pursued on each subsequent journey. And indeed they are fully justified by the unprincipled conduct of some of his relatives, the blue-tits and greattits. These mean thieves stand by on the watch to profit by his industry, and plunder his caches without scruple.

The provident little storekeeper attacks these pilferers with the utmost fury; but usually the hiding-places are so cleverly chosen as to baffle even an expert of his own family, unless the thief were close behind him. The favorite sites for such hiding-places are cabbages, box borders, and the thick foliage of the yew. The number of journeys a cole-tit will make to the hand for the purpose of laying in stores is only limited by the patience of his purveyor. In the course of twelve minutes one of these birds made sixteen journeys to my hand, hiding the crumb in a different place on each occasion. Unfortunately they are a scarce bird with us, not more than two pair being permanently resident in the garden; but of these three perch on the hand, though they never enter the house. Both pairs nest yearly in the garden, and of these one pair takes food for their young ones from the hand of a person standing close to the nest. When the young ones are fledged, however, they are carried off by their parents to the woods and apparently told to remain there, for their parents return without them.

With regard to the two remaining species of hand-perchers, great-tits and hedge-sparrows, there is little of interest to record.

Of the four representatives of the former family one only, a handsome cock, perches regularly on the hand. The other three, though they will come at a whistle to feed at our feet or on the window-sills, have hitherto obstinately declined further familiarities. But perhaps they do not meet with as much encouragement from us as the

other birds; for they are very destructive to bees, and may be seen in constant attendance on our bee-hives. Their bullying propensities, only too well known to aviary keepers, make them, moreover, an object of fear to the less warlike birds. Only that accomplished duellist, the robin, dares to exchange beak-thrusts with this terror of the aviaries. In a duel which took place on a window-sill here between a great-tit and a robin, the former was ignominiously pinked by his adversary, a tiny puncture in the dead bird's skull showing where the robin's point had got home.

Two years ago for the first time one of our most patient bird tamers succeeded in training a pair of hedgesparrows to perch regularly on the hand. But alas! both have since fallen victims to cats. At present only two or three will venture to peck a crumb from the hand laid flat on the ground. In all other respects the remaining hedge-sparrows are almost as tame as any of the birds. Their excursions into the house, however, are limited to the ground floor when the door is open. During the summer they become very shy, and seldom come when called.

I shall conclude with a few suggestions for the benefit of those who may think of attempting experiments on the lines I have described. First, kill all your cats. I mention this rather as a counsel of greater perfection than because it is absolutely necessary. We keep two cats at present-a grudging concession to local pussophils; though I must confess to an itching sensation in the trigger-finger whenever I see them in the garden. Secondly, if you keep boys, confiscate their catapults. So much for predatory animals.

With regard to the method of feeding birds, it is of prime importance to feed regularly, once you have begun, especially when the winter is passing into

spring. Even a day or two of neglect makes a difference then. When it is desired to tame the tits the cheese or fat from the window-sill larders should be removed on a frosty morning and held in the hand.

As so much depends on example, one of the first requisites will be to secure the services of one or two tame robins as decoy-birds. As an instance of the influence of example in taming birds, I may mention that this spring a fullgrown young missel-thrush, seeing

Pall Mall Magazine.

some chaffinches feeding on crumbs at the house door, flew up and joined them. From that day onwards he has been one of our most regular clients, even venturing at times to perch on the bench beside us. This is the first missel-thrush that has ever shown any symptoms of tameness.

Lastly, to conclude with a platitude, before all things you will require patience and perseverance. "Its dogged as does it."

Francis Irwin.

All sorts and conditions of men, probably every sort and condition, the natural as well as the spiritual man, even down to that lowest of all creeping things, the time-serving politician, felt on hearing of the Archbishop's death that a giant had gone from the earth. Frederick Temple was a giant amongst men in many ways, in intellect, in bodily strength, in energy, in honesty of character. He could get through work that would have killed or cowed every other man; he could keep his head when all other men were distressed or exultant; neither anxiety nor difficulty nor toil could oppress his spirit. This extraordinary fund of sheer force made him a worker of miracles; and it never failed him. Burdened from quite early years with work that would have bowed other men to the ground or broken them, Temple lived on, outliving nearly all his peers, never abating his tale of tasks, living fully, strenuously, as though he were going to live for ever, seemingly contemputuous of old age, scorning to make of it either an asylum or a rest for a great life that had earned its rest as not one life in

