American colonies, he became greatly interested in the welfare of the Indians, and, with a wisdom and foresight which were beyond his times, organized a scheme for the education of Indian girls. It is not known whether it came to anything; but it is an index to the character of the man, which was, in many respects, remarkable.

Having acquired a competence by following the sea, Thomas Coram retired to Rotherhithe, near London, occupying himself with some sort of business which took him often to the city. These journeys to and from London were made either at very early or very late hours, and Coram, on these occasions, repeatedly found poor children of a tender age, who had been abandoned by their parents. The helpless and miserable condition of these pitiable little waifs deeply excited his sympathies, and though he was a man without rank, station or large fortune, he determined to found an institution for the benefit of "Exposed and Destitute Children." Like many another man who has had everything against him, he succeeded. By personal representations, and by persistent and earnest solicitation, he was successful in interesting others in his enterprise, and, having laid the foundation of its future prosperity by the gift of a few hundred pounds, he secured its incorporation in the year 1739. Of its history from that date to 1760, very little is known; but there are evidences of its having soon enlisted the sympathies of powerful and generous friends. It did not, however, escape the fate of a great many other endowed institutions, whose history is so significant in one particular, that it ought to be made the subject of a separate paper. Coram founded his Hospital to shelter children born usually in wedlock, but of unknown parentage, and abandoned by their parents. In 1760, the governors of the Hospital declared its object to be the reception and training of "poor, illegitimate children, whose mothers were known." Undoubtedly there was wisdom in this, for Coram's scheme, though well-meant, had a tendency to encourage parents in evading the care of their own children, while the plan of the governors, adopted in 1760, aimed, and probably contributed, to discourage the crime of infanticide on the part of unfortunate girls and unmarried women. There is, of course, a still larger question as to the wisdom of maintaining institutions for either of these objects, which, however, it is not the province of this paper to discuss.

The Foundling Hospital on Guildford Street is a suggestive illustration of the way in which organized charities grow. It had shrewd and watch ful guardians, but it had also unusual luck. When the governors came to look about for a site for their building, they fixed upon a parcel of ground in the neighborhood of Brunswick and Mecklinburgh Squares. This property was owned by the Earl of Salisbury, the predecessor of the present Marquis, who has lately been trying to "arrange matters" with that troublesome ally of England, the Sultan. The elder Lord Salisbury was not as shrewd a man as his successor, but he was apparently as obstinate and as tempestuous; for he flatly refused to sell the governors of the Hospital any of the lots on Guildford Street, unless they bought them all, and, if tradition is to be believed, behaved in the whole matter like the extremely "peppery" and irascible old gentleman that he undoubtedly was. Most reluctantly, therefore, the governors were constrained to buy Lord Salisbury's whole interest, which included some fifty acres of land; and it was for the Hospital the luckiest thing that ever happened. Every inch of this fifty acres not required for the Hospital and its beautiful grounds is covered by dwellings, and the revenues of the Hospital from this source alone amount to more than $60,000 a year. This return of more than two hundred per cent. per annum, from an original investment

of $25,000 (the cost of the fifty acres), is tolerably satis factory; and as it is based on old leases which have been running nearly forty years, and which will soon expire, to be renewed at much higher rates, doubtless, nobody can undertake to say how rich the institution will ultimately become.

The Hospital buildings were erected after designs by Thomas Jackson; the Chapel, which is in the centre, being an excellent specimen of Sir Christopher Wren's manner. Connected with it by covered archways are the two wings, the one for the boys and the other for the girls, accommodating, altogether, some 500 children.

