TOM TAKE-A-TEXT, The Tinker of Fellside.

The

IFTY years ago I v. as a lad at Fellside. It is, perhaps I ought to say, was, a straggling village on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors. What were mere hamlets then are great towns now. A few years ago I travelled from Sheffield to Manchester by railway over Blackstone Edge-the "Backbone of England," as they call it. Though born and brought-up there, I yet scarcely knew where I was. brooks in which I used to fish or bathe are now filthy with dye and refuse from the factories on their banks. The moors over which I used to wander, rejoicing in the beauty of the yellow gorse, and purple heather, and fragrant wild thyme; the hill-sides on which I have lain for hours, listening to the chorus of larks up in the blue sky; the woods which used to ring again to the merry shouts and laughter of us schoolboys on Saturday afternoons, are now overhung with dense clouds of smoke, and covered with huge mounds of rubbish dug out from the mines. It is nearly forty years since I saw dear old Fellside, and I dare say that it has grown out of knowledge like the rest of the places

hereabouts.

I have been reminded of my young days on the Yorkshire Moors by reading a life of George Whitfield, which brings back to my memory an old man whom every one knew as Tom Take-atext. He was a travelling tinker, who used to go from village to village mending pots and kettles,

What his real name was I never learned. He was born in the West Indies, and had some Negro blood in his veins, which showed itself in his thick lips and curly hair. When a lad, he entered the navy, and became one of the armourers on board a man-of-war. Crowds of youngsters used to gather about him as he sat at work, listening to the tales of danger and descriptions of foreign countries, into which he would always slip some good advice, or a word of good-humoured reproof for those who needed it.

what they heard; and when the crowd began to throw stones and rotten eggs at the preacher, they formed a ring round the table on which he stood, declaring that they would thrash the first man who dared to lift a hand against him. A tipsy fellow in the crowd hurled a brickbat, which narrowly missed Mr. Whitfield's head. Tom sprang upon him like a lion, seized him by the collar, and shook him till he roared for mercy. This overawed the crowd, and the sermon ended without further interruption. When the service was over, Mr. Whitfield stepped down to Tom and his comrades, and said, "Thank you, my men, for the help you have given me this day. The Lord reward you, and bring you to his kingdom and glory." The solemnity and tearful earnestness of these words confirmed the impression already made, and for the first time in his life Tom began to pray. For months he seemed to pray in vain, but at last he found peace in Christ. No sooner had he done so than he resolved to be useful in the service of his Saviour and Master. Freely had he received; freely would he give. It was not much, indeed, that he could do, but he would do that little, and escape the guilt and punishment of the slothful servant, who, having but one talent, wrapped it in a napkin, and hid it useless in the earth.

On receiving his discharge, in consequence of being wounded in action, he began to travel the country as a working tinker. His chief reason for doing so was that he might do good by speaking a word in season as he was at his work. Quaint anecdotes, pithy sayings, striking extracts from sermons, were always ready to his lips, so as to enforce some good lesson he wanted to teach. He was a great and universal favourite. The villagers used to say that "If he'd take a text, he'd preach a sermon as good as the parson's." Hence the name by which he was always known in the district. labours as an evangelist were much blessed, and multitudes of precious souls were led to Christ through his means. "Go thou and do likewise."

JOHN ROBINS' ENEMIES AND FRIENDS. CHAP. VIII.

His

and salvation for some of the ungodly crowd who were around him. Immediately on the conclusion of the prayer, Mr. Whitfield gave out his text, "Thou art weighed in the balances, and found wanting." Seeming to fix his eyes upon Tom, he said, "It is an awful thing to be judged by God, The man after God's own heart exclaimed: Enter not into judgment with thy servant, for in thy sight shall no flesh living be justified.' Here is a case of God judging a wicked man, Thou art weighed in the balances, and found wanting,'"

These words at once fixed Tom's attention and sank deeply into his heart. The rest of the sailors were likewise a good deal impressed by

John told her what had been Kate's conduct, how wholly without feeling towards her mother and himself.

"As to Jack, I never thought he'd come to any good-he was a born-bad one," she said, "but I couldn't have believed it of a girl. How big is she ?"

"I haven't seen her for some time," said John; "she came last to get her mother's things. She told her she was bad and couldn't wear 'em, and she might as well have 'em, so she took all she could find then and there, and it put Mary in such a passion she coughed till she was nigh gone; but Kate never minded, she went on rummaging the box, and saying she had paid for it over and over again; and she knew her mother couldn't hinder her, you see!"

Annie stood petrified as she listened. Was it possible! Alas, she did not know how a course of sin hardens the heart and destroys nature.

"But what size is she?" said Nannie. "She's taller than her!" said John, who seemed ashamed of calling Annie by her name.

