The History of Wandsworth Common

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1887 | 1889

Wandsworth Common

IN THE NEWS

1888

[The Times: Search: "Wandsworth Common"].

[BNA: Buckmaster Battersea 1888]

[BNA: Buckmaster Wandsworth 1888]

[London Evening Standard: Buckmaster Wandsworth 1888]

Sporting Life - Friday 23 April 1886

FOX TERRIER COURSlNG. Champion All-England Coursing Meeting, near Surrey Tavern, Wandsworth Common (1 p.m.).

[BNA: Link]



[See e.g. 1869, for Buckmaster et al's dispute with Corsellis at the Battersea Vestry.

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Toronto Saturday Night - Saturday 23 June 1888 TORONTO SATURDAY NIGHT, Savareen's Disappearance : A Half-Forgotten Chapter in the History of an Upper Canadian Township. BY JOHN CHARLES DENT. CHAPTER XIII. t oALS OF FIRE. The gloomy month of November, 1859, was drawing to its close. The weather, as usual at that time of the year. was dull and sober, and the skies were dark and lowering. More than three months had elapsed since the Journey to New York, and Mrs. Savareen and her affairs had ceased to be engrossing topics of discussion among the people of Mil!brook and its neighborhood. She continued to live a very secluded life, and seldom stirred beyond the theshold of her own door. Almost her only visitors were her father and brother, for her stepmother rarely intruded upon her domain, and indeed was not much encouraged to do so, as her presence never brought comfort with it. The little boy continued to grow apace, and it seemed to the fond mother that he became dearer to her every day. He was the sole light and joy of her life, and in him were bound up all her hopes for the future. Of late she had ceased to scan his features in the hope of traciqg there some resemblance to his absent father. Since her visit to Amity street, that fond illusion had wholly departed, never to return. She had ceased even to speak to him about his other parent, and had begun to regard herself in the light of an actual widow. Such was the state of affairs when the humdrum of her existence was broken in upon by a succession of circumstances which it now becomes necessary to unfold. It was rapidly drawing on towards six o'clock In the evening, and the darkness of night had already fallen upon the outer landscape. Mrs. Savareen sat in her little parlor with her boy upon her knee, as it was her custom to sit at this hour. The lamp had not been lighted, but the fireplace sent forth a ruddy blaze, making countless shadows to reflect themselves on the floor, and in the remote corners of the room. To both mother and child, this hour " betveeen the dark and the daylight" was incomparably the most delightful of the twenty-tour, for it was consecrated to story-telling. Then it was that the boy was first introduced to those oldtime legends which in one form or another have thrilled the bosoms of happy childhood for so many hundreds of years, and which will continue to thrill them through centuries yet unborn. Then it was that he made t a pe acquaintance of Little Red Riding Hood, Jack the Giant Killer, and the Seven Champions of Christendom. The mingled lights and shades from the blazing logs of hickory in the fireplace lent additional charm to the thousand and one stories which the mother recounted for the child s edification, and I doubt not that Jack's wonderful bean-stalk is still associated in Master Reggie's mind with that cosy little room with its blended atmosphere of cheerful twilight and sombre shadow. A few minutes more and it would be teatime. It would never do, however, to break off the story of the Babes in the Wood Just at the point where the two emissaries of the wicked uncle began to quarrel in the depths of the forest. The child's sympathies bad been thoroughly aroused, and he would not tamely submit to be left in suspense. No, the gruesome old tale must be told out, or at least as far as where the robin redbreast», after mourning over the fate of the hapless infants "did cover them with leaves." And so the mother went on with the narrative. She had just reached the culminating point when an approaching footstep was heard outside. Then came a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Mrs. Savareen's father. It was easy to see from his face that this was no mere perfunctory call. Evidently he had news to tell "Something has happened, father," said Mrs. Savareen, as calmly as she could. " Well, yes, something has happened. It Is nothing very dreadful, but you had better prepare yourself to hear unpleasant news." "It is that man—he has come." She rose and approached the bed, while her gaze rested mildly upon his face. Drawing forth her handkerchief, she wiped the salt tears from his cheeks with a caressing hand. To him lying there in his helplessness, she seemed no unfit earthly representative of that Divine Beneficence " whose blessed task," says Thackeray, "it will one day be to wipe the tear from every eye." Her gentleness caused the springs to well forth