Westminster to Putney. This is an event which it is always a pleasure to a victorious University oar to recall, and when, in 1875, his nephew, Harry McDougall Courtney, pulled his old oar as bow in the Oxford winning boat at the interUniversity boat race, he was jubilant, and set up a trophy in his hall at Winchester of a double-bladed oar with their names and dates of victory on the two blades. Since these last lines were penned Mr. Courtney, who was chaplain at Malacca, and much esteemed and respected by all who knew him, died suddenly of dysentery in the far East.

One other incident may, perhaps, be referred to. In 1840 one of those rare accidents occurred at Oxford which move the heart of the University at the time, but of which the lapse of fifty years seems almost to remove all traces. Two Balliol undergraduates-Currer and Cave-were skiffing to Iffley, and, the river being in flood, the boat of the former was carried away over the Iffley lasher, and the occupant lost his life. McDougall was, it appears, present, and, with the survivor of the two skiffers, plunged into the pool again and again to save the drowning man, or recover the body, but without success. 'It was then,' Canon Bevan writes, 'that I saw the Bishop for the first time, and was struck with his appearance, so unlike that of the general run of undergraduates. He had plunged into the pool after poor Currer, and at the moment that I saw him after his swim, he was putting on his jersey, or at all events putting on something dry. Stephen Cave was standing on the river-bank in his dripping clothes, and I heard the Bishop exhorting him out of the boat to follow his example, mentioning that he knew something about doctoring, and could therefore warn him of the consequences of standing shivering in wet clothes.' Both Currer and Cave were old Harrow men. The former was much beloved and lamented, The latter, better known as the Right Honourable Stephen Cave, lived to take an active and successful part in politics, and was for many years a member of Lord Beaconsfield's

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Ministry, and shortly before his death, in 1880, was made a G.C.B. on the dissolution of Parliament in that year.

During McDougall's undergraduate days, Dr. Macbride was master and Dr. Jacobson tutor of his college, at which he had entered himself as a gentleman commoner, and with them he seemed more intimate than was usual with those who were still in statu pupillari. Their constant kindness and friendship followed him far beyond the period of his residence at Oxford, indeed for all their lives. 'Old Jacobson,' as Bishop McDougall always called him as a term of endearment, the beloved and admirable Bishop of Chester, was, until his death, his never-failing and ever-honoured friend. The course of his studies, as already related in his early life, did not lead him to seek for classical honours at Oxford, for even his medical Latin, in which he had been drilled, innocent of all Ciceronian concinnity, would have been a bar rather than a benefit in their pursuit; and at that time science schools were unknown, and there was no theological school in which honours might have been sought as a separate faculty. He therefore passed the examination for the ordinary B.A. degree in 1842, proceeding to his M.A. degree in 1845, and receiving an honorary D.C.L. in 1854.

After taking his degree he went for a time into South Wales, where he assisted in the superintendence of some iron works, in which his future father-in-law was interested; and while there married, in July 1843, Harriette, the second daughter of the late Mr. Robert John Bunyon, who died in the following year. The iron trade, ever subject to violent fluctuations, in 1844 was at its nadir, and the works, not answering, were discontinued, and the family ceased to have any interest in them. He then determined to carry into effect his long-settled plan of taking holy orders.

His varied experiences had only intensified his desire for the priestly office, and he received much encouragement in secking it from the authorities of King's College. At first he

thought of a London curacy, and had an interview with Bishop Blomfield on the subject. 'Have you heard,' his wife wrote at this time to her sister-in-law, 'of Frank's visit to the Bishop of London, and how graciously he was received, and how satisfied both the Bishop and his chaplain were with his replies to their examination of an hour? The next Sunday he went to King's College Chapel to see Mr. Lonsdale, the Principal, and thank him for his letter of introduction to the Bishop, which seems quite to have interested his lordship on Frank's behalf, for he told him that he had no doubt but that he would find his medical knowledge very useful among the sceptics. So you see the years of study which he has spent, as some people think, in vain, will all conduce to his greater usefulness in the Church. I think, indeed, that scientific acquirements give people such great influence over all ranks, that a clergyman to be perfect ought not only to be a learned divine, but learned in everything else. The Romish Church was well aware of the extent of this influence when she locked up all the treasures of knowledge, and gave the keys to her priests to keep. I do not admire this proceeding, but I think that our clergy, besides being the best class of men, which they are, ought to be the most highly educated.'

