STRAY MR. THOMAS JOHN PENN, the last descendant of the celebrated Penn family, was buried in the churchyard of Stoke Pogis recently. It is just a century since the Penns commenced their residence at Stoke, the estate, on the death of Lady Cobham, in 1769, having been purchased from her executors by the Hon. Thomas Penn, Lord Proprietary of Pennsylvania. The late Mr. Penn was sixty-four years of age. He sold the original painting by West of "Penn's Treaty with the Indians." The picture was bought by Mr. Catlin, and is now in the Town Hall of Philadelphia. "My dear Lord,-I take blame to myself for having, as I fear, obtruded on you some important matters of consideration at a time when you were not prepared to admit them; or in a manner which may have been deemed too earnest and importunate. That you pardon the intrusion, I have no doubt, and that you ascribe what may have been ill-timed, or ill-considered, to the true cause-an anxious wish to lead a highly gifted mind like yours, to those thoughts which alone can satisfy it. "Before I leave this place, instead of again trespassing on you in person, I have resolved to commit to paper a few considerations which your own powerful mind will know how to improve, and which I humbly pray the Holy Spirit of God to impress, so far as they accord with his Truth, on the hearts of both of us. I contemplate in you, my dear Lord, an object of no ordinary interest. I see a man full of years and honours-honours richly earned (ay, were they tenfold greater than they are), by a life which, protracted long beyond the ordinary age of man, has been employed, during all the period of service, in promoting, "strengthening, and securing the best and most sacred interests of your country. I see in you the faithful, zealous, and most able advocate of the connection of true religion with the constitu tion and government of England. I see in you one who has largely benefited the generation of which you have been among the most distinguished ornaments. Seeing and feeling this, I am sure you will pardon me if I exhibit a little even of undue eagerness to perform to you the only service which I can hope to render-that of exciting such a mind to those reflections, by which, after serving others, it can now do the best and surest service to itself. In truth, those reflections are few and brief, but most pregnant. In short, my dear Lord, I would seek most earnestly to guard you against the danger which arises from the very qualities which we most admire in you, and from the actions for which we are most grateful to you. That danger is, lest you contemplate these matters with too much satisfaction-lest you rest upon them as the grounds of your hope of final acceptance with God. Oh! my dear Lord, the best of the sons of men must be content, or rather must be most anxious, to look out of themselves, and above themselves, for any sure hope-I will not say of justification, but of mercy. Consider the infinite holiness and purity of God, and then say whether any man was ever fit to appear at his tribunal. Consider the demands of his Law, extending to the most secret thoughts, and wishes, and imaginations of NOTES. the heart, and then say whether you, or any one, can stand before him in your own strength, when he cometh to judgment. No: it is as sinners, as grievous sinners, we shall, we must appear; and the only plea which will be admitted for us is the righteousness and merits of our crucified Redeemer. If we place any reliance on our own poor doings or fancied virtues, those very virtues will be our snares, our downfall. Above all things, therefore, it is our duty, and pre-eminently the duty of the purest and best among us, to cast off all confidence in our selves, and thankfully to embrace Christ's most precious offer on the terms on which he offers it; he will be our Saviour only if we know and feel, and humbly acknowledge, that we need his salvation. He will be more and more eur Saviour in proportion as we more and more love and rely upon him. But surely the more we feel and deplore our own sinfulness, the more earnest will be our love, the firmer our reliance on him who alone is mighty to save. Therefore it is, that, in preparing ourselves to appear before him, the less we think of what we may fondly deem our good deeds and good qualities, and the more rigidly we scrutinise our hearts, and detect and deplore our manifold sinfulness, the fitter shall we be, because the more deeply sensible of the absolute necessity and of the incalculable value of his blessed undertaking and suffering for us. One word only more-of ourselves we cannot come to this due sense of our own worthlessness: and the devil is always ready to tempt our weak hearts with the bait which is most taking to many among us-confidence in ourselves. It is the Holy Spirit who alone can give us that only knowledge which will be useful to us at the last-the knowledge of our own hearts, of their weakness, their wickedness-and of the way of God's salvation, pardon of the faithful and confiding penitent for his dear Son's sake. Oh! my dear Lord, may you and I be found among the truly penitent, and then we shall have our perfect consummation and bliss among the truly blessed. "I am, my dear Lord, "With true veneration and regard, "Your Lordship's most faithful Servant, "And affectionate Brother in Christ, "H. EXETER. "The Earl of Eldon." BISMARCK AND HIS PEASANTRY.