afresh, and the prostrate form was convulsed by sobs. She sat by his side on the bed, and staunched the miniature flood with a tender touch. By. and-by calm returned, and he sank into a profound and apparently dreamless sleep. When he again awoke it was broad daylight. The first object on which his eyes rested was the patient watcher who had never left her post the whole night long, and who still sat in an armchair at his bedside, ready to minister to his comfort. As soon as she perceived that be was awake she approached and took his wasted hand in her own. He gazed steadily in her face, but could find no words to spear. "You are rested now, are you not she murmured. scarcely above her breath. After awhile he found his voice, and asked how long he had slept. Being enlightened on the point, he expressed his belief that it was time for him to rise. " Yea, be has come to town." Is he at the door I" " No, he is at my house. I thought I had better come over and tell you. instead of letting him come himself and take you by surprise." " What has he come for, and what does he want t" inquired Mrs. Savareen, in a harder tone of voice than she was accustomed to use. " Well, for one thing, he wants to see you, and I suppose you can't very well avoid seeing him. He is your husband, you know. He knows nothing about the journey to New York. He has no means, and looks shabby and sickly. I shouldn't wonder if he isn't long for this world." "So you didn't tell him anything about the New York trip I" "No; I didn't exactly know what your views might be, and he looked such a worn out, pitiful object that I held my tongue about it.. I think you bad better see him, and hear what he has to say." It appeared that Savareen had arrived at Sdillbrook by the 4:15 p.m. train from New York, and that he had slunk round by the least frequented streets to his tather•in-law's house without being recognized by anyone. It might be doubted, indeed, whether any of his old friends would have recognised him, even if they had met him face to face in broad daylight, for he was by no means the ruddy, robust, self-complacent looking personage they had been accustomed to see in the old days when he was wont to ride into town en his black mare. His clothes were seamy and worn, and his physical proportions had shrunk so much that the shabby garments seemed a world too wide for him. His face, which three months ago had been bloated and sodden, had become pale and emaciated, and the scar on this left cheek seemed to have developed until it was the most noticeable thing about him. His step was feeble and tremulous, and it was evident that his health had completely broken down. lie was in fact in a state bordering on collapse, and was hardly fit to be going about. His financial condition was on a par with his bodily state. Ile had expended his last dime in the purchase of his railway ticket, and at the moment of reaching his father-in-law's door he had been well-nigh famished for want of food. When a loaf of bread and some slices of cold meat had ' been set before him, he had fallen to with the voracity of a jungle tiger. Ile had vouchsafed no explanation of his presence, except that he felt he was going to die. and that he wanted to see his wife and child. As he was tired out, and sorely in need of rest, he had been put to bed, and his father-in-law, after seeing him snugly stowed away between the sheets, had set forth to bear the news to his wife. There could be no doubt as to what was the proper thing to be done. Mrs. Savareen made the fire safe, put on her bonnet and shawl, and locked up the house. Then, taking her little boy by the hand, she accompanied her father to the old house where, six or seven years before, the handsome voung farmer had been in the habit of visiting and paying court to her. On arriving, she found the invalid burled in the deep, profound sleep of exhaustion. Consign. ing her boy to the care of her stepmother, she took her place by the bedside and waited. Her vigil was a protracted one, for the tired-out sleeper did not awaken until the small hours of the next morning. Then, with a long-drawn respiration, he opened his eyes, and fixed them upon the watcher with a weak, wandering expression, as though he was unable to fully grasp the situation. The truth found its way to him by degrees. He shifted uneasily, and looked as though he would have been glad to smother himself be- CHAPTER XIV. THE BAD HALF CROWN. neath the bedclothes, were it not for lack of resolution. A whipped hound never presented a more abject appearance. His wife was the first to speak. "Do you feel rested I" she asked, in a gentle tone. " Rested I 0, yes, I remember now. We are at your father's. "Yes; but don't talk any more just now, if Rood it tires you. T ry to go to sleep again." "You are to me; better than I deserve," he responde d after after a pause. Then, great tears welled up to his eyes, and coursed one after another down his thin, worn face. It was easy to see that he was weak as water. His long journey