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THE J p Q 







no. 193-204 

NO. 193. Ju.9iid,1871. 




Tne snow lay white and fair on the ground 
Ohrutmas-day, when John Morton, a pleasant- 
looking working man, came downstairs to break- 
His wife and family were waiting for him, 
and there was a great deal of kissing and laughing 
and merry wishing, for was it not Christmas-day, 
wis not the new harmonium there for John 
Morton to piny / The new harmonium 1 Yes ; 
be new harmonium. 
Thereby, you see, hangs two tales. John 

Morton used to upend bis eve gaat the "Black 

se," and waited much tune .ind money there. 
His money indeed melted like was ; and he 
could DOt save a penny. And on Christmas-day 
was always drunk. Coming home from a 
walk, one Sunday evening, John Morton heard 
open an- sermon from what he thought a 
rious text. Indeed, he doubted whether there 
s such a text in the Bible, hut when he got 
home he looked 1 • > M> child's Sunday-school 
Bible, and there it NBa. Aye, there it was in 
the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah — " Wherefbn do 
ye spend money for that which 10 not bread?" 
1 I have wasted money, time, health, and peace 
n the ' Black Horse ' long enough, " thought 
John Morton, and he never went again. 

Three Christmas-days have passed away since 
then, and John Mori in is now in a building 
society j his life id assured for £100 in the 
Temperance and General Provident Instituti 
his child goes to the "Band of Hope," and he 
is a sincere and happy Christian. And the 
!..'. .n-11: .1.1 / I'll tell yon ;.ll about that John 
Morton was always fond of music, and resolved 
to see if he couldn't buy a harmonium, and learn 
to play it. He did both, He bought 
one at ft sale ; a teauhc-r *->f music taught him 
how to play it ; and he can now perform simple 
music at Bight, and very well too. During the 
' baa been saving money for a new 
harmonium, and yesterday lie bought it. paid 
for it, and brought it home, and there it is — a 
eery bi 

" Let us praise God," says John Morton, 
. at the instrument. "'Mother, give 
out the words." 

Mrs. Morton, .1 guietj sweet woman, with a low, 
melodious voice, read from a " People's Hymn- 
Book" the words of a favourite Christmas carol ; 

b, U; !. a I- 1 ■ in ■. 

John saw his bonny little Minnie standing in the 
choir, with a white dress, and flowers in her 
hand ; he found liis eyes very moist, and his 
heart very full. So John asked Minnie to sing 
Glittering Treasures,' 1 and she did so with 
great taste. 

Now, mother," said John, kindly, " what 
1 I know your favourite hymn, and I'll 
sing you a verse of it. Listen now," and John, 
a fine, full voice, sang these words : — 

Thank you, John, that is a sweet 
Now, will you sing me another ; this vera 
dear John : — 

Day, and, when she fell on her aged father's neck 
and hid her face, he kissed her once — twice — 
thrice, and thus ahc found tfu dooi wai uridt 
open : and her fathor'said — 

'• I forgive thee and welcome thee home, my 
lass, and thou wilt never leave me any more." 

He left her for a moment, and when he came 
kick he placed a Bible in her hand. 

"It ia thy mother's Bible," he whispered. 

The wanderer kissed it, and said, "My 
Mother's God shall de my God ! " 

A wonderful gleam of joy lit up her father's 
face, and he exclaimed, "Thou art welcome, iny 
lass, to my home and my heart, and thy return 
has brought happiness back to me." And he 
kissed her with the kisses of a father's love. 

■' 1. ■'.• "I re, J ■"■/ unto you, th* 1 ■ 
prssenei of the angels of God over one tinner . 


Husband, wife, and child, all sang with solemn, 
gladsome voices, and then John Morton, as the 
priest of his own household, read from the 
ml chapter of Luke the story of the Saviour's 
birth, and offered a short and simple prayer for 
1 happy Christmas-day. And they were happy 
— happy all the day. John's aged mother came 
to dinner — such a dinner! What a pudding 
they had ! Lots of fruit after dinner. A walk 
in the crisp, dry, spotless snow, to see Mrs. 
Morton's aged father, and to take him some cake 
for his tea. Then home to their own tea, and 
then they all clustered round the new harmo- 
nium for a happy evening. Inside that humble 
home thci. w n Ird.r. ■, r. .,,rh. |,, V c ; c.n jut .-, 
bjoks, a bright hi.. km-.. gl, is ....■,- .„■..... an arm- 
chair for John ; ami, to crown all, that wonder- 
ful harmonium. Outaidi thi white snow came 

down. So they 1 away like 

.--.loy did indeed. One song !"" p "" ° B ' ™ [fT m * 

brought another : hvmn (allowed hi 1 " I hear * le rL ' st ° f **• n >" ,,m - 

' That is enough, said John, " you shall stay 

John sang it very feelingly, and, when he had 
done, Minnie went to the window, and lifted up 
the blind to see the snow come down ; but there 
was the pale face of a young woman close to tho 
window pane, and Minnie screamed with fright 
and ran to her mother's knee to tell her of the 
sad face she had seen. John Morton went and 
opened the door, and saw that the woman had 
fainted, and lay stretched on the snow. He 
lifted her gently in his arms, brought her into 
the passage, shut the door with his foot, and bore 
the unconscious form into the kitchen, where there 
was a blazing fire. Mrs. Morton came from the 
parlour to help, and found the stranger a pale 
young woman, dressed in a showy style, and 
nearly dead with hunger and cold. "Whilst John 
Morton chafed her hands before the fire, his wife 
made a cup of milk hot, :wu\ contrived to induce 
■Linger to drink it. She- (hen re- 
moved her bonnet and shawl, and gently kissed 
her cheek. 

"Oh! my mother, my mother ! " sobbed the 
poor girl. 

Where ia your mother, my dear child i " said 
Mrs. Morton, tenderly. 

She is dead — she i:s 111 heaven, 
girl. "I broke her heart. Oh! when you kissed 
it made me think of her, for she often — often 
kissed me, and begged me to love Jesus, but 1 
broke her heart ; I broke her heaii and 
wept bitterly. 

Is your father living 1 '-' said John Morton. 

" Would he take you home]" 

"Oh ! yes, but I am ashamed to ask him." 

- he live I " 
"At Ashton, in Lancashire." 
" Then stay here to-night, my poor girl, and I 
II write to your father. But tell 1110 first what 
made you stand with your face close to the 
window 1 " 

going down the street and heard the 
and then I heard a voice begin to 
sing a hymn my mother loved ; — 

' My heavenly honu li bright m f 

and it brought her t 
aot pass on, but 1 

brought another; hymn follow...! hymn : and 
for tho pieces Minnie had sung in the ''Band 
of Hope Choir," at tho Crystal Pala 1 in 
Morton never tired of them, for, you see, John 
went to the Fete of the National T. 
League, where he hear. I the choir sing : — 

bring no iflitloriug ti 

To guide out Hop in youth. 

here, and I will write to your father 

He .li.l :.o directly, and wcllt out ill the SHOW 

to post the letter. And tfu wanderer was their 
1 Christmas 

.John Morton did not lose his labour. An 
answer came from the wanderer's father, and here 
is a part of it word by word as it WAS written — 

'■ My DEAR Sir, — I received your letter about 
my poor lost child. Y..u have aoted the pari of 

1 ■ ■ ■■! ■'■■ fou B lk me-, Will I re- 

- ■ ive her ' W &a1 - ■> hi i ■■■■■ dd refuse to receive 
his Child) Tell her I will w,-l, ,>„„■ her, Von 

ask mo, Will 1 forgive herl Iha\ 

Ion 1 ago. Tell her is a dooh h wide open." 

N..i i-.iii! M... ri. .11 .Hi her home on New Tear's 

A thick carpet had lately been put down m the 
dining-room at the squire's residence, which was 
found to prevent the door from opening and 
shutting easily; so Wedge, the village carpenter, 
was sent for to ease it. At six o'clock, whilst 
he was still at work, carriage wheels were 
distinctly heard, and the squire's lady with her 
children came down into the hall, ready to 
welcome home Mr. Gary, who had been that 
day to town. Wedge, who was working inside 
the dining-room, listened with astonishment as 
he heard the shout the children gave when their 
fitther stepped out of tho carriage. He saw, also ; 
through 'li^ .loor crack, that the two eldest had 
caught, hold of Ms hands, wliiJst the younger 
ones were clinging like little barnacles to his 
coat-tails ; all dragging him along, as if, once 
having got him. into their net, they meant, 
spider-like, to bind him hand and foot, and 
devour him, as that interesting msect would a 
great blue-bottle, at their leisure. 

That tho squire's return should cause inch 
delight, was a puzzler for our worthy friend ; 
for, had he not, with his own eyes, seen this 
gentleman go off at half-past nine is the morn- 
ing, no one could have persuaded him otherwise 
than that he must have been away a month, to 
put it at the lowest figure. He saw, moreover, 
that the squire was holding tightly in his hand 
■'' b'tle parcel ; which, shaking off the children, 
by a number of little dodges of which loving 
tathert only know the secret, ho quickly untied, 
for all the world as if he were a boy of five 
years old (and not a great man of fourteen stone 
weight), who could not wait a moment for any- 
thing. In a shorter time than we take to write 
it, he pulled out the contents and gave them to 
Ids wife, with three distinct kisses, Wedge 
could swear there were three, for he counted 
them, and wondered how many mori 
to come ! This was evidently a very beautiful 
present, for the children, as Well as Mrs. Cary, 
expressed their admiration in the liveliest 
manner, and all seemed, if that were possible, 
more pleased and happy than before. 

Soon, the merry party went, upstairs, the echo 
of their voices died away, and Wedge was left 

to finish nu work on Uu d , whilst his heart 

and conscience began their work on lltm. He 
too had a home and wife and children, he too 
had been away all day ; but the thought struck 
him, uncomfortably, that Ids welcome borne, if 
indeed he got one at all, would seem pom- and 
cold, after that which ho had jui 
This reflection was not so sweet as to make his 
work go smoothly ; his saw seemed as blunt as 
a double-bladed sixpenny penknife, and the 
wood of the chair, whose legs he was cutting 
down, as hard as bog-oak. In fact he was 
feeling jealous of the squire, and discontented 
with his own wife and children. Why were not 
they eager to rush out and welcome him, after 
the fashion of the squire's family ! He frowned 
as he thought how badly he was used, and Ins 
saw grated away as though very dull. 

But conscience had a word to say to him, and 
Loughtoo for him to hear, although 

making noise enough to prevent any one 
from trying to gain his attention. It told him 
the I lull ■■- " chiefly in himself, for if his wife 
and children were not like the squire's, neither 
likeness to that worthy gentleman par- 
He couldn't blame his wife 
DUgh of his pi. 11 hi , t..r he 

gave her any ; nor did he 

tor not making 

11 knew ho nt 
greet her with those kind 
have Failed to draw the 

>rds which i', - hU in.' 

Wedge was a good huibai 
kmd one, spending his mom y tor the most part 
on his family in a hard, h. 

but. shoeing no affection towards his children, 
who consequently did not love him. 

As Wedge v... : ■ 
he came across an old 
a dainty bunch of Inowdj 1 in :i 

" Here Will, 
carpenter's side, !'■., ,. .. riven a trifle for 
these flowers- r 

for my wife makes so much of -n. 
I take her home ; ahe n. vi c minda what I bring 
her, so long as I give it her myself, for to Be 
sure I always tack on a little son 
shape of a few kind words, which make tho 
thing seem valuable in her eyes. I don't know 
how I should get on sometimes, if it weren't for 
having flowers pretty handj 1 you con get them 
for little or nothiiL' at au\ tune, and yet they 
are more beautiful than anything we could make. 
Perhaps that ia «lui God gave flowers for — in 
part at least — that the poor man may have 
within Ins reach the means of showing kindness 
and giving presents, which, without them, he 
might seldom or never be able to give at all." 

Wedge's road now lay in a different direction 
from his friend's, so they parted company, Joe 
Sparks putting a couple of snowdrops into Will's 
hand, supposing he would know well enough 
what to do with them. 

Wedge turned the snowdrops over in his hand, 
and looked after Joe, who had nearly turned the 
corner ; what coidd the man mean by giving him 
the snowdrops and never saying a word 1 He 
couldn't have known what had just happened at 
the hall ; yet it seemed strange that he should 
come up and say all this about presents juBt 
when Wedge was thinking about that very sub- 
ject, and enjoying the excuse too " that ho 
couldn't afford to buy his wife anything." But 
now having the snowdrops, ami having heard so 
much about them, it seemed as if nothing else 
would do but that lie must give them to his 
wife, and this proceeding would be such a new 
and extraordinary one that the very thought 
made him feel sheepish. 

Wedge's wife was a nice woman, but family 
cares were weighing her down, so that the light 
was fast dying out of her eyes, and the colour 
fading from her cheeks. She would not have 
minded them half nor even a quarter as much if, 
when Wedge came home, she could have told him 
all about them — for ten to one he could have set 
things right. But he had always pooh-poohed 
when she ventured to begin the subject, so that 
she had left off looking for help where there was 
none to be got. It seemed to Wedge that if 
he paid down in hard cash for clothing, feeding, 
and schooling the family, he had done his share 
towards their bringing up. Such being the 
state of things, you may well imagine how sur- 
prised was Mrs. Wedge when she heard a cheer- 
ful voice call out, " Where arc you, Mary ?" But 
greater still was her astonishment, when, on 
going to the door, her husband presented her 
with the snowdrops, declaring, as he put thein in 
her hands, that 'beautiful as they were he 
thought the rose-bud on her arm beat them out 
an. I out. ' \\ edge had dune many a handy bit of 
work with those tools on his back, but he did a 
neater job now with those snowdrops than ever 
ho had done with all of them put together, for 
he, so to speak, sawed Mary's heart right in two, 
and got to the very inside, and planed down no 
end of knots and rough places, and French 
polished her .'I!', as if she had been home choice 
piece of cabinet .work to be sold for nobody 
knows what. 

That day was the beginning of brighter times; 
Mary's heart having been, as we before said, 
sawed right open, never closed up again, by rea- 
son. if her husband's continually putting in one 
little thing and another on purpose to keep it 
open; and warm streams ..f ;. (lection _n-.ii- 
ing out that nohody knew were ever there &1 all, 
tiny were hidden down bo deep. Ami as to 
Wed-.', he never knew before how many pretty 

lntle speeches he Could make. Without .my notice 
beforehand whatever, they seemed to come from 
somewhere inside all ready made, packed U] I 

■ irected p idj to bo delivered " with care, this 

-.idc up," t.. his wife, whilst the contents of 
■ aerally brought 

a smile 011 Mrs. Ued-c'- 1 -■ ■ . and le her ai 

■ i.-i.ei for b .■ 1 ■ to come. 

And if tins new state of things brought happier 
days '., Will was no less benefited by 
them. Not only did Ins wife return his love 
with interest ; but it prompted her to do many 
loving deeds, tho fruits of affection, which can 
make the humblest home a little paradise. 



i iniyurj, " I 

reply. FartLor testimonies win w giTcn in out w»i.j 

The following towns have accepted the Free 
Libraries .Vet : — Airdrie, Aahton-under-Lyue, 
Berwiok-on-Tweed, Birmingham, Blackburn, 

Bolton, Cambridge, Canterbury, Carlisle, Coven- 
try, Dundee, Exeter, Hertford, Ipswich, Lea- 
mington Priors (Warwick), Leeds, Leicester, 
Liverpool, Maidstone, Manchester, Northampton, 
Norwich, Nottingham, Paisley, Salford, Sheffield, 
Stockport, Tynemonth, Walsall, Warminster 
(Wilts), Warwick, Wolverhampton. 

It is a matter of astonishment to us in ti 
provinces that you have not availed yourselv 
of the Act in London. We are entitled to look 
to you in London for leadership in all great 
improvements. Many of the ablest and 
ambitious of our young men make a point of 
getting up to Loudon, to be in the full rush of 
the battle of life, to live in the full blaze of 
light in the metropolis ; there the blood is sup- 
posed to run quicker, the intelligence to be 
brighter, the hunger and need for knowledge 
to be keener, than elsewhere ; the clerks and 
artisans are a smarter style of nun than else- 
where ; their political influence is greater than 
elsewhere ; and yet, with the utmost necessity for, 
and power to use and appreciate, Free Libraries 
and Newsrooms, you have them not ! Your 
wealth is so great that am /oriaii * 
on the rental of your houses would support a 
magnificent Free Library and Newsroom for 
ewi-y district in London. In Birmingham and 
Manchester the newsrooms are found to be at 
once and gratefully accepted, and used by men 
who formerly used the beerhouse to the detri- 
ment of themselves and families. 

I heard a working-man's wife the other day thousand 
very simply illustrate one of the 

th.'se places are put. She was telling another , find the tike 
woman who was crying 
been nearly killed at a public-house : — 

filled from the beerhouses and ginshops of the 
kingdom, and do not thousands of good fellows 
get drawn into spending health and money and 
these places, because there is nowhero 
else for them to go ( There will always be a 
race of men who think that the stupid refusal to 
spend money is economy. It is as economical 
; ,s the man was who wrapped his one talent m a 
napkin, and buried it. 
txpend \jqw meow i to \ <■>■■ th h i rmdt , 

The government of any town or parish, 
is a noble charge, and should be entrusted to 
brave and honourable men, and not given into 
the hands of little-minded men. 

When shall we see <mr very b. ,t m. n .uvvptuig 

as an important trust the position of vestrymen 
and town councillors, and raising these offices 
from the ignominy into which they have too 
often fallen, by labouring manfully for the im- 
provement of the pariah or town God and the 
people have called them to work for 1 

In Birmingham, from six to seven thousand 
men a-day use the newsrooms, chiefly of the 
wage class, but including also professional men 
and large ratepayi 1 1. 

Men out of employ come in hundreds, and by 
the aid of advertisements in the papers get work. 

No collision or incivility is ever known to 
have occurred. Many very rough fellows have 
been visibly civilized and improved by the mix- 
ing on equal terms with men of a higher class, 
and it is not impossible that the benefit may 
have been mutual in inducing a greater respect 
on the part of the well-to-do for the apparently 
rough and rude, but really decent fellows. 

I have been in the Free Library now some 
years, but I have not yet ceased to be amazed 
at the courtesy and order and silence that prevail 
in a room with from 150 to 200 men of all 
classes, five to eight of them at one page on the 
reading stands at one time, these constantly 
changing during the day, \intd more than three 

July, and the scene was a very lively and in- 
teresting one. The mouths of the holes on both 
Bides of the cutting were crowded with young 
martins — as many, perhaps, as four or five in 
each — sunning their barred white breasts, and 
waiting to be fed ; the telegraph wires formed 
iih.h advantage was taken by scores 
of others more advanced in growth, and of old 
ones reposing after their exertions ; while the air 
was filled with others catering for their families. 
All of a sudden the young ones retreated into 
their holes ; the wires were deserted, and only a 
few remained describing distant circles, I thought 
that a hawk must have made Iris appearance, but 
it turned out that the alarm had been caused by 
men walking over the heath above, and 
approaching tho holes. The young ones in the 
holes hod, no doubt, felt tho jar caused by their 

ead, and those on the wing, who saw t* 
had probably given warning, by note, to the 
I nil the wires, ivho could not have 
m, nor, I should tliink, heard their approach." 
Truly the little birds are wonderful and 
teresting creatures. The most selfish and heart- 
less of men should spare them on account of 
their useful qualities, while those who happily 
possess better feeling ami taste must be charmed 
with their great intelligence, even more than 
with the grace of their movements and the melody 
of their notes. We trust that our readers love 
the birds, that they will welcome them to some 
"winter crumbs,'' and say, with the railway 
porter, " The birds arc such good friends 
to us, that we won't let anybody meddle with 
them." b. 

,.i pi i i cuting l ."■■.■ ii -i M (i 

1. 1 ■ i. . i Mie C stiana becaw e th v prayed to 0*4 

,,,., I,,,. | -j 1 1 ■ ■. id„ I . they were at their 
wits' end. The Queen had found out that it 
..... _ coding the Bible which had exerted such a 
power upon their hearts, and so she sought to 
take from them the sacred volume. 

Some of the people took their Bibles and hid 
thfl WOOdj, They 1 them in ■'■ 
hollow tree, or under s stone, or beneath some 
thick leaves. When the moon shone 
brightly, and others had retired to n 
would go out and would search for theu hid 
treasure. How precious to these poor tried and 
persecuted Christians were these few minutes 

during which fchej could read that blessed booh ! 

Like hungry men, they fed on the Word oi God, 
and stored their memories to carry away portions 
for their friends at home. It was not- safe for 
many to go out to read lest thej should be 
noticed, watched, and discovered. The Word of 
God was indeed "precious in those days." 

When the Missionaries, on the death of that 
persecuting Queen, were allowed to return to Mada- 
gascar, they saw some of these Bibles soiled and 
marked by damp. Tliis shows how the Mada- 
gascar Christians loved the Word of Cod, and 
what danger they would risk that they might 
read it. Had they been discovered reading the 
Bible they would have been put in prison, sold 

slaves, or, perhaps, put to death. 

each day ; and only good 
which | temper and courtesy is known. Where will you 

Cleanliness and quiet wero very 
her husband having courteously, but very firmly, insisted on from 
the first, and are now the rule ; perhaps I should 
Now why don't you get him to spend part ' scarcely say insisted on, for I always found that 
of his evenin»s at the newsroom I It's been the a good-humoured suggestion was enough, 
making of „.yhueband. Since he took to go there, | Then as to the issue of book, to read at 
1 am sure it has saved him two shillings a-week HOME. We issue a thousand volumes a-day. or 
at Least in drink ; not that he gives me any over three hundred thousand volumes a-year, 
more but be is alius a-buying little things for and to about ten thousand different borrowers, 
ih. eluldrcn, and he smartens hisself up now of a most of them young people, many of then, factory 
night to go to tliis newsroom, so that lie looks boys and girls ; and, notwithstanding deaths 
d7w.11 and as young again, and I am obliged to and change of residence, &c, we do not lose 
smarten up to match. I don't care what any- twenty volumes in the year. Everyone seems 
body says, I say God bless the liberies ! My BUI , interested in, ami jealous for, the honour of the 
got his master to sign a form as we would take library and the safety of the books, 
care of the books, and our house is as comfort- Then the costlier books in Art, History, 
,e books to read— not , Travel, Science, &c, which form our Reference 
iding i but they read Libkary, are used by nearly rive hundred men 
as makes me laugh and youths daUy , rh. ■ a.e th. butter class of 
and cry all in a breath. That's one of the books ; ' artisans, clerks, and so on upwards. 
mind how you touch it ! My boy would cry his | Which of the London Parishes ■ 
eyes out if it got a spot on, and then the master will be first in tliis work I The mar 
has books out on gardening, and engineers' work, ] commence with the people. Here 
and history, and it's a wonder to me how they for the clergy and ministers to w 
do it.-. It's done out of the rates, and they say ' for themselves and the W01 Ion- 
pay for it, but we never feels it. Bill says j ignorance and evil. Let them. 


inent must 
-i a chance 
a victory 

just pay jippmce a-year for the lot, and its leaders of the people, call meetings and hold 
the many fippOUXB that does it. We pay four conferences on this subject until the way is 

shillings a-week, you know, and Bill says that's ,><'l ' '""' ' '"" for the meeting of ratepayers 

about ten pound a-year, and they call the rate to decide on the matter. 

a halfpenny in the pound, and so that makes it 

fippence a-year, and he says in some places they 

could do it for tuppence-halfpenny, and yet they 

won't ' Well, it's my belief that if they saw the 

good Free Liberies and Newsrooms do here, 

they would; for it's no use talking, you know, 

must have soinewheres to go, and those 

Mb. C. SiMEOHjinhis "Stray Notes," tells us how, 
ty beerhouses arc the ruin of many a good while one day waiting for the train at i 
ii, and those a , i-i ..-. <■'■■ ■! ■ ' ■ ■ d ; meld watclung the sand ■ 

p many and many u family off the 
Id have been >n, and keep the lads ou 

bad ways 

What are the hindrances to the adoption of 

the Act I In Loudon, with your throngs of men 

with time to ■ loubt of its 

usefulness. But the answer, of course, is the 
expense j the largi catepi fen .bead any move- 
ment, however I 
rates But will not this rate, which is limited, 

nu I 'i which you know is 

il this rate save n 

n deem .' ing thosi i ■ ei ■ m ing 

and mist t ible paymen i tm •■ 

jails '. Cm any iv.l 

, man, who 

elves l 

the sides of the 

.1 o ■■.■ii ■. ■ i sation with one 

of the porters about them, said he feared 
that the hoys robbed a good many of the 
nests. "Oh, sir," the man replied, "they 
would if they wt re allowed, bul 

a ih.,1 ,,, won : i.i any- 

'.th Hum. 11 Mr. Simeon Bays, 

t fancied al first he spoke of them as friends in 

Hie way of company only, but he explained his 
moaning to be, that the flies about the station 

■.', ..aid be.|iute intolerable if they were not cleared 

■ ■ .ii ■.. n liioh are alwaj i hav king up 

and down in front of it ; adding, that, even 

... hol day; v, bich occuj red in the 
spring before their arrival, the flii 

Blue the sky, and still the ocean, 

Not a shadow on its breast, 
Softest murmur, gentlest motion, 

Wind and water lulled to rest ; 
Every outward sign denoted 

That the Lord His blessing gave, 
When our Life-boat smoothly floated 

On the bosom of the wave. 

Prayer from many a voice ascending 

Had been heard upon the shore ; 
With it far-off wishes blending 

From the hearts of thousands more : 
" Guard our Life-boat from the dangers 

"Which in storm and darkness lurk, 
Bless it, Lord, to shipwrecked strangers, 

Prosper Thou our handiwork!" 

