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early good looks. His youth he had

"If you'll have me, sir.”

"I suppose you can't bring any testimonials to character?"

spent "Very; but stick to the point. Do you in London, none exactly knew how; some feel inclined to settle down here in my said as an artist, others said as a novelist; service?" all agreed he had consumed his substance in riotous living. When his father died, and he came to settle at Holt Hill, he came with a bad reputation. As he was forty, and did not marry, the bad reputation idly grew worse. He had some faults, it is true; he played cards freely, drank heavily, and then he had a mysterious past. The clergy and all respectable married people held aloof from him; the young ladies admired him and trembled; the young men said he was much maligned.

"Afraid not, sir. Don't know any rerap-spectable people. I'm only a travelling sweep, here to-day, gone to-morrow. Take me a month on trial, sir."

When he woke the sun was high in the heavens. He rose at once, had a cold tub, and then a good breakfast. "Now for the sweep," said he. He found him at work in the dining-room.

"Well, Mr. Sweep, how are you getting on ?"

"Tom Sampler's my name, sir. Get ting on very nicely, thank you, sir.”

"Are those all the tools you have?" pointing a contemptuous foot at a brush and a few rods lying about. "Yes, sir."

"Very good; a month's trial. Consider yourself engaged, fifteen shillings a week, with keep. Will that do?”

“Yes, sir, thank ye.”

"And now go on with the chimneys, only no more climbing, mind I'll go you. and arrange with Mrs. Clack.'

And so Tom Sampler settled down. He had been a jockey, and then a vagrant sweep; his antecedents were not reassuring; but clean clothes, regular diet, and regular employment reformed him, and perhaps the feeling that he was trusted helped him more than anything. Willoughby took a strong fancy to him, and let him into his confidence in a small way. Tom adored his master. When Willoughby went out shooting, Tom carried

"But they won't go to the top, surely?" the game; when he went out to card-par"Yes, sir, they will." "How?

"I shall go up the chimney after them." "But you might stick."

"No fear, sir, in a good old-fashioned chimney like this. Besides, if I did, what matter, sir? It's all in a day's work."

Mr. Willoughby turned away. The soft spot in his heart was touched again.

He went out and strolled round the place, in the garden, the fold-yard, the stables. Then it occurred to him that he wanted a groom, a groom who would not object to do a little work in the garden, to sit up for him at nights, to act occasionally as a valet, and in other capacities. He returned to the sweep, and found him in one of the bedrooms hard at work, and singing softly to himself.

"Here, Mr. Sweep." "Tom Sampler, sir."

ties, Tom drove him there and back; when Tom was running the machine over the grass, Willoughby would sit near on a garden-seat and chat. At night, when Tom knocked at the door of the smokingroom, and entered to report his day's work and receive instructions for the morrow, Willoughby would sometimes ask him to sit down. If the weather was cold, he would pour him out a glass of whiskey, but he could never persuade him to take a second.

“Come, Tom, you might as well have another - it's a sharp night." "No, thank ye, sir."

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Why not? You must have drunk heavily in your time — eh?" "I have sir, but never again." "How's that?"

"Bad example, sir, to others."

In this way the worthy fellow strove to

"Well, then, Tom Sampler! Would lead his master in the right direction, nat

you like to settle down?"

"How, sir?"

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without some result.

"You have been here a year now, Tom," said Willoughby one day. "Haven't you found a pretty girl to marry yet?"

"No, sir. I don't intend marrying a present."

"Not at present-eh? When, then?" "When you do, sir."

Willoughby laughed aloud; but from that day he understood Tom perfectly.

"He wishes to reform me," he would

sometimes say to himself; "and perhaps | row night; if I lose, I shall stop before he may. Who knows?" much damage is done; if I win, I shall follow my luck. There, my friend, let that quieten your fears. Good-night."

"I shall want the brown mare up tomorrow," said Willoughby to Tom one night in the smoking-room; "I'm going to Mr. Ferguson's. We'll have the dogcart, and you shall drive me, as my ankle is still weak." He had sprained it about a month before.

"None of them carding-parties, I hope, sir," said Tom.

"Shut the door and sit down." Tom obeyed.

"Look here, Tom, you forget yourself. What is it to you whether I play cards or not?"

"I'm sorry to offend, sir. You've been very kind to me, but I can't help speaking out, and I don't like to see you wasting your money. You know, sir, you have told me as how you lose sometimes."

"But I win sometimes."

Tom looked at the floor and said nothing. There was a long pause. Willoughby puffed hard at his pipe; suddenly he broke out with:

"Do you know what mortgages are, Tom?"