"Then I saw her to day!" said Nannie," and she puzzled me above a bit. I thought I knew the face, and I was sure about the shawl; but I doubt it has never seen the wash-tub since I sent it back, I wish I could lay hands on her, I'd tell her my mind."

"She wouldn't care about that," said John. "And does she know her mother is dying!" said Nannie.

"I should think she does; it's plain enough to see," said John.

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And she doesn't mind a bit about you neither?" said Nannie,

"I can't say she ever sauced me much; she was civil enough when I saw her; only she used to have such noises with her, I kept away from the house -I wasn't sorry when she took herself off."

"It's no good staying here, John; let me go and see for a decent room for you, or fetch a doctor, or do something," she said in despair.

"Doctor's no good," said John.

"I'll go look for one, and see if she can b moved, and if she can I'll take her back home with me to-night," said Nannie.

"Oh, dear granny, how good of you," cried Annie: "and there's all my money, it will pay the doctor!"

John coloured and cast down his eyes; he could not make it out that any one who was willing to make any such sacrifice was his own child.

"You stop here a bit," said Nannie with reluct ance, as she looked at Annie's pale face. "I'll go and see for a doctor; as to doing a turn of any use in this place is no more good than wind in a chimney."

As soon as Nannie was gone, Annie, by way of doing something, unpacked her basket. "We thought you would like these flowers, father," she said, laying the poor fading things on the bed. "And I've made you a shirt," she continued, taking her work from the basket and opening it before him.

Her voice saying "Father" had a wonderful effect on John; and when she stood before him holding up her gift, he brushed his arm across his eyes and bowed down his head.

Annie stood in silence, not knowing what to say. "I've never been a father to you, my girl," he said at last. "I've been a wicked, good-for-ne thing fellow, and I don't deserve anything but t be miserable. I'm sure you must hate the looks of me."

"Oh, don't say so," cried Annie; "indeed dear granny and I often talk about you and wish you could come and live and work in the country, and then I would clean and sew for you and poor mother too till she got quite well."

"She'll never get well, never!" said John, look. ing at Mary, who lay sleeping uneasily.

"I have brought a book for Jack, and these things for Kate," said Annie, displaying all her presents; "how dreadful to hear such things about

them!"

John was much touched when he saw these marks of sisterly affection. "I don't know how you come to remember you had father and mother and brother and sister," he said; "I'm sure you're had no good cause to do it."

Annie was about to reply, when a noise on the stairs made them turn to the door.

It was Kate, with a flaunting air and loud voice finishing her speech to some one outside. She started back when she saw Annie, and the things lying on the bed-and staring at Annie, said,

"How is she?"

"None the better for your noise," said John. "Can't you let her have a sleep now she's able; it's nothing else you'll do for her."

Kate darted a scornful look at him, and said sharply, "How much have you done? you've got wonderfully good all of a minute."

Annie's feelings were certainly to be exercised to the full that day; she fairly tingled all over with horror and shame at hearing and seeing what she heard and saw. "Was that really her sister?"

John, who knew he should get the worst of it in an altercation, took no further notice, but looked towards the fire.

"What's all this?" said Kate, going to the bed and taking up the rose-coloured needle-book and sky-blue pin-cushion, which attracted her by their bright colours.

"They are what I made for my sister," said Annie tremblingly, but with all the firmness she could muster.

"And who are you?" said Kate, turning fiercely upon her.

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"I am Annie; your sister Annie!" said Annie;

don't you remember me, Kate?" Kate's large bright eyes, which would have been beautiful if they had not glared so fiercely and boldly, were fastened on her; she looked at her from head to foot, and exclaimed, "Where did you come from?"

"From home," said Annie; "I came to see poor mother and father, and you and Jack, and I never thought to see you all like this!"

Kate looked more astonished than ashamed or sorry, and began directly to ask a dozen questions as to how long she meant to stay, and what she had brought, and how she had come.

While Annie was trying to answer these with calmness-trying to feel that Kate was her sister, and to get something back of the kind, affectionate feeling she had cherished for her, the door again opened, and Nannie came in followed by a gentlewho was no other than the doctor.

man,

'Dead!" exclaimed Nannie.

While Annie stood powerless to move or speak. "She has been dead some minutes," said the doctor. "I would recommend you to fumigate this place if you mean to remain in it," he added, as he took his leave.

Kate walked up to the bed and looked at the corpse with more of curiosity than anything else. 'You've helped to bring her to this," said Nannie in great excitement, and with reproach growing in her face.

"I!" said Kate in astonishment, "what have I done?"

"A pretty sort of a daughter you've been; it broke her heart, I doubt, at last," said Nannie, who at that moment felt nothing but pity for the dead.

"I cared as much for her as she did for me," said Kate insolently; " and ask him," pointing to her father, "if she didn't always begin the noise, and didn't get every shilling out of me while she could go about to spend it."