Then by noble lips was spoken 
O'er the boat its chosen name ; 

"British Workman" be the token 
Of the kindness whence it came : 

While religious hands deliver, 

■'■ i Christening meet, 

Water from the sacred river 

Which once bathed those Blessed Feet. 

When the sky is dark and clouded, 

And the fearful breakers roar, 
And the sea with mist is shrouded, 

And the billows beat the shore, 
May our Life-boat, as a saviour, 

Walk upon the stormy wave, 
And with calm, sublime behaviour 

Snatch the lost from watery grave. 

Oh, while Life i3 round us smiling, 
Ocean smooth, and weather fair, 

It. ■■■'! . '■ "i. ■■ ..or V;u i ■ I.. ■'.itilllJ'. 

the storm prepare ; 
That when Death's dark tempest rages 

We may find a refuge dear 

ill the appointed Ark of ages — 
Sale and blest with Jesus near ! 

May the thousands who, though slender 

Were the means which they possest, 
limb this Life-boat here to render 

Help to mariners distrest, 
Peaceful pass Life's sea of trouble, 
Blood-besprinkled, Spirit-taught, 
\ ad i eceive, in glory, double 
For each deed of love they wrought ! 

RlOHAED Wilton, M.A. 




For aiding the poor French Peasantry. 

■. Tirr. E.wu, of Km ■ 

Hbhkx Ford Barclay, Esq 

Samuel (Subnet, Esq., Mr. T. B. Smithies. 

Secretary, Mi: Johh Pallett, 9, Pat. 

Row, London. E.C. 

for his neglected fellow men, refuse * g irery troublesome." The author goes 

rimoi ■ oh certni ■ ■ ■ -l.-i. ■ .■ ■ . .i..n .h owing the greats. 

B our jails and workhou : ''■ I rati oi these little creatures : — 
Boberj thought! ■ ■■ not , " It was/' he writes, " a bright sunny day i 



:. !|. . 

».— E , £*.— A Boy, 1». 6tL— Anol 


Vc.uly Part fvr 1870, Willi Oorei j.j! 

] . 1 .1 , ... . . I ■ 




We have to acknowledge, with hearty thanks, 
the receipt of the "reports" from Genera] 
Howard, the chief of the " Freedmen'fl Bureau," 
in the United States of America. These reports 
ahofl a wonderful progress in the social elevation 
of the emancipated slaves. Thousands of these 
"freedmen" are already possessors of theii own 
J>. Din - — purchased with tin 1 flints of their own 
industry. The deposits in Savings' Banks are 
most eitraordinary. The desire of the freedmen 
for learning is most cheering ; in many cases the 
schoolmasters testify that " they are so eager to 
learn, that they often surpass the whites." 

The admirable educational system of the 
United States is already producing the most 
cheering results amongst the coloured people, 
and, before long, we believe that America will 
be richly rewarded for her liberation of the op- 
pressed Negro. From the Southern States, most 
cheering tidings are reaching us that even the 
planters are acknowledging the benefits of eman- 
cipation. They have "better crops" than they 
ever had under the vile system of slavery ! 

General Howard has before him one of the 
noblest tasks ever undertaken by man, and we 
pray that, by God's blessing, lie may be the means 
of carrying out his benevolent plans, so as to 
promote the best interests of humanity and of 
his great country. 

Righteousness exalteth i 
nation : but sin is a re 
proach to any people. 

Wk have much pleasure in stating that the 
" Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty 
to \iiiinaU" has formed a " Ladies Committee" 
for the special purpose of promoting " humane 
education " amongst the young. When we find 
the names of Miss Burdett-Coutts, Lady Augusta 
1'"ulett. Mis Cowper-Temple, and Mrs. Samuel 
l '< in ne v on this Committee, we are very hopeful as 
to the good results which will follow. One of the 
proposed plans of operation is that of sending 
able Lecturers to Schools, Working-men's Clubs, 
Ac. It has been our privilege to attend two of 
then tecturea delivered i> v Mr Davidson, of the 

Middle Class School, who, by means of his ekill 
in rapidly depicting with chalk on the black 
board the various annuals and birds lie .1 ■ iil» . 
renders his addresses deeply interesting to both 
old and young. We recommend that Ladies' 
Branch Societies be foimed in every pariah in 
the land, and that schoolmasters apply for an 
■ ally lecture. Suggestions for forming Branch 
Societies may bo had on application to the 
Secretary, 105, Jermyn Street, London. 

To Schoolmasters. We recommend parents 
and teachers of the young to read the interesting 
and instructive story of "The Worst Buy in 
the School," which appears in the Family !'• i< nd 
for this month. It will, we trust, do service to the 
of Education at tins important juncture. 

Train up a child in the 
way he should go : and 
when he is old, he 'will not 
depart from it.— Proir.Mil o. 

■: ■ 

Published monthly by S. W. PARTRIDGE & Co., at the Office, No- 9, Paternorter Row ; ami W. TWEEDIE. 837, Strand. 




By the Rev. P. B. Pottos, M.A. 
"Twtli be a quarter of an hour yet before the 
minister comes, and all an hour after thai before 
the laird can get here," said John Maqpherson 
to a little knot of men who had gathered in 
the school-room of Strathcrie to attend foe 
Funeral of the parish schoolmaster. The humble 
parlour of the departed functionary was not 
enough for the expected company, for all 
| ii Ish hod been invited, and, from the laird 
downward, every one who could come at all was 
rare to be there. 

Meanwhile John Macpherson, the church 
officer, invited such as had arrived to take some 
refreshment, for the snow was falling fast, and 
"it would be awfu' cauld in the kirkyard." 

" Yc'll no get any speerits," said John ; "ye'll 
jist make yerselves comfortable on coffee ; and 
ycTl please old Sandy Sow's speerit all the 
optter if ye keep from whisky and the like." 

(Hd Sandy's hatred nf drink was well-known, 
and, in honour thereof, the whole company took 
kindly to the coffee, and, it must be confessed, 
made themselves very comfortable thereon. 

There was one, however, who took even a 
Second cup from a further motive. 

"Did ye say it would be pleasin' to auld 
Sandy's speerit if we drank the coffee," asked 
Donald Macfee, " for if it would be, Mr. Mac- 
a, I'll take a Becond cup ; it's aye good to 
please a man's self, but it's a' important to please 
bis speerit ; and I heard the minister say. on the 

!,-i\ tint S;mdv died, ' His speerit will walk this 

parish for many a long day.' 'Twaa an awfu' 

saying, but I ken the minister said 'the day," and 
Tiot 'the night,' for it's awfu' to feel the night 
coining on and not know but ye'll meet a speerit 
before the morning." 

Lwa' wi' all that nonsense," said the minis- 
ter's man ; "the minister never said the like." 
"But lie did," said Donald; "and there lie 
i " ■ ■■!! ■ the yard, and you can ask himself ; 
meantime, John, give me that second cup, and 
oil it up to the top, for eh, mon, 'tis always well 
to be at the right side of everything, and ony- 

isr 'twould please Sandy, if > i * ' " elv all Vr, to m.'i: 

» mon drink twa cups of coffee hot and strong." 

The minister of Strathcrie was a man who 
knew the value of schools and schoolmasters, 
*nd that on education depended what the rising 
generation was to be ; and old Sandy had been 
a-' faithful coadjutor tor many a year. " Sandy 
«nd I " was a bit of a sentence very often in the 
minister's mouth. " The pulpit must not pull 
«ne way and the school-room another," said the 
minister ; " minister and schoolmaster most be 
true yoke-fellows, and may I get another like 
Sandy now he is gone." 

A respectful and aHeef innate greeting met the 
minister, and a cup of the hot coffee was offered, 

'■'Tis jist the last drop in it," said Mac- 
nherson, " for Donald has nearly emptied the 
pot, and all to please Sandy's speerit, that he 
rays you said would walk the parish for many a 
long year." 

'■ And so I did," answered the minister. 

"Ye don't believe in onysuch supersteetion," 
»aid an old fanner, taking a pinch of snuff. 

" 'Tis no superstition," said the minister ; "I 
did not say Sandy's ghost, but his spirit ; and 
don't you know yet, neighbours, or understand, 
that a word has sometimes more meanings than 
one. I meant that the spirit of the mail's life 
and teaching — -and surely that is the spirit of 
he man himself — will be living here in the 
children of this place, and in their children 
again for many a long day — aye, one way or 
another, to the end of the world." 

"That's a grand explanation," said Donald 
Macfee, who, having made sure of the coffee, 
was now listening with open mouth to the minis- 
ter; "and, if I may say so much, 'tis worthy of ye, 
Mr. Ross, and 'tis an uncommon ease to my mind." 

" I wish my mind could be eased as quickly," 

' said the minister; "for I'm sore troubled to 

think who we'll get to fill Sandy's place. There 

1 are plenty of schoolmasters and mistresses "to be 

had, but to get the right kind, that is the diffi- 

j "Sure people are getting wiser and more 
learned every day," said the old fanner ; " it 
ought to be easier now than ever it was." 

" Aye, folk are becoming more learned, but 

' are fcney becoming wiser V answered the minis- 
ter, " Wisdom and learning don't always go 
together ; there are plenty of learned folk now- 
a-days who are for getting rid of the Bible out of 

1 whools ; they'd teach all sorts of subjects, and 

; leave out religion, the greatest subject and con- 
cern of all. But as men sow, even thus shall 

\ they reap. See what they're reaping now in 


old grandfather to eat out of. 

" ' Then,' said he, ' father, when you're old, 
shall i have to make a trough for you I ' " 

'"Tis only the other day folk tried all over 
Whitechapel, in London, to get a pair of boots 
big enough to tit, the swollen feet of a drover, 
who vised to ill-treat the feet of the poor beasts 

he had to drive, 

ay to every 

a hundred- 
lan, ' Take 

: great sowing now all 
s to be taught, 
id sown broad- 

France. See whi I w> - 

,,,,,- joile and poor rates, and in many another 

way beside : aye, and what an awful harvest is 
being reaped for the other world. Sandy was 

my yoke-fellow in ploughing and ,,>■!,, ■ . ■ .; 
may we reap a good harvest together, ' said the 
minister, with emotion. 

" YeV making owei much o' Sandy I'm think- 
ing," said the fariner, who didin'ili d in .i-iiiiem 

an hour long with seven heads and ndu ami, 

but who did not Bet much store by education ; 
" I never paid much heed to the young ones ; 
they'll turn up right at last ; when they get to 
be men they get sense, and do well enough if 
only they can read and write," 

"And when harvest- tin»e comes," asked the 
minister, " will your fields do well enough, and 
turn up all right, if you haven't ploughed them 
and sown them, and done all that is needed 1 
You'll have a crop, no doubt, but 'twill be a 
crop of weeds — a curse to yourself and to your 
neighbours too, for a man can't shut up weeds 
as ho would a wild beast. No, no, neighbour, it 
13 with the young as it is with seed and seed- 
sowing, you must not only look after it at all, 
but you must do so in every point ; yon must 
not only sow, but you must take care What you 
sou; and Sow yov sow, and Where yotfsow, and 
Whm i/"' sow — 'tia a careful and an anxious 
matter from beginning to end," 

And Sandy was a man of careful speerit," 
chimed in Donald Macfee, who felt as though 
a further word on that subject from the minister 
would be desirable. 

"He was, as every master and mistress may 
well be ; and I tell you, Donald Macfee, in my 

mind, parishes and the parents of children ought j given — reading, writing,, and 
to be as anxious about the masters and mistresses will tit boys and girls for making their way 
as they are about themselves. And now, neigh- ' the world ; but I don't want to see boys and 
hour," said the minister, turning to the farmer, ' girls left without the knowledge which will tit 
" aren't you particular about your seed i What them to make their way to that better world 
good is all your ploughing and manuring and above. Bible seed is a fine thing to sow." 
harrowing, if you sow bad seed. You know you " And, may be, you'll tell us how it will 
threatened the merchants for supplying you with up," said the fanner. 
some bad clover, and you'd have brought an " Yes, I'll tell you how, and when, too," said 

■ them if they hadn't returned the the minister, 
money. And that was little enough ; I think j " When a man in all his dealings with his fel- 
you let them off cheap as it was; for every low-man is honest, because God, in His Word, says 
seed that came to nothing there was so much that he must be, there's a Bible seed coming 
ground lost. And what is so much lost, is only, : up ; and when folk can trust him in his weights 
in other words, so much which might have been and measures, and in his word, for he has been 
gained." j taught that 'lying lips are abomination to 

"I don't think there are greater vagabonds the Lord' (Prov. xii. 22), and that He will 
in the world," said the farmer, " than the men not ' count them pure with the wicked balances 
who sell bad seed." I (Mic. vi. 11), and that he must not go back of his 

" When y<5u consider what seed is said to be," , bargains (Psalm xv. 4); what are they all doing 
said the minister, " and how much depends on it, , but reaping the benefit of Bible seed, thougl: 
it is a cruel and wicked thing to adulterate it, ! they are often too set against religion and too 
or to sell worn-out stuff. Seeds may be small, stupid to see it? Is not this all Bible seed, 
but they are wonderful things ; every little inor- planted in the soft soil of the children's hearts, 
sel is full of vitality, and contains the sum-total . and coming up and bringing forth fruit for this 
of a whole plant. The root and stem and leaves j world and the next / 

and fruit are all there, wrapped up in a small " And when you have a child obedient at 
compass and ready, in due time and with favour- home, and forbearing and forgiving with his 
able circumstances, to come forth. A seed is a , brothers and sisters, and humble and modest 
thing meant to reproduce, and to reproduce, its as a child should be, and the comfort of his 
own kind, and to multiply it, and therefore bad parents, what is all this but the very thing which 

Making a trough, boy, for your slobbering girl dying — the daughti atod infidel, 

in their own kind, 

fold too ; therefore 
care what you sow. 

" There's going 
through the country ; every 
and I hope we shall 
cast over the land." 

" Weel, now," said the farmer, " jist tell us 
what it is exactly ye'd like to see sown, for 
now-a-days, when nobody knows what he may 
be called upon to do in the way of choosing School 
Boards, and paying rates too, 'tis a good thing 
to have one's mind informed on all points con- 
nected wi' the matter ; 'tis a grand thing in life 
jist to know what you want to do, and then to 
go and do it." 

" Well, then, I want to see Bible seed sown 
broadcast through the country," answered the 
minister. " I am for a man's being instructed 
for the two worlds to which he belongs, this 
and the next ; there's an inside and an outside 
to a man, and he takes care that the first is fed, 
and the other is clothed ; and there's anothei 
world side to a man as well as a this world's side ; 
and the one must be looked after as well as the 
other. I want to see good, useful information 

seed is bad every way ; it is itself bad over and 
over again, hundreds and thousands of times. 

"The very facilities for cheating in this mat- 
ter — for a man can't know what his seed really 
is like until it grows up — make it all the more 
important that the seed trade should be in the 
hands of honest men. 

" And that's why I mourn good Sandy Gow's 
being taken from us now, for Sandy was a man 
who dealt in good seed, and who sowed it too. 
There are a dozen teachers now in different 
schools who were brought up here, and they are 
sowing other parishes as Sandy sowed this." 

" Well, well," said the farmer, " when a man 
thinks how Iris seed is to come back to him, it 
is important to make sure what he sows." 

" ' As a man sowcth, so also shall he reap,' " 
said the minister. " ' Yon cannot get grapes 
from thorns, nor figs from thistles.' 'If yon 
sow the wind, you'll reap the whirlwind.' You'll 
get what yon sowed many-fold." 

" Tis an awfu' thing to sow," said the minis- 

" You're right there," said Mr. Ross. " Did 
you ever hear, John, of the man whose son 
dragged him by the hair of tile head down the 
garden-walk, and when they came to one spot 
the wretched man cried out ' Stop, stop, I didn't 
drag in ij father beyond this bush ! ' " 

" Eh, but it came home, sure enough, to him," 
said Macpherson. 

" And did you ever hear of that man who 
abused his poor old parent because he slobbered 
when he ate, and went to make a trough for him 
to eat out of like a pig, and his little son, stand- 
ing by him, says, ' Father, what are you at i ' " 

the Bible teaches him 

"And when you have a man seeking to be 
pure in his own heart, and to have a pure life 
coming forth from a pure heart ; and when you 
see a man no man's enemy and every man's 
friend, what is tins but Bible seed i and if you 
like I'll give you chapter and verse for them all. 
Look at the crops you see growing inside the 
gin palaces and whisky cellars, and about their 
doors, and ill penitentiaries and jails, and about 
the streets of our large towns. Think of what a 
harvest thJB will be of tares for the great reap- 
ing, and look at your police-taxes and poor-rates, 
and what you have to pay for judges and soldiers, 
and nobody knows what beside ; and put that 
devil crop side by side with the Bible crop, and 
you'll not doubt which will be best to raise. 

" 'Tis all very fine for folk to say they can 
get on well enough without the Bible, but when 
it comes to the main point of all — when a i 
is about to die — 'tis tlmt he goes to. You 
member those young men who were murdered 
by the Greek bandita awhile ago; well, win 
one of them wrote to his_ friend, and death w 
then staring them in the face, what he asked to 
sent was a Birle ; and 'twas only a few days 
ago that a young German soldier, who was lying 
dying of his wuun.'s, hud his hands upon a Nc 
Testament by his side, ind said, ' Well, I doubt 
whether that isn't the best book after all.' And 
when Sir Walter Scott was 'ying, and his 
law asked him 'What book he'd like to have 
read to him i ' he who had read and written 
many answered, 'Need you ask; there is 1 
the one. ; ' and that one was the Bible. And I'll 
just tell you one thing more : there was a young 

who had no words too bad for the Bible- 
she asked her father, on In i lUin^ hod, which he 
wished her to believe, what her mother had 
taught her. or what he had ; and then, in that 
solemn hour, he cried out, ' What your mother 
did, my child!' Now, neighbour, is fhi.t Hook 
to be made less account of than a primer, or than 
the rule of three ? and are people to be taught all 
about Timbuctoo and the North Pole, and no- 
thing about heaven ? The people must have the 
Bible, and they must have it young j for tis all 
nportant, not only what you sow, but urfrni you 

" 'Tis no use sowing on the hard roadside," 

said the farmer. 

And soon the heart begins to harden," an- 
swered the minister, "as every one knows who 
has much to do with it. Ask the chaplains of 
the jails and reformatories, who have to do with 
trying to teach good things to old hardened 
offenders — aye, or those who have to teach any 
who are grown up — and they'll tell you 'tis tough 
work even at the best. Here's the soil ready 
turned up, so to speak, when the young ones are 
soft and tender ; and 'twill be bad farming to [i l 
this time pass by, to try hereafter, with great 
labour, to accomplish what ought to be done i: 
Folk would laugh at the farmer who sent i 
with picks and spades to knock and break up the 
clods when they were frozen hard and fast, to 
drop in some seed. Heart freezing soon begins ! 
set in, and then, by little and little, with grei 
labour, if at all, folk try to do some of win 
might have been well done in its proper time. 

"God has appointed times and seasons, and if 
they are let Blip there is no knowing whether 
they may ever be vouchsafed again. If the 
sowing-tune is neglected there will be no harvest 
this year. 'Tis when the wax is hot that you 
must make the Bcal ; there's many an one who 
will take a good impression of things even 
from a soft pressure in his youth, who will take 
no impression at all, stamp upon him as hard as 
you may, in after-years. Our schoolmasters and 
mistresses are people who are sealing with the 
soft wax ; and we must be very careful what kind 
-if seals they carry about them. ' Devil stampefl ' 
for life would be an awful fate for any of our 
children, but it may be theirs if we give them 
bad teachers in their youth. The mark of Cain 
was bad, but it may be that this mark will turn 
out as bad in the end. 

"And now a word about the when ; and that, 
neighbour, has also to do with the present time. 
There are two H's in a man ; one is his head, 
and another is his heart ; and what we want 
here, now poor Sandy is gone, aye, and what will 
be wanting all the country over, is the fw.-her 
who will sow in both — but here comes tin- laird " 
said the minister ; and, in a minute, Sir David 
Stewart entered the i 

All the company rose, and, after greeting them, 
and hearing of what they hid been just talking, 
the laird said, " In the religious services in which 
about to engage, let us make it a matter 
of special prayer that God will supply the plact 
xcellent Sandy Gow. Let us thank Him that 
had such a man amongst us ; let us Beek 
get the like again. He was but a humble 

of seed on earth, but the i 
heaven. My friends, it is 'only a seed' that be- 
the oak that makes the life-boat, which 
defies the fury of the storm ; it is 'only a seed' 
that makes the beam that supports the church- 
tower bell that calls us to Sabbath prayer ; it 
is -only a seed' that becomes the tree that falls, 
riven by the lightning, and crushes everything 
gathered around its trunk. Sandy dealt 'only 
with seed,' but angels will reap Ins harvest, and 
he shall receive a great reward for the sheaves. 
Days of peril are on our country — days in which 
the education of the heart, will be even n 
portant than that of the head. May every parish 

before God of the schoolmaster 
and mistress it chooses, and of what is taught, 
for school-teachers live long after they a 
and, for good or evil, it might be said of each, 
• He being dead yet speaketh." 1 

It is Imped that these line3 may be read by 
many a British workman — by many a father, 
with children to whom he can give no heritage 
save that of a good example and a good educa- 
tion. Oh, see that both be good indeed — that 
they harmonize! Do not let the school undo 
the home, or the home the school ; let both 
work together for God — both be schools for 
heaven. And fathers and mothers, stand up for 
the Bible and Bible teaching in the schools of 
the land. Say you will have it, and you shall 
have it ; let Bible-taught children be an honour 
to you in life, and, with Bible-taught love, close 
your eyes with reverence and love in death. 


tttttw sins For five yearn JoMph and Martha Qwnxsj had 
,, .„,, no( lo rS«aaung W hich M touiAs, a i fortable married lift, wanting only 

. < /..,./■""■•'.';'- I ,"' 1 >; 

think ..f :i |i.>iuK-r.."s i I" 1 

l thing — the aimslii, 
iral hundred j prattle of a haby t 

: of :t baby prei i ace, the 
nplete tlie domestic 

;'""" '•; ■ i;;"";,'',;,',;;,;.,;,,.. ,,1,,,,, ,, ,„.,i,.,r i,m i 1 . T11 ,„„.,,fthc,.-h.„ni,h ; i,o,,,e. N OW 

My triend'a account— he had heard it from a 

Dredible - u »Mle travelling to the I mted 

States— waa as follows : — 

■ i >,,.,■ the wheels of the original locomotives 
which ran on the American railways is a recep- 
tacle for grease, which, as it melts l)y the heat 
(arising from the friction); 

tins particular Sunday 

,,, ... while the wild March wind ahrieked 

amd their little dwelling, Joseph, 

holding the tiny baby by the cosy fire, looked 

from it to the bed where the mother wis lying, 

watching them with a happy smile on her pale 

face, to utter the before-mentioned remark : 

down a perforated "Now, Martha, my lass, I'm u happy as a 

tubo'totothebokea. In the yearl844,an engineer king!" .i„._,„,rf 'little 

„f the line, of that country, fueling that " . ea, we've got wba no long wanted- hue 

the axles of hi. engine were becoming red-hot, Joseph- ,» come at last, replied Martha , I ,„ 

the tram ami diaoovered that his so glad it s a boy. 
machinery was Tc'logged by flies that the oil "Well, but," said Jose,,,, medi.ative y, 

had been prevented from running." don t know ebon .1. „e if. ' > " 

Is there nothii- I thought to myself, to be called after me, lis true, hut it seems to ,,, lil.i, 

learned from thi.1' Has S» atory no moral- | we ought to call him Samuel, i 

Mav not the progress of our undertakings to think t.od s given hull to us in al 

spSual 'rlttL-Sunday-sehool teaching for ' poor prayer,, as much a, He ever did to 1 tannal, I 

instance-be grcatly'rctarded by trilling things ! that's my mind ■„, ,t, Maltha. 

