In the Rectory afterwards the two old Rectors kept us all entranced till very late, capping one another's stories. It was on that occasion our Rector told us, with a graphic power which I cannot attempt to reproduce, a most delightful story of his father. He had been a very distinguished Royal Academician, and as an artist had acquired great popularity. He was at the same time a pious man and a very regular and devout attendant at the Church's services. He was once sitting in a London church on a Sunday evening amidst a crowded congregation who had come together to hear a sermon from a muchadmired preacher of the day. His seat was immediately under the pulpit, and he sat and listened quietly with rapt attention. Something caused him however to turn his head, and he saw to his surprise a friend of his gazing at him earnestly, and looking as if something had excited him. This appeared strange, and yet he tried not to think of it, but, raising his eyes to the preacher, he again turned his attention to the sermon. He could not resist however from stealing a glance at his friend after a time, when with increased surprise he saw that he not only was still gazing intently at him, but actually from time to time stood up and stretched out a hand towards him, and then again sat down. This made him feel uncomfortable, and yet at such a time he tried not to let it occupy his thoughts, but once more gave his mind to the words of the great preacher above his head. Yet, try as he might, it was impossible not to think of the strange behaviour of his friend, and so presently he permitted himself to look again. Then, to his alarm and horror, he saw his friend stand up, and with eyes fixed upon him and outstretched hand, walk deliberately across the church towards him, until at last he actually felt himself struck by two or three distinct and deliberate taps upon his head, after which his friend returned to his seat and appeared to regain his composure, whilst he himself had lost all his. What was the meaning of it? What must the congregation think? Could his friend have suspected him of being asleep and have thought it his duty to awaken him? His friend was a good and serious man, and quite incapable of playing any practical joke. There was nothing for it but to await patiently the conclusion of the sermon, and then to obtain an explanation. Miserable appeared that interval, and it seemed as if the sermon never would end. Its eloquence had no longer any charms for him. He longed only that it might end, that he might be set free from his anxiety and regain his self-esteem. At last the wished-for moment came. His friend advanced to meet him, saying, "I fear you must have thought my action very strange just now." "I did indeed," he replied. "Did you really think I was asleep?" "No, no," said his friend, "not that; but a spark from -one of the pulpit candles dropped upon your wig, and began to burn.

I saw it, and at first thought you might catch fire; but then it seemed to go out. Several times I was in doubt whether to disturb you and the congregation or not, and I avoided doing so as long as it was possible, but at last the flame burnt up so clearly I felt I had no choice, so I came across and extinguished it with my hand."

The Rector was not merciful to stories, however, when they seemed to him to trench upon a profane handling of Scripture.

I remember once his rebuking me with great severity for using words which I certainly never intended or thought to be profane. A lady asked me if I had been acquainted with a friend of hers, and I answered that he had been always known to me as the author of a well-known Rugby joke. The Rector of Rugby, the poet Moultrie, had just published a poem called "The Black Fence." It had been suggested to him in a walk, on observing that a Roman Catholic gentleman near Rugby had surrounded his park with a high black paling, by which he had obtained a greater amount of privacy. Mr. Moultrie thought he saw in this an emblem of the darkness in which the Church of Rome separates its members from the liberty and truth which happily prevail elsewhere in England; and his poem appealed strongly to Englishmen to guard themselves against the rising powers of Rome. When this poem appeared one of the Masters asked the boy whether he had read it, and what he thought of it. The boy replied that he thought Mr. Moultrie was mistaken in taking offence at a fence, and returning railing for railing. The Rector was very much pained at my repeating this, and he did not hesitate on any occasion, however public, to express his objection to such jokes, which many would consider harmless enough. I have known him, at a large Clerical meeting, first compel the Vicar of a large parish to repeat a joke he had not quite heard, and then sternly rebuke him for it.