Eventually they moved to Norwich, where Mrs. McDougall had relations, and where he was ordained by Bishop Stanley, receiving deacon's orders in January 1845, and priest's orders in the same month in the following year. His first curacy was that of Framingham Pigot under Mr. Ormerod, the Bishop's chaplain, afterwards Archdeacon Ormerod, which he held for a year, and was then licensed to the curacy of St. Mark's, Lakenham, a populous suburb of Norwich; but in the autumn of 1846 he moved to London and became curate to his friend the Rev. George Hamilton, incumbent of Christ Church, Woburn Square.

These early days at Norwich were full of brightness,

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drawn not from their material surroundings, which were poor enough, but from their fulness of youth and health, mutual love, and unconquerable courage and spirit. About the time of his ordination, their eldest child was born, and shortly after she writes describing him, and her first experience of her husband's preaching :

'Your note was a great pleasure to me yesterday, and I must certainly answer it directly, while baby is lying sleeping quietly in my lap. He does not often approve of my being otherwise engaged, when he is with me, than in singing, or tossing, or nursing him. How I wish I could lay him in your lap, and hear all you thought of him, but you must be some days with him before you can tell what sort of a creature he is. He changes to all moods except the sentimental, and that I have never yet seen in him. He can look contemptuous, and impudent, and droll, and independent, and wilful, and thoughtful, but not loving yet. He cares for nobody, but has

why" on his face always when he is awake. All this is my fancy of course. He excites his father's ire very much by his sleeplessness at night. He lies awake chirping and squeaking at intervals, and at last, before the day dawns, sets up a good cry, being quite tired of bed. Then I am obliged to sit up with him and talk to him, or Frank to shout to him and abuse him, which he enjoys greatly; but often this game keeps us up half the night. . . . Last Sunday I went to Framingham Church in the afternoon, and brought Frank home after service. I heard him preach for the first time, though I have read all his sermons on former Sundays, but he adds a good deal to what is written. What shall I tell you about that Sunday afterI felt so rich and happy when Frank, as broad as he was long, with coat and great coat, cassock and gown, squeezed himself very carefully into the little pulpit, and left the door ajar to give him space to turn round. The text was "Strive to enter in at the strait gate." I thought to myself, "I will listen as if someone else was preaching;" but then, when the

C

words occasionally bolted out, instead of running smoothly, or when the end of the sentence did not match well with the beginning, I found myself getting hot and conscious. This was at the beginning of the sermon, but before the end I sat humble and as a learner at my husband's feet, for I felt that he was able, as well as authorised, to instruct his wife. And thus, for the first time, I felt myself a clergyman's wife, which hitherto I had not, not even when Frank read the morning service and churched me at St. Stephen's last Friday. Frank has filled his little church, which only holds 100 and is no better than a barn. There is not a note of singing, and it used to be so damp that the few who came sat in pattens; but Frank has put in an Arnott's stove, which brings the folk to church to warm their bodies if for nothing else.'

She was a

At the time of her marriage Harriette Bunyon was a pretty fair-haired creature of much vivacity and of a singularly amiable temper; her sweetness of disposition was so much. her special characteristic, that it probably would have been a surprise to the other members of her family to have been told that she could be gifted with the courage and character which she subsequently exhibited in times of peril or trouble. She had been very well educated, and she possessed accomplishments which, in after life, proved very useful. good amateur artist, painting in watercolours with considerable skill, having been the pupil of Cornelius Varley and Henry Gastineau. She sang well, and accompanied herself upon the harp and her taste had been cultivated by a regular attendance at the Ancient and Philharmonic Concerts, then in their prime. The harp and piano duets of herself and her sisters, the works of Beethoven and Mozart, now too often superseded by more modern music, still ring in the cars of her only brother. When she became an old woman she retained her cheerful kindliness for all who came into her society, and, having seen much, and lived an adventurous life, was a very agreeable companion. Her sister-in-law remembers that on one occasion

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