your secularized young men will not listen to? How do you expect to impart religious, spiritual, and ethical culture when you have formally renounced your inestimable privilege and your sacred duty as a guide and teacher of children? You propose to wait until your boys have come to man’s estate before you attempt to exercise any influence upon them; and then, when they have grown up with the idea that religious influence ought to be avoided as one avoids pestilence, you wonder and complain that they are indifferent to the church and will not hear you. “The battle with secularism has to be fought out.” Your way of fighting is to abandon the outposts, leave front and rear and flanks unprotected, and throw away your arms.

It was one of the peculiarities of the Congress that whatever error was promulgated in the essays and debates, somewhere in the course of the sessions an antidote was sure to be furnished—this being an illustration, we suppose, of the extreme toleration of opinion to which Bishop Clarke referred as “somewhat singular” in a church “so fixed in its doctrines.” Hence we need not be surprised to find in the second day’s proceedings a refutation of the educational theories propounded during the first. Dr. Wharton made use of the principle of secular schooling as a weapon of offence against the Vatican. But when the delegates had relieved their minds and vindicated their Protestant orthodoxy by giving the poor Pope about as much as he could stagger away with, they turned their attention to their own condition, and one of their first subjects of inquiry was what secular education had done for them. The topic of consideration on the second morning was “The Best Methods of Procuring and Preparing Candidates for the Ministry.” Dr. Schenck of Brooklyn began by stating that the supply of candidates for holy orders was not only inadequate to the needs of the church, but it was falling off—a smaller number offering themselves to-day than six or seven years ago. This, said he, should excite the gravest concern of the church; and nobody seemed disposed to contradict him. Dr. Edward B. Boggs indeed presented some uncomfortable statistics which tell the whole story. In 1871, the number of resident presbyters of the Episcopal Church in the United States was 2,566; in 1874, it was only 2,530. Here, then while the population increases the clergy are diminishing. A great many reasons were suggested for the phenomenon. One thought the question of salary was at the bottom of the evil. Another blamed mothers for not giving their boys a taste for the ministry while they were young. A third believed the trouble was too little prayer and too much quarrelling over candles and ecclesiastical millinery. And more than one hinted in the broadest terms that the ministry was discredited by having too many fools in it.[174] The truth, however, which had been vaguely suggested by some of the earlier speakers, was plumply told by Dr. Edward Sullivan of Chicago. “The church,” said he, “must learn to supply the ranks of the ministry from her own material”—that is to say, by giving the children of the church a Christian education. He lamented the exclusion of the Bible from some of the common schools as a national calamity—not, if we understand him, because he has any overweening faith in the efficacy of Bible-reading per se, but because he knows that when positive religious teaching is banished from the school, the children can hardly fail to grow up without any religious feeling whatever. “Until we establish parochial church schools,” he continued, “we can never solve this problem.” And he might have added that if the teaching of secularism is to be continued for a generation or two longer, the problem will solve itself: there will be no need of preachers when there cease to be congregations.