ten thousand ever has done or ever can. He has died fittingly: nothing cut off, nothing failing, he has done and been more than mortal man may expect to do or be. How different from Mandell Creighton! Creighton's death left us blank with disappointment, horror-struck, at the sudden failure of the highest hopes, restrained, if restrained, from breaking out into open rebellion at the wanton wastefulness of death, only by the sense that this was the hand of God. Temple's life was lived so fully, lived right out, that death hardly seems an intruder at all; so long has death waited and so courteously that he might not spoil a single scene in the drama in which it was his part to say the last word. Too often death is in such hurry to have his say that he cannot wait for others to say theirs: he rudely casts his shadow on the stage in his anxiety to come on: he muddles all the action and brings down the curtain on a spoilt performance. Not so in this case. Charon has waited for his passenger to come to him; waited side, waited for the touching speech on until every detail was perfected on this

Victoria's death, for the coronation, for the speech on the education bill. Temple passes from life to life. Not even in the cloisters of the stately Abbey, the noblest resting-place for God's elect and man's, is the proper monument to this man. His place is amongst the living; shades and seclusion have no part in him.

All

Great as he was intellectually, he was before all things a man of action. At Rugby, at Exeter, in London, and as Primate, it was not scholarship, it was not culture, it was not oratory, that made him a power, it was administrative capacity, the faculty to govern. He was English in the best sense: be had in a supreme degree what the best Englishmen have and he lacked what most of the best Englishmen lack. He was not indeed the better for his rough manners, his unsympathetic habit, the absence of all charm. this was simply so much loss; his want of polish added not a whit to his honesty and strength. But it is a fact that extremely few Englishmen combine both; and, fortunately, on the whole they are more deficient in grace than in truth. So much so that we are instinctively inclined to be on our guard against an unusually courteous man, a more than normally charming woman, while in a rough man we rather expect ultimately to reach hidden merit. It would be grotesquely slanderous to suggest that Temple's reputation for honesty was factitious in any sense, but it is undoubtedly true that his rough exterior, even his unmelodious voice, made popular appreciation of his character easier and more certain than greater suavity would have allowed. It is merely an instance of right receiving factitious assistance-right usually meets with so much factitious opposition that it would be hard indeed, if there were never an item to put down on the other side of the score. Straightforwardness, uncompromising honesty,

we have no doubt is the idea of Archbishop Temple of quite ninety out of every hundred who knew anything of him. Strange as it may seem, this operated as a conciliating factor. We have known clergymen, not seeing things as Temple did and knowing him as a ruler in the Church, who were quite content and willing to acquiesce in his guidance because they knew what he was about, they knew that he was honest. Refusals and settings-down, in circumstances of physical discomfort, could be accepted more willingly from this honest man than softer words from a courtier they could not, or felt they could not, entirely trust. Temple knew not how to flatter; in the presence of princes he was as in the presence of workmen, with whom he was a great power: very many of them loved him. The well-known story of his remark as to Queen Victoria's memory is a good illustration. The Archbishop and another bishop were dining with the Queen, when she referred to a sermon she had heard a year ago. Thereupon the other bishop complimented Her Majesty on her remarkable memory; but Temple pointed out that there was nothing remarkable in it, for he had reminded her of the sermon yesterday.

Honesty was the one great fact about Temple, force was the other. How great, how gigantic, was the force of this man may be gathered from his own career; no other evidence is needed. He had few adventitious circumstances to help him: he had every one of the great qualities that tell against worldly success: very exceptional intellectual ability, uncompromising honesty, incapacity to conciliate, bad manners, a rough exterior. That a man thus handicapped could reach the Archbishopric of Canterbury, which has been called the throne of golden mediocrity, is an amazing thing: it is a miracle that nothing but superhuman force, as men go, could have worked.

He even made difficulties of his own. His independence of character forbade his concealing views as a young man which very many thought very dangerous: so that Temple, as Bishop of Exeter, was at first a suspect. He, also, warmly adopted most unpopular causes. He was a most uncompromising teetotaller, fiercely so, when it was a much more difficult thing to renounce liquor than it is now. Yet in spite of all these mountains of obstacles, he reached the highest place in the Church of England, and died more popular than at any time of his life, never having squared a single conviction, never having disguised a single truth, to make a friend or conciliate an enemy. It is a marvellous record.