"said

Nannie soon saw that she should prove no match with Kate's tongue, and only shook her head, "Did you say you brought these for me? Kate, taking the things up from the bed, and looking at Annie.

But Annie was overcome with the closing stroke of the day's excitement; she was sobbing violently.

"Don't give up, my lass, don't; we'll get away from here and get somebody to look to things, and father will go back with us to the country, and we'll try to make the best of the end. We can't do any good to this poor thing, she's beyond us.

I'm glad you saw her. It was no fault of ours we didn't see her sooner-if John had only sent us word."

John was silent; he did not look much affected; but when Nannie had settled the basket, and told Annie to get her bonnet tied, and then said to him, "Come, John, it's no good staying in this place, we'll just give the order for her to be looked to, and you come along with us, the van will be gone!"

"I shan't go!" said John resolutely. "Why not?" demanded Nannie.

"I shall stop to see her done properly by," said John, nodding towards the bed.

"If that's not just like you, and a good husband you'd have made, if she'd have let you; but there, there's no good in speaking ill of the dead!"

John was apparently very indifferent to what Nannie or anybody thought about him, yet there was a rising in his heart that prevented him from leaving Mary now she lay dead.

"Now don't be obstinate," said Nannie.

"I shan't go," said John. And it was plain he meant what he said; so giving it in charge to a woman, who had come in to gaze, to do all that was needful, Nannie prepared to go, promising to be in again in two days to follow her to the grave.

"Yes, dear father," said Annie.

"God bless you, John," said Nannie, "you'll promise to come back with us on Friday?"

"Ay, ay, wait till Friday comes," said John. No sooner had they left, than going up to the bed he gazed long and sorrowfully on the body; he remembered the day when, in all her finery, he had thought her so beautiful, and had listened so pleased to her quick and entertaining tongue. If he could have brought her back, he thought, he would try to make her comfortable, to nurse her, to take care of her; "but then," he exclaimed, "she wouldn't be made comfortable only in her own way." Yet he was dissatisfied with himself; and, when after the body was laid in the coffin, he sat beside it again, his memory of all her failings was quite gone, and he reproached himself severely for having been the ruin of her.

Friday came, and with it Nannie and Annie in the best black they could afford, or make in the time. When they entered the room, which had been washed by Nanny's special directions, they beheld John, clean for him, sitting in his old place by the corps, and the faded flowers made into a bunch, and laid in Mary's hand.

"I wish she had cared more for flowers like them when she was alive," he said.

The humble funeral was crossing the street to the church close at hand, when a troop of factory girls met it just at the corner. Foremost of them was Kate-she didn't look at it, nor at the mourners. She had gone off when Nannie had so attacked her, and never been near the chamber of death since.

As it happened it was a street that led directly to the churchyard, and before she could stop herself she was in the heart of the little procession.

"There's some sign of shame in you. I'm glad," said Nannie, who thought she had returned of her own accord, and held her tight by the shawl for fear she should repent of her goodness and go off again.

Kate thus pinned, most unwillingly remained a spectator of what she had never witnessed, and though not a spark of affection existed in her breast for the memory of her mother, yet the solemn words-the open grave-the coffin-all together, touched her with fear and dread.

John was decently habited, Nannie had procured

clothes for him as she could; he had behaved with calm, sober seriousness at the funeral, and when all was over, as they turned to go, he said to Kate, “You mind, Kate, if you don't mend your ways, it won't be long before you'll be buried; you've got her ways and her looks, and you'll come to her cough, and her end!"

This was the first piece of good advice he had ever given to his children, and it fell like a knell on Kate's ear. Was it possible? should she soon be laid in that terrible place? She turned away sick at heart.

I

THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER
MIGNONETTE.

LOVE that box of mignonette:

Though worthless in your eyes,

Above your choicest hot-house flowers,

My mignonette I prize;

Thank heaven, not yet I've learned on that
A money worth to set;

"Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings,
My box of mignonette.

I know my own sweet mignonette
Is neither strange nor rare;
Your garden flaunters burn with hues
That it may never wear;
Yet on your garden's rarest blooms
No eyes were ever set
With more delight than mine on yours,
My box of mignonette.
Why do I prize my mignonette

That lights my window there?
It adds a pleasure to delight;

It steals a weight from care.
What happy daylight dreams it brings!
Can I not half forget

My long, long hours of weary work,
With you, my mignonette?

It tells of May, my mignonette,
And as I see it bloom,

I think the green, bright, pleasant spring
Comes freshly through my room.
Our narrow court is dark and close,
Yet when my eyes you met,
Wide fields lay stretching from my sight,
My box of mignonette.