by rail without food had been too much for him, and in his state of health it was just possible that he might never rally. The womanly nature of the outraged wife came uppermost, as it always does under such circumstances. Her love for the miserable creature lying there before her had been killed and crucified long ago, never to be revived. But she could not forget that she had once loved him, and that he was the father of her child. No matter how deeply he had wronged her, he was ill and suffering—perhaps dying. His punishment had come upon him without any act of hers. She contrasted his present bearing with that of other days. He was bent broken, crushed. Nothing there to remind her of the stalwart, manly young fellow whose voice had once stirred her pulses to admiration and love. All the more reason why she should be good to him now, all undeserving as he might be. Our British Homer showed a true appreciation of the best side of feminine nature when he wrote — "0 woman, in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, MI hard teplease ; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!" "Not yet," was the response "you shall have your breakfast first, and then it will be time enough to think about getting up. I forbid you to talk until you have had something to eat," she added, playfully. "Lie still for a few minutes, while I go and see about a cup of tea." And so saying she left him to himself. Presently she returned, bearing a tray and eatables. She quietly raised him to a sitting posture, and placed a large, soft pillow at his back. He submitted to her ministrations like a child. It was long since he had been tended with such care, and the position doubtless seemed a little strange to him. After drinking :gig of tea and eating several morsels of the things set before him he evidently felt refreshed. His eyes lost somewhat of their lark-lustre air of confirmed invalidism, and his voice regained a measure of its natural tone. When he attempted to rise and dress himself, however, he betrayed such a degree of bodily feebleness that his wife forbade him to make further exertions. He yielded to her importunities, and remained In bed, which was manifestly the best place for hini. He was pestered by no unnecessary questions to account for his presence, Mrs. Savareen rightly considering that it was for him to volunteer any explanations he might have to make whenever he felt equal to the task. After a while his little boy was brought in to see the father of whom he dimly remembered to have heard. His presence moved the sick man to further exhibitions of tearful sensibility, but seemed, on the whole, to have a salutary effect. Long allsence and a vagabond life had not quenched the paternal instinct, and the little fellow was caressed with a fervor too genuine to admit the possibility of its being assumed. Master Reggie received these ebullitions of affection without much corresponding demonstrativeness. He could not be expected to feel any vehement adoration for one whom he had never seen since his earliest babyhood, and whose very name for some months past had been permitted to sink out of sight. His artless prattle, however, was grateful in the ears of his father, who looked and listened as if entranced by sweet strains of music. His wasted—worse than wasted—past seemed to rise before him, as the child's accents fell softly upon his ear, and he seemed to realize more than ever how much he had thrown away. In the course of the forenoon Mrs. Savareen's stepmother took her place in the sick chamber, and she herself withdrew to another room to take the rest of which she was by this time sorely in need. The invalid would not assent to the proposal to call in a physician. He declared that he was only dead tired, and that rest and quiet would soon restore him without medicine, in so far as any restoration was possible. And so the day passed by. In the evening the wife again took her place at the bedside, and she had not been there long ere her husband voluntarily began hie chapter of explanations. His story was a strange one, but there was no room to doubt the truth of any portion of it. He began by comparing himself to the bad half-crown, which always finds its way back, but which has no right to expect a warm welcome on its return. " Were it not," said he, "that I feel myself to be pretty near the end of my earth's journey I could never have the face to tell you my story at all. But I feel that I am worn out, and don't think it likely that I shall ever leave this room except for the grave. You shall know everything, more fully than I have ever known it myself until within the last few hours. They say that when a man is nearing his end he sees more clearly than at any other time in his life. For my part I now see for the first time that I have never been anything but a worthless lout from my cradle. I have never been fit to walk alone, and if health and strength were to come back to me I should not be one whit better than I have hitherto been.