Does not Srripture'warn us against li» aiM ? " Well, I'm agreeable, said Martha, artel 

Do not « read in one pass^e (Eceles. X. 1) few nnnntes' meditation on the important mat 

of "dead flies" which spoil the rich ointment, <cr , " it's a , 1 name anyhow, and the 

"little follies" which injure men ol wiadom of a g 1 man. and thatji what well wa, 

lie | And doe, not anothei taxi baby to be— Weaehim! 

peal of certain "little foXea," insignilie,,,, but "Just .0," returned her h, 1, and 

,,b.leandof,„i,cl,ievo„»h:,,,„li,cl,eato„ttl,e tell you „l,:,l m e he must have a good ledd. 

fruitfulnes, of our Christiai, profeaaion 1 (Canf cation ; it's what I did,, t have n.ysell, .„,) 

"160 "Behold," .aid St. J. ,(,„ :.,. "1 I ™. "' 

..... . . . ,a .i. ■ ii «_j I ™ l.lona him Waarpal heailtv ! liut tlie 

, £ '.ii-. i , -it's but two- 
, i ,., I pend -ii drink." 
Stay, my friend," intcrj-osutl Mr. linker, 

!., M.ih, , ■ i I n you .in' not a drinking-man ; 

you have not been with us nearly four years 
ii,, mt our having found out thai s woi tnnan 
ore sober and trustworthy than ■ '■ 

ia I... i employi d i c factory ; ■till, could you 

make up your mind to do without your daily 
pint — only 'twopence a-day' as it may coat 
y 0U — you would find that by the time your buy 
i.- grown "Id enough to learn a trade, the money 
to apprentice him would be in youi 
I will leave you this to think about at your 
in- meanwhile give tins trifle to 
pour wifo, i ith my congratulations and best 
wishes for tlii future prosperity of her 
and. slipping five shillings into the 
the good mash !■ passed on, 

i had "ni> spoken the truth when 

he said Joseph Gurney was a sober man. He 
had qi n ' been seen the worse fur liquor in his 
life : the ingh pin. of beer, which he considered 
,,, , i .. ,,n to ke< p up hi i ■■'" agth on wozking- 
daysj was " uly all he allowed himsi ! ' Mtai the 
Gurney could never remember a week during 
the whole of her married life, when mure than 

the weekly shilling had been deducted for her 

■ ■ I man's dinner beer from the 

he regularly brought home to her everj Saturday 



5) "how but the boy shall, please God he lives to grow 

„ er a littU ih, kindleth ! » And our up-hless him, he's i real be I ' Bui the 

if I,, warn us against habitually allow- fervency of the admiring fathers kiss d.stu.l.ed 
in. ourselves in trifling omissions and commis- , the baby, who awoke and cried, and in perfenn- 

,„ms ,,.eik, -I some commandments which he in^he novel operation of patting him utl to >dee|. 

calls'- the l e ast,"and of « jots and titties » of again, Joe quite lost sight ofhiapjans , to the 

the law (Matt. v. 18, 19); and "fragments" future improvement and benehtof his infant -» 


i by 

to be disre- 

Let us then examine ourselves. If I am un- 
successful, let me search and see what it is that 
rilogs the wheels, and hinders the oil from 
What is it that prevents the gentle 
flow of the Holy Spirit's unction i is it neglecl 
of ipeciftl prayer) levity of mind, self-love 
OXUnortifled 1 love of dress I undue association 
with the world ? carelessness in my preparations 
of the lessons t tartness of manner 1 too much 
attention to the mere machinery 1 want of life and 
spirituality in teaching! What is in me that grieves 
the Divine Spirit, and interrupts His gracious 
influence I Let me remember that my God is a 
jealous God ; that the Lord Jesus claims (and de- 
serves) all my affections; that He had a contro- 
versy with the active and diligent Ephesians (Rev. 
ii. 4) on account of >led- «-.>.„,, not entii, 
of love ; that though we talk of little sins, there 
is in reality nothing little or unimportant be- 
tween Him and our souls. Let me seek to have 
all my ways brought into sweet captivity to the 
obedience of Christ : to be sanctified wholly 
and to have all my body, aoul, and spirit, 
preserved blameless unto the hour of His coming. 

The next morning, as he was setting off to his 

work at the usual early hour, he peeped under calculati , and the result of Ins present 

the bedclothes for one more look at the tiny appeared considerably to astonish him. He 

fooa dee] so placidly by the side of the scratched his head, pondered a little longer, 

happy mother » Go,.d-bye, youngster," he said tried again and again, but always with the same 

ly " you'll be trotting along with me to result ; and when he laid down the lump of chalk 

prentice though — 1 know he'd take me, but that 

ain't be, 1 know that," and a tear or two stood 
in the boy's Bye, which he was too manly to let 

Why can't it. Ik- I " inq i I ■'■■" to i 

looking ap from the ironing in which she was 


Win , mother, he ;-.-> ■ he • an't take lcM than 
£10 with a 'prentice ; mostly he gets more than 

that, but where could we get that from i " 

The good woman sighed. Often had her boy's 
future troubled her, and she bad tried, by taking 
in washing and ironing, to lay by a litth sum 
towards the fulfilment of her davlin- v, isll — "to 
'prentice him to a good trade," but ill- health had 
prevented much Bxtra exertion, and frequent ill- 
ness had swallowed up her little earnings. 

" Would'st like to go 'prentice to Mr. Morton, 
Barn I " Inquired Ins father. 

"Indeed I should, father, better than any 
thing eUe." 

•■ Better than the factory 1" 

" I hate the factory," said the boy, excitedly ■, 

" lather, I'd rather " 

" Gently, my lad, you've always been a good, 
obedient boy, and if I bid you come- along to the 
factory to work, you'll come ; but," he added, 
seeing the boy was about to answer, "di i 
any more on the matter now j Thursday'll bo 
j ,-m birthday; you'll be thirteen then, quite I Lme 
you was something better nor an errand boy, 1 
But Mr. Baker's ideathal twopence a-day would guess yon come home to supper directly after 
in time grow into a handsome Bum, had nevei work, and well tali it over; jV uneednt go to 
before occurred to the simple mind of Joe Gur- school that night, 1 reckon. ' 
ney ; and all that afternoon he pondered on his " But, father," urged tlie bey, "if J can Bttd 

master's words, tiff at last, throwing down his another place with better w,r. 

tools he seized n i A chalk, and began Morton's, I needn't go, to the factoiy, need II 

making mj terious i—kmg figures on the wall of " Well, you can look out if you've a mind, and 
the factory. I , B himself ex- ] now your mother and me's waiting t j knuw the 

pressed it, " received no eddicati 
had a rough method of his 




For aiding tbe poor French Peasantry. 

work afore very long. 

:i I hope not, doe," said bis wife, as she held 

her face for his parting kiss. 

' Hope not, old \\ an ' why < " 

"Because 1 want him to do better than his 
father," Blie replied earnestly ; " please God he 

lives, we'll Li.ive bun a good trade." 

■ \ trade, Martha! where'll the money come 

" Time enough foi that, my man." 
"Ay, so there is," returned Joe, "and it's 
time for me to be off too ; take care of yourself 
and the little "un till 1 see you again," with 
ffhii Ii parting injunction Joseph took himself off 
to his daily work at the large leather factory of 
Messrs. Baker and Goldsmith, about a mile and 
,, hall from his humble home. He bad worked 
for the same masters some three or four years, 
and his wages, though small — not exceeding 
eighteen shillings a-week— were regularly paid, 
and winter alike ; so, as he often told 
his wife, when she was inclined to grumble at 
the amallness of the sum, they were better ofl 
than some of their neighbours, who. receiving 
higher wages in one part of the year, were often 
thrown cut of cinj'1, ■yiiunt altogether when the 
slack time came. In fact, Joseph Gurney culti- 
vated a contented mind, and, as the wise man 
long ago predicted, he found it " ■• continual 
feast." The dinner-bel] sounded at one o'clock, 
and Joe had just commenced his simple meal of 
bread and cheese and a mug of beer, when the 
.in., partner in the firm came along and 
stopped to say a few kind words to him. 

" Well, Gurney, so you have a son and Heil 
I hoar," he remarked, in the easy, good-natured | his ow 
manner which had won him a well-desorved object 
popularity throughout the factory. 

Joseph rose and touched his cap respectfully : 
h ..I. you, and -■> fine, hearty boj he 

and resumed his work, Ids resolution was taken. 

The next Saturday night, the shilling, though 
deducted as usual from his wages, did not go to 
pay a weekly score at the Red Lion Inn i it was 
carried in Joseph's pocket to another and quite 
different destination. 

Weeks, months, and years passed "", and the 
little Samuel grew in body and mind — an active, 
healthy, persevering lad; carefully trained and 
educated, to the best of their ability, by the fond 
parents, whose only cliild he had continued to be. 
Joseph had kept the promise mad. 
the boy's birth, that he should have a good 
education, and, at eleven, the young Samuel was 
y fair scholar — sharp, shrewd, intelligent, 
and fond of learning ; his progress in the ac- 

quireme I knowledge was a source of continual 

wonderment to his simple-minded father, who, 

sitting by his fireside of an evening, never tired 
of hearing the boy con over his next day's lea- 
read aloud from some interesting book, 

but he ' end of that story you was reading last night 
n of making make haste and let's hear if them | 
ever got out of the pit alive." 

Thursday night came, and Jose' »h, much to Ids 
wife's surprise, was nearly an aour after his 
usual time. Samuel' was hom( , the tea ready 
set, and the kettle singing on the lire, when he 
made his appearance. How cosy and comfortable 
the little kitchen looked j so tie I 
and the good wife, LXJ her usual neat trim, wait- 
ing to receive liim. A currant cake was on the 
table, made by the fond mother aa a special 
tribute to "Sam's birthday." 

" you're late to-night, my man," she said, as 
her husband took liis seat by the fire, ajid warmed 
his hands by the cheerful blaze, for the cold east 
wind howling outside made tlie weather almost 
as severe as the middle of winter. 

" Yes, I'm late, sure enough," he said, cheer- 
fully, as he took the tempting cup of hot tea 
from her hands. 'Well, Nam, my boy, how 
about finding another place ? you know we was 
to talk about it to-night. " 

"I haven't heard uf one," said the boy, 
moudily ; " I've inquired everywhere." 

turned Joseph, with a curious 
twinkle in liis e>c, which certainly did not 
press much sympathy with his 

vident di3- 

borrowed from the school library. B ■ ppoii m 1 " then I suppose you U be walking 

. . , bis lather decided that Samuel afong with me to the factory on Monday; there s 

hearty and strong as many a much older lad, a berth for you therewith hve shillings a-week. 

must begin to do something himself towards his " Must 1, father I" 

own support, and accordingly a place aa errand " JHtwt yon, lad I Ain't what a good 

boy, in a respectable grocer's shop, was soon j for your father, good enough foi yo 
icured. Joseph accepted for his 



And what it accomplished. 
now Martha, my Lass, I'm as happy 
' said Joseph Gurney, as he held carefully thing I 

■■ I'm glad to hear it. I hope he will grow 
up to be a comfort, both to yon and his mother j 

we shall find him a corner here, I daresay, when 
you'll be bringing him along to work." 

"That's what I thought, sir; bui Martha, 
my wife, she says ' 'prentice him to a good 
trade ; ' but then, as I says to her, sir, ' whore's 
the money to come from for that BOrl ol 

»n his knees, for the first tune, what looked like " Save it from thai," said the master. '4 1- 

ftllttlol He of live flannel, but was in reality humouredly, yet seriously, pointing with his 

his first-born child ; a boy, who even at tbe walking-stick to the mug of beer on the table by 

, :■! I aol quite twelve hours had been Joseph's side. 

,„,,,., ,ni, .i i -i neighbours to be I The man's colour rose ;" I'm not a drinking- 

the very-image of hi I «""». Bir >" '"' **"'• somewhat angrily. "It's 

• p Mr j oM*» " Voncieii Tratu" No 173 only a pint of beer I get with my dinner ; none 

what smaller weekly sum than usual, in con- 
sideration that he should be allowed four even- 
ings in the week to leave work in time to attend 
an evening-school in the neighbourhood. Tliia 
arrangement, indeed, seemed quite unnecessary 
. | the fond mother, who considered 
her son a finished scholar ; but Joseph, having 
his own opinion on tlie matter, overruled Ilei- 
tis, and gained the day. 
The boy's uniform good conduct and steadi- 
ness soon gained the confidence of his master, 
and for nearly two years he continued in Mr. 

Morton's shop. 

It wanted only two or three days to Samuel's 
thirteenth birthday, when one evening he came 
in from his day's work with a cloud on his usually 
bright, good-tempered face 

"Father," said he, as lie- hung up his cap on 
its nail, "Mr. Morton thinks I had better leave 

"What's that for?" replied his father, in a 
startled tone ; "haat been Up to any tricks, lad f " 

'■No, indeed, father; master says he'll give 

me a good oharaotai to anj one," and the boy 
drew himself up proudly as he spoke; "but he 
says I'm too old and big for errand boy noi 
ought to be doing something better for myself 
now ; he says he'll bo sorry for me to go, but 
he won't stand in my way — he wants a 

The boy did not answer ; his disappointment 

■,,,,. i Lei j. to lie expressed in words, while hid 

mother, Btooping over bim, gave him a sympSr 
ig i,i;,s and whispered him "to be a good 
boy and not vex father." 

" I looked into Mi-. Morton's as I came along," 
[no. sued Joseph ; " he's got a pientieelad, I find ; 
dost know who 'tis, Sam / " 
No, father." 
It's a friend of youra, I hear ; canst guess 

Sam looked up quickly. " Is it John Jackson, 
father I He WOI in to see Mr. Morton to-day." 

" No, it ain't ; guess again." 

"I can't tell." said the boy, disconsolately; 
.. b odds." 

"Ain't it much odds I Well then, I'll tell 
you, my boy, 'til 

'■ Father ! " 

" Yes, 'tis you, and here's the money," almost 
roared Joseph in his exultation and delight ; 
"count it. my lad, it's all yourn, and there's 
more than enough to 'prentice you, I reckon," 
mid he tossed on the table a little canvas bag. 

Sam seized it eagerly, and turned out the con- 
tents — bright sovereigns and a few shillings. It 
was a pleasant picture — the proud, happj father, 
excited boj thi loving wifeand tond 

mother, standing with clasped hands, looking 
from one to the other with a face expressing 


The recent ami repented terrible railway acci- 
dents have caused consternation tlin.n^lnnit the 
land. Tlie most fearful of our railway calamities 
may, we believe, be traced to two sources : — 
1st. The want of separate lines of rail specially 

for good* trains. 
2nd. The loss by the employe* of the boon of 




'I'll*, lnti. L-l mini ilc t 'nptniii Huish was fur many 
years the Secretary of one of the largest lines in 
the kingdom. His efforts were constantly di- 
lTu.U'd ti.i i-.iiin Mi;i /!'■■ Sunday labour on the line, 
and securing to every man the privilege of at- 
tending a place of worship, at least once on every 
Lord's-day. He bad his reward, and the di- 
rectors and shareholders were also the gainers. 
During the long period of Captain Huish'a con- 
trol, his line was almost entirely free from ac- 

; the 1 


Bph Gurney had been looking for- 

Thirty-three pounds, sixteen shillings ! " ex- 
claimed Samuel, as he rapidly counted over the 
glittering coins. " Father, what does it all 

m 1 Did you say it was mine I " 

•Every penny of it, my lad," replied the 
happy father ; and, drawing his wife closer to 
him, and laying his hand fondly on the boy's 
shoulder, he proceeded to narrate to them, in his 

i simple way, the interview he had had with 
master on the day following Samuel's birth, 
and the impression his ivnls had made upon hi in. 
Then followed the history of the chalk calcultt- 
, on the factory wall, and the surprise which 
the result of it occasioned. " I saw then," added 
Joseph in conclusion, ''that a little sacrifice on 
my part woidd leave enough money to give you 
a good trade when you should be growed big 
enough. I resolved to give up my beer and say 
nothing about it, and I've never had a drop from 
that day to this. I've always took a shilling 
from my week's wages as usual, but it didn't yo 
to the 'Red Lion' as before; it went to Mr. 
Baker's, and he put it into this bag, and he's 
kept the money for me ever since. I've often 
been tempted, Martha, when you've been ill, to 
break into it to buy little tilings you needed, 
but I never did ; I worked over hours instead, 
and you haven't wanted ; and once, Sam, when 

you were a little chap, you vcil* so ill with fever, 
I thought as how the money I had saved would 
only go to put you in your grave. But God 
spared your life : you've always been a good, 
obedient boy to me and your mother, so the 
money's yourn, my lad. .£'10 I shall pay to Mr. 
Morton to-morrow when your articles are made 
out ; you shall have a new suit of clothes, too, 
ami the rest of the money shall go in the Bank 
in your name, and, please God I live 10 long, 
you shall still have the twopence a-day til! you're 
out of your time ; and then, Samuel, there'll be a 
nice little sum to start for yourself with. So God 
bless you, my lad, and may you be a good, use- 
ful man ; that'3 all 1 want from you in return." 

The boy fairly subbed, as he threw himself 
into his father's arms. "Father," he said, as 
soon as he could speak, " 1 can I (hank you now 
as I ought, but I promise you you shall never be 
sorry you gave up your beer for un- ' '■"! ln-lp- 
ing me, I will be all you want me to be, and, if 
I turn out as good a man as iny father, mother 
and I "ill bsquite content," 

And the boy kept his promise; and now that 
OVftr a handsome shop-front appears t ] i- ■ name 
of "Samuel Gurney, Grocer," he, a thriving, 
prosperous man, often gathers his children 
around his knee, and tells then the story of his 
early life — how Ins aelf.-den.ying father built up 
for him his present, prosperity on the foundatlon- 

and enfeebled frames that they 

lours of seven successive days, for 

>i1r 1 days, without the boon of 

The daily hours of labour are also, 

in h as jih'W wear out the strongest 

ately inquired of an intelligent 

of the London stations, '-What 

your hours of work i" 

morning to nine at night, a 

Can we wonder if the nn 

the temptation of Hying to 

themselves awake ! 

At the inquest, after 01 
rible collisions, it transpired that the points 
man bad actually been "thirteen hours 01) duty! 


" was the reply. 
sometimes yield to 
stimulant to keep 

of the recent ter- 

are of 1 

We rejoice to learn that an influential 1 
ber of one of the Railway Boards has brought 
before his colleagues the questions, "How 1 
we lessen Sunday woik on the line I" " How 
often do our men get their Sundays ?" 

We trust that "" Railway Hoards will give 
these important questions the attention they 
deserve . 

Postal Notice— Tao pn 

of ■■ r« 

1 a: 1 B» 



Lunikis : monthly by S. W. PARTRIDGE ,S Co., at the • ffloe, No 9, PateniOBter Ron- ; ami W. TWEEl'l ! 

No. 196. March. 1871. 


— SfflMi^^ .'. U m" >III(||IU| [mi IIUIII 

Price Ons Fenny. 



There are few businesses which have not soft 
! spots in them— fancy bit/, which give eome 
measure of refreshment ami rest even while the 
work is actually going on. There is always somt 
level ground in life's toil ; it is not all up-hill 
No chicken is all drum-stick ; no ox is without <i 
sirloin ; and there is scarcely any kind of labour 
but what has some part* pliasanter than others. 
which a man of a wise and thankful heart will 
! value at a proper price. 

J Now, "Dust, oil!" in our engraving, is not 
bawling out ; if he were ho would be 
bawled to pieces before the end of a year. 

No ! worthy and useful man, lie lias his 

resting-times at home when his work is done ; 

I he has a home where he really can rest, 

on himself as very well off". But this 

qfter his work, and, therefore, something 

different from what we have to speak of now. 

Jack Chouter's soft spot is about a mile of 
road, which lies between his beat and the yard 
... deposits Ins dust. As his cart is full, 
he need not ciy " Dust, oh ! " for all that dis- 
tance ; so he takes to thinking, and now and 
1 again to talking with u;y sensible persons lie 

happen to ineei along the road. 
| Mind you, it isn't every dustman that can 
think. Alas ! some are too fuddled with beer 
io think much. They have had beer at No. 1 
in the square, and No. 2, and No. 3, w. 
they emptied the dust-bin, and nobody kn 
in how many other houses besides. 

But Choutev will have none of that ; he loves 
his wife, and children, and respects himself too 
much for such work ; any extra "three-penny " 
:' he guts tind their way into the Post- 
Ofhce Savings'-Bauk, As we have said, with an 
v.nfuddled brain he goes along the Albert Road, 
resting himself from crying " Dust, oh ! " some- 
times thinking of his God, and sometimes of his 
home, and now and again of odds and ends of 
things he picks up from the people he may 
happen to meet with. 

I said Chouter sometimes thought of his wife. 
Good right had he so to do. As love begets 
, so thought beget3 thought ; and when this 
good woman provided two suits for her husband, 
I so that he should not be always in ever-thicken- 
ing dirt, she provided also that he should often 
; be thinking of her ; for there was not another 
dustman in his quarter of the town kept any- 
thing like himself. John wore his two suits on 
alternate day3, or, as we should say, turn about ; 
and as hia wife always cleaned tip the one he 
took off, why a man need not be a Solomon to 
know that he had it always dry and decent- 
looking when its turn came to be put on. Mrs. 
Chouter liked her husband all pith. She didn't 
want hini to have any dirt crust either upper or 
under on him : he was a crummy dustman ; and 
'twas worth a good sixpence of any man's money 
to see John washing himself with the great 
kettle of hot water his good wife had ready for 
him, against he came home at night from work. 
She felt that a man need not be a dirty man 
because he had dirty work ; and John liimself 
felt the same ; and by using plenty of water 
outside hia skin, and putting, by long odds, less 
beer than other dustmen did into it, ho kept 
himself the healthiest man ot .til engage*" 

Good reader, you may know a great many 
things, but one thing you may be sure of, and 
that is, that you don't know one half of what 
er can do for you — kind, generous, patient, 
hard-working water, which is always ready to 
ister to your health and comfort, which God 
made to be your friend, and which is often 
slighted only because it is so easily had. 

Well, our good friend Chouter was going ahm^ 
Albert Road, juat by tho dead wall, t hinking ,,f 
how pleasant it would be to sit down to tea with 
Mrs. Chouter that evening, at seven o'clock, and 

i the little Choutera eat and drink and be 
merry on tho proceeds of his labour, and shout- 
ing "Dust, 8h!" when he felt his smock gently 
twitched from behind, and on turning round he 
saw a thin skeleton-looking hand held out, and 
heard a skeleton-kind of voice saying, "Muster 
Chouter, Muster Chouter, are there any crusts 
to-day 1 " 

"Hallo! Sal," said the dustman, "is that 
you / Whero have you been the last week I " 

"111 a-bed," said the skeleton voice, and so 
has Tom been too ; but now we're getting better, 
we're awful hungry ; have you any crusts? " 

" Poor child," said the stout dustman to him- 
self, "and to think that her father was once 
dustman on this very district, and had good 
wages; but drink killed him, and his wife will 
soon be dead, too." 

'• Sal, how is your mother 1 This March 
is f..r ]ut," said (ho dustman, as he went 
round to a particular private part, uf his cart, 
where hung a small coarse bag. 

" She's coughing awful," said Sal, " and she's 
getting very big aval very bright about the eyes; 
it i m iul, Muster i houter, to see her bones, 
they're no bigger than a baby's j but she only 
laughs and says, ( There's so much the less of 
her to be left behind.' " 

" Did she laugh when she said thai : " asked 
tho dustman. 

"She didn't hollor out laughing," said .Sal, 
" she only looked a quiet little laugh ; she didn't 
make any noise, she did it all in the 
her mouth like ; and, Muster Chouter, have ye 
any bones ? If you have a bone with any kind of a 
scrap on it, pVaps she'd pick it, or Tom would." 
And maybe you'd like a bono for yourself, 
Sal," said Mr, Chouter. 

No, I can go without," said Sal ; "I'm stout 
and hearty now, but I know whero I can cook 
them for Tom and mother." 

i, Sal, here are tho crusts, but they're 
very stale — some of them are a week old — and 
hero are some bones ; and, look you, there's 
>mething on some of them ; and here, my girl," 
said the dustman, unrolling a little parcel of old 
newspaper, "here's a whole leg of a fowl for 
you ; I put it by on purpose for mother; 'twas 
thrown away in the dust-bin at Lord Purple's, 
but I couldn't see good food like that wasted, 
and I saved it for you." 

"I'll wash it all right," said Sal, and tying 
the crusts and bones in the corner of her ragged 
frock, she bolted off with her prize. As if, 
however, she had forgotten something very 
important, Sally, after she had run a few yards, 
wheeled suddenly round, and, with her hair all 
blown by the March wind over her face, rushed 
back to her benefactor. 

" I had a'most forgot," said the child, 

mother said with her finger up and her eyes 

big like the moon — bigger than ever— Sal, tell 

Muster Chouter, I've sent lu'm the widow 1 

blessing. She didn't give me anything to giv 

you. if she did, indeed, I'd have brought it, 

said the child, looking earnestly in the dust- 

». "She only said 'the widow's 

and now mind," said Sal, holding up 

her linger earnestly as her mother had done, 

: I've given you all sho sent,*' and she darted 

ff at full speed again. 

The dustman watched tho child until he lost 

glit i.t lu.r l-.-und J iiuiglik. tiring ..i.i i.. i, ,,!,,] 
then said slowly and sadly to himself, "And I 
may bring my wife and children to this, if I 
" "ie ; but I don't like," said the stout man, 
and I it-oil'* like ; I. might bring them as low 
as the dust I have in this cart, but I'll do better 
by them than that." 

"Now," said Jack Chouter to himself, " I've 
often heard it said, that God can bring good out 
of evil, and I think He has done so in bringing 
that chicken bone and those crusts within reach 
of Thurst's widow and children ; but no thanks 
to Lord Purple's servants for that. I suppose 
they wouldn't eat anything under the short bone 
of the leg, but the day may come when they'll 
be glad of any kind of bone. Many's the time 
my good father said to me, ' Jack, wilful waste 
makes woful want.' I've seen many a poor 
man's meal in that dust-heap, aye, and in 
heaps than that, and in poor folks' too. 
an awful thing to tlirow away bread, 1 
look upon every pieco of bread as a wonder ; if 
God is good to man in anything, isn't He in 
bread i To think of it from beginning to end, 
'tis a miracle like, by the time 'tis on our table 
and, to see it thrown into the dust-heap, 'tis 
enough to make the Almighty never give a man 
any more of it ! I'll engage that poor woman 
with the hollow eyes will say grace over that 
bone, and have a glad heart over those crusts ; 
but, oh ! how many glad hearts would there be if 
folk would make the most of everything, if the big 
folk would do the most they could for little ones, 
if they weren't too big to care about waste. 

"I've heard our minister say, the Lord does 

not waste anything — that He's too big in His 

wisdom not to find a use for everything, over 

and over again ; and if J I 

all, does this, surely man may do the same." 

This was Jack's last journey for the day, and 

w he turned homewards for his evening's meal. 

■ dust was flying about him in all 

directions, unlike tho well-behaved dust which 

had been in the houses of gentlefolk, but was 

>w safe in Jack's cart ; it whirled about here 

d there, and smarted Jack's eyes, and flew up 

s nose, and seemed bent on mischief of every 

kind ; but the worthy man bore it all very quietly ; 

he didn't mean to go homo with his temper 

ruffled ; only woe-betide any speck of it that stuck 
to his nostrils or eyes when once he got within 
arm's length of that kettle of boiling water. 