"Yes, sir; we call 'em monkeys." "Well, Tom, there are a good many monkeys on my farm, and the owners of the monkeys that is, the mortgagees will want their interest in a month's time. If they don't get it they will sell me up. I have not the money. Now, do you understand why I am going to play cards to-morrow?"

Tom looked at his master sympathetically, but did not speak.

"It's not all my fault," he went on. "I had the money in the bank at the beginning of the year; but a relative borrowed £500 to set up in business, and — and But you understand?"

"You mean you won't see the color of that money again, sir?"

"Exactly so."

"I'm right down sorry to hear it, sir. But is there no way except this card-playing? Couldn't you put off them monkeygees for a year? Couldn't you tell 'em you were going to work hard, and save, and pull things round? Knock off my wage, sir; I don't want it. And put me on to some harder work; I could do as much again as I do."

Tom rose to his feet somewhat excitedly, pulling his waistcoat down and stiffening his back, as though to show off his physical capacity for additional toils.

"Rubbish, Tom! Sit down. Kindly meant, but rubbish. I shall play to-mor

Good-night, sir. But promise me one thing: if you are lucky, you'll never play for money again."

"I promise."

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Then may you be lucky, sir, for this once. Good-night, sir." And Tom disappeared.

"The beginning of the reform," thought Willoughby. "I wonder if he'll make me

sign the pledge next."

It was late in the afternoon when Tom drove the dog-cart up to the front door.

"Put a little corn in," shouted Willoughby from his bedroom window, "and a basket. I shall want you to fetch Lightning up for me in the Bent Garth."

Lightning was a horse with a good deal of blood in him, very dear to Willoughby, and often entered for steeple-chases at the minor race-meetings.

In a few minutes they drove away. Arrived at the Bent Garth, Tom got down with his basket of corn, and Willoughby sat waiting in the trap on the highroad.

The Bent Garth was, as its name implied, a bent field, shaped like the letter L. The horse was not to be seen; it was no doubt round the bend. Thither Tom marched through the grass; he had hardly got round the corner, and out of his master's sight, when he came on two men lying on the ground two men, one a big, hulking fellow with a dark, unshaven face, the other a nondescript of middle height and no particular color. Tom recognized them both-old acquaintances of his va grant days, and a brace of thorough-going rascals.

"Hullo!" cried Tom.

"Bless me," said the big fellow, "if it ain't old Sweepy, looking quite respectable too! Got a good job on, old pal?"

"Yes; I've turned groom.'

"Lor' now, to think of that! Old Sweepy turned groom! And looks quite reformed, don't he? Well, it is pleasant meeting old friends when they're getting up in the world. And where are you hanging out now?"

"At that big house this side of the village."

"Mr. Willoughby's! I know him; fond of his glass, and don't mind tipping a poor feller a shilling when he's on a bit. He's a gentleman, he is! What are you going to do now with that basket?"

"Fetch up that horse for Mr. Wil loughby to look at.”

“Ta-ta, then, for the present. We shall | be at the village inn to-night. Perhaps you'll drop in and stand us a glass for old times, Sweepy, won't yer?"

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'No, I can't. I'm just off with Mr. Willoughby, and shan't be home till late." "Going out for the hevening, I suppose? Got yer dress-suit in the conwey. ance, and too proud to look at old mates?" "Shut up your foolery. We are going to Mr. Ferguson's; I'm only driving."

"Mr. Ferguson's? I've heard tell of him. A great card-playing gent. You'll have the cards out to-night, I reckon."

"Likely enough."

"And what time will you be coming 'ome, if I may ask the question?"

A cold shiver ran down Tom's back as he discerned the blackguard's thought. "Not till daylight, I should think. Good-bye."

"Good-bye!" cried the two rascals, imitating Tom's voice, and then rolling on the grass with loud guffaws.

"Did I hear voices?" said Mr. Willoughby, when Tom had brought Lightning up to the gate.

"Yes, sir; a couple of tramps chaffing me a bit."

Willoughby did not pursue the subject. He was much more interested in Lightning, and spent a full quarter of an hour in examining and admiring him.

When they had got out of the avenue and on the highroad, Willoughby turned to Tom.

"I've done it," he said; "I've won the money, £450, here it is in my pocket, most of it in notes. No more cards, Tom, I swear."

He reached out his hand to Tom, and their fingers closed in a grip that meant more than many words, the moonlight, escaping from a cloud, fell full on Tom's face; it was radiant with happiness.

"Lord, how he must love me!" thought Willoughby.

"Do you carry a pistol, master?" said Tom. “No. Why?"

"I don't think it safe without one, when you have all that money, sir." "Bosh!"—and he breathed in great draughts of the fresh night air.