I don't know whether I ever told you that I have a streak of gypsy blood in my veins. My grandmother was a Romany, picked up by my grandfather on Wandsworth Common. I don't offer this fact as any excuse for my conduct, but I have sometimes thought that it may have something to do with the pro nounced vagabondism which has always been one of my most distinctive features. So long as I was at home in my father's house he kept me from doing anything very outrageous, but I was always a creature of impulse, ready to enter into any hare-brained scheme without counting the cost. I never looked a week ahead in my life. It was softie:tint for me if the present was endurable, and if the general outlook for the future promised something new.

My coming to this country in the first place was a mere impulse, inspired by a senseless liking for adventure, and a wish to see strange faces and scenes. My taking Squire Harrington's farm was an impulse, very largely due to its proximity to Lapierre's, who is a jolly landlord, and knows how to make his guests comfortable. I had no special aptitude for farm life ; no special desire to get on in the world ; no special desire to do anything except pass the time as pleasantly as I could, without thought or care for the future. And as I have fully made up my mind to make a clean breast of it, I am going to tell you something which will make you despise me more than you ever despised me yet. When I married you I did so from impulse. Don't mistake me. I liked you better than any other woman I had ever seen. I liked your pretty face, and your gentle, girlish ways. I knew that you were good, and would make an excellent wife. But I well knew that I had no such feeling towards you as a man should have towards the woman whom he intends to make the companion of his life—no such feeling, for instance, as I have for you at this moment. Well, I married you, and we lived together as happily as most young couples do. I knew that I had a good wife, and you didn't know, or even suspect, what a brainless, heartless clod you had for your husband. Our married life glided by without anything particular happening to disturb it. But the thing became monotonous to me, and I had the senseless vagabond's desire for change. We did fairly well on the farm, but once or twice I was on the point of proposing to you that we should emigrate to the Western States. I began to drink more than was good for me, and two or three times when I came home half-seas over you reproached me. and looked at me ins way I didn't like. This I inwardly resented, like the besotted fool I was. It seemed to me that you might have held your tongue. The feeling wasn't a very strong one with me, and if it hadn't been for that cursed four hundred pounds, things might have gone on for some time longer. Of course I kept all this to myself, for I was at least sensible enough to feel ashamed of my want of purpose, and knew that I deserved to be horsewhipped for not caring more for you and baby. "The legacy from my father, if properly used, would have placed us on our feet. With a farm of my own, I might reasonably hope to become a man of more importance in our community than I had been. For a time this .was the only side of the picture that presented itself to my mind. I began to contemplate my self as a landed proprietor, and the contemplation was pleasant enough. I bought the farm from Squire Harrington in good faith, and with no other intention than to carry out the transaction. When I left home on the morning of that 17th of July, I had no more intention of absconding than I now have of running for Parliament. The ides never so much as entered my mind. The morning was wet, and it seemed likely that we should have a rainy day. I was in a more loaferish mood than usual, and thought I might as well ride down to town to pass the time. The hired man, whose name 1 have forgotten, was not within call at the moment, so I went out to the stable to saddle Black Bess for myself. Then I found that the inner front padding of the saddle had been torn by rats during the night, and that the metal plate was exposed. To use It in that state would have galled the mare's back, and it was necessary to place something beneath it. I looked about me in the stable, but saw nothing suitable, so I returned into the house to get some kind of an old cloth for the purpose. If you had been there I should have asked for what I wanted, but you were not to be seen, and when I called out your name you did not answer. Then, in a fit of momentary stupid petulance, I went into the front bedroom, opened my trunk, and took out the first thing that came uppermost. I should have taken and used it for what I wanted just then, even if it had been a silk dress or petticoat ; but it happened to be a coat of my own. I took it out to the stable, placed it under the saddle, and rode off: Before reaching the front gate I saw how it was that you had not answered my call, for, as you doubtless remember, you were out in the orchard with baby in your arms, at some distance from the house. I nodded to you as I rode past, little thinking that years would elapse before I should see you again. " I suppose you know all about how I spent the day. I bad a bit of a quarrel with the clerk at the bank, and that put me out of humor. I had not Intended to draw the money, but to leave it on deposit till next morning. Shuttleworth's ill-tempered remarks nettled me. I took the notes in a huff, and left the bank with them in my pocket I ought to have had sense enough to ride home at once, but I went to the Peacock and muddled myself with drink. I felt elated at having such a large sum of money about me, and carried on like a fool and a sot all afternoon. I didn't start for home till a few minutes before dark. Up to that moment the idea of clearing out had never presented itself to my mind. But as I cantered along the quiet road I began to think what a good time I could have with four hundred pounds in my