If such an alarming phenomenon as an actual falling off in the numbers of the clergy were noticed in our own holy church, it would perhaps occur to good Catholics to inquire whether the bishops were doing all that they ought to do for the souls of their people. But the Episcopal Congress at Philadelphia seems to have been vexed with the idea that the bishops were doing entirely too much. Looking at the assemblage from the outside, we cannot pretend to see the under-currents of opinion, or to comprehend the denominational politics; but it was plain both from the tone of the addresses in the session set apart for considering the “Nature and Extent of Episcopal Authority” and from the manner in which some of the remarks of the speakers were received, that a jealousy of episcopal authority prevailed with considerable bitterness. Dr. Vinton of Boston drew a parallel between the government of the church and the government of the state; both were ruled by executives appointed by law and controlled by law, and in each case the chief officer acted by the assumed authority of those he governed. The bishops therefore, we infer, have just as much power as the people choose to give them, and we see no reason why the congregations should not enlarge and restrict that power at pleasure—make a new constitution, if they wish, every year, and treat their prelates as the savage treats his idol, which he sets upon an altar for worship in the morning, and if things go not well with him, kicks into the kennel at night. Indeed, since the foundation of the Anglican Church the episcopate has always been treated with scant ceremony. Dr. Vinton tells us that it is a reflex of the political organization, and as that has varied a great deal in England and America, and is not unlikely in the course of time to vary a great deal more, we must not be surprised to find the system undergoing many strange modifications and holding out the promise of further change indefinitely. In the primitive church, the episcopacy was a despotism. In the Anglican Church, it is “merely an ecclesiastical aristocracy.” In the Protestant Episcopal Church of America, where the exigencies of politics have to be considered, it is—well, that is just what the Congress tried in vain to determine. For one thing, Dr. Vinton and other speakers after him laid great stress upon the fact that its authority was carefully circumscribed by statute, and that the church was a corporation—though whence it derived its charter nobody was good enough to tell us. In truth, we did not find the day’s proceedings edifying. Dr. Vinton declared that an organic evil of the church constitution, “boding more of mischief and sorrow to the body of Christ than any or all of the evils besides that our age makes possible,” was the liability of bishops to grow arrogant of power, to make their authority troublesome, to put on idle pomp, and set themselves “in conspicuous difference from the taste, the traditions, the educated and intelligent convictions which the providence of God has caused to rule in this land.” Dr. Fulton of Indianapolis inveighed with warmth against any bishop who ventured to intrude into another man’s diocese, and remarked that “some bishops were never at home unless they were abroad.” A bishop, continued the doctor, is subject to civil law. He should be tried for violation of the ninth commandment if he wilfully slander a clergyman either in or out of his own diocese. Bishops must not affect infallibility in doctrinal utterances. They must remember that in more than one respect they and their presbyters are equals. A bishop who would be respected must respect the rights of other bishops—not being an episcopal busybody in other men’s sees. Dr. Goodwin of Philadelphia thought that what our Lord meant to have was “a moderate episcopate.” Dr. Washburn of New York believed that even the powers granted to the apostles were not exclusive, and that ever since the apostolic age these powers had been gradually more and more distributed, until now, we should think, they must be so finely divided that no fragment of them is anywhere visible in the Episcopal Church.

Dr. J. V. Lewis convulsed the house with laughter by a speech in which he declared that the bishops had been so “tied hand and foot by conventions and canons that it was wonderful they had time to do anything but find out what they must not do”; and he called upon the church to “cut those bands and let the bishops loose.” We quote from the report of his remarks in the Church Journal: “What will they do? He would tell them what they would do. He had at home in his yard six chickens about half-grown. He had placed among them a turkey big enough to eat any of them up. But they all flew at him. One little fellow pecked him and spurred him savagely. The turkey looked on in perfect astonishment, apparently; but at length he spread out his wings and literally sat down upon him. From that day to this, whenever that turkey stirs, these chickens cannot be kept from following him. And this is just what will happen in the church, if we will only let our bishops loose.” All this was the cause of much innocent hilarity among the brethren; but we fear that it was to Dr. Lewis that the Churchman referred the next week in the following solemn strain: “It is a sad circumstance that the ministry has in it, here and there, a professional joker and cheap story-teller and anecdote-monger, one of the most tedious and least estimable types of foolishness that try Christian endurance and vex religious families. It is to be hoped no such melancholy-moving buffoon will ever propose himself as clown to the Church Congress; and, short of that, will it be wise to confer the award of the heartiest and loudest applause on a sort of comic pleasantry and ‘jesting not convenient’ which, at best, is outdone in its own line in whole columns of daily newspapers? We may smile, because it cannot be helped, but we can surely reserve our plaudits—if they must be given at all—for that species of superiority which manifests a chaste refinement and suits tastes that are intellectual rather than jovial.”

Clearly there was a great deal more in these essays on the limitations of episcopal authority than met the profane eye. Who are the trespassers upon other men’s sheepfolds, and the busybodies, and the slanderers, and the pompous bishops, and the infallible bishops, and the bishops who think themselves better than their presbyters, it is not for us to inquire. Neither perhaps would it be decorous to ask how the ten or twelve bishops in the Congress—none of whom opened their mouths during the debate—enjoyed the session. But there is excellent reason to believe that the presbyters had a very pleasant day, singing the opening hymn in the morning, “Come, gracious Spirit, heavenly dove,” with peculiar unction, and joyously dismissing their right reverend fathers in the afternoon with the verses, “Go forth, ye heralds, in my name.”

