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INDEX TO VOL. I.
D'Azeglio, Marquis of, 144.
April, 290—May, 377—June, 465.
Parting; a poem, 219.
Pen and the Palm, The, 355, 452.
Ruskin's Lectures to Little House-
Queen Mab and the Fairy Knight,
Waiting and Watching for Me; a
Christian World Magazine.
"I NEVER WANTED ARTICLES ON RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS HALF SO MUCH AS ARTICLES ON COMMON SUBJECTS, WRITTEN WITH A DECIDEDLY RELIGIOUS TONE."
My Dear Friends,—For by such title you will surely allow me to address you, since I desire to commence my pleasant work as Editor, with a perfect understanding between my readers and myself, holding always the belief that bonds of friendship should exist 'twixt the readers and the Editor of any magazine, albeit they may never meet in this world "face to face." For the present, too, I lay aside the literary "We," that I may speak to you more simply and more plainly in my proper person.
We have long been associated in the pages of that widely-read and wellbeloved weekly paper, the Christian World; we are now to try a new career, to set forth with many old friends, and with many new ones, on what may prove, we trust, a very prosperous and lengthy journey; and, if the present venture prove but half as happy as that which was inaugurated in April, 1857, we shall have abundant cause to thank God and rejoice, for the event we celebrate on this auspicious day,—the birth-day of the Christian World Magazine!
Some of you may say, " surely there are too many serials in the world already!" Precisely! there are too many! but not too many of a pure and high-toned Christian spirit! Of such, although their number is not small, there are too few. It is of little use to decry the objectionable popular literature of the day, if something better, yet quite as palatable, be not provided! Would you blame a man for drinking from a spring that filtered through a grave-yard, if there were no other waters near his dwelling? Such draughts. our chemists tell us, are charged with noxious gases, as they well may be, yet are they sparkling to the eye,—enticing, though most deadly. And what is the man to do if he and his are thirsty, very thirsty, and there be no pure, fife-giving wells at hand? If in spring you do not sow the good red wheat,
VOL. I. A
the "bearded barley," or the wholesome swede, you will find not empty fields at harvest-time, but crops of weeds that scatter forth their seed upon the winds, to cover all the ground another season! If you will not plant the rose, you will surely have the dock and nettle; if you scorn the lilybulb, the thistle may usurp her place; if you will not train the gay convolvulus, you may have to rue the presence of the creeping nightshade! "Nature abhors a vacuum," therefore let us fill her with the best we have, and, by God's blessing, dispossess the evil! We, therefore,—the proprietors of this magazine, its contributors, and the Editor—offer no excuse for its appearance. We are only doing that which must be done,—doing our part in furnishing the wholesome, strengthening, mental aliment the world demands.
Nothing will be admitted to the pages of this magazine that is not of a Christian tone: all its articles will be, we trust, " seasoned with salt!"—the salt of Christian principle and Christian hope! We need not say that science, art, the history of nations, the common daily task, our youthful loves, our struggles with the busy world, our temporal successes, and our failures, our joys and sorrows, and our losses, should bear the impress of the higher life, that all should teach or comfort, warn or influence, God's blessing being over all,—because we know full well that life itself, in all its seemings, all its routine, all its trivialities, should be Religion! Sermons, hymns, and pious memoirs do not show us all the picture, for man's life is many-sided.
And, with such thoughts within my heart, I quoted at the head of this address, the.words of the great Arnold—his expression, whose last written words were these: "O Lord, may I join with all thy people in heaven and on earth, in offering up my prayers to Thee, through our Lord Jesus Christ, and in saying,—' Glory be to Thy most holy name for ever and ever.'"
We shall endeavour, in the pages of this magazine, to give pleasant, profitable reading to the old, and middle-aged, and young, to rich and poor, to workers in the bustling world, and to dwellers in their quiet homes: we shall seek to edify, instruct, and interest, in every department of this our new-born serial.
Familiar papers on scientific subjects will appear from time to time. Missionary records, fresh and highly interesting, never will be wanting; tales by various eminent authors will be contributed, and during the present year we propose a series of " Memoranda of the Months," giving much valuable information respecting the name, the associations, and the remarkable events which characterise the current months of the year.
As a " Family Visitor," we have reason to believe it will be heartily welcomed, for one of its departments is to include information on those subjects which contribute so largely to domestic happiness and personal comfort. I purpose myself to devote a page or two monthly to the consideration of housewifely duties. Surely it is the Christian duty of a Christian woman to order her household decently, comfortably, and as elegantly as rank and station warrant. This page I dedicate especially to the Elder Daughters of my country.
And now I, and all those who are associated with me in this work, commend it to Almighty God; we ask for it His blessing and His favour: we ask that our new magazine may, indeed, be worthy of its name. We commend it also to you, our friends and fellow-helpers, who will do your best, as many of you have distinctly pledged yourselves, to circulate it everywhere, from north to south, from east to west, over all the land, and in many other lands across the sea.
Wishing you all happiness at this sacred festive season, and all prosperity throughout the coming year, I beg to subscribe myself, dear friends,
Your faithful Editor,
Emma Jane Wobboise.
December Ibth, 1866.
THE FORTUNES OF CYRIL DENHAM.
By The Editor.
I must begin by premising that I am in no wise the heroine of my story. Indeed, I shall sometimes drop the first person altogether, and narrate the experiences I wish to record, in the usual fashion of tale-writers, who are supposed to be everywhere, see all that passes, hear all that is spoken, and themselves keep silence, till a fitting period arrives.
Still, I suppose, I ought to say a few words at starting, about myself; since the reader will naturally desire to know something about one, who was, though in a very minor degree, an actor in the varied scenes which will be described in these pages. My name is Janet Anstruther; I am Scotch born, an orphan, of good family, and comfortable property. I have no near relations living, neither can I boast of many cousins, in the second, third.orevenfourth degree; and yet I have many friends, who stand, and have stood to me, for long years in the place of closest kindred: and God has been merciful to the solitary one, giving her a place in many hearts, and in many dear home-circles, and weaving for her many sweet and precious ties, which they can best appreciate, who, but for His kind Providence, would be alone and friendless in the world.
I lost my mother when I was too young to know what such a loss implies: my father, a military officer,
died in India, shortly after his arrival in that country; and I, his only child and sole heiress of his fortune, which was ample, but not at all immense, was left to the guardianship of Sir John Ashburner, of Forest Range, situate about seven miles from the ancient and far-famed city of Southchester, in Southamshire. Sir John Ashburner was my father's friend, the friend and loved companion of his youth; though, in later years, all personal intercourse was unavoidably suspended. He was also one of the very few distant relatives whom I possessed; if indeed consanguinity so slight, and so remote can be said to constitute a kinship,—I scarcely think it can! My mother was an Ashburner, and, I believe, her (father and his father were only second cousins; still the name, written in many of her books, and marked on some old remnants of her maiden trousseau, seemed always to connect me in something stronger far than ties of friendship with the family at Forest Range, Also, my mother was Sir John Ashburner's early love; but she preferred another suitor,—the gallant Captain Henry Anstruther. This circumstance, however, doubtless inclined my guardian to regard me more tenderly than might otherwise have been the case. I was eleven years old when I went to live at Forest Range,—the happy, peaceful home of my girlhood, youth, and riper womanhood: in Sir John I found it second father, in his wife a second