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England gave him the greeting she gives to heroes.
Exeter Hall, London, where the welcome meeting was
held, was draped with the flags of England and
America. For four hours great crowds waited on the
sidewalks for the doors to be opened. His brother
Englishmen were eager to hear the famous orator who
. had gone out from them a poor, unknown boy. As
he spoke simply yet touchingly, the enthusiasm was
unbounded, hundreds weeping with joy. All through
Great Britain, crowds, numbering often seventeen
thousand persons, came to hear him. On his thirty-
seventh birthday he spoke in Sandgate. The village
people listened as though he were inspired. Old Mrs.
Beattie, who had known him when a lad, hastened to
grasp his hand. When he slipped twenty-five dollars
in hers, telling her he was in her debt, she said,
“Goodness me! What for?”

“For a bottle of milk and some gingerbread you
sent me twenty-four years ago when I was starting for
America.”

Inquiring into her needs, he expended money
without stint, for coal and groceries, and as long as
she lived sent her fifty dollars each Christmas.

Rich and poor alike were moved by the pathos and
eloquence of Mr. Gough, and failing other expression,
brought gifts of gratitude; the London Temperance
Society, a dinner set of eighteen pieces of solid silver;
the poor woman of Edinburgh a handkerchief, saying
to Mrs. Gough, “I’d give him a thousand pounds if I
had it. Tell him when he wipes the sweat from his
face while speaking, to remember he has wiped away
a great many tears while he has been in Edinburgh.”

One day, while riding to the station, Mr. Gough
observed the driver tie a handkerchief about his neck
and then lean his face close against the window.

“ Are you cold?” asked Mr. Gough.

“No, sir.”

“ Have you the toothache?”

“No, sir. The window of the carriage is broke,
and the wind is freezing, and I’m trying to keep it
from you. God bless you, sir! I owe everything I
have in the world to you. I was a ballad-singer once.
I used to go round with a half-starved baby in my
arms for charity, and a draggled wife at my heels half
the time, with her eyes blackened. And I went to
hear you in Edinburgh, and you told me I was a
man, and when I went out of that house, I said, ‘ By
the help of God, I'll Je a man!’ And now I’ve a
happy wife and a comfortable home. God bless you,
sir! I would stick my head in any hole under the
heavens if it would save you any harm.”

At a meeting in Glasgow, to which three thousand
“outcasts” came, the worst woman in the city was
present. She had been in jail scores of times, and
was the terror of the borough. Touched by the story
of Mr. Gough’s sad life and of his mother, and his
rise from despair, she came forward to sign the pledge.

A gentleman said, “She cannot keep it. She will
be drunk before she goes to bed to-night ; better not
give her the pledge.”

LITTLE BIOGRAPHIES.—HOW SUCCESS IS WON.

“Tf £ say I wull, I can,” said she simply, and
signed it.

Two years afterward Mr. Gough went to her home.
“Ah,” she said, “I’m a puir hody. I dinna ken
much; and what little I ha’e kenned has been
knocked out o’ me by the staffs of the policemen;
but sometimes I ha’e a dream. JI dream I’m drunk,
and fichting, and the police ha’e got me again; and
then I get out of my bed, and I go down on my
knees, and I don’t go back till the daylight comes,
and I keep saying: ‘God keep me— for I canna get
drunk any mair.’”

She supported herself and daughter by sewing, and
gave all her spare time to reading the Bible among
the degraded, urging them to reform, following in Mr.
Gough’s steps afar off, but as nearly as she could.

Soon after Mr. Gough’s return to America, Joel
Stratton lay dying. He hastened to his bedside, and
the man who had moved England by his eloquence
embraced tenderly the waiter of the Temperance
Hotel who had saved him. “God bless you, Stratton!
thousands are thankful that you ever lived.”

“Do you think so?” he said feebly. ‘When I
laid my hand on your shoulder that night I never
dreamed all this would come to pass; did you?”

After his death, Mrs. Stratton received three hun-
dred yearly from Mr. Gough, in token of his grati-
tude.

For the past thirty years John B. Gough has worked
untiringly on both continents. Though he has swayed
brilliant and crowded audiences by his marvelous elo-
quence, he has not forgotten to visit prisons and poor-
houses, Thousands of the lowest have written to him
in their despair, and thousands of the highest in their
admiration for his work. His beautiful home at Hill-
side, Worcester, has no end of choice remembrances
from such friends as Spurgeon, the Earl of Shaftes-
bury, Cruikshanks, Doctor Guthrie, and our own
statesmen, and ministers, and poets. His choice
library shows his love for books. The last time he
was in England four thousand of the ede of that
country received him at a garden party in the grounds
of Westminster Abbey. Canon Wilberforce, Canon
Duckworth, Samuel Morley, the American Minister,
and others made addresses. Dean Stanley led him
through the grand old abbey. The next morning
twenty London papers, some in six columns, gave an
account of this great reception to the great moral hero
of his time.

At Sandgate, where he went to lay the corner-stone
of the Memorial Coffee Tavern bearing his name, the -
enthusiastic people removed the horses from his_car-
riage and drew it through the streets. He was invited
to dine at the stately homes where fifty years before
he had cleaned knives and blacked boots. Public
banquets were given in his honor. To his own coun-
try each time he has been welcomed back with demon-
strations no less hearty.

When asked recently the secret of his success, he
replied: ‘‘ Whether I speak to one or to thousands in