pocket, in some far-off place where I was not known, and where I should be free from incumbrances of every kind. " In the half-befuddled condition in which I then was, the idea quickly took possession of my stupid imagination. I rode along, however, without coming to any fixed determination, till I reached Jonathan Perry's toll-gate. I exchanged a few words with him, and then resumed my journey. Suddenly it Hashed upon me that, if I was really going to make a strike for it, nothing was to be gained by delaying m flight. What was the use of going hornet I f I ever got there I should probably be unable to summon up sufficient resolution to go at all. Just then I heard the sound of a horse's feet advancing rapidly down the road. An impulse seized me to get out of the way. But to do this was not easy. There was a shallow ditch along each side of the road, and the fence was too high for a leap. Before I could let down the rails and betake myself to the fields the horseman would be on the spot. As I cast rapid glances this way and that. I came in front of the gateway of the lane leading down by the side of Stolliver's house to his barnyard. As it happened, the gate was open. On came the horse clattering down the road, and not a second was to be lost if I wished to remain unseen, I rode in, dismounted, shut to the gate, and led my mare a few yards down the lane to an overhanging black cherry tree, beneath which I ensconced myself. Scarcely had I taken up my position there when the horse and his rider passed at a swift trot down the road. It was too dark for me to tell at that distance who the rider was, but, as you shall hear, I soon found out. I stood still and silent. with 'my hand on Bess'ii mane, cogitating what to do next. While I did so. Stolliver's front door opened, and he and his boys walked out to the front fence, whete the old man lighted his pipe. Then I heard the horse and his rider coming back up the road from the tollgate. In another moment the rider drew up and began to talk to Stolliver. I listened with breathless attention, and heard every word of the conversation, which related to myself. I feared that Bees would neigh or _paw the ground, in which case the attention of the speakers would have been drawn to my whereabouts. But, as my cursed fate would have it, the mare made no demonstration of any kind, and I was completely hidden from view by the darkness and by the foliage of the tree under which I stood. The horseman, as you probably know, was Lapierre, who had been despatched by you to bring me home. This proceeding on your part I regarded, in my then frame of mind, in the light of an indignity. A pretty thing, truly, if I was to be treated as though I was unable to take care of myself, and if my own wife was to send people to hunt for me about the neighborhood ! I waited in silence till Lapierre had paid his second visit to the tollgate and ridden off homewards. Still I waited, until old Stolliver and his boys returned into the house. Then I led the mare as softly as I could down the lane, and around to the back of the barn, where we were safe from observation. "I chuckled with insane glee at having eluded Lapierre, and then I determined on a course of action. Like the egotistical villain I was, I had no more regard for your feelings than if you had been a stick or a stone. You should never suspect that I had wilfully deserted you, and should be made to believe that I had been murdered. Having formed my plane, I led the mare along the edges of the fields, letting down the fences wherever it was necessary to do so. and putting them carefully up again after passing through. 1 made my way down past the rear end of John Calder's lot, and so on to the edge of the swamp behind Squire Harrington's. Bess would take no harm there during the night, and would be found safe enough on the morrow. I removed the bit from her mouth, so that she could nibble the grass, and left the bridle hanging round her neck, securing it so that she would not be likely to trip or throw herself. I showed far more consideration for her than for the wife of my bosom. I removed the saddle, so that she could lie down and roll, if she• felt that way disposed. I took the coat which I had used for a pad, and carried it a short distance into the swamp, when I threw it into a puddle of water. I deliberated whether I should puncture the end of my finger with my jack-knife and stain my coat with the blood, but concluded that such a proceeding was unnecessary. I knew that you would be mystified by the coat, as you knew quite well that I had not worn it when I left home in the morning. Then I bade farewell to poor Bess, and, unaccountable as it may seem to you, I was profoundly touched at parting from her in such a way. I embraced her neck and kissed her on the forehead. As I tore myself away from her I believe I was within an ace of shedding tears. Yet, not a thought of compunction on your account penetrated my selfish soul. I picked my way through the swamp to the fourth concession, and then struck out across unfre• quented fields for Harborough station, eight miles away. " The moon was up, and the light shone brightly all the way, but I skulked along the borders of out-of-the-way fields, and did not encounter a human being. As I drew near the station I secreted myself on the dark side of an old shed, and lay in wait for the first train which might stop there. I did not have to remain more than about half an hour. A mixed train came along from the west, and as it drew up I sprang on to the platform of the last car but one. To the best of my knowledge nobody saw me get aboard. I was not asked for my ticket until the train approached Hamilton, when I pretended that I had lost it, and paid my fare from Dundas, where I professed to have boarded the train. I got off at Hamilton, and waited for the east-bound express, which conveyed me to New York." CHAPTER XV. https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0002935/18880623/040/0004


