so long ago but that we may all remember the
advertising columns of the newspapers about
that time, and the desirable opportunities they
offered for devout investment. It was clear
to the originators of those advertisements,
manifest to the whole tribe of Moses (and
Sons) who published those decorous appeals—
that we must coin our thankful feelings into
Money. If we wanted another victory, we
could not hope to get it for nothing, or on
credit, but must come down with our ready
Money. There was not a church-organ
unpaid for, not a beadle's cocked hat and blushing
breeches for which church-wardens were
responsible, not a chapel painting and glazing
job, on any painters' and glaziers' books, but
we were called upon to liquidate that obligation,
and get a ticket in return, entitling us
to the other side of Sebastopol. And we paid
the money and took the ticket. Hosts of us
did so. We paid the balance due upon that
organ, we settled the bill for the cocked hat
and blushing breeches, we settled the account
of the painter and glazier, and we felt, in the
vulgar phrase, that we had gone and been
and done it.

So many of us parted with our small
change to clear off these scores, because we
found it much easier to pay the fine than
undertake the service. The service required
of us was severe. Paralysis had disclosed
itself in the heart and brain of our administration
of affairs; favour and dull routine
were all in all, merit and exigency were
nothing. A class had got possession of our
strength, and made it weakness; and three-
quarters of the globe stood looking on with a
rather keen interest in the wonderful sight.
The service demanded of us by the crisis, was
the recovery of our strength through
stedfastness in what was plainly right, and over-
throw of what was plainly wrong. The
service was difficult, ungentlemanly,
unpopular in good society; and we paid the
fine with pleasure.

But if every man drawn in a conscription
paid a fine instead of going for a soldier, the
country in which that happened would have
no defenders. There are fights not fought by
soldiers, O my countrymen, and they are no
less necessary to the defence of a country,
and the conscription for that war is on every
one of us. Money is great, but it is not
omnipotent. All the Money that could be
piled up between this and the moon would
not fill the place of one little grain of duty.

SENTIMENT AND ACTION.
IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.

"A GREAT gift, a great gift you ask me for,
Master Paul!" said the old man, sternly,
turning away his head.

"But one that you will never have cause to
repent bestowing on me," said Paul, eagerly.
"Oh, Mr. Trevelyan, you do not know how
carefully I will guard her, how tenderly I
will reverence her, how manfully keep her
from all sorrow and all harm! You do not
know how much I love her, nor how
fervently I honour her! Trust me, sir; for
you may; you can bestow her on none who
will guard her more tenderly, more lovingly
than I."

"Ah! all young men say the same things,
boy, before marriage. Unfortunately it is
only experience that distinguishes between
the real and the false, love and fancy, truth
and change. And if that experience prove
ill—there is no repairing it, Paul!"

"Yes, yes! I know all that!" said Paul,
impatiently, yet not disrespectfully. "But it
can never be so with me. Time, age,
experience, all will only prove more firmly my
love and undying truth. Oh, believe in me!
believe in me! God is my witness that my
life shall justify you!"

"Foolish boy! to believe in the possibility
of love, in the existence of constancy and
happiness," murmured Mr. Trevelyan,
between his closed teeth. "A day will come,"
he said, aloud, "when you will curse me in
my grave, that I ever consented to this
match; when you had rather I had slain her
with my own hands than have given her to
you."

"Never! never!" cried Paul. "Come
what may, the happiness of having once
loved and been loved by her, shall suffice."

The old man took his hand, and looked him
earnestly in the eyes. They were sitting on
a garden bench set in the shadow of a large
horse-chestnut. Behind them rose the barren
fell, with its grey granite rocks scantily
covered by heath and junipers; before them
lay a deep glade, flush with the richest green
and bright with flowers. In the distance
shone the sea, glittering like a band of silver
across the opening among the trees made by
that steep ravine; the white sails of the
distant ships lessened into mere specks, shining
in the sun like the wings of white birds. It
was one of those summer days when the sun
lies like a seething fire on the leaves and
grass—when the earth seems to breathe
and palpitate through the low heat-mist
quivering over her, and Nature lies so
still you might believe her dead: it was
one of those days which fill the soul with
nameless emotion, and make that
unfulfilled longing for love and beauty, which even
the happiest and most richly dowered among
us feel, a passionate desire and a painful
void; it was a day wherein we live—in the
true meaning of the word—because we feel.
Perhaps it influenced even Mr. Trevelyan,
although not easy to affect in any way; but
there are times when a subtle influence
seems to pervade our whole being, and to
change the direction of all our faculties and
thoughts,—and this was one of them.

Mr. Trevelyan was a man of calm and
gentle manner, but with a nature hard and
cold and bright as polished steel. Difficult