If the bishops are in disrepute and the inferior clergy are falling away, it can hardly be necessary to tell us that the church has no real hold upon the people; that follows as a matter of course. Accordingly, the most interesting of the debates were on the best methods of giving vitality to the work of the church—on ministrations to the laboring classes, on free churches and free preaching, on the abuses of the new system, and on the need of something equivalent to the preaching Orders and Congregations of our own church. Of all the papers read at the Congress the only one which was received with what we may fairly call enthusiasm was an essay by Mr. Francis Wells, editor of the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, on the “Parochial System and Free Preaching,” at the close of which one of the reverend delegates jumped upon a bench and led the assembly in three cheers. We have seen no report which gives a fair abstract of Mr. Wells’ paper, or even explains what practical suggestions he had to offer, so that it is impossible to understand what it was that moved the feelings of the Congress. But if he drew a faithful picture of the average Episcopal Church of our day he may well have startled his audience. “The chief trouble,” he said, “lies in the spirit of exclusiveness which eyes the fashion of the dress and warns off strangers with a cold stare.” He was quite right in holding that the renting of pews and the expenditure of large sums of money for the adornment of the house of God are not necessarily obstacles to the influence of the church over the masses. Our own experience proves that. What poor and ragged sinner was ever repelled from a Catholic Church by imposing architecture, or gorgeous windows, or the blazing magnificence of lighted altars, or the strains of costly music? The rich have their pews—at least in this country, where it is only by pew-rents that we can meet the necessary expenses of the parish—but the most wretched beggar feels that he is welcome at all times in the splendid temple, and he may kneel there, feasting the senses, if he pleases, as well as refreshing the soul, without fear that his more comfortable neighbor will stare at his humble garments. Whatever the character of our churches, it is always the poor who fill them. It never occurs to a Catholic that the people who pay pew-rents acquire any proprietorship in the house of God, or have any better right there than those who pay nothing. The sermons are never made for the rich, and the Holy Sacrifice is offered for all indiscriminately. But in the Episcopal Church how different it is!

Imagine the feelings of a mechanic who approaches one of the luxurious Fifth-Avenue temples in his patched and stained working trowsers and threadbare coat. Carriages are setting down the haut ton at the door, every lady dressed in the extreme of fashion, every gentleman carefully arrayed by an expensive tailor. A high-priced sexton, with rather more dignity than an average bishop, receives the distinguished arrivals just inside the lobby, and scrutinizes strangers with the air of an expert who has learned by long experience in the highest circles just what kind of company every casual visitor has probably been in the habit of keeping. The interior of the church somehow suggests a Madison-Avenue parlor, furnished in the latest style of imitation antique. The upholstery is a marvel of comfort. The pleasantly subdued light suits the eyes and softens the complexions of Christians who have been up late dancing. A decorous quiet pervades the waiting congregation, broken only by the rustle of five-dollar silks sweeping up the aisles. Such a handsome display of millinery can be seen nowhere else for so little money. What is a working-man to do in such a brilliant gathering as this? He looks timidly at the back seats, and he finds there perhaps two or three old women, parish pensioners, Sunday-school boys, or young men who keep near the door in order to slip out quietly when they are tired of the services, but nobody of his class. The prosperous people all around him listen to the choir, and the reader, and the preacher, with an indescribable air of proprietorship in all of them. The sermon is an elaborate essay addressed to cultivated intellects, not to his common understanding. He goes away with the uncomfortable consciousness that he has been intruding, and feels like a shabby and unkempt person who has strolled by mistake into the stockholders’ row at the Italian Opera, and been turned out by a high-toned box-keeper. “It is indeed hard to imagine,” said The Nation the other day, “anything more likely to make religion seem repelling to a poor man than the sight of one of the gorgeous edifices in which rich Christians nowadays try to make their way to heaven. Working out one’s salvation clothed in the height of the fashion, as a member of a wealthy club, in a building in which the amplest provision is made for the gratification of all the finer senses, must seem to a thoughtful city mechanic, for instance, something in the nature of a burlesque. Not that the building is too good for the lofty purpose to which it is devoted, for nobody ever gets an impression of anything but solemn appropriateness from a great Catholic cathedral, but that it is the property of a close corporation, who, as it might be said, ‘make up a party’ to go to the Throne of Grace, and share the expenses equally, and fix the rate so high that only successful businessmen can join.”