In church we were assisted by the Parish Clerk, who was one of the Clerks of the old sort now rapidly becoming extinct, and therefore very precious. He used to smell of rhubarb, as he slept in the lowest receptacle of the three-decker during our long sermons. During the service he was, as occasion required, very locomotive, walking about the church and saying the responses as he went. One never could tell from what corner an Amen might not be nasally intoned as he opened or shut windows. Before the sermon he ascended into the pulpit, and there by the help of very imperfect matches he used to light the candles. The process was a very trying one for the congregation, as the matches were usually very damp, and the clerk was old and awkward. I have seen him three times running upset candles upon the head of a young clergyman in the reading desk, who was officiating for the first time after his

ordination. The patience with which the young man bore the succession of falling candles on his head was most exemplary, but the scene was highly ludicrous. Those old clerks were certainly sometimes very funny, and we shall never see their like again. A clerical friend of mine told me that when he first entered on the duties of his incumbency he found a clerk who in saying the Psalms made many mistakes. At last the clergyman remonstrated with him, and said, "I wish, John, you would not say in the 74th Psalm 'Let us make haycocks of them.' If you look you will see the words are, 'Let us make havock of them."" Old John answered: "Well, sir, of course if you wish it, I will; but it always used to be haycocks."

The same Clerk was told to give out the notice: "On Sunday next the service in this church will be held in the afternoon, and on the following Sunday it will be held in the morning, and so on alternately until further notice." What he actually did give out was as follows:-" On Sunday next the morning service in this church will be held in the afternoon, and on the following Sunday the afternoon service will be held in the morning, and so on to alk eternity."

Craigmillar Tower.

WE climbed the grey and crumbling stair together,
For well we loved that lonely castle tower,
And often in those days we wandered thither,
To dream, or laugh, or pass a quiet hour.

The whispering leaves were sporting with each other,
The clouds were wearing summer's golden hue,
A bird melodious, vying with its brother,

Poured forth its passion from a sombre yew.

Where ivy clasps the wall with faithful fingers
We leaned in silence, and let silence tell
What speech can never say, even when it lingers
Among the molten words which Love can spell.

Ah, was it wise to wait, with spirits dreaming,

While Love drew near to feed a smouldering fire,
With Heaven's own light from eyes of Idol beaming?
Within each kindled heart was raised Love's pyre.
Sometimes I think we never should have waited,

For now we do not seek the old grey tower,
And yet, I know this soul of mine was fated
To be the captive of that Master-power.

I know there came to me in all its glory,
All its rapture, all its depth of pain,
In all its wondrous strength, the sweet old story-
Ah, me! we never went that way again.

For now has come the winter wild and dreary,
And summer-love lies withered in the breast,
While by its fallen tower the soul doth weary
For ivy-pall to robe the ruin for rest.

JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.

VOL. LXXXI.

I

Out of the Fog.

BY WILLIAM M. HARDINGE.

AUTHOR OF CLIFFORD GRAY,' 'EUGENIA,' AND 'THE WILLOW GARTH.'

CHAPTER VI.

HOW MANNERS PRACTISED TEMPERANCE.

"DEAR MRS. CALTHORPE,

"May I pay my respects to you to-morrow afternoon? otherwise I would come at your convenience.

If there is anything I can do for you, I will do it.

"Truly yours,

"OSBORNE MAINWARING."

"That will pass, I think," said the writer, after a moment's hesitation; and he posted it to arrive in the afternoon-not because there was anything in it to compromise either Mrs. Calthorpe or himself, but because she would be able to keep his call unmentioned, if she chose, and to put the letter into the fire before her husband's return from chambers. Manners could not resist adding the last sentence, which he wrote incisively. There was no sort of harm in it; he had found her sympathetic and she had seemed to court his aid. Moreover, she had certainly a look of Norah.

Lady Norah was that second cousin of Osborne Mainwaring's to whom it had been an understood thing that he was engaged, until his Oxford extravagance had forced her parents to inform him, not only that Norah was in no way bound to him, but that they would introduce to her other more eligible candidates for her fair hand, if he did not forthwith reform. Manners had lost his temper, with his national quickness, and told them that Norah was quite at liberty to choose for herself; so they had taken her abroad in October for a winter at Nice. Lady Norah loved her cousin; but she was a good girl, and made no violent protest to her parents' wishes. And moreover she only enters into this story under one of her twin aspects, as the young lady whom Manners loved, not as the young lady who loved Manners. It was the former aspect which explained his interest in Clara's beauty being deeper than it would have been,