"I'll have you yet," thought the dustman, 
" with all your tricks ; sooner or later, I'll have 
yon in my cart — you'ro sure to come to me in 
I .-in time, I'll not let you put me out ; 
a man mns'n't quarrel with Ms bread and butter, 
and you're mine. Anyhow,'' said he, pulling out 
a great red handkerchief, and cleaning his nostrils, 
"I'd rather have you than that dirty dust 
they call snuff, for that fuddles a man's brain, 
and you can't. Aye, and wasn't it out of a 
heap of you I hooked up the widow's blessing. 
Sal is a queer one to send a blessing by, but 'tis 
none the less a blessing for all that, and I be- 
lieve in blessings, and I'm glad I'm taking the 
poor woman's with me home. Who knows when 
u niber it to me ( If He remembers 
cups of water, I'm sure He will crusts of bread." 
Jack Chouter was right ; and, good reader, 
hook out blessings from the dust-heaps of life. 
See what use you can put things to for God — for 
your poor neighbour. Big blessings are often 
connected with poor and little things. Many a 
time, what you consider to be no better than a 
dry dust-heap, contains within rt, if you will 
look for it, the opportunity of blessing others 
and bung blest yourself, 

i of the broad, open plains of Lincoln- 
there is a long, reedy sheet of water — a 
favourite resort of wild ducks. At its northern 
extremity stand two mud cottages. 

One bitter, bitter night, when the snow lay 
ree feet deep on the ground, and a cutting 
It wind was driving it about, and whistling in 
the dry, frozen reeds by the water's edge, and 
swinging the bare willow trees till their branches 
swept the ice, an old woman sat spinning 
of these cottages before a moderately cheerful 
fire. Her kettle was singing on the coals ; she 
had a reed-candle, or home-made rushlight, or 
her table ; but the full moon shone hi, and wa; 
the brighter light of the two. These two cottages 
were far from any road or any other habitation ; 
the old woman was, therefore, surprised. 
hummed a north-country time, to hear a sudden 
knock at the door. 

It was loud and impatient, not like the knock 
of her neighbours in the other cottage ; but the 
door was bolted, and the old woman rose, and 
shuffling to the window, looked out, and saw i 
shivering figure, apparently that of a youth. 

"Trampers,"said the old woman, sententiously 
" tramping folk be not wanted here." 

So saying, she went back to the fire without 
deigning to answer the door. 

The youth, upon this, tried the door, and 
called to her to beg admittance. 

She heard him rap the snow from his shoes 
against her lintel, and again knock as if he 
thought she was deaf, and he should surely gain 
admittance if he could only make her hear. 

The old woman, surprised at his audacity, 

went to the casement, and with all pride of 

possession opened it, and inquired hia business. 

"Good woman," the stranger began, "I only 

want a seat at your fire." 

" Nay," said the old woman, giving effect to 
her words by her plain dialect, "thou'lt get no 
shelter here ; I've nought to give to beggars ; — 
a dirty, wet critter," she continued, wrathfully, 
slamming to the window ; " it is a wonder where 
he found any water, too, seeing it freezes so 
hard ; a body can get none for the kettle, saving 
what's broken up with a hatchet." 

On this, the beggar turned hastily away. And 
at this point of his narrative, the person who 
told it me stopped and said : — 

" Do you tliink the old woman was very much 
to blame i " 

"She might have acted m 
plied ' but why do you ask J 

"Because," said he, "I have heard her 
duct so much reflected on by some who would 
have thought nothing of it if it had not been for 
the consequences." 

" She might have turned him away less 
ighly," I observed. 

" That is true," he answered; "but in any 

e, I think, though we might give them fund 

Imtild hardly iuvitr !■■ 

. .i by the lire." 

' ■■. not," I replied ; " and this woman 
could not tell that the beggar was honest," 

No," said he ; " but I must go on with my 

The stranger turned very hastily from her 
door, and waded through the deep snow to the 
other cottage. The bitter wind helped to drive 

j kindly,' 

him towards it. It looked no less poor than the 
first ; and when he had tried the door, found it 
bolted, and knocked twice without attracting 
attention, his heart sank within him. His hand 
was so numbed with cold that he had mad. 
scarcely any noise. He tried again. 

A rush candle was burning within, and 
matronly-looking woman sat before the fire. 

She held an infant in her arms, and had 
dropped asleep ; but hia third knock roused her, 
and, wrapping her apron around the child, she 
opened the door a very little way, and demanded 
what he wanted. 

''Good woman," the youth began, "I have 
had the misfortune to fall into the water 
bitter night, and I am so benumbed that I 
can scarcely walk." 

The woman gave him a sudden, earnest look, 
and then sighed. 

" Oome in," sho said ; " thou art so nigh the 
size of my Jem, I thought at first it was him 
come home from sea." 

The youth stepped across the threshold, 
trembling with cold and wet; and no wonder, 
for his clothes were completely encased in wet 
mud, and the water dripped from them with 
every step he took on the sanded floor. 

" Thou art in a sorry plight," said the wo: 

"and it be two miles to the nearest house; 

come and kneel down afore the fire ; thy teeth 

chatter so painfully, I can scarce bear to hear 

She looked at him more attentively, and i 
that he was a mere boy, not more than sixteen 
year*, ■ i age. Her motherly heart was touched 
for him. 

"Art hungry?" she asked, turning to the 
table; " thou art wet to the skin. What hast 
been doing i " 

" Shooting wild ducks," said the boy. 
" Oh ! " said his hostess, " thou art one of the 
keeper's boys, then, I reckon ? " 

He followed the direction of her eyes, and s 
two portions of bread set upon the table, wit! 
small piece of bacon upon each. 

" My master be very late," she observed ; for 
charity did not make her use elegant language, 
and by her master she meant her husband. 
" But thou art welcome to my bit and sup, for I 
was waiting for him. Maybe, it will put a little 
warmth in thee to eat and drink." 

So saying, she took up a mug from the hearth 
and pushed it towards him, with her share of 
the supper. 

'• Thank you ! " said the boy ; " but I at 
wet I am making quite a pool before your fire 
with the drippings from my clothes." 

"Ay, thou art wet, indeed," said the n n , 

and, rising again, she went to an old box in 
which she began to search, and presently came 
to the fire with a clean checked shirt in her 
hand, and a tolerably good suit of clothes.'' 

"There!" said she, showing them with no 
small pride, "these be my master's Sunday 
clothes, and, if thou wilt be very careful of them, 
I'll let thee wear them till thine be dry." 

She then explained that she was going to put 
her " bairn '' to bed, and proceeded up a ladder 
into the room above, leaving the b-y to array 
himself in these respectable garments. 

When she came down her guest had dressed 
himself in the labourer's clothes ; he had had 
time to warm himself, and he was eating and 
drinking with hungry relish. He had put his 
muddy clothes on the floor, and as she proceeded 
to lift them up, she said, "Ah! lad, lad, I 
doubt thy head has been under water; thy poor 
mother would have been sorely frightened if sho 
could hive seen thee a while ago." 

" ■> '■ '," said the boy ; and in imagination the 
cottage dame saw this said mother, a careworn, 
hardworking creature like herself, while the 
youthful guest saw, in imagination, a beautiful 
and courtly lady j and both saw the same love, 
the same anxiety, tho samo terror at sight of a 
lonely boy struggling in the moonlight through 
breaking iee with no one to help him, catching 
at the frozen reeds, and then creeping up, 

hivej in", aid bi numbed, to n col ■'. ■ ■' , 

But even as she stopped, the woman forgot 
her imagination, for she had taken a waistcoat 
into her hands, such as had never pas 
between them before ; a gold pencil case dropped 
from tho pocket ; and on the floor, among a 
heap of mud that covered the miter garments, 
lay a white shirt sleeve, so white, indeed, and 
lit it could hardly be worn 
but by a squi s ! 

:i<(il tn.tii the clothes to the owner. 

lie had thrown down his cap, and his fair, trrly 

hair, and broad forehead, convinced her that lie 

of gentle birth ; but while she hesitated to 

sit down, ho set a chair for her, and said, with 




■ : ■ 

> tiily ami clean, 
Sat busy with needle and thread ; 
Beside her a rosy-faced boy could bo see 
| Who listen'd to hear father's tread. 

Boyiah frankm B lonel y P Uca 

this is ; if yon had not let me in, the water 
would have all frozen on mo before I reached 
homo. Catch me duck-shooting again ! " 

She felt a curiosity to know who he was, and 'Twas seven o'clock, and the l 

, isfied her by remarking that he was Q avfl notice the ■'■ " ending i 

staying at Dean Hall, a houae about five miles xhe drizzling rain on the pavement that fell 

off, adding, that in the morning ho had broken I p„ lt quicken'd the steps homeward be a 

1 , joe very near the decoy, but it had T) ,,„,„ t . - t 

iced over so fast, that in the dusk he had missed | Wh . ett Thomas s * 
it, and fallen in, for it would not boar him, 
had made some landmarks, and taken 
proper precaution, but he supposed that, i 
moonlight, he had passed them by. The things in the cottage were tidy and straight, 

He then told her of his attempt to get shelter i A cheery tire [eap*d ip the flue, 
in the other cottage. Reflecting itself in a bright-polished grate, 

"Sir," said the woman, « if you had said yon , TIlen Dao ]( ; n the face of the two. 
were a gentleman " 'f I , , ., , ,. ., . 

Tl.o youth laughed. ■' I don't think I knew it, H'O kettle wu mernly ita lay 
ray good woman," ho replied, " my Ben.ei were '" <«*«**■ »,(1, puss on the nig, 
"*' » ..'. .- j i- . \vim«A viiico Beempd to murmur — at close of the 

so benumbed ; for I was some time struggling at Wftose \oice seemed to murium » w 
the water's edge among the broken ice, and then j It s time to be merry and snug. [day- 

I believe I was nearly an hour creeping up to T]ic fca ^ becn mna ] l ' ( ] i the toast had been 
your cottage doo". 'I remember it all rather j A chaiv neftl . thc t;|ljlo Wfl , get . [made, 

indistinctly, but as soon as I bad felt the fire, The hand of thc clock past the figure had strayed, 
and had some refreshment, I was a different I But Th m 

"while they still talked, the husband came in, "Your father is late, he'll be wet, I'm afraid." 
and white he was eating his supper, they agrei d The wife had begun to exclaim,— 
that he should walk to Dean Hall, and let its A Bound they well knew on the doorstep was 
inmates know of the gentleman's safety ; and And into the L maae J 

■hen he was gone they made up the fire with all But T , lomrl3 Jooke(1 (luU) ] lke tlie we ather with- 
in fact, he was sulky and queer ; [out 
'd the smile of bis wife with a pout, 

That dark donda of anger were who 
By a breeze < f forbearance and love. 

For, had she n 

A quarrel had aurely ensued, 
\ml the peace of theh e for tho night have 

been broke, 

Which both the next mom would have rued. 
Now you that treat patience aa foolish and tamo, 

And think a defence should be raised, 
i 'raj , answer mo this, was the wife most to 

Or, was she the most to be praised I { blame ; 
But let me just add, while the subject's in mind, 

STou'll Bay that Tom's wife was a gem; 

men like their wives to be patient and kind, 

They, too, should be patient with them. j. e. 

the coal that remained to that poor household. 
In thc gray dawn the labourer returned ^ 

a servant leading a horse, and bringing a fresh i Nqi . ( , eiynM he , notico t ] ie c ] ieev 
suit of clothes. 

The young gentleman took his leave with 
many thanks, slipping three half-crowns into the 
woman's hand, probably all the money he had 
about him. And I must not forget to mention 

My darling," the wife was beginning to say, 
" Don't, darling me over ! " said he ; 
It's time that the lad there was out Of 'he 
Be quick now and give him his tea." [way 

that he kissed the baby, for when she tells the He threw down his hat, then sat down by the 
story, the mother always adverts to that cir- | A)1 ^ stretch'd out his legs very rude ; [til 
cumstance with great pride, adding, that her jjj 3 mume r forbade e'en his wife to inquire 
child, being a3 " clean as wax, was quite fit to i <phe ain3Q f ] n3 quarrelsome mood, 
be kissed by anybody ! " 

" Missis," said her husband, as they stood 
in the doorway, looking after their 
who dost think that be ' " 
know," answered the 

As 'twas not his wont to bo snappish and 
| It took her a bit by surprise ; 
| For a moment hIio seem'd to be quite at : 
A plan of attack to devise. 

"' ' ' Then I'll just tell thee ; that be young Lord she soon, like a wise and good general, found 

W ; so thou mayst be a proud woman ; j 'Twould be useless to open a fire ; 

thou sits and talks with lords, and asks them in With forces so weak, she would soon lose her 
to supper — ha, ha ! " So saying, her master And, defeated, would have to retire ; [ground, 
shouldered hie spade and went his way, leaving . ^.^ ^^ ^ ^ m „ f ^ ^ 
her chnk.n. the hree half-croiins u, he, and cimtenance cheerfal and bright ; 

and considering what .1,0 should do with thera^ I , hm , le WM ,. ca( , .,,„ 8ai(1] T6ry coy , 

ih ' "J* 1 '"', f ™ m U ; c »""-•'' """"f. P rM !" % | "Go and wish you,- dear father good-night,"- 

stepped in, and when she heard the tale and saw | J 

the money, her heart, was 'ready to break with The boy got a kiss, and a mutter'd good-night; 

envy and jealousy. Then went with his mother upstairs ; 

So there, as they both supposed, the matter And soon through the cot, like a summer's breeze 

ended, and the next week the frosi WB I lharpi r light, 

than ever. Sheep were frozen in tho fenny Were heard the sweet tones of his prayers. 

Holds, and poultry on their pwches,_ but the De8Con ding again, undecided as yet 

In what way to act or to speak, 

good woman had walked to the neareBt town 
and bought a blanket. It was a welcome addition 
to their bed-covering, and it was many a long 
year since they had been so comfortable. 

But one day at noon, when looking out at her 
casement, -he spied three young gentlemen 
skating along the ice towards her cottage. They 
sprang on to the bank, took off their skates, and 
made for her door. The young nobleman 
informed her that, he had had such a severe cold 
he could not come and see her befoi !I 

spoke as free and pleasantly," she observed in 
telling the story, " as if I bad been a lady, and 
no less ; and then he brought a parcel out of his 

pocket. ' And I've been over to B ,' be says, 

' and brought you a book for a keepsake, and I 

hope you will accept it.' And then they all 

talked a3 freely as could be fOI 

minutes, and went away. So I waited till my 

master came home, and we opene I 

and there was a DUG Bible inside, all over gold 

ami red morocco, and my name I 

written inside ; and, blesa him, a ten-pound note 

doubled down over the names. So my master laid 

out part of the money in tools, and wc rented a 

garden, and he goes over on market days to sell 

what we grow ; so now, thank God, we wanl 

for nothing." 

This is how she generally concludes tho little 

history, never failing to add that the young lord 

kissed her baby, | 

" But," said my friend, " I have not told you 

what I thought tho best part of tho ai 

When this poor Christian woman was asked what, 

had induced her to take in a perfect stranger, 
and trust him with the best clothing her house 
afforded, ■she answered simply, "Well, I saw 

1 nig and shaking, to I thought. Thou 

,, i, ,v I,. i- /'- .<'.< ■;) n.,„ • /,.,./ How the evening m 
not where to lay S '■<■<■'"' Fr 'Thei J My tale is complet 

She suddenly thought that the tea she would 

And leave him the silence to break. [get, 

Which quickly he did, without turning Ilia 

" This tea here has gone cold as ice." [head — 
" I daresay it has, love," the wife softly said, 

"I'll give you some more, hot and nice." 
"And that's scalding hot," ^aid he with a frown ; 

" I'll cool it with milk, love," said she. 

"Have some of this toast, dear, 
done brown, 

And I'm sure you ore panting your tea." 
Ho partook of the toast, .md she help'd him 

He then seemed to relish the tea ; [moi 

And soon, 'neath their influence, Bet in a thaw 

Which (he wife was delighted to see. 
Not speaking a word, then ilia slippers she 

o hia feet • 

She then with a look with such gentleness 

Again was about to retreat.— [fraught 

"You are a good wife, my own darling," said 

" Th, Lnesa i i yours, ' shi replied— [he. 

1 r i v, Mm- i 'i' lln: i-,iii,|0<vi that .ho 

Had gained o'er Ins temper and pride. 
" But why are you sad i will you tell me my 

Then she preas'd n warm Iiiss on hia brow. 
1 ' said he, "but the work wenl bo 

\i.(i mo and my mate had a row. [queer, 

" \u>I had il not b en for your sweet-winning 
We Bhould iiol be talking like this ; [way, 

What a blessing to have at the close of the 
The sentence wasstopped with a bass! [day — " 

the parlour window of the "Green Dragon " 
there had just been fixed a hug. board, d dj 
prepared with a ground of deep I 

gilt inscription. This inscription, what- 
is to be, was intrusted to the workman- 
ship of Jem Janeham, who bore the reputation 
(with certain drawbacks) of being the best 
letterer and gilder in the whole neighbourhood, 
Behold Jem then, the board having been secured 
busily occupied in setting out his 
intended writing, and commencing his operations 
on the letters by a gaudy coat of v> Ik-.', paini 
Von have, no doubt, observed that men of his 
calling always make a mystery of their work, and 
are by no means ready to gratify curiosity as to 
what they are about to write. There was the 
■ I idlers gathered at the foot of 
Jem'a ladder, speculating on bis performances 
mid making their i"king inquiries; but Jem 
maintained a somewhat sulky silence. His busy 
brush first shaped a monster F, which greatly 
puzzled the lookers-on, since it did not correspond 
with anything connected with the place. It was 

certain that he was not about to write "Green 
Dragon ; ' and it was equally certain that that 

letter did not begin the landlord's name, which 
was Timothy Drenchman. The wonder increased 
when Jem placed beside the F an I of correspond- 
ing proportions. Curiosity broke out into im- 
patient inquiries. 

" Wnaffi it to be, Jem I " 
" What's the good of bein' so close about it, 
m ? Tell us what you're writin'." 
Still Jem kept on with his work in silence, 
till he had sketched out the two letters in bold 
conjunction — F I. 

At this point, a heavy shower of rain came 
on, and Jem's critics were driven to a speedy 
retreat. As for Jem himself, he readily availed 
himself of the excuse to seek shelter inside the 
" Green Dragon," where he was no stranger. 

The Bhowei of rain was speedily over, and was 
succeeded by clear, bright sunshine. But, though 
the shower had been enough to send Jem into 
the "Green Dragon," yet it required more than 
the sunshine to bring him out. What he found 
inside had suoh attractions for him that lie re- 
mained there all the rest of thc day, and till late 
in tho evening, too ; while the idlers gathered 
again under the sign-board, and spelt the two 
letters over and over again, in a vain endeavour 
to make out what they were going to form. At 
the last came poor Mrs. Linekam to fetch him 
home, and, in weary tones, she reproached him, 
With an unconscioua pun, by saying, "0 jfo, 

.I- ::;. ■ ' .. hat : to I" ■ 'Die of J'Oll / " 

Late the next morning came Jem again, with 
the purpose of finishing his work bej 
before. He carried with him an aching bead 
that felt like a load of iron ; and, when he took 
up his brush, his hand trembled 
not write a stroke. "Imustkavea'n d 

Jem to himself, " and it must be 

So another visit was paid to the inside of the 
"Green Dragon," where the "rouaei pi 

have quite the contrary ellect, for Jem remained 

there inactive till long paat dinner-time, and 
then staggered home, and wenl to bed. 

It is not unlikely that the same proceeding 
might have been repeated on the next day also 
but Mr, Drenchman, not liking the work to re 
main so long unfinished, Btopped the Bupplies. 

"No more to drink, Jem, till that sign-board 
is finished." Jem pleaded bard for a little 

"Just a drop, Mr. Drenchman," dhi 
to steady my hand." 

"No," replied the landlord, sturdily, " 
drop till the job is done." 

Jem was compelled, therefore 
unwillingly, to set to woi i 

1 1 the "-■ tdi oi hia head-ache ■"" l tr< i il ■ h md 

and partly because of hia eagenn 

hungiing manner, and ;iltrn_'f ther failed to justify 

li ttei painter. At last, 

having got to the end of the inscription, bo 
called out ' 
on the work. 

"Don't like it," was Mr. Dn 
ment j *'thi n it some- 

where ; something in the spelling, I'm almost 
this, Mr. Mildmay" — he called 
to a grave-looking man ts passing — "my 

:, i much in your line, 1 know; but just 
let's have your opinion ai h this lettering. 

Mr. Mildmay was the schoolmaster of the 
place ; much respected by all, but ahtii- 

by many as having odd notions. What those 
odd notions were may be gathered from the fact 
that Mr. Drenchman was accustomed, in i - 
to refer to him as one of "them teeto tailing 

Then'; i |g about. St, .some- 

where,'' repeated 'he landlord, " but when it is, 
san't justly say." 

Mr. Mildmay looked at the inscription, and, 
manners, indulged 
i a hearty peal of la ■ I 
" What is it I" asked the landlord again, 
hile Jem looked at the schoolmaster rather 
■ossly, muttering that he was making game of 
his work. 

"Why, pfcot i been writing 1 " said 

So Jem pelt out the letters, FINALES. 
"Oh, I see it now," said Mr. Drenohman. 
'* Jem, you stupid fellow, you've left out one of 
the letters, and jumbled it all into one word 
Of course, Mr. Mildmay, of course ; it was 
"Fine Ales" that he ought to have written, yi a 
see ; but he's been drinking for the last two 
days, and lie hardly knows what he's doing"- — 

Mr. Drenchman caught a curious expression 
in the schoolmaster's eye which made him pull 
up short. In his eagerness, he had forgotten 
Mr Mildniay's pteuliai' views on the subject of 


"You're wrong, Jem ; and yet you're right,'' 

i Mi, Mildmay. "You're wrong in the mere 
spelling, but you're right in the moral sense. 
The word, as you have written it, means 
ENDINGS. That isn't what Mr. Drenchman 
wanted you to write ; and yet many's the 
sorrowful ending that has come about as the 
esult of 'Fine Ales.' You asked me to tell 
you what there is wrong in the inscription, 
Drenchman ; but there's something else wrong 
besides that ; it's all wrong together." 

Ah, well," said the landlord, hurriedly, "I'm 
very busy tliis morning, very busy indeed." So 
Baj ing, he began to move off. 

■ 'Nay, but yon asked my opinion , stay and hear 
it." But the landlord bad already crossed the 
road, and disappeared under the big sign-board. 

"Ah, Jem!" exclaimed Mr. Mildmay, turn- 
ing to the painter, "many u talk I've had with 
you on this very point. Do you know that you 
have written up a most solemn truth over that 
door, without intending it I Being interpreted, 
it means that strong drink works out in many 
and many an instance a dreadful finish. Look 
at yourself, man. You have been trying it fur 
two days past — the landlord has just let it out 
to me — and wheie's your usual clear eye, and 
your steady hand* Your \ision is all clouded, 
and your hand all in a tutttr, Now if the "fine 

ale " system goes i □ much longer with you, that 

shakiness will become a settled thing, and that 
will be the ending of your skill as a workman. 
And when your skill as a workman is gone, that 
will bring about the Miffing of your means of 
getting a living. And when your Ion.' p.n it m 
wife linda that yon bring no more wages, and 
that your fault has brought her into hopeless 
poverty, that will be the ending of your family 
happiness. bid further on, when you have 
broken up your health, and faXen into premature 
decay, there will be the - nding of the workhouse. 
And then J children, what will 

]>-■ the i tiding for them I" 

Jem was \ery fond of his children, and a tear 
or two trickled down Ins face as he beard this. 

'■ You're hard upon ma Mr. Mildmaj ' I - 
inid . '" i m not so had as a ! that." 

11 But you're on the sure road to it," was the 

Mi. Ji m, i ■ m ■ a a poor fellow go 

011 to just Qie point whore you are, resolving, 

after every outbreak, that he would repeat it no 

But the little always led to the much, 
. ■ ■ i < i he wenl down, down ■ F« ce my eyes as n 
were, till he died in the prime of hia age, a 

,i v !, , I, of a man. He was once my 
dearest friend, and though I loved him deeply, 

:..( I,. .i hake . ,«i the feeling thai be bad 

killed himself, and it seemed to me almost as if 
the word 'suicide' ought to be written on hia 


wouldn't be right to In 1 L'ivin' away her cldldren 
before her face, and she to know nothing at all 
about it." 

"Away with you then," said I, "and bring 
me an answer back as soon as possible," 

In about half an hour he returned, leading 
two of his children. His eyes were red and 
swollen, and his face pale from excitement and 

" Well," I inquired, "what success?" 
" It was a hard struggle, sir," said he. " But 
I've been talking to Mary, an' she says, as it's 
for the child's good, maybe the heavens above 
will give us strength to bear it." 

" Very well j and which of them is it to be 1" 
" Faix, and I don't know, sir," and he ran 
his eye dubiously over both. " Here's little 
Norah — she's the oldest, an' won't need her 
mother so mveh ; but then — O, tear an' aigers, 
its myself that can't tell which I'd rather part 
with least ; so take the first one that comes, wid 
a blessing. There, sir," and he handed over 
little Norah ; turning back, he snatched her up 
in his arms, and gave her one long, hearty father's 
kiss, saying, through his tews : — 

" May God be good to him that's good to 

Then, taking his other child by hhe hand, he 
walked away, leaving Norah with me. 