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CHECK image and date - 1888 or 1889?

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THE PROTECTION OF WANDSWORTH COMMON.

A deputation representing the Wandsworth-common Protection Association will wait upon the Metropolitan Board of Works at Spring-gardens, by appointment, to-day to present a further memorial to represent ?? That damage to Wandsworth-common is occasioned by the traffic of the tenant of the Royal Commissioners of the Patriotic Fund ; (2) that the Commissioners have assumed new rights by provisionally leasing a portion of the land held in 'charitable trust by them for a term of forty-two years, by the erection of a large house for the tenant with new lights overlooking the common, and by the opening without permission of a new private entrance for the tenant leading directly on to the common: and (3) that there is much need for improvements and the investigation of the manorial rights (if any) over land - formerly common land - which it is believed may and ought to be preserved to the public as open spaces. Mr. Henry Kimber, the member for the borough, has undertaken to address the Board on behalf of the association, and other members of Parliament have been invited.

[Source: Link.]

[Source: BNA: London Daily News: 1880-1889]

London Daily News - Friday 26 October 1888

Wandsworth Common Protection

[BNA: Link.]

South London Press - Saturday 31 March 1888



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[NEEDS EDIT . . . ]

On Monday night the Battersea Vestry, clothed with enlarged powers, had a painful duty to perform in electing a gentleman to take the place of Mr. Andrew Cameron as member the Metropolitan Board of Works. Mr. Cameron, who has long been sufferer from severe illness, feels himself compelled to resign all his parochial duties. This information will be received with general regret, and the terms which the splendid services Mr. Cameron has rendered Battersea were descnbed by Canon Clarke, Mr. Wood, and others. will readily endorsed all who have matched with interest the parochial work of Battersea.

The tribute paid to Mr. Cameron worth and work was highly eulogistic, but every word was well deserved. Mr. Andrew Cameron wm. until his resignations were received on Monday night, member of the Metropolitan Board Works, the Battersea BothsCoramisaioners, chairman of the Free fabrary Commissioners. and esteemed member the Vestry, Mr. Cameron is, his name pretty clearly indicates, a native Scotland. It is only some ten years since he settled in Battersea, and the position occupies in the parish is proof his energy in good work and the esteem in which he is held.

Mr. Cameron has been busy worker in parochial affairs from the time his first settlement in Battersea. He first to the front in connection with the Northcote-road apportionments. From the Vestry he was sent to the Wandsworth District Board of Works, where was soon felt to be power. Mr. Cameron has a wonderful mastery over figures, and he was generally looked upon as the statistician the Board. Perhaps it was this remarkable readiness in the manipulation of figures which induced the Vestry to elect him as overseer - an office which filled with marked ability during a critical period of the Vestry's history.

In the course of the last seven years Mr. Cameron has served on the Burial Board, has been a Guardian for two successive years, has been a School Board manager, and has been three times returned as a Conservator Wandsworth Common. He was elected a member of the Metropolitan Board of Works in September, 1885. Owing to failing health he resigned for a time, but was re-elected. Much of Mr. Cameron's laborious work has been carried under such conditions of weakness as would have debarred most men from taking part in active work. Some his most effective speeches have been made while he was so physically weak as to scarcely able to stand, and from various meetings has had to assisted from the platform to his conveyance, but with all the natural energy and determination of Scotchman, defied all pain in the performance of what considered public duty., . ..

In politics Mr. Cameron is a Liberal of the advanced school, and will be remembered by many as the first leader of the Battersea Parliament. He has taken a very lively interest all the educational and social questions the district. His eight brother Commissioners did wisely in electing him their first chairman, for gives with all his heart his splendid abilities to the work of providing Battersea with libraries and museums which shall a credit to the parish. The Library Commissioners will part with their chairman with much regret. Mr. Cameron's drawing-room hang several to the esteem in which he is held m the parish, and the unanimous vote the Vestry another inscription on vellum to be presented to him. Mr. Cameron's valedictory letter concluded with the words. May Battersea prosper." No man Battersea has done more to bring about the fulfilment of this hope.

[Source: Link.]

1887 | 1889