Our first visit to the Hospital was on a lovely Summer day, when London was, as nearly as it ever is, emancipated from its thraldom of smoke and soot, and when the bright English verdure of the neighboring squares made one sensible of a charm which our own climate can but rarely rival. The Hospital buildings stand at the rear of a fine, spacious square, through which one walks amid flower-beds and close-shaven grass-plots to the Chapel door. As we approached the porch, our attention was arrested by two gentlemen of dignified and eminently respectable presence, each of whom held in his hand a silver plate for the contributions of strangers. A card at the door intimates that these contributions are "expected," and I did not observe anybody who had the nerve to disappoint that expectation. But there was more than the usual discrepancy between the contributions of Londoners and strangers, especially those of them from our own shores. The ordinary contribution of an Englishman was what some one has called "the inevitable shilling " (the equivalent of our quarter of a dol lar), while I did not observe any contribution from an American of less than ten times that amount. Our party was a large one, and had come in two cabs. While waiting for some of them at the door, a number of my countrypeople, whom I happened to recognize, passed in, and I counted five successive sovereigns, as in turn one after another of the transatlantic visitors dropped them into the plate. The scene made a capital study for a sketch. The air of mild and gradually increasing surprise which stole over the face of the ruddy, close-shaven and scrupulously well-dressed personage who held the plate at the recklessness of "those extraw-dinary Americans," as he doubtless called them when relating the matter over his Sunday sirloin, was such as to upset one's gravity very effectually.

There is a good deal in the Chapel to make one feel at home, even though he has never been there before. Over the altar is a fine painting by our own Benjamin West, the subject being, "Except ye become as little children," etc.; and one cannot look about him at the quaint pulpit, the old-fashioned, high-backed pews, the steep galleries and grotesque decorations of the organ, without remembering that it was here that Handel himself gave his "Messiah," conducting the music in person, and having the best artists then living to sing the solo parts. These concerts were invariably given for the benefit of the Hospital; Handel and all the other performers tendering their services gratuitously, and realizing, sometimes, as much as £1,000 or $5,000 from a single concert. Then, too, while one is recalling these things, a door opens, and you get from your seat a glimpse of an adjoining room hung with more than one striking painting. If you are familiar, as most people are, through engravings, with Hogarth's works, you recognize his famous "March to Finchley," which he painted for the Hospital, as also the picture of "Moses brought to Pharaoh's daughter." Besides these, Hogarth painted a very admirable portrait of Thomas Coram, its founder, for the Hospital; and these, with other pictures

from the same great hands, give to the institution an interest quite apart from its particular design.

But this is wandering from the Chapel service, which is now about to begin. This becomes evident from a sudden irruption of boys and girls at the end of the Chapel, opposite to that at which a stranger usually finds himself. If you have followed the "custom of the country," and interested the verger in your welfare by the gift of a sixpence, he will probably put you in the large square inclosure over which are emblazoned the words "Governor's Pew." This pew faces the organ-loft, on each side of which are arranged, in rapidly rising terraces, the seats for the children. The girls, about two hundred and fifty in number, sit on the right of the organist, and the boys on the left. In the centre are six adult voices which sing the solo parts, the children taking the choruses. The service is said by the chaplain who is the morning preacher. At the second service the sermon is preached by another clergyman who holds the appointment as the "afternoon preacher."

The preacher in the morning, when I first attended the services at the Hospital Chapel, was the Rev. J. W. Gledall, M.A., who has held the post for many years. It was direct, wholesome and timely preaching. London had just then been startled by murder, the details of which were exceptionally ghastly and shocking, and the murderer's efforts at concealment had been defeated by a series of accidents which excited widespread public attention. Under these circumstances the text, "Be sure your sin will find you out," had a singular appropriateness, and though there was no slightest approach to sensationalism nor, in fact, anything but the briefest allusion to what was in everybody's mind, there was that in the preacher's searching analysis of the human heart, in his clear, pointed and vigorous language, and in his thorough grasp of his subject which made the sermon peculiarly impressive.