They were now nearing a gate. Tom gave up the reins to his master, and got down to open it; he was no sooner on the ground than he saw two figures behind the hedge. He knew them at once - the men he had met in the Bent Garth. With a swift rush he made for the gate and flung it open.

"Come on, sir! Quick! " he cried.

And then as the cart came up to him he gave a loud yell, and struck the terrified mare on her haunches. She bounded forward, swerved, and then bolted down the road.

"Drive for your life, sir," shouted Tom,

They drove on to Mr. Ferguson's; here master and man separated, one going to the dining-room, the other to the saddleroom. There were other grooms there" drive like hell!" beside Tom, and they made merry together; supper was provided for them in the kitchen, and unlimited beer. Tom was in great request; his stories, his songs, and his straightforward ways had long rendered him a favorite. Retiring once more to the saddle-room, the men talked and smoked. Then one by one they succumbed to sleep. At last Tom was left the only one awake; he was thinking of his master. What did this long stay mean? Was he winning, or had he yielded to the seduction of the game and lingered on though losing? In the middle of his speculations he fell into a doze.

"Hullo, Sampler, Mr. Willoughby wants his trap. It's two o'clock; they're all going."

Tom got his horse in and drove round to the front. There was his master talking excitedly among the other guests; they helped him up into the dog-cart, and then with many good-nights sped him on

his way.

The big ruffian, of whom Willoughby just caught a glimpse, darted forward and made a grab at the foot-board of the dog. cart. He held it a second, and was then whirled away on to the grass by the roadside. He rose unhurt, and, after picking up something that had dropped from his hand, joined his fellow-ruffian. They then advanced together towards Tom, who stood leaning quietly against the gate. The big ruffian was trembling with rage; he came close up to Tom. "Damn you," he roared, " for a blasted sneak, a hound, a cur. Take that, and that." Tom gave one groan and fell to the ground. The big ruffian bent down to rifle his pockets.

"There ain't no time for that," said his nondescript companion; "you've done for him, and the other fellow will be back soon. Let's be off while we can."

And so they scrambled through the hedge and went away over the fields. Willoughby had a stiff tussle with the

mare. Luckily the road was straight, and there was no danger of a spill in rounding a corner. His weak ankle, however, was much against him; but by dint of hard sawing at the mare's mouth, he broke her into a trot at length. Then he turned her round.

"Now go like the deuce," he cried.

He was soon at the gate again. He perceived a body lying in the road. Scram bling out of the cart, and coming up to the body, he saw by the light of the moon that it was Tom's.

"Tom!" he cried; but there was no

answer.

He passed his hand over his breast and felt the wet blood; he knelt on the road, and raised Tom's head against his knees. The movement aroused the dying man; he opened his eyes, they looked awful in the moonlight. He was struggling to speak. "Master," he said faintly, "have you got the notes ?"

"Yes."

"Then the farm is safe promise — master.”

His voice seemed to linger lovingly on the word "master." In a little while came a great sigh-the sigh of the parting spirit.

Willoughby bent down and reverently pressed a kiss on the dead man's forehead; then, raising his eyes to heaven, he saw in the east, far away in the direction of his home, the light of the breaking dawn of the new day.

to question whether the race, as a race, has been much affected by it, and whether the external and visible evil and good which have come of it do not pretty nearly balance one another.

As to the question of the real failure or success of Christianity, that must be settled by considering the purpose of its founder. Did he come into the world, live and die for "the greatest happiness of the greatest number," as that is commonly understood, and as it constitutes the end of civil government? Was it his main purpose, or any part of his purpose, that everybody should have plenty to eat and drink, comfortable houses, and not too much to do? If so, Communism must be allowed to have more to say for itself, on religious grounds, than most good Chris. tians would like to admit. Did he expect. or prophesy any great and general amelioration of the world, material or even moral, from his coming? If not, then it cannot be said that Christianity has failed be remember the cause these and other like things have not come of it. In these days all truth is shocking; and it is to be feared that the majority of good people may feel shocked by the denial, even in his own words, that such ends had anything more than an accidental part in his purpose or expectation. He and his apostles did not prophesy that the world would get better and hap pier for his life, death, and teaching; but rather that it would become intolerably worse. He foretells that the world will continue to persecute such as dare to be greatly good, and that it will consider that it does God service in killing them. He tells us that the poor will be always with us, and does not hint disapproval of the institution even of slavery, though he counsels the slave to be content with his status. His mission is most clearly declared to be wholly individual and wholly unconcerned with the temporal good of the individual, except in so far as "faith hath the promise of this life also;" and moreover, and yet more "shocking" to modern sensibilities, he very clearly declared that though he lived and died to give all a chance, the number of individ uals to be actually benefited by his having done so would be few; so that it was prac tically for these few only that he lived and died. That may be very shocking; but they are his words, and not mine, and those who do not like them should have a special edition of the New Testament revised for their own use, from which all disagreeable references to the many called and few chosen, the narrow way which few

APPLETON LAITH.