-A Silesian paper gives the following anecdote of Count Bismarck :The peasants on the count's estate had got into the bad habit of working on Sundays. The count heard of it, and wrote to his bailiff, "There must be an end of that." The bailiff answered, "The people are not to blame. Six days, from morning to evening, they have to work on the estate, and yet they have their own bit of land to look after, and so they have only Sunday left to do it in." But the count will not listen to such excuses, and writes back :-" From this time forward a new order is to be introduced. When my people have land, and their corn is ripe, they are to begin with their own first." The bailiff informs the peasants of the count's commands, and adds, "But now no more work on Sundays." The result is that the peasants say to each other, "The master shall not lose a farthing by caring for us first, so let us work with a will," and they do it toc. Never was the work done so well and so rapidly, and the bailiff could write to the count a few days afterwards, "That was a capital hit, and nobody has had more advantage from it than we. It was all finished in the twinkling of an eye." 66 Exactly. Now, Amy, I will carry the bag. Can unsolved. What is the name of the man whom you you walk?" have promised to marry?" Nothing could be plainer or more pointed than the question. Amy did not answer it; she walked on in silence. He detained her with a firm hand. They stood on the dark, solitary road, nothing in sight save the twinkling lamp in the sick woman's chamber; none to overhear them but God! "I will not let you proceed, Amy, until you have told me.” She knew how resolute he was, and she trembled. "I have promised, Reuben-I have promised," "There has been no change within the last hour," said she, hurriedly. "Can I break my word?" replied Reuben, gravely. He had a grave, serious manner. When Amy gave à little sob, he turned to her and said, "You should not weep, Amy, but rather rejoice. Think how she has suffered." "I know-I know!" and Amy wept silently a few moments. Then she dried her eyes and said affectionately, "Dear Reuben, what a solace it is to have you here!" "I felt it right to come, Amy; but I must not stay. The vicar is absent, and the whole work of the parish is on my shoulders." He had rather a stern manner. There was a firm -almost a hard expression about his mouth. It was evident that his sister stood in awe of him. She walked on again in silence. The silence was not broken until a twinkling light shone in the distance. The light was from the window of a lone house in the fields. Here Amy's mother had been brought for the benefit of the country air, and because she could not exist in the stifling atmosphere of the great city where Reuben dwelt. Here, as it happened, the poor sick lady had come to die. When the light from the window became apparent through the fog and darkness, Reuben slackened his pace. The girl's heart began to throb in a tumultuous and agitated manner, She knew what he was about to say. "Amy," said the stern, grave man at her side, "before we enter yonder house, I have somewhat to say to you." His manner was solemn and impressive. It was so at all times. The life he led fostered this solemnity. His lot was cast amid crowded neighbourhoods, where humanity toiled, struggled, suffered, and died. Amy had not replied to his speech. Her eyes were cast down, and a crimson flush had risen to her cheek. It was a subject on which she dreaded to enter with her brother Reuben. 'Amy, it is time that I, as your natural guardian and protector, was made acquainted with your actual position; nor would it be consistent with your filial duty to allow our mother to depart with this mystery "Yes, if your promise was an error, and will lead you into evil-if duty commands you to break it." "I dare not!" and she shuddered. Something told her-for in moments like these the veil was rent from her eyes-something told her there was a yawning gulf between her gay, gallant lover and this stern man beside her; and she dared not think of the steps Reuben might choose to take. "Amy," said he, as she still persisted in her silence, "I cannot detain you longer, or it may be too late. She will ask you. She cannot die in peace till you have told her. If you still refuse--" "Well?" said Amy, a mortal dread at her heart; for the pause Reuben made was ominous,—“ well ?” "I shall think it my duty to make inquiries of Lady Peters." She wrung her hands in despair. Oh, this would be worse than all! This was what she had dreaded with exceeding fear. Sidney might cast her off for ever! Stay! He had once said to her, when she had put before him a case like this—he had said, “Of course, if your mother is actually on her death-bed, I might make some concession." ear. She would whisper her secret in her mother's She would not tell Reuben. Oh, no! not for worlds! If she must explain, it should be to her mother. They entered the house. At least, she