ing organ of public opinion,* suggested as likely to have been contemplated by the writer of this work-viz. to contribute towards the abolition of capital punishments, even in cases of murder. I am, on the contrary, quite agreed in opinion, on that subject, with the able reviewer of this work, in the journal above alluded to. I had, in truth, given the subject great consideration, long before writing Now and Then; and, entertaining these views, I feel it rather hard to be represented, as has been the case, not only in this country, but on the Continent and in America, as favouring and endeavouring to advance doctrines which I repudiate. I acknowledge that, as a subsidiary object, I have endeavoured to illustrate the awful liability to error, to which even the highest and best human intellects and institutions are liable, in judging of, and dealing with, especially judicially, the events which happen around us, in the mysterious scene of action in which God has placed mankind -where He has ordained that we should know in part only, and see through a glass darkly. These are topics suggesting many solemnising and salutary reflections. On the particular subject under consideration, I wish here to express my entire concurrence with the critic above mentioned; who says that "if we are to suspend a punishment essential to public example, and justified by the laws of God, as well as by the oldest sanctions of man, until human institutions are rendered absolutely perfect and unerring, we must, on the same grounds, stop short also of inflicting smaller penalties for secondary crimes, and finally resolve to inflict upon our fellow-creatures no punishment whatever."

I feel constrained to say, that the almost unanimous approbation of this work expressed by the public press-overlooking, in a noble spirit, defects of detail, while recognising good intentions-has deeply, indelibly impressed my heart. I have also received a surprising number of private communications, from persons in all ranks of society, applauding the scope and tendency of the work, and many of them urging me to print it in a form and at a price suitable for even more extensive distribution than it has hitherto attained. I humbly hope that the feelings and intentions with which Now and Then was written will, as some of those communications have suggested, bear that terrible test, deathbed reflection. I regarded the publishing of this work as a bold experiment; and it is impossible to express the anxiety with which the issue, destined greatly to surpass my most sanguine expectations, was awaited.

The title of the work has been variously remarked on. It was deemed by myself to be peculiarly significant and suggestive; but it was intended that, while awakening curiosity, the propriety of the words should become fully apparent, only on finishing the perusal of the work: when "NOW AND THEN" might present themselves under several aspects, to one who might have taken the trouble to reflect on the course of the narrative.

The fabric of the story is purposely simple and slight; but it appeared to afford opportunities for exhibiting human nature under circumstances of exquisite interest, difficulty, and perplexity, such as are calculated to rouse into action its strongest passions, and highest faculties. The aim of the writer was to deduce, from such a display, lessons of sterling value. And, finally, this work was, with all its imperfections, composed under a strong sense of the serious moral responsibility attaching to him who ventures to write for the public; especially if he believe that what he writes has the faintest chance of being read by many, or influencing the feelings, opinions, or conduct of ONE.

*The Times newspaper.

For Now we see through a glass, darkly; but THEN face to face: Now I know in part; but THEN shall I know even as also I am known.-1 COR. xiii. 12.

NOW AND THEN.

CHAPTER I.

two

what to the left, stood an elm-tree, its trunk covered with ivy; and it so effectually sheltered from the seabreezes the modest little fabric beneath, and otherwise so materially contributed to its snug picturesque appearance, that there could be little doubt of the tree's having reached its maturity before there was any such

SOMEWHERE about a hundred years called the chief bedroom; for there ago (but in which of our good kings' were three little dormitories reigns, or in which of our sea-coast being small, and at the back of the counties, is needless to be known) cottage. Not far behind, and somethere stood alone, at a little distance from the secluded village of Milverstoke, a cottage of the better sort, which no one could have seen, without its suggesting to him that he was looking at a cottage of the true old English kind. It was most snug in winter, and in summer very beautiful; glistening, as then it did, in all its fragrant loveliness of jessamine, honey-structure for it to grace and protect. suckle, and sweet-brier. There, also, stood a bee-hive, in the centre of the garden, which, stretching down to the road-side, was so filled with flowers, especially roses, that nothing could be seen of the ground in which they grew; wherefore it might well be that the busy little personages who occupied the tiny mansion so situated, conceived that the lines had fallen to them in very pleasant places indeed. The cottage was built sub stantially, though originally somewhat rudely, and principally of sea-shore stones. It had a thick thatched overhanging roof, and the walls were low. In front there were two latticed windows, one above the other. The lower one belonged to the room of the building; the higher, which was much smaller, belonged to what might be