What talks of it, my mignonette?
To me it babbles still

Of woodland banks of primroses,
Of heath and breezy hill;
Through country lanes and daisied fields,
Through paths of morning wet,
Again I trip, as when a girl,

Through you, my mignonette.

For this I love my mignonette,
My window-garden small,

That country thoughts, and scents, and sounds,
Around me loves to call.

For this, though low in rich men's thoughts
Your worth and love be set,

I bless thee, pleasure of the poor,
My own sweet mignonette.

W. C. BENNETT.

THE SATURDAY HALF-HOLIDAY.

KEW GARDENS AND PLEASURE GROUNDS.

Fall the places of recreation which Londoners

dens stands amongst the first. The beauties

CLUB GOURD.

and wonders of vegetable life there displayed well entitle it to be regarded as the most complete collection in the world.

Kew is a small village in Surrey, about nine miles from the Royal Exchange, pleasantly situated on the right bank of the Thames. The Botanic Gardens and Pleasure Grounds are open to the public every week-day from one o'clock till sunset, and can easily be reached either by train, omnibus, or steamboat. A few facts respecting the early history of the royal gardens of Kew will be interesting to many of our readers.

About the middle of the seventeenth century, Kew House, with the adjacent grounds, belonged to R. Bennett, Esq., whose daughter married Lord Capel. They afterwards passed by marriage into the hands of the secretary of King George II., Mr. Molyneux, who was well known as an astronomer. About 1730, the Prince of Wales, the father of George III., took a lease of it from the Capel family, and began to lay out the grounds, then containing about 270 acres. Sixty years later, George III. purchased Kew House, which was soon after pulled down, and the furniture removed to what is now called Kew Palace, an old building of the time of King James or Charles I., which had been purchased for Queen Charlotte.

The voyage of Captain Cook and Sir Joseph Banks enriched the gardens with the marvellous vegetable productions of foreign lands; and many collectors were sent abroad for the purpose of gathering rare and curious

plants. Some of the seeds and slips have grown into lofty trees, and now bear flowers and fruit which were never before known in England. During the reigns of George IV. and William IV. little was done to improve the gardens. In the year 1840 they were thrown open to the public, and since that time great changes and additions have been made, chiefly through the liberality of her Majesty Queen Victoria. Before that time the working man and his family could only peep over the hedge or wall; but now the humblest are at liberty to enjoy the beauties of the place as well as their richer neighbours, and behold some of the wonders of creation, which, when rightly understood, may make them wiser and happier than they were before.

To the right of the pathway, just after entering the gate from Kew Green, is a building called the Aroideous House, filled with palms and other tropical trees and shrubs. The graceful young palms well deserve notice: in some the stems are covered with rings of sharp prickles; others have little finger-like shoots, hanging at regular intervals; while in some the stems are simply jointed like the bamboo. On one of the side benches may be seen the Dumb Cane, of the West Indies. The juice of this plant, if applied to the tongue, will cause it to swell, thus preventing speech; in former days it was applied to the lips of black slaves as a punishment.

Regaining the path, the next building we come to is the old Orangery, now occupied with specimens of timber, chiefly from the colonies. There are also some fine polished slabs of Denmark oak, from six to seven feet in diameter. The extraordinary strength of the fibre of trees while growing is seen from the trunk of a young laburnum, the branches of which have entwined themselves amongst the bars of an iron railing, bending the solid iron in a most singular manner.

Leaving this house, and turning to the left into the broad gravel walk, we come to the Palm House. This is an elegant glass building, 360 feet in length. About 45,000 square feet of glass, slightly tinged with green, were used in the roof and sides. A gallery runs round the lofty centre, to which we ascend by an iron staircase, where climbing flowers twine their slender green stems and many-coloured blos

THE PALM HOUSE.

At the present time upwards of five hundred different species of palms are known, and it is said there are many others of which no de scription has been given. The uses to which the palm is applied by man have been celebrated by Arabian writers in prose and verse, and are said by them to be three hundred and sixty. It is certain, as the traveller Humboldt asserts, that they yield "wine, oil, wax, flour, sugar, salt, and the materials of the habitations, vessels, weapons, and clothing of many nations." And what is to be carefully observed, as illustrating the goodness and wisdom of Divine Providence, they abound in countries "where corn-grains cannot be raised, in consequence of the great dryness of the soil, and the want of moisture in the air."

ין

There is another important service rendered by the palm tree, which in a sultry climate must be highly valued. It points out where water may be obtained. Find a palm tree, and however dry and sterile the ground may be in which it grows, we shall rarely fail to discover water at its roots. This may remind us of an incident in the journey of the children of Israel in the wilderness: "And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of water, and threescore and ten palm trees; and they encamped there by the waters (Exod. xv. 27). Close by the Palm House is the New Victoria House. The principal object here is the