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her; those who love me will not blame me, and thou, father, shalt find me not unworthy of thee. The Humboldts, Schlegels, and many of my friends have given me counsel in this matter. I have letters of introduction from Humboldt; will write again on Monday.'

Theodor rightly judged his father's feeling. Christian Körner sympathised heart and soul with the movement; he was among the first in Dresden who openly avowed the cause; and from his resources, already diminished by the pressure of the times, he contributed large sums for the equipment of volunteers.

He could now only verify Theodor's words, that no sacrifice was too great for such a cause, by not withholding his only son from the impending strife; but the three loving women, mother, sister, and aunt, who had watched the career of their boy with a glad and tender pride, could not acquiesce without sinking hearts and dark forebodings of sorrow. *My father is satisfied with me, the others weep,' said Theodor, when a few weeks later his duty allowed him a brief but precious visit to his home.

A few hasty days of preparation, of arrangements with publishers and theatrical directors, receiving from the latter a promise in writing that he should resume his post when he wished, and then came the dreaded hour of parting from Antonia, and of bidding a farewell, which he well knew might be for ever, to the city which had been his second home. “The leaving Vienna lies heavily on my heart,' he wrote on the 13th. • Would that it were over. Why must the course of duty pitilessly tread down many a flower ? Please write something comforting to Antonia ; in particular I want mother to advise her about her health—poor child, she grows quite thin. On Friday I hope to be in' Breslau. Heaven preserve you, and oh ! bless me, my father, even if some tears mingle with thy blessing.'

(To be continued.)


* And Jesus, when He came out, saw much people, and was moved with compassion toward them, because they were as sheep not having a shepherd.'—ST. MARK vi. 34.

Not yet! not yet! to-morrow I will rest.
But for to-day, are there not fainting hands
Stretched out impatient for the bread of life?
Are there not wandering feet seeking the path
Hidden by weeds ? and wistful eyes that strain
After the light that hath not dawned for them ?
Are there not wild despairing souls to calm ?
Weak souls, and sad, to strengthen and to soothe ?
And dying to absolve? Babes to be bless'd ?
Let me work on ? To-morrow I will rest.

Not yet! not yet! I cannot r est to-day.
They must not perish through my negligence-
These thousands dead in trespasses and sins-
Living for greed or pleasure-not for God.
These are the sheep for whom the Shepherd died,
And He would have me seek and bring them back,
And stand between the living and the dead,
Swinging the golden censer of my prayers,
If for a little space the Lord relent,
And give the sinner leisure to repent.
Not yet I not yet! To-morrow I will rest;
But just to-night they tell me that a man
Has been brought home, mangled and bruised, to die,
Who, through the whole of a degraded life,
Has scoffed at Jesus and His boundless love.
My God! what misery hath he heaped on me!

my dear Lord this message sends to him-
Believe, repent, and live, and trust the love,
Waiting through death to bear thee into light.
To-morrow rest! Let me go forth to-night.
Only to-day, thou say'st, for those I love
In my dear household gathering. Oh, my God,
Are there not wretched wives tempted to sin ?
And hopeless mothers hardened by despair ?
And fair young girls, who tread life's dangerous ways,
Without a safeguard from the tempter's power ?


And tender children growing up in sin,
Or dying in the city's fever haunts ?
Knowing all this, how can I bear to stay
E’en midst my loved ones ? Let me work to-day.
Not yet! not yet! To-morrow I will rest
The weary head and limbs, but not to-day.
When on the grassy slopes of that far sea
The fainting thousands sat in groups, and He---
Himself, the bread of life, gave thanks and brake,
And passed to His Apostles-what if they
Had said, Dear Master, we are hungry too,
And faint with toil,' had He not answered them,
'I came to serve, not to be served; and ye,

would do My work, must serve like Me.'
Only a broken vessel! It is true !
No golden bowl fit for the Master's use ;
But stained and soiled, with scarce a semblance left
Of the dear Image—all the brightness gone-
Only a potsherd with the Maker's brand,
Holding the wine of Life, yet wasting it,
Through flaws and imperfections and defects;
Scarce strength or spirit left to cope

with sin;
Yet pledged to combat-harassed and distrest,
Let me fight on. To-morrow I will rest!
Let me fight on. To morrow I will rest!
How he will choose, what matters it to me.
When the tired hands and brain can toil no more,
The weary limbs their day's work shall have done,
Then from the Captain of the Host shall come
The welcome order to lie down and sleep.
And I, unworthy servant that I am,
Shall win on battle-field the Victor's Crown,
For simply doing His beloved behest-
Let me work on. To-morrow I will rest!

