there being only one. In a few weeks the
poor young soldier died, and not even caring
to move the body down-stairs, they all continued
to sleep— the living with the dead—in
the same room, until the day arrived for the
removal of the body to its resting-place.

Some readers may say, " O, but Lightlands
must be some out-of-the-way place
with nobody in it or about it but clowns
and clod-hoppers: one of those benighted
corners of England, where it may be said that
the sun never shines." No such thing.
Lightlands has the advantage (if it be an
advantage) of being between two or three
miles. at each end, of the country residences
of my Lord Acre and my Lord Rood: between
whom, according to the proportionate
significance of their names, the whole parish is
divided, with the exception of a very trifling
slice or two, the property of insignificantly
small owners. So that, anyhow, one might
be disposed to count on the rays of two great
luminaries to enlighten its darkness, more
particularly considering that my Lord Acre
not only owns three-fourths of the place, but
is its lay rector besides; while my Lord Rood
is quoted everywhere as a most charitable
man—a twenty-guinea header of subscription
lists which one may see any day in the public
papers—one of the aristocratic leaders of a
certain religious party, and consequently a
frequent chairman of missionary meetings.

Judge, then, whether it be likely that
Lightlands stands alone in its darkness and
barbarism, or whether we may not conclude
that, scattered nearly all over the English
landscape, are to be found homes such as I
have faintly portrayed, and which, for all
that many among them may look beautiful
outward, are within full of all uncleanness.

O! word in all our language almost the
sweetest, HOME, go forth and plead, by every
endearing association, by every tender
memory, by every cherished hope, with those
who provide for, or offer such dwellings to,
the poor, that they may improve and alter
them! Plead with them, with earnest household
eloquence; and if that fail, and they
answer coldly, " But the cost, the cost! " then
set before their eyes the vision of thy great
antitype, the Heavenly Home, in which has
been purchased room for all of us—but not
without the costliest sacrifice!

MY NAME.

IT may be of very little consequence where
a man is born; it may be of very little
consequence what his parents have been
before him; it may be of very little
consequence whether he is physically weak, or
physically strong; but it is certainly of vital
interest to him what name has fallen on his
shoulders. I am not now considering Christian
appellations, though they are not to be
despised. I can imagine a very matter-of-fact
individual pining gradually away with
secret grief because his godfathers have called
him Udolpho. I can imagine a gentleman of
strong conservative principles living a life of
torture because his first name is Cromwell;
and I can imagine another gentleman of an
opposite way of thinking being equally
tormented with the Christian title of Stuart. I
can imagine a poetic being writhing under the
name of Herring; a feeble mannikin smiling
sadly as he reflects upon his name of Hercules.
I can suppose many cases of life-long torment
even more painful and self-evident than
these; but my present object is to direct
attention to the influence exercised by surnames.
I will give a few supposititious
examples.

My name is Shakespeare: there is no
getting out of that. I might call myself
Warwick Avon, Esquire, and succeed in
deceiving the general public; but my family,
my friends, and my acquaintances, would
know the painful truth. Every man feels
within him an inspiration to do something;
and I am sure I could write a round
of plays. I might not attain the rude vigour
of the Elizabethan dramatists; I might not
perhaps equal the brilliancy of dialogue
which distinguishes the writers of a later
period; I might not be able to reach that
ingenuity of construction, and that high
morality, which make the modern French
drama what it is; but I am sure that my
natural genius lies in the direction of the
literature of the stage. What prevents my
making an effort? My name. I cannot get
over that mountain, which has accumulated
some centuries before my time. I dread the
jokes that would be inevitably made upon my
first, my sixth, or my tenth attempt. I
know what all the small critical wits would
say; I could not exist to be slapped upon
the back in public places, and be asked
"How goes it, my young Swan, in the realms
of Thespis? " Some men might be equal to
the endurance of this, but I am not one of
them. I could not enjoy a life that was one
competitive examination,—especially where
the odds were fifty thousand to one against
me. I am mute; I am inglorious; I am dumb
and inarticulate; I am conscious of my latent
talent, but I stop its natural development; I
decline the struggle; I do not start in the
race. And why? Because my name is
Shakespeare.

My name is Wren. I feel a call to do
something in the shape of public buildings,
but when i take the designing pencil in my
hand, the great black mass of our national
cathedral overshadows my genius. I have no
feeling for poetry; I could not carve a
statue, I have no mechanical aptitude, I could
not paint a picture, and I have no desire to
write books. My intellectual impulses all
point in an architectural direction, and yet I
dare not give my inclination play. I have
not the courage to brave the world's
ill-natured comparisons; I shun a perpetual