We will not go into the squalid contention which party in the Church can claim Temple. He was just to all parties. He insisted on the whole truth. Take two controversial points. He never shirked the admission of Confession by the Church in certain circumstances, but he always insisted that the spirit of the Anglican Church excluded systematic confession on the Roman lines. He declared definitely that the formulæ of the Church admitted the doctrine of the Real Presence in the Eucharist but equally insisted that they did not require it. Similarly, dealing with his clergy, he cared for the men that worked. He would not throw over a man that he knew to be an honest, hard, and able worker because of ritual extravagance; though he did

The Saturday Review.

not sympathize with such extravagance. People are apt to think that in these great prelates mundane associations, their mingling with the great world, their absorption in large matters of policy and ecclesiastical statecraft, crowd out the real spiritual work of a clergyman. That is generally a superficial inference. We came across an incident which showed how unfair would be such an inference to Temple. At a dinner party, a guest said to the host, in the hearing of the Archbishop as it proved, that he could not believe in God. Temple did not intervene at the time, but the next day he called at this man's house-he was not a distinguished person in any sense-and asked if he could help him in his difficulties of belief. Many less busy men would not have found time to do that.

Out of sheer respect to the Archbishop's memory-public grounds apartone can but hope that his successor will carry on his great tradition-that strength and honesty will be his marks, that he will be a man not a courtier, just rather than politic. Otherwise it were a treachery to the memory of Frederick Temple, who may honestly be summed up in lines, that only flattered him of whom they were spoken as epitaph:

His life was gentle, and the elements So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up

And say to all the world "This was a man!"

Martha Lupton had been considered "wonderful house-proud" in those faraway days on which she now looked back with a mixture of pride and sorrow-the days in which she had had a house of her own and "no need to be behowden to nobry." The house, as a matter of fact, had been her husband's, but poor old Dicky Lupton had never been made "mich count on." He had been well bullied and kept in order; and Martha's neatness and cleanliness had made his life a sore burden to him. Even during his last illness the poor man had scarcely dared turn in bed for fear of rumpling sheet or pillow-case. Some of the neighbors had averred that as often as his poor feeble hand plucked at the counterpane when his end drew near, Martha, between her sobs, had possessed herself of it and carefully replaced it beneath the trimly-folded clothes.

said,

But now Dicky was no more, and all that remained of him was a framed sampler worked by his hand in youthhe had evidently been born to be henpecked-and his hat, which hung in a prominent position opposite the door "to freet'n tramps," Martha though whether tramps generally think it worth their while to visit almshouses is a moot point. Yes, Martha now occupied one of the neat row of tiny almshouses situate near the school, and founded by the same generous benefactor more than two hundred years ago. A typical Lancashire man this must have been, open-handed, warm-hearted, but chary of words. The inscription over the school porch must surely have been characteristic: "Doce, disce vel discede."

Martha's present home was a narrow one, it was true, consisting of two rooms which she shared with another old woman called Moggy Gill; and in this enforced companionship lay what Martha felt to be the supreme hardship of her lot. She could put up with living on charity, having worked so hard all her life; now that she was no longer able to "addle wage," it was clearly somebody's duty to provide for her; therefore she pocketed her seven shillings a week without scruple, and made the most of the poor little dwelling assigned to her. But not so much as to have it to herself!-that was the crux. To be moidered with a poor do-less creature same as Moggy-Moggy who could never be trusted to sweep clean or to dust the back of a chair as well as the front, or even to fill the kettle without spilling some of its contents on the freshly raddled floor. Moggy was enough to try the patience of a saint. She was a little blear-eyed old woman, a spinster. "The men-folk knowed better nor to pick sich a poor missis as hoo'd ha' made," Martha fre quently asserted. She was rheumatic and, moreover, clumsy; and though she and Martha had dwelt together for more than five years she had not yet begun to get into Martha's ways. Moggy had been first in possession, but the other at once took command; she continued to be house-proud even in her two rooms, and not only delighted in scrubbing and cleaning and polishing, but insisted that Moggy should be equally energetic.

"Share and share alike," she would say; "you scrub floor and I'll raddle it."

So down poor old Moggy would go on her rheumatic knees, while Martha stood over her, frowning.

"I knowed ye'd never shift hearth