I took her down to the cabin, and we thought 
the matter settled. It must be confessed, t 
great indignation, however, in about an h 
time 1 saw my friend Pat at the window. 

as he caught my eye, he began making 
signs for me to come out. I did so, and found 
that he had the other child in his arms. 
What's the matter, now V I asked. 
Well, air," said he, "I ask your honour'i 
pardon for troubling you about so foolish a thing 
as a child or two, but we're thinkin' that maybe 
it'd make no differ — you see, sir, I've been talkin' 
to Mary, an' she says she can't part with Norah, 
because the creature has a look ov me ; but here's 
little Biddy, she's purtyor far, an' av you plose, 
:, will you Bwap )" 

" Certainly ; whenever you like," said I. 
So he snatched up little Norah, as though it 
is some recovered treasure, and darted away 
th her, leaving little Biddy, who remained 
til us all night : but lo ! the moment w< 

tombstone. There was a sorrowful endiwj. And 
then it's not the body only that you have to 
think of ; how does it affect the aoul 1 I know 
that the Word of God says plaiidy that 
'drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of 
heaven.' And if a man is shut out of heaven at 
the last, why, that will be the most miserable 
ending of all. Depend upon it, my friend, for a 
i in your position, so easily overcome by the 
temptation, there's nothing for it but the three 

" Whatever are they 1 " said Jem. 

"Touch not, tasik not, BAHDLB no(," was the 
eply. " But it's now getting late in the after- 
loon ; go home to your wife and get a cup of 
tea, and I'll come in and see you by-and-by, and 
re'll have a little more talk together." 

The happy result of that further talk was that 
■f fin Liueham was quite convinced of the truth 
of Mr, Mildm.iv s teaching ; and, after joining in 
prayer for the divine blessing on lus resolution, 
he and his wife signed the pledge of total 

That was the beginning of a new era in the 
life of Jem Lineham. His home and family 
e speedily transformed. He was soon seen in 
the House of God on the Lord's Day, and became, 
I trust, a sincere Christian man. 


On board a ship, bound for the United States, 
were an Irish family — husband, wife, and 
three children. They were evidently in very 




destitute circumstances ; but the exceeding 
beauty of the children, two girls and a boy, 
was the admiration of their fellow -passengers. 
A lady, who had no children of her own, was 
desirous of adopting one of the little travellers, 
and made application to the father, through a 
friend, who gives the following touching account 
of the negotiation : — 

I proceeded, he says, immediately, on my deli- 
cate diplomacy. Finding my friend on deck, I 
thus opened the affair — 

"You are very poor." 

His answer was very characteristic. 

" Poor, sir !" said he ; " ay, if there's a poorer 
man than me troublin' the world, God pity both 
of uz, for we'd be about aq_uil." 

"Then how do you manage to support your 
children 1" 

" Is it support them, sir f Why, I don't sup- 
port them any way ; they get supported some 
way or other. It'll be time enough for me to 
complain when they do." 

" Would it be a rebef to you to part with one 
of them i" 

It was too sudden ; he turned sharply around. 

" A what, sir V he cried ; " a relief to part 
from my child f Would it be a relief to have 
the hands chopped from the body, or the heart 
torn out of my breast 'I What do you mane V 

" You don't understand me," I replied. " If, 
now, it were in one's power to provide com- 
fortably for one of your children, would you 
stand in the way of its interests V 

"No, sir," said he; "the heavens knows 
that I would willingly cut the sunshine away 
from myself, that they might get all the warm 
of it ; but tell us what, you're drawing at i" 

1 then told him that a lady had taken a fancy 
to have one of his children ; and if he would 
consent to it, it should be educated, and finally 
settled comfortably in life. 

This threw him into a fit of gratulation. Ho 
snalelied his he-ad. and looked the very picture 
of bewilderment. The struggle between a father's 
love and a child's interest was evident and touch- 
ing. At length he iaid 

" Oh, i 'ther, wouldn't it bo a great thing 

for the baby] But I must go ami talk with 
Mary — that's the mother of them ; a: 


iag=s@ fe & g 

tered the cabin in the morning, there was Pat 
making his mysterious signs again at the window, 
and this time he had the youngest, a baby, in 

" What's wrong now ?" I inquired. 

" An' it's meself that's almost ashamed to tell 
ye, Ye see I've been talking to Mary, an' 
didn't like to part with Norah, because she has 
a look ov vie, an' sure I can't part with Biddy, 
because she's the model of her mother ; but there's 
little Paudeen, sir. There's a lump of a Christian 
for you, only two years old, and not a day m< 
he'll never be any trouble to any one : for a 
takes after his mother, he'll have the brightest 
eye, an' av he takes after bis father, he'll have a 
fine broad pair of shouldera to push his way 
through the world. Will you swap, again, si 

" With all my heart," said I ; "it is all the 
same to me ; " and little Paudeen wasleft withn 

" Ha, ha," said I to myself, as I looked ii 
hi* big, laughing eyes, "so the affair is settled 
at last." 

But it wasn't ; for ten minutes had scarcely 
elapsed, when Pat rushed into the cabin, with- 
out sign or ceremony, and snatched up the baby, 
and said: 

" It's no use, your honour ; I have been talk- 
ing to Mary, an' we can't 00 it. Look at him, 
sir ; he's the youngest an' the best of the batch. 
You wouldn't keep him from us. You see, sir, 
Norah has a look ov me, an' Biddy has a look 
ov Mary ; but, sure, little Paudeen has the 
mot her s eye, an' my nose, an' a little of both of 
uz all over. No, sir ; we can bear hard fortune, 
starvation, and misery, but we can't bear to part 
,r,tit ,,iiy fltihhrit, unless it be the wilt of Heaven 
to take them from uz." 

Published month!? by S. W. PAKTUHHiK i Co., nt t\o OTice, No. 9, Pi 

Bow; anJ W. TWEEDIE, 337, Strand. 

No. 108. April. 187 


Price Oao P»nny. 




Lovely birds of various feather, 

Grouped in beautiful array, 
Tell nic why yon flock together 

Jn this mixed assembly gay. 

Have you left your wonted station 

In the woodland or the mead, 
As a sweet-voiced deputation 

For your fellow-birds to plead; 
That, with aid of loving poet, 

And of skilful artist-friend, 
Every eye and ear may know it, 

And to your complaint attend 7 

Surely every eye admires you, 

Brown and purple, gold and blue ; 

Not in vain the Lord attires you 
In each changing rainbow hue. 

Surely every ear will listen 

To the thrush and mghMngaU ; 

Hearts will throb and tears will glisten 
When such spokesmen tell your tale. 

Oh, the warbling and the trilling 
And the music of their speech ; 

Eloquence so deep and thrilling 
To the inmost soul will reach. 

" Hear us mournfully appealing 
(This the burden of their song) 

To the justice and the feeling 
Which to human hearts belong. 

"Since Gon cave to man dominion 

Over all His works below, 
We are yours, in voice and pinion, 

And our ordered place we know. 
" We are yours, And we will bring you 

Brightest tints to glad your sight ; 
We are yours, and we will sing yon 

Sweetest songs with all our might. 

*' We are yours our beaks to harden 

For a rougher, homelier toil, 
Lest the canker in your garden 

All your blossoms fair should spoil. 

"In your Bervioe, hither, thither, 

Through the summer woods we stray, 
Or the verdure soon would wither, 

And the shadows flee away. 
" In your service, see us daily 

Digging in the winter field, 
That your crops may rustle gaily 

And a gladsome harvest yield. 
"Willing wings we stretch and quicken, 

Flying restless to and fro, 
Lest the air you breathe should thicken 

With a noisome insect foe. 

" Thus we work for your good pleasure 

In the trees and air and earth, 
And with music fill our leisure, 

And tjie woods and fields with mirth. 
"Why then tear us from the meadows, 

And the happy greenwood tree, 
Where we sit amid the shadows, 

Where wo wander blithe and free ) 
" When the Sabbath bells are ringing • 

For the rest which God ordains, 
And not birds alone are singing, 

And repose all round vis reigns ; 
" IVhn is thin that, from the city 

With decoy-birds, box, and nets, 
Capture* us, and has no pity, 

And Gud's day and love forgets ; 
" That with craftiness secures us, 

Shuts us from the sweet blue sky, 
And in prison small immures us, 

Soon to pine away and die ? 
" TkU is man, endowed with reason, 

Who with lofty hopes is stirred, 
And in season, out of season, 

Hunts and traps a little bird ! 
"This is man, who has dominion, 

And on holy Sabbath days 
Stills the voice and cramps the pinion 

Of the birds that sing God's praise ! 
" See man's victims droop and languish 

In barred cage and crowded street ; 
Freeborn bosoms swell with anguish,' 

Freeborn wings the iron beat. 
" Hear us, help us, ere we perish, 

Ere from fields and woods we cease ; 
Look and listen, spare and cherish, 

Let us work and sing in peace. 
" So wo will make mirth before you,' 

Please your eye and charm your ear, 
Glide around you, flutter o'er you, 

And your heart and homestead cheer 1" 

Thus the birds their pleading ended, 
Hushed was that melodious strain ; 

While their poet's prayer ascended, 
May they not appeal in vain! 

Richard Wilton, M.A. 

The sweet little songsters follow man, and 
attend upon him. It is their mission to clear 
his ground and trees of insects, which would 
otherwise destroy liis fruit and grain. What 
would the country be without its birds') Their 
»nt notes gladden the ear, and their 
beautiful forms and plumage delight the eye. 
A pair of robins has been supposed to consume 
two thousand caterpillars in one week ; and what 
amount of service to that farm was that one week's 
work 1 The farmer who shoots the small birds 
that confidingly surround bis dwelling, errs both 
economy and benevolenoe. But if the songsters 
take tithe of the ripening produce of the field and 
garden, it is nothing but their due. They present 
their bills some months after the labour is per- 
formed, and are fully entitled to their Living. 
Honesty, in this as well as other matters, is 
always the best policy ; and it has been proved 
by experience that the fanner who encourages, 
instead of repelling, tin; visits of those tiny work- 
men, is more than repaid for his forbearance. 

By the Author nf "Jack, the Conqueror." 
" I tell you what it is," said Richard Serle, 
"we English folks won't be slaves, not in any 
way, that's certain ;'' so saying he put on his hat, 
and walked off. 

He bad been forming one of a little group of 
men who were discussing politics over a glass of 
beer at the " Black Bull," a small public-house, 
which stood in a somewhat tempting situation 
near the little town of Moleston. It was a pet 
sentence that of Richard's, "We English folks 
i't be slaves." Many people acquire a habit 
of repeating some favourite proverb, or sentence, 
till it becomes almost an appendage to then- 
daily conversation, and Richard Serle was often 
joked about his constant asseveration that ''he 
would never be a slave." Richard was a frank, 
free, open-hearted fellow, and a general favourite, 
such characters usually are. He lived with 
his aged mother, to whom lie was an attentive 
and kind son. One only anxiety had he ever 
caused her since he grew up. He was too easily 
tempted to turn into the "Black Bull" after 
the day's work was over, not so much from 
love of drink as from a liking to chat with his 
neighbours. But it was a dangerous locality, and 
which might easily lead him into drinking 

Richard Serle was a carpenter, as his father 
had been before him. Clever and active in his 
trade, he earned sufficient to keep his mother 
and himself in comfort, in the cottage where 
had resided all her life. Her great 
desire was to see him married before she died. 
Her health was failing, and she believed her 
no would not be very long. Her son required, 
she well knew, that there should be a counter 
influence at home to that which was exercised 
him by his companions, who were not all 
;ady as she could desire. Richard, however, 
arrived at the age of twenty-six before he saw 
any one for whom lie cared sufficiently to make 
her a proposal of marriage. 

Then his heart was taken by storm, all of a 

Mary Nielson was a girl who might well 

attract him. Her sweet face was the index of 

modest and true a heart as ever beat in a 

man's breast. She was an orphan, who had 

lately come to reside in Moleston with her uncle. 

She had been carefully and religiously brought 

up, and was well fitted to be the wife of a 

irking man. So thought Richard's mother, 

d it was with real pleasure she found that the 

young people had agreed to share life together 

for better and for worse. 

So they were married, and Richard brought 
home his wife, who became truly a daughter to 
Mrs. Serle, and a loving helpmate to her 
husband. Before the first year had expired, 
and just after the birth of their eldest child, 

Mrs. Sorla died. The g .1 woman ble Bed Eu i 

children u they stood by her dying lied, and 
ijoined on them to bring up their children in 

the fear of God. Several other young ones were 
born to them. Richard had long since given up 
his early habit of dropping into the "Black 
Bull," and in all Moleston there was not to bo 
found a happier litttle family. Richard was 
now the head man of a carpenter who was in a 
large way of business. His evenings were 
mostly employed in executing various bits of 
carving and fancy wood- work, for which he 
found a ready sale. He had a remarkably good 
taste for designing such tilings, and whatever 
money they fetched he handed over to his wife 
to put into the savings' bank against a rainy day. 
Rainy days come in all families, and it is 
right to try and be prepared for them ; but there 
are different sorts of rainy days. There are 
those which are sent by God, who knows when 
clouds and sunshine are best for us, and there 
are those which we bring on by our own sinful- 
ness and wrong doing. Richard Serle's family 
were soon to know what a rainy day meant, but 
it was to be one of his own making. 

A new railroad was about to be begun close 
to Moleston. For a long time it had been 
talked of, measurements taken, and various 
buildings and cottages were to be removed to 
make way for it. To Richard's great annoyance, 
he found that they must turn out of the cottage 
they had rented for so many years. It was to 
be pulled down, being just on the outskirts of 
where the new- railway station was to 
be built. Always of a political turn of mind, 
his indignation broke forth, and his old favourite 
sentence, " We Englishmen won't be slaves," 
used oftener than ever. His wife's cheer- 
;ss under what was a real trial to her, and 
the cleverness with which she got all things 
ready in their new house, reconciled him at 
length to the change, especially as it was a more 
commodious residence in every respect, so 
much ao that they had one good spare room, 
rather a trial to Mrs. Serle, that her 
husband's conversation so often expressed im- 
patience and irritability against the Government 
and the rulers of the country. She felt how 
bad an influence it might have on their children 
is they grew up, and sometimes she would 
;ently reason with him on the subject, but to 
little purpose. The old sentence generally 
wound up the conversation, " We Englishmen 
won't be slaves." i 

Mary felt less anxiety on the subject than she 
would have done if her two eldest children had 
not been girls. " Daisy" (as the eldest was called) 
was ten years old at the time "lien they moved 
into their new home, and was her mother's 
right hand. "Bright, happy, merry" Daisy, 
were the usual terms applied to her by all who 
knew her. The next girl was very delicate. 
She had suffered from rheumatic fever, and was 
almost a cripple. This circumstance had per- 
haps made Daisy a more useful, thoughtful 
child than other cliildren of her age, for the 
care of her sister devolved very much upon her. 
Her mother's health not being very strong, 
Daisy was ever on the watch to relieve her of 
any exertion she could take on herself. 

Having such a helpmate in her young 
daughter, Mrs. Serle was not unwilling to listen 
to her husband's proposal, made some months 
after they were settled in the new house, that 
they should receive a lodger in their spare room 
should a desirable one turn up. Some time 
elapsed and no one offered, and in the meantime 
a great number of workmen arrived, and the 
new railway was- commenced in earnest. 

Richard Serle was a man who easily made 
acquaintances, and the arrival of strangers from 
various parts of the country had something of 
a charm for him. He was fond of joining them 
after working horns, and especially when 
political discussions took place, as was not 
unfrequontly the case, as they collected in 
groups at. the close of a summer day. 

Amongst these men was one named George 
Hilton, who gradually grew intimate with Serle. 
He was of the same opinions, but not ao steady 
or respectable in character, and was too apt to 
spend his evenings at the " Black Bull." Ho 
was a free thinker on religious subjects, and 
altogether a very undesirable companion for one 
like Richard Serle, who was easily influenced 
by others. 

Such was the man whom Richard proposed to 
bring home to lodge in their family, and whom 
his wife received without hesitation, little 
BUBpecting that he was going to bring sorrow 
and unhappiness into their household. 

By degrees a change, though almost imper- 
ceptible, began to steal over her husband's 
habits. Instead of coming home regularly of 
an evening as the autumn advanced, he was 
often out with Hilton, and when at home their 

conversation was of a kind that made Mary ; 
uneasy, there was so constantly a dash of ' 
I.lwK: sness in it, and the rulers as well as the 
laws of the land were alluded to with disrespect. , 
Mrs. Serle began to feel glad to send the chil- ! 
dren to bed as early as possible, to get them out 
of hearing of sentiments which were so opposite 
to those they were taught at tin: Sunday-school. 
Serle only laughed when she remonstrated with 
him, and declared they would do them more 
good than harm. Mrs. Serle's extreme gentle- 
ness of disposition perhaps prevented her from 
speaking out as plainly as she would otherwise 
have done. She was timid almost to a fault, 
and she shrunk from displeasing hei husband, as 
she saw she would do if she asked him to give 
up Hilton as a companion and a lodger. 

"You will me the day you took in that man," 
said Mrs. Jeuncr, her neighbour, one day; "he's 
not a companion for a steady, respectable man, 
I'm thinking." 

" What do you know of him," asked Mrs. 
Serle in alarm. 

"I know that he's fond of going to the 
public-house for the sake, he says, of talking 
politics, and no good ever comes of that. " 

"But I have never seen him come here other- 
wise than sober," said Mi's. Serle. 

"Perhaps not, but he may lead others to go 
WTODg. I'd get rid of him if I were you, and 
try to keep my husband away from him." 

Poor Mary Serle ! She did not tell her 
neighbour of the heavy load lying on her heart 
on the subject of this going to the public-house, 
for of late she had suspected that it was there 
her husband went when he did not come home 
till late. She had scarcely dared to whisper, 
even to her own breast, that he had onoe or 
twice seemed not quite himself when he returned 
with Hilton. There was, however, no concealing 
it from herself or others before the winter ' 
over. Although Hilton left the neighbourhood 
to work at a distance, he had sown seeds of 
misery in that once happy abode. The habit ef 
going to the " Black Bull," which had been i 
snare to Serle in former days, was become nov 
an almost nightly event. Too often he entered 
his house with an unsteady step, and with angry 
winds, which once would never have been heard 
from his lips. He had begun a downward 
course, and though he hated himself for it, he 
had not resolution to stop. His master began 
to complain of him. His work was executed 
with less care, and not so steady a hand i 
formerly. He was no longer the trusted 
efficient head man that he once was, and at last, 
mii li. Dig li lieOi-l land ,\ ilh, In- so completely 
lost bis temper that Ins master parted with him 
on the spot, and Serle returned home without 
any immediate employment. This was the worst 
thing that could have happened to him, for, 
having time at his disposal for the next few 
days, he betook himself, even in the morning 
hours, to his favourite haunt at the "Black 
Bull." It is sad to trace the miserable body 
and soul destroying effects of drink on 
character such as Richard Serle's — sad to ! 
how, lit He by little, the loving husband and father 
became soured and morose in temper, and feared 
instead of respected by wife and children. In 
vain did the worthy vicar remonstrate with him, 
and point out the ruin he was bringing on him- 
self and his family. There were times when 
the wretched man acknowledged it all, and made 
resolves of amendment, when he would leavo 
home for a day's work, promising bis wife he 
would not enter the public-house that day at 
least. Alas! she learnt by repeated experience' 
to give a deaf ear to such protestations, for 
though he no doubt really meant what he said 
at the moment, yet he was sure to give way 
when the hour of temptation arrived. Before 
the year was out they had to leavo their house, 
and go into a very small one in a close situation. 
The wages he earned now were very irregular. 
The little fund m the savings' bank was con- 
stantly drawn upon to procure needful food, and 
poor Mrs. Serle looked forward with dread to 
the time when this resource must fail. 

Now it was that her girl Daisy's character 
shone forth in all the beauty of child-love. The 
melancholy change in their circumstances seemed 
to ripen her judgment and good sense, whilst 
it increased her affectionate thoughtfulness for i 
her mother ; and when, at length, illness of a 
serious nature came upon Mrs. Serle, and con- 
fined her, week after week, to her bed, Daisy, 
though .scarcely twelve years old, acted the part 
of nurse to hei mother, parent to the younger 

over her en ing, weak, and miserable father, who 
too often was in a state to need her care. Richard 
still retained Ins strong, free-thinking principles, 


and, When sober, would more vehemently than 
ever assert his dislike of what he called lava J 
Strange that it should never occur to linn, that 
never was a man more wholly and entirely a slave 
than he was to his worthless ami deadlj mantel 
in the shape of drink. Not even Ml wife's ill- 
ness had any effect in enabling him to overcome 
the thraldom under which it held him. 

Very sad for poor Daisy were those sorrowful 
evenings, wjien her father was absent, and her 
mother lay weak and exhausted, listening to every 
sound, in hopes it would prove to be her husband's 
msteady step approaching the cottage. It was 
now a constant Bource of terror to her lest any 
accident should befall him on his way home. The 
weakness and nervousness, engendered by illness, 
naturally magnified the dangers to which ho was 

fr«m whence 

i there, Bitting i 

ras able to si 
the sound of the 

tablo, on which were glasses and soma jugs. 
They were smoking and talking very loud. Daily 

,eo caught sight of her father sitting with 
his back to her, and the relief was inexpressible. 

ras alive then, and safe, but probably in no 
, u ,,. to wall pad the dangerous spot safely. 
What she had so dreaded might yet happen to 

One night he was later than usual. Ton, and 
eleven o'clock struck, and still he did not return. 
Mrs. Serle grew restless and excited, and con- 
vinced some accident had overtaken him. In 
vain Daisy tried to comfort her, and begged her 
to try and compose herself to sleep, for the doctor 
had enjoined on her that afternoon the import- 
ance) of quiet and rest. The poor woman be- 
came so restless, that Daisy was frightened lest 
fever should come on, and she gave her a sleeping 
draught, which was ordered to be administered 
in case of great restlessness. 

It soon took effect, and the invalid slept. Then 
Daisy looked longingly at her ownlittlebed. She 
was worn out and sleepy, for it was many nights 
since she had had unbroken rest ; but a glance at 
the clock told her it was near the stroke of twelve, 
and yet her father was absent. Daisy peeped 
out. It was a moonlight night, though cold and 
frosty. There were no lights in any of the cot- 
tages, everything was still and hushed, and Daisy 
»avc a shudder, half of fear and half from cold, 
as she thought of the lonely bit of road that lay 
between their cottage and the "Black Bull," 
outside the town. 

For she had made up her mind to go and seek 
for her father. A terrible tln-ught had occurred 
., !,. i She remembered there had been an ac- 
cident that day. A heavy cart had been run 
away with, and it had broken away the wall on 
the road leading to the "Black Bull." This 
Mill was the only protection from some stone 
quarries, which lay at the bottom of the bank, 
in the place where the wall had been earned 
away. She had heard a neighbour say, that it 
was a shame no barrier had been put up 
vent tipsy people, or children, falling ovt 
had scarcely heeded the remark at the time, but 
now she remembered it with terror. I 
had never been so late before. Suppose he should 
be lying in the quarry, wounded or killed ! At 
all events, she resolved to try and ascertain 
whether he was still at the public-house, and, if 
so, she could guide him safely past the dangerous 

She awoke Sarah, her next sister, and, with 
some difficulty, made the sleepy child compre- 
hend where she was going, and bid her be on 
the watch in case her mother should awake and 
want anything, which, however, she did not think 
likely. Then, putting on her warm jacket, she 
aoftly opened the door of the house, locked it 
behind her, put the key in her pocket, and 
(darted on her good Samaritan mission to her 
erring parent. It may seem a little thing to 
those who are obliged sometimes to go out at 
night, but to a child, always accustomed to be in 
bed and asleep at midnight, there is something 
very alarming and awful in going forth quite 
alone at that hour. Poor little Daisy, too, was 
sleepy and tired, which made her all the more 
inclined to be timid. She started at the deep 
black shadows which caused the way to look 

quite different to what it did in daylight. The 
very stillness all around had something dreadful 
in it to her nerves, and it was a relief when an 
I old cock (waking up and mistaking the hour) 
i gave a good loud crow or two, before discovering 
I its mistake ani going to sleep again. Sheshud- 
! dered, as she drew near the broken wall, for she 
1 saw, by the light of tho moon, how easily a 
drunken person might fall over, if be took the 
, footpath instead of the open road. 
i tured to peep over the wall, where it 
muck broken away, hut she could not 
fax down ; bo she hastily pursued her n B 
the " Black Bui] " 

There was a light in the wind.. 
heard the sound of men's voices as she drew 
near the How should she find out if her 
father were there * Her coinage failed her when 
she thought of knocking at the door to inquire. 
The window was too high up to look into it from 
the ground, but by thi i Ic of the house was a 
flight of wooden steps, and, by climbing on these, 

mid be to 
ot be long 
He might not 
be pleased if she went to the door, so sitting 
down on the steps she waited, knowing he must 
pass by when ho came out. 

Poor child ! it was a weary watch for one sc 
jroung to keep that frosty night. Tired and worn 
out for want of regular sleep, she w«3 unable tc 
keep awake, and in a few minutes fell fast asleep. 
It was not long before her father came out, it: 
company with another man, but he was not sc 
tipsy as usual. 


ompany had tempted him into such miserable 

juin. Once more he began to spend liis evenings 
at home, and to keep to steady employment.. He 
was so good a workman that his former master 
received him again into hie employ, and, after a 
time, reinstated him in his house in his former 
position, with good wages. Many months passed 
before his wife quite recovered her health, and 
before they were in circumstances prudently to 
move into a better house ; but, at length, they 
were able to rent one in an airy situation, and to 
live m their former respectability. With bitter 
Shame and deep contrition, Richard Serle ever 
looked back on that most degraded season of his 
life, which was never alluded to by his wife, and 
which soon passed away from the memories of 
his children, who grew up seeing in their father 
only what they could love and respect. He 
ceased to complain of his country's laws, and to 
call obedience to them slavery. 

" I have been wilfully a slave at one time of my 

life," he has been heard to say ; " thank God, He 

enabled me to become a freed man again. There 

is no slavery in England, except that of our own 

the first to notice Daisy, 'making." 

and he gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing 

a child asleep on the steps. 

" Why, if it isn't my girl," said Serle, going 
up close to her. Her bonnet had fallen off, 
and the moon shone full on her features. 

'• Daisy, Daisy ! " exclaimed he, and lie shook 
her by the arm. 

