AS A TALE THAT IS TOLD.*
THE recollections of Mr. Macdonald are very pleasant to read. Although his life touched that of persons whose names have a world-wide fame in Art—Sir Edward Burne-Jones was a
• brother-in-law, and also Sir Edward Poynter—Mr. Macdonald does not attempt to borrow glory from such association. He had & great admiration and affection for both men, and the former was the object of his boyish hero-worship :—
"Edward Burrie-Jones was then . . . an unknown man, and the only halo that he wore was that of the love and admira- tion of a few friends, for the most part as undistinguished as himself. Our estimate of him was entirely our own, and though he had as yet done nothing to indicate the quality and measure of his genius, we were as sure of him as we were of our own souls. He had the ascendancy over us of intellectual power associated with strong convictions, high enthusiasm, and a lovableness that could not be resisted. Moreover, the door through which all things entered his mind, or came out. from it, was the Gate Beautiful. With most of us, perhaps, the sense of the beautiful is imperfectly developed and largely conventional, with him it was intense, instinctive, and wholly unconventional."
Through his relationship with Sir Edward Burne-Jones Mr.
acdonald had the entrée to a brilliant circle, but, though appre- ciative, he seems to have been in no wise dazzled, and does not try to dazzle his readers. His chief interest is in hi 6 work in connexion with the Wesleyan Methodist Church, of which he was a minister for a great many years. He was also President of the :Wesleyan Conference. That Mr. Macdonald's life has been comparatively uneventful does not by any means explain the serenity of his book. There were enough hardships to be faced, 'particularly in his earlier days, to have inspired in more restless minds a far different story. We can imagine one of our ultra- modern novelists weaving out of those early years, with the disappointment over the University, the uncongenial years in the solicitors' offices and as an assistant-master at a dull private school, a long psychological study, clever but 'unpleasant, in which Mr. Macdonald would utterly fail to find the faintest semblance of himself or his experiences. But he was the possessor of modest ambitions, of a contented disposition, and, above all, of strong
• religious faith. He hardly seems to recognize the .difficulties as such, and the last thing he desires is sympathy with them. Mr. Macdonald was not twenty-one years of age when he had his first appointment and began the somewhat nomadic life of the Wesleyan Methodist ministry. In a very interesting chapter he describes the working of the circuit system, and its results in bringing the ministers into touch with many and various types, . .
of congregation. He was also engaged in certain- "extra- parochial work" for his Church. "In this way I have visited every important town in England, and many of its villages preaching, making speeches, or delivering lectures, literally from • A* a 110s rate that is Tefil, rroolic w, Leaden: Cassell, net.1 John O'Groat's to Land's End." It was the custom for the lecturers to enjoy the hospitality of members of the local churches :— " There was often a humorous, and sometimes a picturesque, side to my experiences of life in other people's homes. I have gone from a house where there was no domestic servant to one in which I was embarrassed by the attentions of too many. I have been entertained at dinners of the most elaborate kind, and was served, as it were, in state, and have dined with at least equal satisfaction where the smiling hostess brought in the pie from the oven with her own hands, and set it triumphantly upon the table. I have slept deep buried in the feather beds of mighty four-posters, and have lain on thin flock-mattressos whose contents were congested into unsympathetic lumps that murdered sleep. I recall the friendly farmhouse, and the all- pervading odour that came from the cheese-loft or the apple- room, and the house over the shop that was filled day and night with spicy breezes from the groceries below. I have stayed in a house in which I could not find a single book, in others that had only a few old magazines, a Life, say, of Mrs. Fletcher, and perhaps a history of the Crimean War, originally issued in parts; and again in another with such a library that I only desired to be left alone in it."
Mr. Macdonald refers little to controversial matters, whether of the Church or politics. While all in favour of union among the Churches, he sees the difficulties, the greatest perhaps being the intangible ones of sentiment and tradition. In the future of the Christian Church he has complete faith, "but it will not be the Church as we know it now." Particular forms of order and organization cannot be regarded as final. "Their tenure is leasehold rather than freehold, and in some instances the lease is perhaps nearer running out than the tenants are aware." The great need of the Church, he urges, is more goodness. "Nothing is so potent, so persuasive, so convincing, as goodness, and when it is more unmistakable in those who profess and call themselves Christians, Christianity will take a new hold upon the world, and at the same time readjust the affairs of her own household."
In connexion with his various activities Mr. Macdonald travelled considerably outside his own country, and has some interesting things to say about Wesleyan Methodism in othei lands. He can also tell a good story, as witness the following The morning after preaching to a large congregation in St. Loin: a negro waiter at his hotel came close to him and whispered ;— " I heard you preach last night, sah ; very good sermon, sah; I couldn't have preached dat sermon if I'd stopped oq my knees till de day ob doom, sah.'—' Possibly not,' I said, but I have no doubt you can do many things that I cannot do.' — ` Yes, sah, I can, sah,' was his quick reply ; I can stand at de door oh de dinin"-room when de gentlemen come in to dinner and take der hate, fifty, hundred oh dem, and when dey go out again I gib every gentleman his own hat, make no mistake, ash.'
— ` Well,' said I, 'I could not do that.'—' No, sah, you couldn't,' he said, proudly, and, yet kindly, that I might not feel discour- aged, you couldn't.'—' How do you manage it ? ' sad L
- Imagination' sah,'. was his reply. I look at de empty hats
when I've put dem on de shelf till I see de faces come under 'em ' "
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