would see her mother alone. Her face was white; her eyes troubled; her whole demeanour agitated. Her brother did not unbend to her. It had been better, perhaps, if he had. His behaviour was rather chilling and repelling. He hated this ban of secrecy; he was open and truthful as the day. Only evil" lurks in hidden corners," he would say; and the presence of evil once suspected, he would probe it down to the very root! Their mother had been asking for Amy repeatedly. The dying woman knew that her hours were numbered. She did not fear to die. She was of that happy company who have made their peace with God. Her life had passed through great tribulation, and now there shone before her the crown of victory. But the mother's heart clung to Amy. She longed IN DUTY BOUND. to have this one barrier removed; this withheld Amy sat down by the bedside. Her limbs trembled; her heart swelled almost to bursting. She kissed the dear face, so pallid, so sunk, so death-like, and yet so full of loving, anxious tenderness. She laid her weary head upon the pillow; she felt for the moment as if she would fain have died too! 147 much left when he had done so, but that fact was beyond his control. He would settle these accounts, and then he knew what he would do. His face had a certain sternness about it. He was driven to a kind of desperation. She was young, but, then, how reckless! It was too expensive a process to wait until experience came. He must take the reins out of those incompetent hands, and govern for himself. He would rather not have taken the step he was planning. It grieved him to the heart. When he entered his home, so recently fitted up to be the abode of domestic joy, and remembered how soon She had glanced hurriedly his hopes had been crushed, he could have wept. "Amy," came the faltering whisper-a whisper faint indeed, but clear and distinct, "Amy, will you not tell even now?" No one was there. round. Mother, darling, if I tell you, it must not be repeated. I have promised, dear. All will go wrong if it is blazoned abroad too soon." The eager eyes were fixed upon her, and the lips moved. She could catch the faint sound of words, still imploring her to tell. How could she resist? How could she let her mother die, and not in peace? Would not the remembrance haunt her many a day? No, no! it was a desperate alternative; if it robbed her of her love, her heart would break. But she must risk all; and she bowed her head, placed her lips to her mother's ear. and "Mother, I will tell you. It is Sidney Peters!" A deep but suppressed groan made her turn quickly and fearfully round. The groan come from Reuben -her brother Reuben! CHAPTER XXVII. HORACE TAKES MATTERS INTO HIS OWN HANDS. THERE are some moments in life when a man is stunned, and feels as though the tide of events must go by unstemmed. Such moments do not last when the man is young, and the soul is full of energy and purpose. He rises, looks round, it may be sadly, but with the resolve to meet the difficulty and overcome it. Such was the case with Horace Vincent. He was stunned. He felt that his marriage had been a mistake; that his happiness would be wrecked; that, unless he strove mightily, his fortunes would be wrecked as well. But he rose, resolved, if possible, to meet and turn aside the giant wave that was approaching. He looked very haggard. He seemed older, by many years, than he did since we first knew him. And he had to think some time before he could arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. At length the conclusion came. He had reckoned up the bills many times, as though the process might have reduced the total to a less alarming amount. But there it was, neither greater nor smaller. Well, he must meet it. He unlocked a small cash-box, and took out some money. There was not The tea was waiting for him. He glanced round the untidy room, and at the book Ruth had just laid down, and also at her serene, smiling face, calm as He had been racked with anxiety; she had been reading her novel without a pang! ever. "I must give up the subscription to that library," he said, as he sat down. "There is scarcely a book in it worth the reading." How you talk, Horace! I should be moped to death without my novels." That was just the point at which he was aiming. But he bided his time. He did not wish to introduce the subject otherwise than kindly and courteously; and he had much to say to her that evening. When tea was over, and the door had closed behind the servant, he began. Ruth had taken her novel again, and was settling herself in her old place, her feet on the fender. "Ruth, do you never sew?" asked he, rather abruptly. "I do sometimes," she replied, her eyes fixed on her book. "You will oblige me by laying down your book, Ruth; I want to have a little talk with you." 