The child started up, and at once remembered 
where she was. 

Father," said she, "I came to walk home 
with you, I was so afraid you might fall over 
the broken wall into the quarry below." 

li.iw ■ -od ■ -.ll-T I" tu-Ii' H> 

had remained late because some arrangements 
being made by his companions for a sedi- 
tious meeting in the neighbourhood, win. h ihey 
trying to persuade him to join. He at 
understood that the loving watchfulness of 
his child had brought her out alone and 
guarded at this hour. Not the most eloquent 
sermon that was ever preached, or the strongest 
language that was ever written, could have sunk 
so deeply into his heart as this touching incident. 
The fact that he and his little daughter had 
changed positions glared out, as in letters of fire, 
before his eyes. She, the young, gentle, timid 
child, had turned into the protector of the strong 
man and the fallen, who, by his habits, had sunk 
himself into the helplessness of infancy without 


i admirable 

and took her to his own home, where she I 
mained until she dual. 

From this CluisthW act towards one who had 
so wronged him, we may infer that he was a man 
of faith and prayer. Some two or three years 
ago, the minister who served the eJlUTCh to which 
he belonged was invited to vi«t him at his home. 
When dinner was announced, the pastor ap- 
preached to be seated at the table, but Uncle 
Jack said, mildly, "We will have a word of 
prayer, if you please," and offered the pastor 
the books, the minister afterwards relating how 
small he then felt in the presence of such a 
Christian u Uncle -Jack. 


Tcr Iio>jnl Jlighw^ih, r /■■ ■■■ u,,d the Merqu* 

■ i i Uffr Marriage, 21«l JfB«A,1873, 

Where the stout hands swing the hammer, 

In the smithy's glare and gloom, 

Where the weaver drives his shuttle 

As he bends beside his loom ; 

Where the weather-beaten fisher 
Reaps the harvest of the brine, 

Where the miner pliee his labour 
By his lamp's uncertain shine ; 

i unused 

They walked on together in silence, Daisy 
most thankful to find that her father's foot was 

God in His wisdom has different modes i if 
working in the human heart, and, in this case, 
He was using little Daisy as the means by which 
to show Richard Serle the wickedness of his 
present career. His wife's prayers we 
answered now. In the stillness of that midnight 
walk, with his child's hand in his, Serle vowed 
that he would go no more to tho " Black Bull, 1 ' 
but would endeavour to rise again to the level 
from which he had fallen. He saw that he, who 
itantly avowed a horror and hatred of 
slavery in any form, was in truth nothing better 
than an abject slave to the vice he had Buffered to 
come his master. 

When they reached home tliey found Mrs. 
Serle still under the effect of the sleeping draught. 
Serle looked round the small crowded abode — 
so unlike the comfortable one from which he had 
been the means of driving them. He thought 
of former happy days, and of the gentle, uncom- 
plaining wife who lay there, possibly, on her 
death-bed. She rose before him as the young, 
happy, trustful girl whom ho had sworn before 
Cod to watch over and protect. Conscience told 
him bow he had left unfulfilled that vow ! He 
told Daisy to go to bed, and said ho would 
watch by her mother's side. Daisy obeyed, but 
she peeped into her mother's room again, 
few minutes, to see if she had remembered to 
leave all that would be wanted. She saw lu 
father was on his knees by the bedside, h: 
head buried in the coverlid. Daisy's heart 
bounded within her. Could it, oh! could it 
ba, that her dear father was praying? She 

softly closed tho door ; and, in anotln i n etit, 

Daisy, too, was on her knees, and tho child 
prayed for the father. 

Our limits will not allow us to go into 
further particulars respecting Richard Serle's 
history, but our readen will bo glad to 
know that be was enabled, by God's grace, to 
keep the resolve made on the night when bis 
child fetched him home. He refused to have 
anything more to do with tho men who were 
trying to get up seditious meetings, and whose 

•ecently present at 
cal entertainment at the Royal Free Hospital, 
gratuitously given to the patients by the "North 
London Philharmoiiic Society." Fifty perfi 
every orthodox instrument, with soi 
efficient vocalists, kindly afforded a great treat, 
hitherto unprecedented in that thriving and 
highly improved charity. Of the 100 beds 
cupied, 60 were able to attend in 

d, releasing 18, or about half, the nurses to 
enjoy the music with their patients. All the 
servants, porters, and their families were invited. 
The programme was arranged by Mr. Hill and 
his fellow surgeons, and the ward tastefully de- 
corated by the patients and nurses under the 
direction of Miss Coles, the lady superintendent. 
The audience consisted of 180 persons, who 
heartily applauded the pieces, and received the 
entertainment, got up for their gratification, with 
evident gratitude. The Chairman of the Weekly 
Board (the Rev. J. B. Owen,) presided, and, at 
the close, returned the thanks of tho Institution, 
and of its inmates, to Mr. Heath Mills and the 
band of performers which ho so ably conducts. 
Many a pale face warmed up into interest and 
momentary oblivion of its sufferings, and not 
few wan and wasted children, prematurely aged 
before their time, forgetting their malady under 
the charm of music, now and then involun- 
tarily clapped their wee hands, with what 
strength survived their feebleness, smiling as they 
never seemed like to smile again. We noticed 
some decently attired men of the artisan class 
recovering, through God's blessing on the hos- 
pital treatment, the health and vigour necessary 
for their return to their labour. It was obvious 
the music did them good, one and all. Not one 
of them left the assembly until all was over. 
When the proceedings closed with the National 
Anthem, the entire audience rose of their own 
ud, and, with varying notes and powers of 
utterance, joined heartily in the loyal chorus. 

The Royal Free Hospital, where sickness is ad- 
mitted solely on the plea of its own destitution, 
maintained the prestige of its gratuitous charity 
by an equally gratuitous ministry of music, 
which we are glad to learn is " to be continued." 
[We hope that many ladies and gentlemen 
will volunteer to give similar treats to the 
patients in other hospitals.] 

Where the shepherd from the mc'iutain 
Leads his flock at daylight's close, 

Where the milkmaid in the morning 
Through the dewy meadow goes ; 

Where the keen-edged axe is ringing, 
While the oaks are overthrown, 

Where the mallet and the chisel 
Shape the hard and nigged stone ; 

Where the puddler and the potter 
Brave the scorching furnace fires, 

Where the seamstress and the knitter 
Ply their needles and their wires. 

From the plougher of the ocean, 

From the tiller of the soil, 
Ay ! from every home of labour, 

And from every haunt of toil, 

In our dear old Merry England, 

And in countries far away, 
Come kind words of hearty greeting 

O'er the bridal of to-day ; 
Rising up from hearts o'erflowing 

With pure love and honest pride — 
" God /■>' am (he noblt brideg n, 

>:.../ piv ■■• - ■■■■ (he royal McU." 


I. ,ii......i.\ acknowledged 

A few weeks ago, attending an interesting scries 
of meetings in Tennessee, I noticed an aged 
coloured man mingling freely with the Christian 
labourers, and much confided in. 

Uncle Jack had been a slave, who, for his 
faithful services, his master bad willed should be 
free after serving his mistress one year from the 
master's death. When the master died, tho 
widow evaded the will, and Uncle Jack was sold ; 
but a kind, though irreligious, man in the neigh- 
bourhood, appreciating his character, lent him 
the purchase money, and he was free. 

Uncle Jack procured himself a piece ef land 
and a little home, and worked hard until he paid 
back the money to his benefactor, and luvame a 

Then came the war ; and this mistress of Uncle 
Jack, after giving her remaining property to hei 
children, was by them turned out of doors, pen- 
niless, and had not where to lay her head. In 
her extremity, Uncle Jack came to her relief, 



For aiding the poor French Peasantry. 




Lo.suoh- r Published monthlj by g. w. PARTRIDGE & Co., at the Office. No. 9. Paternoster Row; ud W. TWEEDtE, 

"To. 197. Hit, 1871. 



Mr. I. Oman.) 


[(J^r In a recent discussion at the London 
School Board, Professor Huxley stated th.* 
regarded the Italians and tin; Kvui.-n -■• l» m-: 
" the highest typo of intelligence amongst Ei 
pearis." After such a statement, the follov 

, we think, be read with more than ordinary 
interest. These facts illustrate the power of a 
mother's influence. Whether we study Italian 
r English history, we shall find that, as a rule, 
great and good men have had good mothers.] 

Charles Bianconi was bom at Tregolo, a village 
i the Duchy of Milan, on the 26 th of Septem- 
ber, 1780. While yet a mere child he was 
to Caglio. Dr. Mazza, his uncle, in 
whose house he resided, was the provost of 
io, and a man much respected by all the 
learned and literary people of the town. Here 
-as sent to school, but as his inclinations were 
on labour rather than learning, he made no 
great figure as a scholar. In liis fifteenth year, 
consequence of the persecution that many 
Italian families were subjected to, his father sent 
m to England in charge of Andrea Farini, who, 
on their arrival in that country, was to instruct 
him in the sale of looking-glasses, barometers, and 
pictures. A sum of money wa= handed over to Farini 
to defray the boy's expenses for two years. 
C Before leaving the lan.l uf lus birth in- paid a 
farewell visit to his mother. Many were the 
tears that they both shed, and bitter was the 
parting, even though they knew not that they 
: bidding each other good-by< 
fver. Her farewell words wei 
whenever you think of me, and. 

car, yet, in 1843, the whole of the south and 
west, and a great portion of the north of Ireland, 
were traversed by ' ' Bianconi's Cars. " The 
respect that hia mother had taught for the 
Sabbath never deserted him, Not one of his 

of the Bri 

1857, Bia 



i Me 

• I ea 

than I can six miles for seven days. By not 
working on a Sunday I have effected a saving 
of twelve per cent." No man living has ever 
had such opportune lea of toting the truth of his 
assertion, considering that in 1848 he had 1,400 
horses employed. He never overworked manor 
horse, and, by his reverent observance of the 
Sabbath, he became a gainer even in a worldly 
sense, So admirably did he conduct liis esta- 
blishment that, as he has said, " He was ready at 
a moment's notice to move his horses, cars, and 
men to any district, however remote, where any 
chalice of business might show itself." 

In 1830 he contracted with the Government 
o carry the mails, and in the following year, 
laving obtained Letters of naturalization, lie was 
elected mayor of Cloumel. The following fact, 
stated by himself, is a proof of the love and 
steem in which he was held by the Irish people : 
My conveyances, many of them carrying very 

nportanl Is, liaw lieen travelling during all 

ours of the daj and night, often in lonely and 
nfrequented places, and during the long period 
E forty-two years that my establishment has 
eeu in existence, the .■lightest injury has never 

U been done by the people to my property, or that 

diaries entrusted to my care." Ten years ago, when 
,t a loss Bianconi was taking a leading charge over the 
to know what I am doing', I shall be at the business, his establishment consisted of 1000 
window, from which I shall soon witness your , ]l °™™> a»d between sixty and seventy convey- 
departure, waiting and watching for your return." , ances . tlrLll Y travelling 3000 or 4000 miles, and 
The intense love of such a mother could not traveling twenty-two counties. Charles Bianconi 
fail to influence the boy's future life. On ! realized a handsome independence, which he still 
leaving Italy, Farini, with his youthful charge, lives to enjoy. He has not forgotten his boy- 
proceeded direct to Ireland, and opened in Dublin P edlar d;i J ,a - Ho preserves the wooden tray on 
a small establishment for the sale of cheap prints which ho carried his little pictures about, and 
and pictures. < He employed several boys, to , Buowa ifc witb F»d* to an y hoys who may chance 
whom every Monday morning he entrusted a to l );iv ' lim il visit 

stock of pictures, with which they were to travel That wooden tray, with its leather strap, black 
round the country, returning at the close of the j ana polished with long journeyings, has a lesson 
week with the proceeds of their sales. Of these ' ior meu :vs weH ^ Ior u " va - 
boys Bianconi was one. 

The following is a life-sketch of the boy, taken 4NT0NI0 CANOVA, IHB sculptor. 

in the year 1803 by one who afterwards knew Antonio Casova, one of the greatest of modern 
him well : — sculptors, was born at Passagno, in the Venetian 

"We pass up Sackville Street, leave the territory, in 1747. His father, a stone-cutter 
Rotunda, and shortly find ourselves in the open in humble circumstances, died when the future 
country. Presently there comes along a poor . artist was but three years old. He was blessed 
wandering boy, carrying a wooden tray filled with a loving mother, who found in liim a solace 
with little pictures, in rude leaden frames. The in the poverty of her widowhood. At the fire- 
sharp blasts of January have no mercy upon side of her cottage, and in her wants among the 
the thinly-clad, limbs of the wayfarer. Do hills, she told him the prettiest tales, and sang 
the sweetest songs that alio knew. Througli 

t detain him, or his blood will congeal with 
the cold, and he has hundreds of cottages and 
cabins to visit ere he returns. It will take him 
is days to sell liis stock valued at forty shillings, 
In his rambles about the country, he met with 
many adventures, and formed friendships which 
a and lasting. He was once seized 
and imprisoned for a night for selling poi traits of 
Napoleon Bonaparte, but the country magistrate, 
t believing that he harboured any treasonable 
designs, set him free. t 

At the end of two years, Farini, according to 
agreement with Bianconi's lather, was prepared 
to take him back to Italy, but the lad, thinking 
ie saw hia way towards acquiring a competency 
:i Ireland, preferred to remain where he was. 
About the year 1807, he setup as a print-seller 
at Carrick-on-Suir, from whence he removed to 
Waterford, and again to Clonmel, where ho 
opened business as a carver and gilder. In 
he started a one-horse car, which ran be- 
tween Clonmel and Cahir, Ottrrying passengers at 
i moderate rate. The following adventure is 
said to have suggested the scheme. On one oc- 
l during his pedlar rambles he elian..-..-.! I,, 
injure his foot very severely. He was anxious 
to push forward to Liim-nek, in 'n-.l. ■ 

of his goods at a great gathering which was bo 
take place there. Being unable to walk without 

pain, he, rather than miss a mark'. \ ■ loa wan .-., 
went to the expense of hiring a i it. A the 
vehicle rolled along, several persons, who were 

also hastening to the gathering, asked b 

accommodate them with a lift on the way. The 
, and Bianconi, to whom the ear 
belonged by right of hire, having stipulated that 
eash passenger should pay liim a certain sum, he 
found, at the end of the journey, that after pay- 
ing the car-driver lie was the richer by l< .< raJ 

So industrious and energetic was Rianconi that, 
though he had started as proprietor of but one 

these influences his heart became filled with a 
love of poetry, wliich wrought a dei p impr hod 
on him in after hfe. When his mother married, 
he was entrusted to the care of his grandmother, 
who watched over him with tender solicitude, 
and continued the instructions which hia mother 
had begun. When only five years old, he began 
to reveal his powers as a sculptor. His grand- 
father, who followed the same trade aj I" I Fai hi r, 
regarded him with fond pride as his destined 
successor to the office of village mason, and re- 
solved that he should not be deficient in the ac- 
complishments requisite to fill the post with 
credit and distinction. Almost as soon as he 
could hold a pencil, he was trained irj the rudi- 
ments of drawing. He shortly afterwards began 
to model in clay, and then was taught I" fashion 
the larger fro; 

. kind .. 

one of which is inlaid with col I 1 9, ex- 
ecuted by him at this time, ore till preserved. 
At the age of twelve, his attainment! Boured (or 
him the patronage of the noble Venetian family 
of the Falieri, who possessed a l die Id the neigh- 
bourhood. On the occasion of a splendid banquet 
being given at the villa, it was, at the last 
moment, discovered that a crowning ornament 
was wanting to render the dessert complete. 

' '■ '■■ - 1 ' : grandfather wo i applied to in the 

emergency, but he could devise nothing suitable ; 
a bright thought, however, struck his grandson, 
who called for some butter, and modelled h into 
a lion with such surprising skill thai tin' idmira- 
tion and wonder of the gue te m u i scited, At 
the age of fifteen, he repaired to Venice, being 
invited thither by Signor Falieri, Four years 
after his arrival in the city, te exhibited the 
group of Theseus and the Minotaur, which laid 

the I I. n of his great renown. The great 

works he afterwards executed were many. His 
fame travelled over Europe. The King of 

England and the Emperor of France became his 
patrons. The title of Marquis of Ischia was con- 
ferred upon him. He was elected a Member of 
the Institute of France. He, whose grandfather^ 
highest ambition had been to see him fill with 
credit the office of village mason, died on the 13th 
October, 10)22, ni fame and honour. 

Galileo Galilei, the illustrious astronomer, 
mathematician, and philosopher, was bom at 
Pisa, in 1564. In his boyhood he became a 
great favourite with his playmates by repairing 
the toys wliich they had damaged by their care- 
lessness or rough usage. Even then his brain 
was busy, for, as it has been said of liim, " while 
those of liis age were whipping their tops, he 
was scientifically considering the cause of their 
motion." At an early age, he was sent to an 
academy at Florence, where he remained for 
only a brief period. His father's straitened cir- 
cumstances would not permit him to lay out any 
expense on the education of liis son, therefore 
he was taken from school to be educated under 
the paternal roof. His parents were hia instruc- 
tors, and the fruits of their careful teaching soon 
appealed ni ( Jalih-i -'.-: accompli-,! .'iits in paint- 
ing, poetry, and music. His character as a boy 
and all througli life was amiable and generous, 
so that, while Ids talents became the theme of 
conversation in liis native city, the admiration for 
his social qualities increased in proportion. He 
was wont to say that lus father had instructed 
hia head, and his mother had taught lus heart, 
His father, by means of great sacrifices, was en- 
abled to send him, at the age of seventeen, to 
the University of Pisa, of which, at the age of 
twenty-four, he was appointed mathematical pro- 
fessor. In this position, by the daring nature of 
his attacks on the erroneous mechanical theories of 
the ancients, he raised the suspicions and the 
wrath of a strong party in the university, and 
was obliged to resign his professorship. He 
then went to Padua, where he lectured with un- 
paralleled success, and students Hocked to hear 
him from all parts of Europe, After remaining 
therefor eighteen years, Cosmo III., Duke of 
Florence, invited liim back to Pisa, and soon 
after called him to Florence, with the title of 
principal mathematician and philosopher to the 

The result of his aitiemonneal studies led to liis 
being twice persecuted by the Inquisition, first 
hi 1GI5, and again in 1033. On both occasions 
lie was forced to say that the earth was the 
centre of the system, and that the sun and the 
.d around it. He knew that such 
was not the fact ; but the torture, and the stake, 
and faggot were before him, and life was deai to 
him for the sake of science, and he spoke against 
swn convictions ; yet, in the last instance, 
when he had repeated the denial of lus own con- 
victions, he stamped his foot on the pavement 
of the torture house, and muttered, " The earth 
:s for all that." When he reached the age 
ienty-one, he became totally blind. He bore 
tliis affliction, to him one of the greatest severity, 
with the utmost patience. To him the world is 
indebted for the perfecting of the telescope and 
microscope. He was the author of several 
treatises on astronomy and mechanics. He died 
at the age of seventy-eight, in 1042, the same 
year in wliich Isaac Newton was born. 

Raphael was the son of a painter, and was born 
at Urbino, in 1483. He received liis earliest in- 
struction from his father, Giovanni Santi, after 
Whose death he became the pupil of Perugino, 
the then greatest living artist of Italy. While a 
mere boy, he produced several sketches, which 
he submitted to his mother, whom he regarded 
as the best person in the world to whom he could 
apply for a fair judgment of their merits. He 
loved his mother dearly, and often introduced 
her portrait when he whs endeavouring to portray 
a good, noble, and beautiful woman. In all his 
many and sublimi ideal representations of the 
Virgin, with the infant Saviour on her knee 
or clasped to her bosom, he has introduced the 
likeness of the good mother whom he loved so 
dearly. Many other painters have selected the 
sacred subject for I lie display <>f their 



i\ huh Ins 

<in In- birthday, the Hilt ..i \pril, 1520, tins 

greatest of all l«n | ters dud ol m attaob 

of fever ai the age of thirty-seven. Ail that is 
recorded of his public and private character re- 
presents him as most amiable, and as the object 
of sincere affection on the part of bis immediate 




much struck with the judicious ma 

Scripture Header recently met 

i of a sceptic sliueinakei 


have read a good deal about the heathen god§, 
and I believe the account of Christ is taken from 
some of the heathen writings or other." 

The reader replied, in a very kindly manner, 
" Will you abide by your own decision on two 
questions that I will put to you ] if so, I will 
freely do the same. I will abide by your own 
answers ; by so doing we shall save much time, 
and arrive quicker at the truth." 

" Well," ho said, " out with it, and let us see 
if I can answer ; there are but few things but 
what I can say something about." 

"Well, my friend," replied the reader, "my 
first question is, ' Suppose all men were Chris- 
tians, according to the account given to us in the 
Gospels concerning Christ, what would be the 
state of society V" • 

He remained silent for some time in deep 
thought, and then was constrained to say, " Well, 
if all men were really Christians, in practice as 
well as theory, of course we should be a happy 
brotherhood indeed." 

" I promised you," said the reader, "that I 
would abide by your answer ; will you do the 

"Oh, yes," he readily replied, "no man can 
deny the goodness of the system in practice ; 
but now for the other question, perhaps I shall 
get on better with that, you have got a chalk 
tins time against nie." 

" Well, my next question is this, ' Suppose 
all men were infidels, what then would be the 
state of London and of the world i lie 

seemed still more perplexed, and remained a 
long time silent, the reader doing the same. 

At length he said, " You certainly have 
beaten me, for I never before saw the two 
effects upon society ; 7 now see tlwl where the 
Clmtbian bwUda »p tl<c infidel u pufflng down. 
I thank you, I shall think of what has passed 
this afternoon." «* 

The sequel was that he was fully persuaded 
in Iris own mind to give up all his infidel 
companions and to follow the Lord Jesus Christ. 
But the change did not stop here. When first 
the reader called he had to sit on an old, dirty 
chair, with a number of half-starved children 
sitting in their rags on the floor around him, 
neglected and uncared for ; now they have re- 
moved to a better home in a cleaner street. 
Within, all is cheerful and happy. The father, 
no longer faithless, delights in the company of 
his wife and children, all of whom are neatly 
dressed ; and liis chief happiness is to read and 
to speak to them of the tilings which belong to 
their everlasting peace. " Happy is lie that 
hath the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope 
is in the Lord bis God." — Adeline Cooper. 

Mtt. Joiln B. QoUQH, the distinguished ad- 
vocate of temperance, said in a recent address, 
"I hold that the Bible permits total abstinence, 
and I would rather search the Bible for per- 
mission to give up a lawful gratification for the 
sake of my weaker- headed brother, who stumble ; 
over my examples into sin, than to see how far 
I can follow my own propensities without com- 
mitting sin ami Uan'/i!!- coiiileiiinaUnii mi any 

, Hi.lly 1..-I ■■ 

i M.: ■ lotli ■ ill (■■■ , 2t «d. The Cowpl 

ili ■ 

[ill ".(■ . --. i: Mi. \. ...I-, I'.ur r. 

"■■ ■■"ii ol ii ni t*. CiL e*eli. 


Thb slanting rays of the autumn sun are flood- 
ing field, and lull, Mid wood, with their BUbdued 
Lustre ; they glitter on the cottage window panes, 
and are reflecled back from tho winding river. 
Watch them as they play with the leaves of yonder 
old apple-tree ! Andnowoue sunbeam, more ad- 
venturous thnt the rest, darts through the cottage 
window, and lights up the bare, comfortless room 
withjn, displaying poverty and distress - on 
empty, unused grate, a few broken chairs, a table, 
and b bed, a complete wreck of its former shape- 
liness. The sunbeam passes over all tins as if 
in sadness, but it lingers long and lovingly on a 
kneeling figure with clasped hands and upturned 
eyes. Look at her, iny reader ; she is a wife and 
a mother, ' Ince she wasa/uipm/ wife and mother, 

hut the demon drink has banished hap]. mi-..; Loin 
her head and home, and has turned the man 
who has sworn to love and cherish her into her 
11. Lucy Abbott was once a happy, 
respectable servant, and when Richard Abbott, 
the carpenter, struck by her sweet, quiel face 
and in .i* dress, thought that she would be the 
wife to make bis home happy, everyone told 
Lucy that she had done well in marrying steady 
Richard Abbott, or "Dull Dick," a Ilia shop- 
mates jokingly called him. Cud's Word says, 
"He that truateth in his own heart ia a fool." 
Richard trusted in his ; it was, ha thought, if not 
a good heart, at any rate better than many of 
hia neighbours) and capable of improvement 
and as bo another world— well, he had done his 
best, and by that he would be judgi d 
took care to be a trifle better conducted I nan lii 
ahopmateB, that was all that could be 

peeted in any man. Very proud and I i 
Richard, when, on a bright April day oi m.,. Inl- 
and showers, with a rainbow gleam over the dark 
cloud — a picture of human life, brightened by 
redeeming love — ho took his young wife to the 
pretty little cottage, with its bit of garden paled 
round, its spring flowers peeping up in the little 

beds near the b , bei -1 ii aa tud 

under the sunn] oai 
all "a-blowing and ■ ■ 

cry, planted by Richard himself after work hours. 