Beside this tree was a wicket, by which was entered a small slip of ground, half garden and half orchard. All the foregoing formed the remnant of a little freehold property, which had belonged to its present owner, and to his family before him, for several generations. The initial letter (A) of their name, Ayliffe, was rudely cut, in old English character, in a piece of stone forming a sort of centre facing over the doorway; and no one then living there knew when that letter had been cut. The present owner of the cottage was Adam Ayliffe, once a substantial, but now a reduced yeoman, well stricken in years, being at the time now spoken of not far from his sixty-eighth year; the crown of his head was bald, and finely formed, and the little hair that he had

left was of a silvery colour, verging | into intemperate and dissolute habits; dishonesty, as usual, soon followed; and poor Ayliffe was horrified one evening by being called upon, his principal having absconded, a great defaulter, to contribute to repair the deficiency, to the full extent of his bond. At the time of this sad event, Ayliffe was the freehold owner of some forty or fifty acres of ground adjoining his cottage, besides having some small sum of money advanced upon mortgage to a neighbour, the interest of which he was setting apart for a purpose which will be presently mentioned. But all was suddenly sacrificed :-not only the little accumulation of interest, but the principal from which it had grown, and not only that, but more than half of his land, to make good the loss for which he had so unhappily become responsible. This stroke seemed to prostrate poor Ayliffe, not only on account of his severe pecuniary loss, but his cruelly betrayed confidence. Nor was this all. His favourite purpose had been suddenly defeated; that purpose having been to make a provision for the marriage of his only child, a son, called after himself, Adam, being the fifth Adam Ayliffe, father and son, during as many generations. That fondly-desired object was now unattainable; and father and son shortly afterwards experienced a bitter proof of the too frequent fickleness of earthly

on white. His countenance and figure were striking to an observant beholder, who would have said at once, "That man is of a firm and upright character, and has seen trouble,"all which was indeed distinctly written in his open Saxon features. His eye was of a clear blue, and steadfast in its gaze; and when he spoke, it was with a certain quaintness, which seemed in keeping with his simple and stern character. All who had ever known Ayliffe entertained for him a deep respect. He was of an independent spirit, somewhat taciturn, and of a retiring contemplative humour. His life was utterly blameless, regulated throughout by the purifying and elevating influence of Christianity. The excellent vicar of the parish in which he lived, reverenced him, holding him up as a pattern, and pointing him out as one of whom it might be humbly said, Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile. Yet the last few years of his life had been passed in great trouble. Ten years before had occurred, in the loss of his wife, who had been every way worthy of him, the first great sorrow of his life. After twenty years spent together in happiness greater than tongue could tell, it had pleased God, who had given her to him, to take her away suddenly, indeed, but very gently. He woke one morning, when she woke not, but lay sweetly sleep-friendships. The girl whose hand had ing the sleep of death. His Sarah was gone, and thenceforth his great hope was to follow her, and be with her again. His spirit was stunned for a while, but murmured not; saying, with resignation, "The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.' A year or two afterwards occurred to him a second trouble, great, but of a different kind. He was suddenly reduced almost to beggary. To enable the son of an old deceased friend to become a collector of public rates in an adjoining county, Ayliffe had unsuspiciously become his surety. The man, however, for whom he had done this service, fell soon afterwards

been pledged to young Adam readily broke off the match at her parents' desire; and she being very pretty, and they so well to do in the world as would have enabled them with ease to set Adam Ayliffe and their daughter comfortably going in life, little difficulty was found in obtaining a successor to poor Adam, in a thriving young farmer, whom, however, if the truth must be told, she had originally jilted in his favour. And possibly some palliative of her misconduct in the matter might have been derived from the fact, that Adam was not only of an old family, and would have succeeded to no inconsiderable hereditary property, but was also one of the finest

young fellows in the county, with a handsome countenance, of a most engaging frankness, a figure tall and well formed, possessed of surpassing activity and strength, and of a daring and reckless courage. In all manly exercises he excelled every competitor; and as to his feats at singlestick, they were famous in several adjoin ing counties. Every one, in short, liked Adam Ayliffe; he had a laugh and a good word for all whom he met, would do anything to oblige anybody, and seemed not to know that there was such a thing in the world to be looked after as-self.

hood entertained a liking for him, and had personally bestowed no inconsiderable pains upon his education, which, though plain, as suited his position, was yet sound and substantial. Greatly concerned had been the Vicar at the disasters befalling the Ayliffes; nay, he went so far as secretly to make an effort to reclaim the fickle Phoebe: but in vain-it was plainly not to be; and then he sought to satisfy the sorely discomfited suitor, that he might depend upon it all would turn out for the best.

The Rev. Henry Hylton, M.A., at the time now spoken of, had been Vicar of Milverstoke for nearly twenty years. It was a Cambridge College living, of about £300 a-year; the first that had fallen in for his acceptance, after he had obtained his Fellowship, to which, in consequence of his distinguished degree, he had been elected almost immediately. He was a man of good family; of powerful intellect and accurate scholarship; deeply read in divinity; of signal decision of character, lofty independence of spirit, and fervent piety. He, too, was naturally of a cheerful disposition, but had been saddened by domestic affliction; for marrying, shortly after coming to the living, a woman every way fitted for her post, of sweet and most amiable temper, they had had five children, all of whom had died, except the youngest, a little girl, for whom it may easily be believed that they entertained an anxious love passing expression.