'Well," she said, curtly, and closing her book, indeed, but keeping her finger in it as a marker. "You neither like sewing nor housekeeping, it seems to me, Ruth." You forget that I was only a governess." "True." And he was silent a moment. When he began again it was in a softer tone. He might have been unjust to her. Had he not married her with his eyes open? Was it not his fault as much as hers? "Ruth, I have been thinking what will be best for us to do. The cares of a household, and its varied duties, are not to your taste. Well, suppose you lay them aside; suppose we go into lodgings." Bramley. She has rooms to let, and I think they sure, but in a state of gloom and depression. Once will just suit us." or twice he saw the tears trickling down her face, Ruth made no reply. He could not see her face, and he went to her and tried to comfort her. But it was turned towards the fire. she would not speak! "I know what I shall do. The circumstance seems providential. A gentleman has been inquiring for a furnished house; I happened to see the advertisement. Now, if all goes well, he may be glad to take this house off our hands just as it is. I do not think we can do better, Ruth." She did not answer. He moved a little, so that he could catch a glimpse of her face. The obstinate expression was settling rapidly over it. Still he went on. "Then we can take possession of Jane Wilson's comfortable lodgings; they are very pleasant rooms indeed, Ruth; and Jane can cook, and market, and keep house, and the little wife will have no more trouble." He waited for a response to this speech, but none came. "What do you say to it, Ruth ?” "I shall not go!" she replied shortly, and almost rudely. “But if I wish it, dear—if this step will be the only means of saving me from serious embarrass ment?" "You should allow me more money, Horace. had no idea that you were such a screw." CHAPTER XXVIII. PROMPT MEASURES. THE office in which Horace transacted his business had, as we hinted before, become to him a refuge; nay, he was beginning to regard it as a kind of home. Here he laid his plans, and took cognisance of his position, and even was wont to hug his sorrows. For that sorrow, in its worst form, was coming upon him, there was little room to doubt. He had hoped that, by the morning, Ruth would have regained her good temper; for on this sole characteristic he had rested much of his hope. "At least, Ruth has an even temper," he had said to himself many a time. And he had tried to contrast her favourably with more gifted women, who had an infirmity of the opposite nature. But this favourite theory was in danger of being upset. Ruth had not regained her serenity. Her usually smiling face was overcast. She was sullen, and refused to speak except in monosyllables. He had to leave her in this mood, and betake himI self to the business of the day. He had grown firmer and a trifle sterner. He meant to carry his purpose, in spite of a sullen humour and a few black looks. It was the second time that she had used the expression. He was annoyed, but he passed over it. The beginning of strife was, he knew, like the letting out of water. He repeated to her that he was not rich; that, in fact, owing to her ignorance of household management, and her too great expenditure, he was fast drifting into difficulties. He softened the facts by telling her that she was young, and that time would work wonders. He did not wish to be harsh and discouraging, but her education in these matters must be conducted on a less costly scale. She would have opportunities of learning, without the responsibility, and without risk of failure. He thought he had put it before her as clearly and as fairly as possible; and he looked for the obstinate expression to give way. But it lingered, and in full force. She had no idea, she said, of going into lodgings now she was married, She always thought that women, when they were married, had no more trouble about money. Their husbands gave them as much as they wanted. He could not disabuse her of this idea, and after a time he left off trying. But then another phase of his domestic life became apparent-Ruth was sulky. He would have liked to carry on the discussion in a friendly spirit, and when it was over, to spend a domestic evening; but in this hope he was mistaken. Ruth sat over the fire, not reading to be "It is this step or ruin!" he said to him self. As soon as he could, he sallied forth in quest of Jane Wilson's lodgings. And here, for a brief space, his troubled heart found a kind of peace. 66 The good woman had known him from a child. She was secretly displeased that her young master had not married a lady born;" but still she was quite willing to receive him into her house; and it was a quiet abode, just what he liked. Its cleanliness and order, after his own disorderly home, were refreshing. He began to think that, after all, his affairs were not quite desperate; that in this retreat, free from the cares and duties which seemed to embarrass her, Ruth, too, might be happy. The woman knew how it was, but she held her peace. "He don't break up his home for nothing," said she, when he was gone. "I'll be bound that girl he's married don't know her right hand from her left!” The rest of Horace's business was soon transacted. To be sure, he sighed to think how quickly he had unbuilt his home; but, according to the houseagent who managed the affair, he had been most fortunate. "It is not often a furnished house is wanted East Bramley," said the man of business. "The gentleman has brought his wife to consult Dr. |