The view inside wo >. the view 

outside — a neat white kitchen with ■ Banded 

fipor, d Dutch does ticking in the corn. 

pane and metal candlesticks reflecting back tho 

glow of the fire, the tea table laid for . 

the kettle aingmg on the tire ; all wants provided 

for by the kind care of Richard's motto r, even 

to the cat, who, seated on the hottest corni C of 

the hearth, demurely washing her face, was the 

only living creature to greet the young couple. 
That happy day has passed like a dream that i l 
gone for ever. Do not tlunk, my reader, that 
I am going to tell you that Richard, after a few 
weak3 of married life, shocked his wife by coming 
home drunk ; no, the tempter waa more insidi- 
ous, and let him down the decline more gradually 
than that. After a while a baby came, to be 
the sunshine of the cottage, and, if Richard was 
proud when he brought his wife home, ho almost 
felt greater pride as he held tho little helpless 
thing in hia strong arms, watched its blue eyes 
slowly unclose and look wonderingly into his, 
and felt the little fingers clasping his bands, 
Lucy began, bo on alter this, to see i ohan ■ in 

her husband ; he [Ti « "> lj and 1 

the paper more, and attended political meetings, 
coming home sullen and depressed. In pain Lucy 
questioned him, and the baby raised tl rowing 
shunt uf delight. The . ' 
ing, tho storm burst. Coining iuto the kitchen, 

and throwing down to !■ ■ ' ■ ' ■■! I .1.. .■... .1 

"IfaaUcomoj it's just what 1 a pected — nc 

Work] perhaps, for tin- whole winter , it's .i -h 

to drive a fellow wild." 

Lucy gasped for breath. "No work." Tho 
newB seemed too stunning to be true. What 

-,. ■ I |B 'I Rii ll lid I" ■ M ■ ''lMI'.'l'.l"li : ' 1 I - ■ > I I < I 
- ■ ■ *•-■-* N.i,'' u at tin: glnnlny 

■| I,.- i ... pentei ■' 

gllOp | ai Q clo H .1 

That sad morning n ■ tho beginning ol evil. 

First Dick idled about and stun I 

I 1 I . Ill 

■ I i- ■ ■ ■ I inn publii I ae ind 

like many otln 

man gradually sunk into the idle d kard, 

What was' i.n iji to do ' Threat i, i ire ■ 

v.-. i ■ ..■!■■. lied by her m i [hi ' butj 

hi .■ ■ ii ! H. ■. '.i only dj ■ 


i roughl ■ i.i ■, toppi d 

by an n ll ■ '■ T ■■■-■. - " I'. ■, pi i\ . i ," v, In ip. red 

a good angi i I i Liu j ' ihin ■ In art She fell 

..Ii !l. r I- ii- ll ..I-' I lln-K 1 , and p. ii.. i 

I bli ■ into the ir oi hi i I ithi i in lies i 

Lucy Abbott had sought and found her 

viour when a girl in the »ud . ■ ■ 

pretty little village of Summerleigh, where hei 

parents lived ; she felt that her ains were forgiven 
for His name's sake, and she tried daily to please 
Him, and live ti> Him, but, like many another 
Christian, she looked upon Him mop 
Saviour than as a present Friend ; she would 
have dreamed of telling Him of all Her 
daily troubles. Now it dawned upon her, that 
she had a Friend, and Helper, who had the 
power and the will to help her. " Whatsoever ye 
'shall ask in my name, believe that ye shall re- 
it, and ye shall have it. " She searched 
her Bible, and found the same blessed truth 
repeated on many a page. The sunlight of peace 
and joy now flooded her soul, and the calm 
autumn day, when we first saw her praying, was 
not the first or second time that she had kneeled 
the kitchen to pray for Richard m the 
strong faith of a speedy answer. 

A few hours later, the table, rickety as it was, 
relic of better days, was laid for Di'.k's supper— 
bread and cheese, and a jug of ale ; "for," said 
Lucy, "if he must drink, he bad better do no 
u house ; " the door was flung open, 
and dirty, unshaved, with bleared eyes, and a 
shaking hand, Dick came in, and threw himsi If 
on a broken chair. The sunbeam had faded 
from the room, but the beams of love and joy, 
from the Sun of Righteousness, were shining 
Lucy's heart, and she felt, more certain of i 

■ i than lie ever had before. Dick cut himself 
a hunch ol bread and cheese, and filled his mug 
with the beer, of which he hod already drunk 

too much ; he raised it to his mouth, and for a 
few minutes he sat motionless, looking at tho 

.. I,,, ii almo ; '.inched his lips. 
I,,,,, ,..-.i ., I., in 111 .il. nt astonishment, 
wondering what was the matte) Wu hi til 1 

Was anything wrong with the beerl But, like 
a prudent woman, she asked no questions. Dick, 

..n hifl part, said nothing ; he P pi Wed th 

brimming mug on the table, gulped down bis 

bread and cheese, and, throwing him i U OD till 

, i ill Bp. Lucy knelt 

down l.y li-r !.-. ping 1 1 ii - 1 .. - l t ■ 1 . 1 earnest were 

the prayers for his salvation which went up 
i„ fore the throne ol l lod, ind di ep were hei 

thanks for the token of good which the unta.sted 
ale-cup showed ; hod she held the candle to his 
Eace Bin migto have seen Hie tear gb itening on 
hia rough cheet ; but, with a heart full of faith 
:..,„! tove, Bhe woe oon asleep beside him. The 
morning things teemed much as usual. 

IheU ■■..! up, I a lima .1 lin ml. nil<m ■■! 

... the '• Golden Fleece.'' Lucy 
watched him down the street, with a sinking 
heart, but she did not forget to send up another 

.■.in. i petit before the throne of God; at 

about one o'clocl Dick again made liis appear- 

her, and sat down without speaking a 

Lucy's heart was full : putting In I ST] 

round Ilia Qeck, she burst into tears. Dick' 

heart was full too ; he gulped down a few subs, 

till, at length. ta\ in- in. head "ii the table, he 

cried like a child. 

■■ i.n. j , ' said be, at length, " if i 
had ' praying wife, [ike me, thero'd be fewer 
drunkards in the land. I saw you praying 
the kitchen yesterdaj afternoonj and that prayer 
stopped my arm, as 1 was going to toss off my 
,,,,, • of I" . i ■ '■■'' !" a you thought 1 was asleep. 
Lucy, 1 heard all that you said, and I whispered 

, the bottom of my heart ; but the 

devil got hold ol me this ning ; I was off to 

H, 'i ioldt n ii..., but i couldn't, somehow, 

■ for I Id hi OX VOU praying 

for m< Just then who should oome up but 

Willnm. I'.rown. He took me l.y the arm, and 

had p i ill- md the long and ihoi I i i, I've 

feigned the temperance pledge. I said to Brown, 

•....■. mind, 'ti n't i ■ talking, but it's my 

,-ife's prayers, ami an I .lie i-. a ha-.- br hi 


boy who begu 

aily eveiy 

senteuce he utters with the two little words— 

Lie hoa not really any meaning in 

ind for the words, nor have they any con- 

o , as they would commonly have, with 

what he has said before. Why then does he use 

Some people would say it waa a foolish trick 
he had caught, some would say that it mis just 
nonsense, and that it is no use to ask for any 
reason for it. But I have watched that little 
boy closely, and I know that it is neither mere 
trick nor mere nonsense, but the* he has, per- 
haps without knowing it, a very good reason for 
beginning what he says with the two words — 
" but still." Tho reason is that he has a slight 
impediment in his speech, and he has found out, 
somehow, that these two little words are smooth 
and easy little words to start wth, and then, 
when the stammering little tongue is once started, 
it rattles along merrily enough until the next full 
stop ; and so on a3 often as needs be, the helpful 
little words are called upon for their aid, and 
each fresh sentence has its starting difficulty over- 
come, almost as soon as it is felt, by the inayic 
influence of the words — " but still." ^ 

And surely there is an influence in them deeper 
than any which my little friend will discover for 
many a day, and as powerful against other checks 
and hindrances as he finds it against the stand- 
still stubbornness of hia little tongue. Countless 
cheeks and folterings obstruct the progress of all 
thoso better efforts of our lives, which are as 
necessary to our real being as prattle il 
necessary to a child. Our honest ambition, oui 
hope, our patience, our kindly feeling for others, 
how often from one cause or onothi 
to a full slop ! And then the difficulty u U \fart 
Try tho child's plan ; try a " but still ." 
mind if it sounds a little unmeaning and 
out of place, bo as indifferent to that as he is 
but try it ; it has a wonderful starting power 
at the very worst, it opens out the possibility of 
starting again, and, if there is any real force of 
earnestness behind, this will be 
effoi i oi the purpose «iU be in mot ■ 
the next full stop. For example, two or three 
out of a hundred possible cases : — 

"That plan h&l failed so often that I must 
give it up : — 

' l J$Ui still— there IS time and t I foi per- 

"Concerning that matter, 1 have lost all 
"Bui still — while there is life thi 

"I have endured that trial voluntarily long 
enough ; I will bear it no longer : — 

"Bui ■■■'<"- it is less to uie than it would be 

i iother." 

"I have overlooked that injustico often enough ; 
I must resent it now : — 

' ' Bu t still— it may not be meant as it appears 
to me." 

And inure often and more variously than it 
would be possible to describe, in all the work of 
our lues, whether for ourselves or for others, for 
God or for man, we may find tho help, which 
the child's instinct found for itself, in the simple 
little words—" Bit Still." 

if his mission was to his old companions ; ho 
visits them ami laa-uns with them, and Qod ■ 
i,|,, -,!,,.: hun. I • ' uld fill pages with tolling of 
God's goodness to him. The sound of prayer 
goes up from that once prayerless home. 
He is forty-four years of age, and be never, to 
his knowledge, offered one prayer in those forty- 
four years ! The Bible he i 
disbelieved it ; 

hi i .in.: an examination of tho children of tho 
Newcastle-on-Tyne Ragged and Industrial School 

the word scold occurred in a lesson, upon which 
the inspector asked the question — 

•■ What is the difference between Scold and 


After a short pause, during which the in- 
spector's eye glanced round tho class, a little 
girl replied with eagerness, 

" Please, sir, the one hurts with the tone 
ml the other with hot water." R. w. 


T|, ,i,|. i;,.,l thi I v.;. . the fil it Bti p in Richard 

Abbott's upward i e, He fi a n joking 

and g g to God's house in 

company with his wife, Lucy's sweet Face looked 

i heavenly still, as the minister gave out his 

text, "If ye shall ask anything in my name, 
I will do it" — John xiv. 14. She glanced at 
Richard ; hia eyes wm- brimming with tears! 
\l, . ..I <i, are you the wife of a drinking 

man, :. ; LuCQ Ibbott WSJ ' PrJ her pll 

\. ... ■ .i. .i i fh >, and i ii- 1. ''■> the proyi i 

of faith, you shall sav yoUI hll band. ' I 

linn .. ele;ni h.'iiie, n happy Imnie, ami, .'In 
all, Q hniiie which VOU have made holy ground 

l.y constant prayer to God, to bun. back Hia 
wanderer, a v .d you, like Lucy, will rejoice with 

the angels of heaven over the returning 


A TOWN MISSIONARY glVCS US tllO following 

iccount "f the conversion of an 
infidel. He says, " I first met him in company 
with three others in a little ginger-beer Bliop. 
1 offered him a tract, ami that ted to a conver- 
sation the character of which I cannot attempt 
to describe. 1 found him an infidel of the 
blackest dye and a blasphemer. In the course 
of conversation I said that eternal life or eternal 
death awaited us all, when he answered, ' I 
believe in my future existence as much as I do 
in the future existence of that cabbage,' pointing 

i ,i,. as he spoke. Wo talked a great deal, 

. ■ i . promising that if be 
agreed with it i entiment i I should leave him 
one every Sunday morning. Every Sabbath 

mi,,., for i\ weeks 1 found him waiting for 

me at the shop for the tract. He then asked 
mo to go and sec his wife and children. Three 
weeks after that I had the unspeakable pleasure 
of accompanying them to the house ol Qod, the 
thi ii marriage, nine years before. 
The minister l...>k for his text, 'The man Christ 

Jeew ■ . ' the man was ovi rpowerod, the sei 

was just suited for him. How can I tell oi the 

marvellous change Qod has wrought in 
The lion is a Lamb, the infidel is a belie 

n,, v . he has begun life in earnest. The first 
thing bo did was to put down swearing and 
letting ill his workshop, and he Bi 

Summer flowers, how lovely ! 

In the woodland glade, 
I hi. round the leafy boughs, 

I', .pile/ thi-- >u 'jh the -.hade. 

Summer flowers, how lovely! 

On the mountain steep, 
Where the their haste, 

Down tho ridges leap. 

Summer flowers, how lovely ! 

On the breezy hill, 
Where the streamlet murmurs doi 

To the village mill. 

.Summer flowers, how lovely! 

On the grassy lea, 
Where the river grandly goes 

To the mighty sea. 

Summer flowers, how lovely ! 
In the thorny lane, 

Where the birds at mi 

Sins their sweetest strain. 

Summer flowers, how lovely! 
In the garden i •■ i . 

, the sunny time, 
Sheltered from the showers. 

Summer flowers, how lovely .' 
Round old Windsor's halls, 

\\ hi re the royal standard waves 
O'er the turret walls. 

Summer flowers, how lovely ! 

On the heath'ry brae, 
Where the far shores of Argyle 

Fade in purple grey. 

Summer flowers, how lovely ! 
All about the land ! 

(oft* so freely given away 
By our Maker's hand. 

Hark ! the children's voices, 
Ringing sweet and clear, 

For tho sunshine and the flowers 
To their hearts are dear ; 

Through the glades so leafy, 

O'er the grassy IuUb, 
By the rivers rolling slow, 

By tho gushing rills ; 

They are gladly roaming, 

Plucking, as they go, 
Of the blossoms and the buds 

In their path that grow. 

They are i 

Of the flowers so fair, 
That so freely fling around 

Perfume on the air. 

Happy, happy children, 
As ye pluck the flowers, 

Thank God for tho sunny time, 
Thank Him for the flowe] ; 

Thank Him for thv: Seasons, 

That, in coming, bring 
Sumniei and the Autumn time, 
Winter and the Spring. 

For His love is boundless, 

Tender is His care, 
Sending us so many flowers, 

Bach -md all so fair. 

- I 

Lo»oo»: Nriirfuri monthly by S. W. PAKTKIDOE 4 Co., at tho Office, No. 9, P.tornoaW Eo„ . „nd W . TWEEDIE, 337, Strand. 

NO. 198. Juno, 1671. 


Price Otis Penny. 



I for ' 

A cebtac- Hoblein.ui, very proud of the extent 
and beauty of his pleasure grounds, chancing one 
day to call" on .1 small squire, whose garden might 
w half an acre, was greatly struck with the 
brilliant colours of his neighbour's flowers. 

" Av. HI) I'Til, ill'' lluM i l-J :ilL' l\i II '.IMOIgll,' 

said the squire, " but permit me to show yon 
my grapes." 

Conducted into an old-fasliioned little green- 
house, which served as a vinery, my lord gazed 
with mortification and envy on grapes twice as 
fine as his own. 

" My dear friend," said my lord, " you have a 
jewel of a gardener ; let me see him ! " 

The gardener was called — the single gardener 

-a simple-looking young man under thirty. 

" Accept my compliments on your flower-beds 

and grapes," said my lord ; " and tell me, if yon 

, why your flowers are so much brighter than 

i©, and your grapes so much finer. You 

muBt have studied horticulture profoundly.'' 

'Please your lordship,' 1 said the man, "I 
have not had the advantage of much education ; 
I bean't no scholar ; but as to the flowers and the 
vines, the secret as to treating them just came 
> me, you see, by chance." 
" By chance 1 Explain." 
"Well, my lord, three years ago master sent 
le to Lunnon on business of his'n ; and it came ' 
11 to rain ; and I took shelter in a mews, you I 

11 Tes ; you sook shelter in a mews ; and what J 

"And there were two gentlemen took shelter, 
too ; and they were talking to each other about 

"About charcoal i Go on." 

" And one said that it had done a deal o' good 
in many kinds of sickness, and specially in the ' 
first stage of cholera ; and I took a note on my ' 
mind of that, because we'd had the cholera in 
our village the year afore ; and I guessed the 
two gentlemen were doctors, and knew what they 

re talking about." 

'I daresay they did ; but flowers and vines 
don't have the cholera, do they 1 " 

'■' No, my lord, but they have complaints of 
their own ; and one of the gentlemen went on to ' 
say that charcoal had a special good effect upon 
all vegetable life, and told a story of a vine- 
er, in Germany, I think, who had made a 
very sickly, poor vineyard one of the best in all 
those parts, simply by charcoal dressings. So I 
laturally pricked up my ears at that, for our 
ines were in so bad a way that master thought 
of doing away with them altogether. ' Ay," said 
the other gentleman, 'and see how a little 
sprinkling of charcoal will brighten up a flower- 

".* The rain was now over, and the gentle-] 
1 left the mews ; and I thought — « Well, but 
before I try the charcoal upon my plants, I'd 
best make some inquiry of them as aren't doctors ' 
but gardeners ; ' bo I went to our nurseryman, ' 
who has a deal of book-learning, and I asked 
him if he'd ever heard of charcoal dressing Wing 
good for vines ; and lie said he had read in a 
book that it was so, but had never tried it. He 
kindly lent me the book, which was translated 
some forren one. And, after I had picked 
out of it all I could, 1 tried the charcoal in the 
way the book told me to try it, and that's how 
the grapes and the flower-beds came to please 
you, my lord. It's a lucky chance that ever I 
heard those gentlemen talking in the mews, please 
your lordship." 

"Chance happens to all," answered the peer, 
sententiously ; " but to turn chance to account 
is the gift of few." 

His lordship, returning home, gazed gloomily 
on the hues of his vast parterres ; he visited his 
aeries, and scouted at the clusters ; he sum- 
moned his head gardener — a gentleman of the 
highest repute for science, and who never spoke 
of a cowslip except by its name in Latin. To 
this learned personage my lord communicated 
what he had heard and seen of the benignant 
effects of charcoal, and produced in proof a mag- 
nificent bunch of grapes, which he had brought 
from the squire's. 

"My lord/* said the gardener, scarcely glancing 
S.juire 'a gardener must be 

poor ignorant creature to fancy he had 

ill ■:■-.', ■ I ■ ■:■ ( ill U' Hi so well l.Tii'WIl to 

every professed horticulturist. Professor Liebig, 
seated of the good effect of char- 
coal dressing to vines especially ; and it is to 

■ i 1 ' 1 en these chemical principles : !' 

therewith the wise man entered into a profound 
dissertation of which his lordship did not undcr- 

| ! ! 1 I I . . ■ ■ I ■ I . 

" Well then," said the peer, cutting short the 

I "1 can't aay I have, my lord: it did not 

chance to come into my head." 
I " Nay," replied the peer, " chance put it into 

your head, but thought never took it out of your 

My lord, who, if he did not know much about 
horticulture, was a good judge of mankind, dis- 
missed the man of learning, and, with many 
apologies for seeking to rob liis neighbour of 
such a treasure, asked the squii-o to transfer to his 
service the man of genius. The squire, who thought 
that now the charcoal had been once discovered, 
any new gardener could apply it as well as 
the old one, was too happy to oblige my lord, 
and advance the fortunes of an honest fellow 
born in his village. His lordship knew very 
well that a man who makes good use of the 
ideas received through chance, will make a still 
better use of the ideas received tlirough study. 
He took some kind, but not altogether unselfish, 
pains with the training and education of the 
man of genius whom he had gained to liis ser- 
vice. The man is now my lord's head forester 
and bailiff. The woods thrive under liim, the 
farm pays largely. He and my lord are both 
the richer for the connection between them. 
He is not the less practically painstaking, though 
he no longer says "bean't ;" and " his'n ; " 
nor the less felicitously theoretical, though ho 
no longer ascribes a successful experiment to 
chance. — Lord Lytton'a " Gcuctoniano." 

till you believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, who 
died for you. Your saying as how you don't 
believe it don't alter it. He died for you, and, 
what's more, He loves you still, and is willing to 
save you. You have done enough of satan's 
work in your time ; 1 want you now for the 
Saviour, and I'll never let you rest, Williams, 
never while I live." 

The infidel replied by a loud and derisive 
laugh, but it was only a forced exhibition of 
contemptuous disregard ; he could not charm 
away the feeling those earnest words produced. 
From that period his offensive hostility to re- - 

hgion ceased. The Bible was introduced and teeter ; transfixing one to the spot, and 
read in his dwelling, In, children were sent to * "P* to iraa « me f me "8* *» <«W* *^™ 
the Sabbath-sch...d; his wife, *li° bad been an ""perfect notes of hun11.11 utterance and .in- 
attendant for a lung period at Gascoigne Place, P arted to thera hls own celeatial sweetneaB a,ld 
though greatly persecuted, was no longer opposed, 1 P atn0B >_ <*■" 
and was subsequently, with his concurrence, pro- 
posed as a member of the church. Though he 


1 . ... . !n . id ;i traveller speak of a visit to the 

Baptistry at Pisa, at whose font there is so 

remarkable an echo. The baptistry, it is known, 

is a rotunda of most magnificent proportions] 

with a dome almost sublime 

elevation. The guide stood 

sang a few noteB. His voice ■ 

melodious ; but lo ! upward 

the dome comes back to us 

pressible sweetness. Apaust 


its expanse and 
near the font and 
vas not remarkably 
it rises, and from 
m tones of inex- 
— and again, farther 
heard the notes ; finer, fainter, 

.id nothing in favour of OhrUtianity, he m 
uttered a word against it, as heretofore. It was 
evident, however, that a struggle was going on 
within the man between light and darkness, and 
light was gradually gaining the mastery. 

It is to be observed that this was instmraen- 
tally effected by the presentation of the simple 
Gospel, without any appeal to the intellect. Not 
by might, not by power, but by My Spirit, saith 
the Lord. 

Shortly after this, he was taken ill with an 
acutely painful disorder. For many months he 
suffered severely, during which I visited him 
periodically, but never recollect one instance 
without seeing the Bible open before him, which 
he was either reading or had just put down. 
Earnestly did he seek forgiveness, and, with 
trembling, he clung to the Saviour. He desired 
life, he often told me, only that he might become 

witness for Christ crucified ; but, if he died, 

libours, and all who knew 


to hear a melody which 
belonged to th em while in this lower 

Does not this afford a faint illustration of 

what ,-,!((;/ he, when, through the Divine Mediator, 

imperfect praises are made acceptable to the 

of Him who is worshipped by angels ? 

Borne upward by our great Intercessor, they 

[perfections which belong to earth ; 

for He imparteth to them His own unutterable 

■eetness, and they become identical with 

heavenly harmonies. m. p. h. 

James Williams was a well-known character in 
Gascoigne Place. He was much superior in mind 
and habits to those among whom he lived, and 
was looked tip to by them as a kind of oracle, I i ie w i s hed the 
having been for many years an avowed infidel. J him, to De informed that' he died 
He had read, and too well digested, many sinner; and he certainly exhibited every mark of 
sceptical books. So deeply was he imbued with genuine penitence. 

sceptical principles that he refused to send his 1 Before his decease, ho had an interview with 
children to school, lest they should become tainted I cm]i of his' children, separately, to whom he 
with " priestcraft, and grandmother's tales," as he formally renounced his scepticism, reiterated his 
termed the doctrines and precepts of the Word firm beIie f m Christ Jesus> ^ urgetl them> ^ 
of God ; neither would he permit a book, or hi s departing request, to seek the salvation of 
tract, or any kind of religious publication, to enter ' their souls. At the last .scene of all, when his 
his house. He committed to the flames, on one I relations were gathered round the bed of death, 
occasion, a venerable copy of the Holy Scriptures, j aiul the struggle with the king of terrors was 
though it was a family relic, and entrusted to I near ly over, he motioned to his wife, who put 
his care by the hands of a dying mother. ! her ear close down to his lips. " It is all true," 

Many a stout and doubtful battle we have had he faltered, as well as Ids fastly-ebbing strength 
together. His arguments against revelation were ' would allow. 

of the old infidel school, with a little modern j Anxious to know his meaning, she asked, 
dress ; his language often blasphemous, and in- "What is true i " placing her ear again in the 
variably profane. I brought to bear upon lum 1 game position as before. 

from time to time such unanswerable proofs as I with a labouring effort, he said, ki almost 
standard systems of theology supply. Though broken words, " Him that coraeth unto Me— I 

he felt unable 

he : 
ist sceptic 

entrenched hiinsill behind t 

professors, and the 1 vils that had been done 

under the name of religion. 

I have since discovered one chief reason of my 
personal failure with this man : — I ouykt to have 
preached to him ■'■ ■■>• • and Ww n w rection, wn ! 
left the schoolmen aloMj appealing to the heart 
rather than to the head. The sequel verifies 
this. One of our excellent visitors, who had 
herself been converted from the depths of sin, 
was the only opponent with whom he was unable 
to grapple. She, with all the ardour of first 
love, came before him a living example of the 
transforming power of Christianity, an unanswer- 
able proof that the Son of Man hath power on 
the earth to forgive sin. He knew her well in 
all her former degradation, had on one or two 
occasions shrunk from the fierceness of her wrath, 
but now he shrank more fearfully from her 
earnest persevering encounters, with a proof 
which he could not deny. 

"I can't stand that woman at all," he said to 
bis wife, after ouo of these encounters, "she 
quite staggers me. If religion has so altered 
her, I can't help thinking there must be some- 
thing in it. Cut then I don't believe she'll 
stand for long." 

But the good woman did. " stand," and ever 
and anon bo forced the unwelcome truth upon 
him that ho tried by many ludicrous arts to evade 
an attack by her. Bold and fearless a3 he was 
with all others, he felt powerless before her. 
Though he would stand in the open air and de- 
nounce religion, ho was awed into silence when 
the appeared before him with her "logic of the 

" Woman," he said to her, one day, " do let 
me alone ; I am satisfied with my opinions, and 
that's enough. Let mo rest, will you V 

" Williams," she replied, with characteristic 
determination, " I will never let you rest ; never, 

will in no wise cast out — Mary- — it is true." 
''Blessed Jesus," said the grateful wife, 
she sunk upon her knees, "Thou hast answe 
prayer ; his soul is saved." When she arc 
the lip was falling, the eye fixed ; one breath 
only escaped, and then a nameless pallor ovi 
spread the face, by which the silent watclu 
knew that the king of terrors had executed his 

cry, as the world rolls by 
Through gloom of cloud and glory «f sky, 

Rings in my ears for ever ; 
And I know not what it profits a man 
To plough and sow, to study and plan, 
And reap the harvest never. 
"Abide, in truth abide," 
Spake a low voice at my side, 
"Abide thou, and endeavour." 