But, after all, the feature of the service was not the sermon, but the worship. I did not find in England, or anywhere else, anything that approached it. One may hear larger masses of voice in connection with the oratorios which are given from time to time in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. One may hear a higher order of music at St. Paul's Cathedral, or in the Temple Church. One may hear more fine hymn-singing at Westminster Abbey or at Mr. Spurgeon's Tabernacle. And, out of England, there is (or was), the Pope's Choir in the Sistine Chapel at Rome, and the majestic services, with a choir exclusively of men's voices, in the Cathedral of St. Alexander Nevsky, at St. Petersburgh. All these I had heard, as well as the music of St. Roche, and at the Madelaine, in Paris. But none of them on the whole, can rival the service of the Foundling Hospital, in those elements, at any rate, which appeal at once to feeling and to devotion.

Undoubtedly this is owing to several considerations. The choir in the Chapel of the Hospital addresses itself to the eyes as well as to the ear. The two hundred and fifty girls are uniformly dressed with white capes crossed in front, and quaint caps, which are familiar to any one who has seen the engraving of the "Three Chorister Girls." These caps produce almost the effect of a halo, and the pure, fresh young faces beneath them were singularly engaging. The expression of the children indicated far more refinement and intelligence than one would have looked for; and, in the case of the girls, there were instances of rare personal beauty of feature and sweetness of expression. The bearing of all was noticeably unaffected, attentive and devout, and there was that in the circumstances of these practically orphaned young lives that appealed very strongly to the feelings. Of course this would not have

atoned for defective musical training, or rendering of the science. But there was nothing to be desired. Many of these children had been singing together for ten or twelve years, and all of them had enjoyed the best musical advantages of the first capital in the world. As a consequence, their accuracy and precision were faultless; and in addition to this, there was a firmness, breadth and delicacy in every chorus, that was wonderfully impressive. The six adult voices were all of a high character, and the whole result was, for its vigor, steadiness and sympathetic quality, something to be long remembered.

We wandered through the corridors after services, followed the children into dinner, to which they were marshaled by a brass band played by some of their number, and strolled homeward through the grounds, attended to the gate by two or three manly lads who seemed to be detailed on guard duty, and who told us that their one ambition was to enter Her Majesty's service, and wear the Queen's uniform. How easy it was to weave a romance out of the future of these nameless boys-with no hometies to hold them back, and with every motive in the shadowed obscurity of their past to win for themselves, on some distant field of battle, that fame and honor which no other's achievements could ever give them. But all the while, our hearts wandered back to the Chapel-to those ranks of fair young faces-to that tide of sweet and sacred song which swelled and rang among the ancient arches, and all unbidden sprang the prayer, "God keep those fair and guileless natures unharmed and stainless to the end !"

BE QUIET.

"STUDY to be quiet"-not with the quiet of apathy, of despair, but with the quiet of courage; a courage that can endure as well as dare. In the discipline of life there is so much to be borne-it is often so much harder to bear than to do-so much easier to show resentment than to wear "the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit," so natural to dash against obstacles rather than to wait quietly for their removal. Study the long-suffering of God-the patience of Jesus, who endured the contradiction of sinners-His gentleness whose love, whose faithful love, is so often despised. Study to be quiet, O, my soul! What a tonic is in these lines of Faber :

"How shalt thou bear the cross that now

So dread a weight appears ?
Keep quietly to God, and think
Upon the Eternal Years.

Brave quiet is the thing for thee,

Chiding thy scrupulous fears; \ Learn to be real from the thought Of the Eternal Years.

One cross can sanctify a soul;

Late saints and ancient seers Were what they were, because they mused Upon the Eternal Years.

Death will have rainbows round it, seen
Through calm contrition's tears,

If tranquil hope but trim her lamp
At the Eternal Years."

PRAYER blots out sins, repels temptations, quenches persecutions, comforts the desponding, blesses the highminded, guides the wanderers, calms the billows, feeds the poor, directs the rich, raises the fallen, holds up the falling, preserves them that stand.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE TRUSTED ME."

HEIRESS AND NO HEIRESS MARIAN WILSON, not long come of age, was listening to some well-meant counsel from Mr. Forbes, her uncle and late guardian.