It was everywhere said that a handsomer couple than Adam and Phoebe would make, was not to be found. But, poor soul ! all his prospects were, as has been seen, in one moment blighted; and Phoebe's heartless desertion hurt him far more than the poverty, with its humiliating incidents, into which he and his father had so unexpectedly been plunged. His buoyancy of spirits had fled for ever, but the manly simplicity of character which he had inherited from his father remained. Much, however, of that father's pious teaching it took to soothe the ruffled spirit of his son. Long was it before any one could exchange a smile with Adam Ayliffe the younger. Alas! what a contrast now, between father and son going heretofore together arm-in-arm to church, the one with his great walking-stick, broad hat, and long rough blue coat, and face of grave but not austere composure; the other gaily After young Adam's troubles had clad, and his hat somewhat jauntily come upon him, by way of occupying set upon his curly nut-brown hair, or diverting his attention, Mr Hylton nodding to this one, smiling to the would have him often to the parsonother, and taking off his hat to the age, on some kind pretext or other; elder folk! As the two would stand one being to copy out some old suddenly uncovered while the parson sermons, the manuscript of which passed or met them, on his way into had become too small to be read in the church, his heart yearned towards the pulpit conveniently, the good them both. He thoroughly loved and Vicar's eyesight not being as clear respected them, and was proud of two and strong as it had been originally. such specimens of the English yeo- Thus it was that Adam came to be man; and, above all, he was charmed constantly thrown into the way of a with the good example which they certain maid of Mr Hylton's-Sarah, uniformly set to all his other parish- whose history was short, but not unioners. He had from Adam's boy-interesting. She had been left an

sent of all persons concerned; and then took her home to the cottage, where old Adam Ayliffe, as he kissed the pale cheek of the meek and trem

66

Daughter-in-law,” said he, “I am poor; so is this thy husband; and we may become poorer; but here is that which will make those rich who rely on it. Give me thy hand, Sarah, and thine, Adam," said he, and placed them, with his own, upon the cover of the old family Bible: " Promise, with the blessing of Him who gave us this Book, never to look beyond it, in time of trouble, nor then to forget it. Thus promised my Sarah when God gave her to me, who hath since taken her away again!"

orphan, when young, by a poor widow, a parishioner of Milverstoke, who had died some years before; and Mrs Hylton, having taken a liking to the girl, had had her carried, about her four-bling new-comer, welcomed them both teenth year, to the parsonage, and with a solemn and affecting benedicbrought up under her own eye. Sarah tion that was quite patriarchal. proved a good and grateful girl, and became useful, being a good needlewoman, and discreet and intelligent; in short, she was a favourite with both Mr and Mrs Hylton. Though her countenance was pleasing, it could not be called pretty; its expression was pensive and thoughtful; her voice was soft, and pleasant to hear; and her figure slight, but well proportioned. Now Adam and she were often thrown together, for he used to sit in the housekeeper's room, in the evenings, copying out Mr Hylton's sermons, none other being present than the The old man's voice here trembled, housekeeper and Sarah and no one but failed him not. Then he tenderly can wonder that Adam should often embraced both his son and daughtertalk of his troubles, particularly touch-in-law, the latter weeping much; and ing Phoebe. The good housekeeper they sat down to their frugal repast pronounced her a hussy, who would with such cheerfulness as they might. live to repent her shameful conduct; and assured Adam that there were quite as good fish in the sea as had ever come out; he all the while listening in silence, or with a sigh, and shaking his head. The last observation, however, imperceptibly grew more grateful to his feelings when ever it was repeated. At length it occurred to him that Sarah, who was never very voluble, always preserved silence when such topic, or anything akin to it, was introduced, and looked very steadily at her needlework. One's own heart indicates the natural result of all this. On one such occasion as that just referred to, Sarah ventured to lift up her eyes, for an instant, from her work, and glanced timidly at Adam, whom she imagined to be busy writing; but behold! he was looking in silence, and rather earnestly, at her. Thus was kindled the first spark of love between Adam and Sarah; and, after several years' quiet courtship, long discouraged, but never absolutely forbidden, by both Mr and Mrs Hylton, Adam married Sarah from the parsonage, with the full con

Adam and his son had for some time betaken themselves to labour for their subsistence; and on this marriage taking place, both found it necessary to redouble their exertions, in order to meet their augmented expenditure; for small though it might be at first, prudence warned them to prepare against any probable increase of it. Bitter, bitter indeed was it to young Ayliffe, when first he saw his venerable father enter into the capacity of a hireling; but not so with that father, who heartily thanked God for the strength which he still had, and the opportunity of profitably exerting that strength. 'Twas somewhat late in the day, to be sure, but the necessity had not arisen from his fault. Labour was the lot of man ; this he knew, and was reverently content with that lot.

These three were the sole occupants of the cottage: and Mrs Ayliffe, being, as one might say, neatness personified, felt a pride in keeping her pretty residence in fitting order. Often, however, when her husband and father-inlaw were absent at their labour, to