MANHOOD SUFFRAGE.

Waikato Times, Volume XII, Issue 963, 24 August 1878, Page 3

MANHOOD SUFFRAGE.

" A Country Parson" writes to the Pall Mall 'Gazitte' as follows:— " tv'hen the agricultural lalxnei gets the franchise what wjJl he do with it? So soon as he has got his beer and hia tobacco duty free he will, I think, forthwith proceed to disgust his Radical friends by going in, heart and soul, for the repeal of the Education Act of 1876. This summer, for the first time, the pinch of the labor clauses of the Act is beginning to be felt, and the agricultural mind is now very sore. Yesterday a laborer came to me angrily demanding why his children could not go to work, " same as last year, pulling brassocks." (Brassocks, by the bye, are the latin brasska.\ 1 brought down the Act of Parliament, and carefully explained to him how and why it was that his children's labor was now prohibited by the law. In a surly and determined tone, he mattered, " Then them laws 'ull hav to be altered. Folk won't stand 'em." To-day I had to go through the same process of explana. tion with the mother of a large family, who had one baby in arms, and another evidently coming. She was still more angry than her neighbour had been \ but her remedy for the hardships of the Act was a threat, not of repeal, bat of infanticide. "If thats the law about the bairns, then a lot of 'em 'ull be put away." " Potting away," be it explained, is the current euphemism for child murder. Mr G. 0. Trevelyan and his iriends- hardly realise the profound ignorance of the rural laborer on all political subjects. Tennyson's " Northern Farmer " was an educated man when compared with tl.e Northern Farmer's "hind. " Last year, in conversation with an intelligent old man, the subject of the Eastern war vt as introduced. Unfortunately, he hadn't heard 'bout t' war, but, said he, placing bis hand on his well-thumbed Bible which lay on the table, opened at the Book of Joshua, ' there's a vast o' fightin' at t' back end o' t' Bible, and very good readic' it is/ Nor has the rising generation a much wider acquaintance with current politics than is possessed by their fathers. Her Majesty's inspector, examined the other day the first class in a large school, asked the children by whom this country was governed. "By the Queen," a child suggested. Such mere Prayer Book politics did not suit our inspector. ' Can't you tell me the name of any statesman— of any of the Queen's Ministers ?' The question was several times repeated in various forms without result, till at last one child, older than the rest, and of higher social position, being the daughter of a churchwarden of the parish, owned that she had heard tell of Lord Derbv, It turned out, however, that she knew nothing about him except his name. None of the other children had ever heard of him, or of Lord Beaconsfield or of Mr Gladstone, or of any statesman of more recent date than the reign of Sennacherib. It is to these children, when they have forgotten the little which they have learned at school, and when their intelligence has been further cultivated for a few years by pulling braisocks— it is to these children, and to their parents, whose notions of foreign politics are derived from the Book of Joshua, that it is gravely proposed to entrust the destinies of the British Empire, and we are now informed that this revolution is only a question of time. To us who live among these people and in daily intercourse with them, (he proposal seems not only criminal but absurd."

panes of the window beneath which they were sitting, weru the arnioriul bearings of the family in richest hues of stained glass, i The colours uud shadows fell with strange effects on her white dress, great bars of purple and criinspu crossing each other, aud opposite to her hung the superb Titiiin, with the blood-ted rubies on the white throat. Lord Arleigh watched Madalin* as she read. Whatever might be the agony in his own heart, it was exceeded by hers. He saw the brightness die out of her face, the light fade from her eyes, the lips grow pale. But a few urinates before that young face had been bright with fuirest beauty, eloquent with truest love, (it with passion and with poetry — now it was like a white mask. Slowly, and as though it was with difficulty that she understood, Lady Arleigh read the letter through, and then she did net scream or cry outshe raised her eyes to his face. He saw in them a depth of human t sorrow and human woe which words were powerless to express. So they looked at each other in passionate anguish. No words passed — ot what avail were they 1 Each read the heart of the other. They knew that they must part. Then the closely-written pages fell »o the ground, and Madalihe's hands clasped each other in helpless, anguish. The golden head fell forward on her breast. He noticed that in her agitation and sorrow she did not cling to him as she had clung before -that she did not even touch him. She seemed to understand by instinct that she was bis wife in name only. So for some minutes they sat, while the sunset glowed in the east. He was the first to speak. ' My dear Madaline/ he said, 'my poor wife ' — his voice seemed to startle her into new life and new p a i n — <I vvould rather have died than have given you this pain.' * I know it ; lam sure of it,' she said j ' bat, ob, Norman, how can I release you V 'There is happily no question about that,' he answered. He saw her rise from her seat and stretch out her arms. ' What have I done,' she cried, 'that I must suffer so cruelly 1 What have I done ?' ' Madeline,' said Lord Arleigh, ' I do not think that so cruel a fate has ever befallen any one as has befallen us. I do not believe that anyone has ever had to si'tfer so cruelly, my darling. If death had parted us, the trial would have been easier to bear, ' She turned her sad eyes to him. ' It is very cruel, she said, with a shudder. ' I did not think that the Duchess could be so cruel.' *It is more than that ; it is infamous,' he cried. 'It is a vengeance worthier of a fiend than a woman. 1 ' And I loved her so,' said the young girl, mournfully. ' Hutband, I will not reproach you ; your love was chivalrous and nc ble ; but why did you not let me speak freely to you ? I declare to you that no doubt ever crossed my mind. I thought you knew all, though I considered it strange that you, so proud of your noble birth, should wish to marry me. I never imagined that you had been deceived. The Duchess told me that you knew the whole history of my father's crime, that you were familiar with every detail of it, but that yon wished me never to mention it, not even ever so remotely.' ' And you believed her ?' he said. 'Yes, as I believe you. Why should I have doubted her P My faith in her was implicit. Why should I have even thought that she was deceiving me P I told her with tears in my eyes that I thought you would repent ; more than once I was on the point of running away. But she would not let me go, She said that I must not be cruel to you— that you loved me so dearly, that to lose me would prdve a death-blow. So I believed her, and, against my will, stayed on.' ' I wish you had told me this/ he said, slowly. She raised her eyes to his. 1 You would not let me speak, Norman. I tried so often, deer, but you would not let me.' \I remember/ he acknowledged; ' but, oh, my darling, how little I knew what you had to say ! I never thought that anything stood between us except your poverty/ They remained silent for a few minutes — such sorrow as theirs needed no words. Lord Arleigh was again the first to speak. ' Madaline/ he said, ' will you tell me all you remember of your life P' ' Yes ; it is not much. It has been such a simple life, Norman, half made up of shadows. First, I can remember being a child in some far-off woodland house. I am sure it was the woods ; for I remember the nuts growing on the trees, the squirrels and the brown hares. I remember great masses of green foliage, a running brook, and the music of wild birds. I remember small latticed windows against which the ivy tapped. My father used to come in with his gun slung across his shoulders —he was a very handsome man, Norman*, but not kind to either my mother or me. My mother was then, as she is now, patient, gentle, longsuffering. I have never heard her complain, She loved me with an absorbing love. I was her only comfort. I did my best to deserve her affection. I loved her too; I cannot/temember that she ever spoke one unwind word to mo, and I can call to mind a thousand instuncos of indulgence and kindness. I knew that she deprived } ers If of almost everything to give it to me. I have seen her eat dry bread patiently, while for me and my father, there was always some litle dainty. The remembrance of the happiness of my early life begins and ends with ray mother. My memories of her are pleasant/ She continued, as though recalling her i thoughts with difficulty, • I can remember some one else. Ido not know