"I have," said he, "no longer any right to control your actions. You are of age, and the wealth which you inherited from your father is, by his will, completely in your hands. But I hope you will think well before you consent to marry Walter Stanton. I am afraid that it is for your money rather than for yourself that he asks you to become his wife."

Marian winced a little at this implied disparagement of her personal attractions; but she curbed the feeling, and simply asked:

"What reason have you to suppose that Mr. Stanton wishes to marry me mainly, or in any considerable degree, for my money rather than for myself?"

Mr. Forbes was taken somewhat aback by this straightforward question; but he was too honest to insinuate anything for which he had not, in his own judgment, good

reason.

"Everybody knows," he replied, "what is the position of Mr. Stanton. His father was supposed to be very rich,

and his son was brought up as most rich men's sons are. He was sent to college, and passed through the course with fair credit. After graduating he entered upon no business or profession, but settled down into the life of a young man of abundant leisure and large expectations. He had a liberal allowance, which he spent liberally, but in no way disreputably. Six years ago, when he was twenty-four, his father died, and, to the surprise of all, his estate was worth nothing-in fact, less than nothing; and Walter was left as nearly penniless as a young man with a well-stocked wardrobe could well be. I had known his father well, and partly through my influence Walter obtained a position as clerk in the house of Jameson & Co. He has performed his duties faithfully, but with no such marked ability as to give promise that he will ever rise above the position of a clerk. His salary is, and is likely to be, just enough to support him respectably. Partly for his father's sake, and partly because I felt some pity and much liking for the young man, I invited him to be a visitor at my house. You were a schoolgirl, and it was not generally known that you were the heiress of a large fortune. As you grew up into a young woman, Walter Stanton paid no special attention to you, and I never dreamed that he thought of you for his wife. Somehow, though I never heard him say anything of the kind, I supposed that he never meant to marry unless with his bride he could gain a fortune. But now, when it is known that you are rich, he suddenly asks you to share your wealth with him. To me this looks like fortune-hunting-not, indeed, of the worst kind, but still fortune-hunting. Do you believe that Walter Stanton would ever have asked you to become his wife if he had not learned that you were an heiress ?"

"I believe," replied Marian, calmly, "that he would have asked me to become his wife in any case, as soon as he thought his income was sufficient to warrant him in believing that he could offer me a comfortable home, and I should have accepted the offer. But I have no doubt that his offer was hastened by his learning of my true position; and I honor him for it. If I am worth the winning, I am worth it none the less for having money. If he would have been worth the acceptance of a poor girl, he is none the less worth that of a rich one. If he thought he could win me were I poor, and dared not try it when he knew that I was rich, I should, in my own heart, have set him down as at least lacking in manhood. I respect him all the more because he-a poor man, as you say, and with only moderate prospects-has not feared to ask me, a rich woman, to

be his wife.

I have consented, with all my heart; and I hope that you, my best friend, will give your consent and your best wishes for both of us."

"Now that I know how the case stands," replied Mr. Forbes, "I shall certainly do so. But I shall see to it that your fortune is settled upon yourself, so as to be beyond the control of your husband."

"I shall not consent to any such thing," replied Marian, firmly. "My father intrusted the management of my affairs entirely to you during my minority; and since I have come of age I have intrusted them entirely to you. You have not betrayed the trust; and I will not have less confidence in my husband than I have had in my uncle. I intrust myself to Walter, and to him will I intrust my fortune. If I have enough confidence in him to place the greater in his charge, I will not withhold the less. When I take him for better or for worse,' I do 'with all my worldly goods him endow.""

The marriage was duly solemnized. When Jameson & Co. found that their late clerk had capital at his command, they were ready to offer him a partnership; and a moderate sum-only a small part of Marion's inheritance -was taken for this purpose.