From The Fortnightly Review.
THREE ESSAYETTES.

BY COVENTRY PATMORE

I.

CHRISTIANITY AND "PROGRESS."

MANY people doubt whether Christianity has done much, or even anything, for the "progress" of the human race as a race; and there is more to be said in defence of such doubt than most good people suppose. Indeed, the expression of this doubt is very widely regarded as shocking and irreligious, and as condemnatory of Christianity altogether. It is considered to be equivalent to an assertion that Christianity has hitherto proved a "failure." But some, who do not con sider that Christianity has proved a failure, do, nevertheless, hold that it is open

find, the broad road generally taken, and the end it leads to, etc., etc., should be excised. It is not to be denied that our Lord's doctrine must be in the highest degree unpleasant to all who will consider what it really is, and who have not the courage either to reject it or adopt it in a whole-hearted manner.

But has Christianity failed in doing that which alone it professed to do? It has not, and has not professed to improve bad or even indifferently good people, who form the mass of mankind, but it does profess to do great things when it is received in "a good and honest heart," that is, in the heart - according to Hamlet's estimate of about one in ten thousand. The question, then, of failure or success narrows itself to this: Has Christianity done great things, infinitely great things; and has it all along been doing, and is now doing, such things, for the very small proportion of mankind with which it professes to be effectually concerned? Professor Huxley says frankly, no. It emasculates and vitiates human character; and he exemplifies his position by the example of the saints of the order of St. Francis. It is well to have such a good, bold statement of opinion. Here is no shilly-shallying, and we now know that there are some persons, of strong common sense, who think that Christianity is a failure, as having failed to carry out its professions. Few persons who are in their right wits would choose to seek a fencingmatch with Professor Huxley. They might be altogether in the right, and yet, as Sir Thomas Browne says, they might come off second best in the conflict. In any case, it is not at present my affair. It is enough for me to point out that it is conceivable that there are sciences, even "experimental" sciences, in which Professor Huxley has not yet qualified himself to be considered as an expert. Christianity professes to be such a science, a strictly experimental science, only differing, in this character, from chemistry, inasmuch as the experiments and their conditions can, in the one case, be easily fulfilled and judged by the senses which are common to all men; whereas, in the other, they are professedly to be fulfilled and judged of by few. Here again come in those unpleasant assertions of the founders of Christianity: "None can say that Jesus is the Lord but by the Holy Ghost." "Do my commandments and ye shall know of the doctrine," etc., etc., ie., the experiment is professedly to be

made only with great difficulty and self denial, and its results can only be judged by a spirit or sense which is only attain. able, or which is, at least, only attained, by a few.

The conclusion is this, then, that even if Christianity as I do not assert has not sensibly affected "progress," or has affected it as much for the worse in some directions as for the better in others, and has not even done much individual good, in more than a very small proportion, even of those who call themselves Christians; it has only not done what it never professed to do. But has it done what it actually professed to do? That is a question of which the affirmative might be difficult of absolute and generally intelligible proof, but of which the negative must, I apprehend, be considered absurd, even by the great majority of those who have never dreamed of qualifying themselves to become final judges of such matters.

There are many passages in Scripture which will readily occur to every reader as being on the surface in contradiction to this limitation by our Lord's own words of the primary purpose of Christianity; but those who know how orphaned and widowed of truth even the best of us are, and how the destitution we may discover in ourselves is greater than that we know of in any others, will discern, with the earlier and deeper interpreters of the words of our Lord and his apostles, that there are two ways of reading their exhortations to help the poor, and the declaration that to visit the orphan and the widow is "pure religion and undefiled;" and they will understand that neighborly service, which is usually (but not always) an inseparable accidental duty of Christian life, is very far indeed from being of primary consequence, though the rendering or not rendering of it where there is no knowledge of a nobler service - may seriously affect the shallow heavens and the shallow hells of the feebly good and the feebly wicked. Let not such as these exalt themselves against the great masters of the experimental science of life, one of whom - St. Theresa, if I remember rightly-declares that more good is done by one minute of reciprocal, contemplative communion of love with God than by the founding of fifty hospitals or of fifty churches. "The elect soul," says another great experimentalist, St. Francis of Sales, "is a beautiful and beloved lady, of whom God demands not the indignity of service, but desires only her society and her person."

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