No other hope for rest? Yes, one besides !
And at the very thought my heart beats high.
Are there not loving hands who long to give
Of their abundance, knew they but the need ?
Are there not ardent souls who wait the call
To yield their lives to Him who died for them?
Perhaps our tender Lord by such e'en now
May send me help and comfort e'er I faint.
Then Heaven itself were scarce more fully bless'd;
To live were Christ–to work were perfect Rest.

M. E. B.

A few words in explanation of these lines. It appears that, in consequence of the depression in trade and agriculture, the Society for Promoting the Employment of Additional Curates was obliged to withdraw several grants last year; and that, besides these, there are nearly two hundred unaided cases on their list, earnestly asking and 'waiting for help. When one sees at the end of these applications such statements as these : Grant of 501. asked to meet 1001. locally guaranteed'; 'Grant of 701. to meet 801.'; 'Grant of 501. to meet 601. &c. &c., one feels how doubly blessed would any present help be. And these appeals come from the overgrown parishes (most of them with populations of 8,000 or 10,000, and often more) of our own country, where too often a solitary man, overworked and sometimes in failing health, and with increasing family cares and too often a miserable income, is struggling against the depressing influences of sin, that he has no power to check, and want that he has no means to relieve.

Are there not some who have never yet helped the Home Missions of the Church of England who will come forward now to aid the servants of God in their need ? Are there not many who will do it for the Master's sake? Never was the need greater ! Never was the strife between Good and Evil, between the Church and the World, more deadly—nor yet more hopeful. Will not some that are rich give freely of their abundance, promising the help that any one parish needs so sorely, say for three or five years? Will not all give something much or little—but as to God, willingly and with prayer? And may He who is able without our help to do exceeding abundantly beyond our want or wishes repay all such gifts sevenfold, in the joy of being the instruments of His grace in holding up the hands that are now ready to faint, and in saving souls for Christ that are now ready to perish.

Mrs. Bromfield, Fladbury House, Pershore, will thankfully receive and acknowledge any subscriptions sent for the parishes 'waiting for help'; or they may be sent direct to The Rev. A. J. Ingram, Secretary to the Additional Curates Society, 7, Whitehall, London, S.W. All contributions will be acknowledged in the Home Mission Field, the Society's Quarterly Publication.



Any visitor at the east end of London most often be struck with the pale, sickly look of many of the children who throng the streets and alleys.

You must take the child out of London, madam; a little fresh country air is all that is needed.'

Such would be the verdict of the family doctor on any of our own little ones should they begin to flag as the summer advanced ; but, alas ! to the poor little east-end children, advice of such a kind would often be only a mockery. Going out of town requires money, and when rent and firing, food and clothing, are paid for, there is little left to meet the expense of such luxuries as change and good country air. At Whitechapel, for the last two summers, the clergy of S. Jude's have endeavoured, with the help of some kind friends, to provide country holidays for some of the very poorest of the London children. I will here quote a short extract from a paper written at the close of last year by the Rev. M. Atkinson, of S. Jude's, as giving the best idea of what has been already accomplished.

The whole number sent into the country this summer (1879) was 170 children, besides ten or a dozen grown-up people. These were distributed in twenty-one different neighbourhoods, usually from six to twelve in one place at a time; out of the whole number, thirty children, and most of the older people, were provided for by their entertainers, leaving 140 children, for whom we paid usually at the rate of 58. a week in a few cases, 4s.) for each child, the average duration of the holiday being three weeks. The total cost, exclusive of the thirty and others mentioned above, was 1301. 108., which may fairly be taken to represent the board and lodging, travelling and incidental expenses of the 140 --less than 11. a head. In some cases the parents paid all, or part of the railway fare, and we always urged this when possible. The plan has worked admirably, and done more good than could have been imagined. Not only have the children come back wonderfully improved in health and looks (one little girl was so changed that her mother did not know her, and the guard of the train refused to give her up to a stranger), but their mental powers were also improved, and their horizon enlarged by the new scenes and people ; and the cottagers who took them in have been brought in a very real way face to face with town life and town poverty.'

It was in a somewhat curious way that I became personally interested in this work, rather beginning, as it were, from the country end. There was a good deal of distress last year in some of the agricultural districts, several men were out of work for many weeks, and it was in endeavouring to find a way of helping some poor people in a little village in Cambridgeshire (for many years my own dear home), that I first heard, quite accidentally, of the want of country homes for these London little ones, and I confess I helped at first entirely for the sake of my country friends. Now, visiting myself at the east end of London, I feel my sympathies are enlisted as strongly on the children's part. I wrote first

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