Marian Stanton had luxurious tastes. She was fond of rich attire, of costly ornaments, luxurious sûrroundings, and the thousand things for which, without unseemly ostentation, large expenditures must be incurred. Her husband had inherited similar tastes; and there was no reason why they should not be gratified. But, large as were their expenditures, no one dreamed that the Stantons were living beyond their means. Everybody knew that the substantial house of Jameson & Co. was more flourishing than ever, now that the new partner had brought more capital and fresh blood into it; and the fortune of Mr. Stanton's wife -large in reality-was supposed to be much larger than it actually was.

Three years passed, and then somehow a shadow seemed slowly settling over the home of the Stantons. Marian could scarcely tell how, or when, it first made its appearance. From the first Walter had paid strict attention to business; but he gradually grew more and more absorbed in it. He seemed to have lost all taste for the large social life into which he had at first entered with so keen a zest. He went to business earlier and earlier, and returned home later and later. He had been wont to take pleasure in the rich and tasteful attire of his wife; now he never seemed to notice it. Money was never wanting, and was never given grudgingly, when she asked for it; but he seemed to grudge every dollar spent upon himself.

"I see how it is," thought Marian, sadly. "My ideal is fading away; I suppose most women's do. Walter is

settling down into a mere money-making and moneyhoarding machine. Well, I must bear it as best I can. It is not the life to which I had looked forward; but if I cannot find enjoyment at home and with my husband, I must look abroad for it."

So the gay and brilliant Mrs. Stanton grew gayer and more brilliant than ever. Her dress, always rich and costly, became more expensive; few handsomer equipages than hers graced the Central Park; few women made a more distinguished appearance in town or country, and few were more liberal in contributions for benevolent purposes. For all this, money was never wanting. "Much as Walter has come to loving money," said Marian to herself, "and much as he stints himself, he shows no disposition to refuse me the right of spending what is really my own." So husband and wife began to go more and more their own separate ways. There was no quarrel, no unkindness even; but they were drifting apart. Now and then Marian,

BOUKAKILAS, KING OF SINE.-SEE PAGE 391.

suddenly turning her head toward him, would see her husband gazing at her, as he thought, unobserved, with a sad, wistful tenderness which she could not understand. All this while Walter Stanton seemed to grow perceptibly older from month to month. "He is overworking himself," said his business acquaintances to one another; "unless he lets up he will break down before long."

Meanwhile Marian seemed more and more engrossed in society, the less and less her husband seemed to care for it; and in time they rarely saw each other except at the breakfast-table; for by the time he came home at night she would be at the theatre or opera, at a concert or party. Perhaps had her kind uncle been at hand, things would have gone on differently. But urgent business called him away almost continually, and on the rare occasions when he was with her, Marian fancied that there was some burden weighing upon his mind.

One evening, after an absence longer than usual, Mr. Forbes unexpectedly made his appearance in Mrs. Stanton's drawing-room. She was dressed even more elaborately than usual, and was waiting for her carriage to take her to a party which was to be the "affair of the season." His look was grave and anxious; but she sprang to meet him with all her old fondness.

"Oh! I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed. will have one of the good old evenings of old times." "But you were going out," he said.

"We

"I was going out," she replied warmly; "but shall now do no such thing. I was going to the party only to kill time. I shall stay at home with you, and shall be much more happy. But you look worried. What is the matter?" "There is much the matter," said he, gravely. "I have something painful to tell you-something of which you ought to have been told long ago."

"What is it? Surely nothing bad about Walter !"

66

'Partly about him; but how bad it will prove remains to be seen. Marian, my child, do you love your husband?" "You scarcely need ask me that. You know that I do." "But do you love him better than you do luxury, gay society, and all that ?"

"Ten thousand times better. Do you suppose that I really care for this gay life which I seem to be leading? I only endure it in order to try and forget my loneliness, for Walter is too busy in buying and selling to have any time for me. It is hard to say it; but I sometimes think that he cares for nothing except to make money. Oh, that I could see him again as he was in the first years of our married life, and before it !"

"Marian," said Mr. Forbes, decisively, "this must go on no longer-it should not have gone on so long. Walter has been unfortunate, but in nowise guilty. You remember that you insisted that the management of your fortune should be in his hands. He accepted it as a sacred trust. He made no disposition of a dollar of it without consulting me. From time to time considerable portions of it were invested in various enterprises, all of which seemed safe and judicious, but most of which proved disastrous. I invested nearly my all in the same, and have lost it. Still there was left more than an ample competence. This we determined to place beyond possible risk. We put it in the great Trust Company, which failed two years ago. Besides the moderate capital invested in his business, and this house, which stands in your name, and its appurtenances, you and he have nothing. For two years your expenses have been much greater than his income from the business. He, most unwisely, as I think, could not bear to tell you all this; and I now tell it to you without his knowledge. Nor is this all. To meet your expenses he has drawn heavily upon his capital in the house. This was of no conse

t ey

Marian considered for a few moments, and then said: "This house, you say, belongs to me. If we sell it, the furniture, horses, carriage, jewelry, and all that, will they Poss bring enough to save the firm ?"

"I think they will; but little or nothing more." "Then it shall be done," said Marian, quietly. "But if this is done," said Mr. Forbes, "you will have to live a life which to you will seem one of poverty. For the present, and perhaps for a very long time, the profits of the house will be very small, and you will have only your husband's share of the net income. Can you, for Walter's sake, take up this life, and do it bravely and cheerfully?" A glad light shone in Marian's eyes.

"You shall see," she said. "Ah, there is Walter's step in the hall. He thinks I am out, as usual, and is going to the Jibrary. I must see him alone. Wait a little till I come back."

In a few minutes Marian re-entered the drawing-room. She was no longer the richly attired, anxious - looking woman whom her uncle had found there. Her dress was plain and simple, but her face wore a glad look which had long been a stranger to it.

"Will I do for a poor man's wife ?" she asked, gayly. "You will do for the wife of any true man, be he rich or poor," replied Mr. Forbes.

She tripped lightly up the two flights of lofty stairs, and along the broad hall, until she reached the library door. There she paused for an instant, not to recover strength or gain composure-for never in her life was she stronger or more composed. She felt an inward assurance that, now she knew the secret of it, the barrier between herself and her husband was to be broken down. She paused to utter a few words of mingled petition and thanksgiving. Then she opened the door, but so softly that Walter did not hear it. It would have taken a loud noise to have attracted his notice, so deeply was he absorbed in the mass of papers before him. She advanced, and laid her hand lightly upon his shoulder. He started, turned in his chair, and his met Marian's clear and loving glance.

eyes

"Uncle has just told me all about it," she said, quietly, "Of course I am sorry, more sorry for your sake than for my own. But I am happier now than I have been for these many long, weary months. But, Walter, you should have trusted me; I think I was worthy of your trust.”

He kissed the soft hand which stole lovingly into his; and, after a few words, husband and wife went down to the drawing-room, where Mr. Forbes was awaiting them. In a brief time it was settled what should be done. Walter at first demurred to the suggestion of selling the house. "It is yours, Marian," he said; "bought with your own money, and always standing in your name. If the firm should have to go down, none of our creditors has, or will think that he has, any claim either in law or honor, upon it."

"If it was mine," said Marian, "it is so no longer; it is yours; for with this, the last of my worldly goods, 'I do thee endow.'"

So all was arranged. House and furniture, horses and jewelry, were sold, and the proceeds saved the firm from bankruptcy. The Stantons took up their abode in a house so modest, and in a street so quiet, that the greater part of Marian's former friends could never find it; but those who did find it were charmed with its comfort and the graceful cordiality with which they were welcomed; for even in the worst of the times which followed, the profits of the busi ness were sufficient for all of the comforts and many of the elegancies of life.