And even though, after care and toil, 

I should see my hopes from a kindly soil, 

Though late yet blooming ever, 
Perchance the prize were not worth the pain, 
Perchance this fretting and wasting of brain 
Wins its true guerdon never. 
"Abide, in love abide," 
The tender voice replied, 
" Abide thou, and endeavour. 

'■' Strive, endeavour : it profits more 
To fight and fail, than on Time's dull shore 

To sit an idler ever ; 
For to him who bares his arm to the strife, 
Firm at his post in the battle of life, 
The victory faileth never. 
* Therefore in faith abide," 

The earnest voice still cried, 
"Abide thou, a*id endeavour." 

Cass* "'■■■ MagaaAm. 

Sir Astley Cooper desired his coachman to at- 
tend every market iuoi-iuhl: at SniithlioM, and 
purchase all the lame young horses exposed for 
sale, which he thought might possibly be con- 
vertible into carriage or saddle horses, should 
they recover from their defects. He was never 
to give more than i'7 for each, but £fi was the 
average price. In this manner, thirty or forty 
horses were sometimes collected at Gadesbridge, 
his farm. On a stated morning every week, the 
blacksmith came up from the village, and the 
horses were, in successive order, caught, haltered, 
and brought to him for inspection. Having dis- 

rnyrred the r:i ie- ■ >if 1 h< ir hmi.'iiess, lie pl'oeeeded 
to perform whatever seemed to him necessary 
for the cure. The improvement produced in a 
short time by good feeding and medical atttn- 
dance, such as few horses before or since have 
enjoyed, appeared truly wonderful. Homes 
which were at first with difficulty driven to pas- 
ture, because of their halt, were now with as 
much difficulty restrained from running away. 
Even one fortnight at Gadesbridge would fre- 
quently produce such an alteration in some of 
them, that it required no unskilful eye in the 
former owner himself to recognise the animal In.' hid sold but a few weeks before. Fifty 

1 .1 ■: ware paid for one of these animals, which 

turned out a ory ' ''■■ - 1 '■ 

carriage was for years drawn by n 1 ■ ol ho] ea 

which together 1- 1..' I nlj ! -' 1 '-' L0«.— Xffi of 

ST&i l, Coop I". 

It 13 related that one day, in the laboratory of 
Meyer, a potato was put into Parmentier's hand 
for a chemical purpose. He examined it with 
attention, and inquired of the professor whether 
it was employed as food. " For pigs," said the 
professor. "Ah," said Pa nu en tier, "pigs are no 
bad judges — they discovered truffles : why not 
follow their example in this r.-| ■ 
eat potatoes V The professor assured him that 
the root was quite unfit for human food. But 

Parmentier waa not to he dissuaded Er« taku 

the investigation. Inviting two or three scientific 
friends to assist in the testing, lie boiled a pot ol 
potatoes, and enjoyed them much. Louis XVI. 
and his queen had a dish served at table, and 
found them, as Parmentier had declared, an ex- 
cellent vegetable. But their introduction brought 
upon him some angry criticisms from the "friends 
of the people," who declared that the common 
people were — thanks to Parmentier — to be fed 
mo f t for swiae. Happily, this prejudiced 

view of Parmentier's intention subsided, and th 
potato became an ''institution'' of the dinner- 
table in France as well as in England. 

Whes Handel once undertook, in a crowded 
church, to play the dismissal on B rerj Bne organ 

tiently forward, and took liis seat, sayiiiv, in a tune 
1 1 acknowledged superiority, 

"You cannot dismiss a congregation! See 
how soon I can di&per a them, " 



the Old Man's Story. 

ihall forget tha oomm m I the 

, ceformai ■ I wo ■' ohild at the 

omo ten years of age. Our home had 
every comfort, and my kind parents idolized Die, 
their child. Wine and beer were often on the 
tablej and both my father and aothw frequi |,|K 
gave me " the bottom " of the glass. 

One Sunday, at church, a Btartling announoe- 
inent was made to our people. I knew nothing 
of its purport, but there wna muoh whispi ring 
among the men. The pastor Baid that on the 
next evening there would bo a meeting, and an 
address upon the evils of intemperance in the 
use of alcoholic drinks. He expressed himself 
ignorant of the object of the meeting, and could 
not say what course it would be best to pursue 
in the matter. ■ 

The subject of the meeting came up ;it 
table, alter the service, and 1 questioned my 
father about it with all the ouriou 
.1 child. The whispers and words which had 
been dropped in my hearing, clothed the whole 
affair with a great mystery to me, and I was all 
eagerness to learn of the Btrange tiling. My 
father merely said it was some wild visionary 

The night came, and groups of people gathered 
on the tavern steps, and I heard the jes" and 
the laugh, and saw drunken men come reeling 
out of the bar-room. I urged my father to let 
me go, but he at first refused. Finally, thinking 
that it would bo an innocent gratification of my 
curiosity, he put on his hat, and wo pf 
across the green to the church.* I wel 
member how the people appeared as they 

wonder what kind of an exhibition 

In the corner was the tavern-keeper, and 
around him a number of his friends. For an 
hour the people continued to come in, until there 
was a large congregation. All were curiously 
watching the door, and apparently wondering 
who would appear next. The pastor stole in, 
and took his seat behind a pillar under the 
gallery, as if doubtful of the propriety of being 
1 in the church at all. 

! Two men finally camo in, and went forward 
to the altar and took their seats. All eyi I (1 1 I S 
fixed upon them, and a general stillness pre- 
vailed throughout the church. 
The men were unlike in ap] 
short, thick-set in his build, and the other tall 
and well-formed. The younger had the 
and dress of a clergyman, a full round face, and 
a quiet, good-natured look, ash 
around over the audience. 

But my childish interest was all in the old 
man. His broad, deep chest, and unusual height, 
looked giantlike, as he strode slowly up the aisle. 
His hair was white, his brow deeply seamed with 
furrows, and around his handsome mouth lines 
of calm and touclung Badness. Hi3 eye was black 
and restless, and kindled as the tavern-keeper 
uttered a low jest aloud. His lips were com- 
pressed, and a crimson flush went and came over 
his pale cheek. One arm was off above the 
elbow, and there was a wide scar over the right 

The younger finally arose and stated the 
object of the meeting, and asked if there was a 
clergyman present to open it with prayer. Our 
pastor kept his seat, and the speaker himself 
made a short prayer, and then made a brief 
address at the conclusion, calling upon any one 
present to make remarks. The pastor arose 
under the gallery, and attacked the po itiona ol 
the speaker, using the arguments I have often 
heard since, and concluding by dciiouiauiy. i h< > ■ 

engaged in the new movement as ddlea s 

fanatics, who wished to break up the time- 
honoured usagen of good society, and injure tin 
business of respectable people. At the conclu- 
sion of his remarks, the tavern keeper and his 

friends got Op a cheer, and the current ol t'crhne 
was evidently against the m( rangers and Hi 

While the pastor was speaking, the old m 
fixed his dark eye upon him, and leaned forward 

as if to catch every word. 

As the pastor took his seat, the old man arosi 
his tall form i 
chest swelling d breath tlirough 

bis thin, dilated nostrils. X ©j ;lt 'hat ti 

■ml grand in 
the appearance of the old man, ■ 
Ins hill ©ye Upon the audience, his trcth .dint 
hard, and :i sil. i Hi throughout 

the church. 

He bent In 

1 BtstM, pad i< "int pnUla meetings wero, at 
one period, Kunmonl] beU tail 

ill.. I peculiar eye lingered and kindled for half a 

moment. The scar grew red upon his forehead ; 

the heavy brows, his eyes glittered 

and glowed tike a serpent's. The tavern-keeper 
nailed be ha1 earohing glance, and I felt 

relief when the old man withdrew his gaze. 
For a moment more he seemed lost in thought, 
and then in a low and tremulous tone com- 
menced. There was a depth in that voice— a 

■ i bnesa and pathos 
every heart in the church before the first period 
had been rounded. My father's attention had 
become fixed upon the eye of the 

lich I never before hi - 1 ■ a liim 
exhibit. I can but briefly remember the sub- 
stance ol what the old man said, though the 
scene is as vivid before me as any that I ever 

■ My friends ! I am a stranger in your village, 
but trust 1 may call you friends. A new star 
, ad there is hope in the dark night 
whioh hangs like a pall of gloom over our 
country.'' With a thrilling depth of voice the 
speaker lucked his^U together, and continued 
— "0 God, Thou who lookest with compassion 
upon the most erring of earth's frail childr 
I thank Thee that a brazen serpent has been 
lifted up on which the drunkard can look, and, 
by Thy mercy in Christ Jesus, be healed ; that 
a beacon has burst out upon the darkness that 
surrounds the victim of intemperance, which 
shall guide to Thee the bruised and weary 
wanderer ! " 

It is strange what power there is in som 
voices. The speaker's voice was low and measured ; 
but a tear trembled in every tone, and before I 
knew why, a tear dropped upon my hand, 
followed by others like rain-drops. The old 
brushed one from his own eye and con- 
tinued : 

"Men and Christians! you have just heard 
that I am a vagrant and a fanatic. I am not. 
As God knows my own sad heart, I came here 
to do good. Hear me, and he just. 

" I am an old man, standing alone at the end 
of life's journey. There is deep sorrow in my 
heart and tears in my eyes. I have journeyed 
over a dark, beaconless ocean, and all Iife'3 
bright hopes have been wrecked. I am without 
friends, home, or kindred on earth, and Look 
with longing to the rest of the night of death. 
Without friends, kindred, or home ! It was not 

No one could withstand the touching pathos 
of the old man. I noticed a tear trembling on 
the lid of my father's eye, and I no more felt 
ashamed of my own. 

HOj my friends, it was not so OrtCe. Away 

the dark waves which have wrecked my 

hopes, there is the blessed tight of happiness 

and home. I reach again convulsively for the 

of the household idols chat otv:c were 

Mi, old nan seemed looking away through 
vacancy upon some bright vision, his lips apart, 
and Ilia linger extended, I involuntarily turned 
the direction where it was pointed, dreading 
see some shadow invoked by its magic 

i mother. With her loving 
heart crushed with sorrows she went down to 
her grave. I once had a wife — a fair, angel- 
hearted creature as ever smiled in an earthly 
home. Her eye was as mild as a summer sky, and 
her heart as faithful ami true as ever guarded 
and cherished a husband's love. Her blue eye 
grew dim as the floods of sorrow washed away 
its brightness, and the living heart I wrung 
until every fibre was broken. I once h 
noble, a brave and beautiful boy, but he 
driven out from the ruins of his home, and my 

ens to know if he still lives, 
once had a babe, a sweet, tender blossom, but 
,',. ■ hands de ■■. ■ d : . and it lives with One 
who loveth children. 

"Do not be startled, friends; I am not I 
murderer in tin: Common acceptation of the term 
Yet there is ligl iky. A mother 

in heaven rejoi< I a of her prodigal 

sun. The wife in the better land smiles upon 
him who again turns back to the right way. 
i i to visit me at nightfall, 

. : ... Iiem-Ii the hallowing t<.ueh of a 

. ed upon my feverish cheek. My 
brave boy, if he yet lives, would forgive the 
sorrowing old man for the treatment which 
drove him into the world, and the blow that 
maimed him for life. God, forgive mo for 
the ruin I have brought upon me and mine ! " 

1 .an wiped a. tear from his 
eye. My father watched him with a strange 
. ; i countenance unusually pale and 
■ emotion. 

II . 

■ I. ' ■■■' ; - 

Fanatii wh irificed my wife, my children, 

my happineBB, and my home to the BC< tin 'I' 1 : 

demon ol the bswl, Oh yi . I one ad > tin 

gentle being wl [injured o di ■ plj 

■ . ,, drunkard I Brora re r ■ ta lilitj and 

1 plunged into degradation and pnvi-iiv 

I dragged my family down with me. For years 

saw my wife's cheek pal and tier tep gro* 

eary, I left hei atom raid tin 

home-idols, l i ■'■ She never 

complained, pel be and the children went 
hungry for bread. 

"One New-year's night I returned late to the 
hut where chanty had given us a roof, 
was yet up, an I ■ ' the CO! 

demanded food, but she burst into ti ■>< I, and told 
mo there was none. J fiercely ordered her to 

get some. She turned her eyes sadly upon 
me, the tears falling fast over her pale check 

At this moment the child in its cradle awoki 
and sent up a famished [rail, 

" ' We have no food, James , have had imne 
for two days. I have nothing forth 
once kind husband, m-i.-t ■■-, .•!■>,<;■!' 

" That sad, pleading face, and those streaming 
eyes, and the feeble wail of the child, maddened 
me, and I — yes, I struck her a fierce blow in the 
face, and she fell forward upon the hearth, The 
very furies of hell seemed to boil in my bosom, 
and with deeper intensity as I felt that I had 
committed a wrong. 1 had never struck Mary 
before ; but now some *'-rible impulse bore nic 
on, and I stooped down, as well as I could in 
my drunken state, and clenched both hands in 
her hair. 

" ' Oh, James ! Jami ■ ' ■■ ■■ laimed my wife, 

as she looked up in my fiendish counte ce, 

' surely you will not kill us — you will not harm 
Willie 1 ' and she sprang to the cradle Slid graspi d 
urn in her embrace. 1 i nujju Ik i iie.iin M lln 
hah, and dragged her to the door, and as i 
lifted the latch, the wind burst in with a cloud 
of snow. With the yell of n fiend l still dragged 
her on, and hurled her out into the darkness 
and the storm. With a wild ha ! ha ! I closed 
the door and turned the button, her pleading 
ingling with the wail of the blast and 
sharp cry of the babe. But my work was Q0( 
complete. I turned to the little bed where lay 
my eldest son, and snatched him from his 
clumbers, alid,.a-;.M Ii dl .tual, I ■ i ■ le .. Ii s, 

opened the door, and thrust him out too! In 
the agony of fear he called to me by a name 1 was 
longer fit to bear, and locked his little fingers 
into my side-pocket. L could not wrench that 
frenzied grasp away, and, with the coolness of 
demon as I was, I shut the door upon the arn 

and with my knife severed the arm at the Wlist 

The speaker ceased a moment and buried his 
face in hia hands, as if to shut out some fearful 
dream, and his deep chest heaved like a storm- 
swept sea. My father had arisen from his seat, 
and was leaning forward, his countenance blood- 
less, and the large drops standing out upon his 

brow. Chills crap bach to my young heart, and 

I wished I was at home. The old man looked 
up, and I never have since beheld such mortal 
agony pictured upon a human face as there 
on his. He continued : — 

" It was morning when I awoke, and the 
storm had ceased, but the cold was intense, 
first secured a drink of water, and then looked 
in the accustomed place for Mary. As I missed 
her, for the first time a shadowy sens 
horrible nightmare began to dawn upon my 
wandering mind. 1 thought that I had dreamed 
a fearful dream, but involuntarily opened the 
outside door with a shuddering dread. As the 
door opened, the snow burst, in, followed by a 

fall ol something across the threshold, scatti ring 
the snow and striking the floor with a sharp, 
hard sound. My blood shot like red-hot arrows 
through my veins, and 1 rubbed my eyes to 
shut out the sight. It was— it— my God, 
again I ask Thee to forgive my horrible sin — 
it was my own injured Mary and her sweet babe, 
Bath! The ever-true mother had 
bowed harselt over the child to shield it, and 
wrapped aU her own clothing around it, leaving 
her own prison :.taii. and bare to the storm. 
She had placed her ban over the face of the 
child, and the ilei I had frozen it to ice on 

the white cheek. The frost was white in the 
babe's half-open eyes and upon its tiny fingers. 
I know not what became of uiy DTI 

Again the old man bowed, his head and m pt, 

and all that were in the church «ept with him. 
My father sobbed like a child. In 
and heart-broken pathos, the old man con- 
cluded : — 

I I, and Eor long months I raved 

,1, I,, ,;, ... I . ft-oke, was -i utenced ■ 

or ton j but no tertun - Id I 

L < K > - ill-. - [have I ridured within my SWH bosom. 

i iii, mj .i. ... .en ii. i .. i ■■... ■■ ■■' a ■ i I no. I 

m d to .; He. But while 1 live, ■ 

to then not to enter 'I"- path which 

he i be* .. -. <■'■'■ i- I fearful '< i ■' ' 

desire to see my angel wife and children beyond : 
tins vale ol 

The old man sat down, but a spell deep and 
. In: audience. Hearts could 

Ii;... ■ I heard in their beating, and tears fell 

,i .1 ii I. asked the people to 
come forward and sign the temperance declara- 
tion. My father leaped from his seat and 
sxatehed at it eagerly. I had followed him, 
and as he hesitated a moment with the pen in 
the ink, a tear fell from the old man's eye upon 
the paper. , 

"Sign it — sign it, young man. 1 Id 

write my name there ten thousand I i 
b] I, if it would bring back my loved and lost 

My father wrote his. name — " Mortimer 
Hudson." The old man looked, wiped his tear- 
ful eyes, and looked again, his countenance alter- 
nately flushed with red and a death-like paleness. 

" It is — no, it cannot be — yet how strange ! " 
muttered the old man. " Pardon me, sir, but 
that is the name of my own brave boy." 

My father trembled, and held up his left arm, 
from which the lumd had been severed. They 
looked for a moment in each other's eyes ; both 
reeled and gasped — 

" 3fy on ■' injured boy .' " 

"MV KA7 ! " 

They fell upon each other's necks until it 
seemed that their souls would grow and mingle 
into one. There was weeping in that church, 
and I turned bewildered upon the streaming 
faces around me. 

Let me thank God for this great blessing 
which has gladdened my guilt-burdened soul," 
exclaimed the old man, and kneeling down, 
poured out his heart in one of the most 
melting prayers I ever heard. The spell was 
then broken, and nearly all present eagerly 
signed the declaration, slowly going to their 
homes, as if loth to leave the spot. 

That old man is dead, but the lessons he 
taught his grandchild on the knee, as his 
evening sun went down without a cloud, will 
never be forgotten. His fanaticism has lost 
none of its fire in my manhood's heart. 

"TmboW, m makes the miner ; " tut-work," 
the contractor; "day-work," the labourer. 
When a mine is begun, the digging and 
of the " deads " is done by contract, at so much 
per fathom ; when it is opened to the mineral, 
then the bitter is got out "upon tribute," i.e., for 
a part of the staff dug out. The overlookers 


and the ni 

month the work is all 
meet at the counti: 
names a lot, the me 
some one taltt ' B.' 

; it for thei 

ted by the t 

; the i 

bouse, the head captain 
uiderbid each other until 
much of the yield in ore. 
The taker associates four, sis, or eight partners 
with him. This partnership, however many 
may be in it, is called "a pair;" two go to 
work at a tune on an eight hours* sliift, called 
a "stem;" the workers for the time being are 
called the " core ; " all may draw money weekly 
on account, called "subsist;" at the end of 
the month the heap of ore they have got out is 

in, :,Mirci1.|iM.l ;.un|. led, and devalue n-.n hiim d l.y 

l..'.., r i..i,i- The taker "goes to reckoning; "he 
is charged with supplies of powder for blasting, 
for proportion of the cost of machinery, for 
smith's- work, and with all the " subsist ; " an -1 r " 
credited with the value of his pile : the balance 
is paid over to him, and he divides it. Some- 
times the account leaves the miner in debt, but 
not often, as the captains will not knowingly let 
., job, called a " pitch," under its value. Some 

ii c steals from his neighbour's " pile,' 1 
mi substitutes good ore for poor ore ; but, theugh 

this rtuuld seem to be an easy thing to do, yet 
it is not so, as the captains know well the 
cbai-jcler ■■) the ore, which varies in every part 
Ol b mine, and when such an oflence called 
-is detected, it is not only severely 

i habit by the law, but is the ruin of the 

man who attempts it. For this system of work- 
in-, whilst it sharpens the wits of the miner, 
also enlists him in mutual partnership with the 
mine owners and his fellow-workmen ; it pre- 
vents all strikes and lock-outs, and gives the 


considered infamous for a woman 
ie. For a guest to offer a glass of 
wine to one of the women of the household was 
looked upon as a deep insult, as i( implied a 
want of chastity on her part. History records 
several instances where women were put to 
death by their husbands because they smelled 
of " tometuam." The consequence of this 
physical training and abstinence from all in- 
toxicating liquors was, that the Romans were 
noted for their endurance and strength. Had 
we the same habits, with our superior Christian 
civilisation, we should astonish the world by 
our physical health and strength. 

i it upon the sea shore that, the student of 

walks' Each rippling wave lays at his 
feet some tribute from the deep, and tells of 
wonders indescribable — brings corallines and 
painted shells, and thousands of grotesque beings, 
samples left to show that in the sea, through all 
its spacious realms, lif« still is found ; that 
creatures there exist more numerously than on 
the earth itself, all perfect in their construction, 
and, although so diversified in shape and attri- 
butes, alike subservient to the general welfare. 
— Professor B. Jones's Led tires. 

You once remarked to me how time strengthened 
family affections, and, indeed, all early ones ; 
one's feelings seem to be weary of travelling, and 
like to rest at home. They who tell me that 
men grow hard-hearted as they grow older, have 
a very limited view of this world of ours. It is 
true with those whose views and hopes are merely 
and vulgarly worldly ; but, when human nature 
is not perverted, time strengthens our kindly feel- 
ings, and abates our angry ones. — Soutfu u. 

"Whatever is worth doing, is worth doing 
well," was the favourite maxim of a youth who 
once straightened njiils, blacked boots, and cleaned 
knives in the cellar of a London warehouse. 
" If it is only blacking boots, I'll try to make 


£> *>-51^ j Vk"'^ ><3 


Let us not be weary 


in well doing : for in 


due season we shall 


reap, if we faint not.— 



principle on which the young man worked, and 
amid the banter of others he smilingly weni 
doing I"., duty, as in the sight of both God and 
man. His evening hours were not spent in 
smoking, drinking, and frivolity, but in reading, 
writing, and the improvement of his mind 

Step by step that youth rose, until he became 
counterman, cashier, and ultimately a patlm-r i 
one of the largest mercantile establishments i 
England. Subsequently he was honoured by 
being elected Sheriff of London. 

[The worthy individual referred to has urged 
us to encourage jtoor lath to spend their spare 
hours and Sabbaths rightly, as well as to do their 
work tcell. — Ed. B.JF.] 

T«rij Part for 1870. mitli Com Lnutad m Colo.ui 
li. ML; doth, gUtedgM,9i U 1 1 I ■■ to Nil 

Dogs and Their Doings. By Rev. F. O 

Illustrated Fly-Leaves. Nos 1 to 40 may 

■c had. Price Id. 

i all the concern. He 

, high tn price, or the 
re. The system works 

l the picture, though 

workman a diiect benefit i 
is better off when metal i 
rock is s«ft, or the metal pi 

The man whom you see 
wearing now a coarse flannel dress, with a lump 
of clay, and a candle stuck in it, to light him on 
his dreary way to the " ends," where he works, 
yet has his mind constantly exercised ; he is 
constantly gaining experience, exercising judg- 
ment — in short, managing. Tims he is accus- 
tomed to think and reason. When he comes up 
from work, and has shifted his clothes, and 
washed and listed, he will appear not only tidy 
but gay, ready for a friendly bout at wrestling 
if young, or, if older, a good romp with the 
little ones, and in the evening for the prayer- 
meeting, or the preaching, or the reading-room. 
In the latter you will find more educational 
works than novels ; on the bookstalls in the 
market towns you will see cheap copies of 
standard wosks more numerous than cheap and 
j b]1oh bound tales. 

The contract-work, whether sinking a "shaft," 
or driving an "adit," or putting up a building, 
is let on the same day as the miner's work. 
As long as the " bal " (the mine) lasts, all are 
interested in "her," and some of the mines 
have been in work for hundreds of years. The 
copper mines in Cornwall are now giving way in 
competition with the rich shallow mines of Chili 
and other parts , but the tin mines are in as 
jii-iisperoii'-. a coiiditimi as ever. The qualities 
which have rendered the Cornish miner so trust- 
worthy and skilful as to be the master of his 
work in all parts of the world — from Lake 
Superior down the Rocky Mountains, 

Calii'm-nia ■ 

the i 

side and Mexic 

, the 


The Lord by wisdom 
hath founded the earth ; 
by understanding hath 
established the 
heavens.— Proved-- iii [9 

other, down the Andes, and up in the remotest 
parts of Peru and Chili, down in the Brazils, 
across to Australia, and wherever miner's work 
is known — are partly derived from the system 
under which he and his forefathers have been 
trained ; but principally from the marked up- 
ward move made since John Wesley came into 
Cornwall, about the year 17411, and first moved 
the hearts of the intelligent rough fellows 
with the love of Christ. The secret of their 
strength of character, of their love of educa- 
tion, of their habitual cheerfulness, of their 
trustworthiness — in short, of their moral and 
material progress, is to be found, undoubtedly, 
m their intelligent, hearty acceptance of the 
salvation revealed in the Bible, realisable by 
personal trusty faith in the atoning work of 
Christ, and accompanied by holiness of purpose, 
conflict with sin, and good works towards man. 
The dark, damp caves in which they work often 
resound with the sound of hymns ; the little 
"plats" (platforms) where they meet under- 
ground, are not inire-ipieiitly places for common 
prayer. There are exceptions, as in all classes, 
but, on the whole, Cornish miners are intelli- 
gent, tin-ty and true, witty, pleasant-mannered, 
and pious. They intone their sentences, and 
much of their language h» an unknown tongue 
to the stranger ; but in their feelings, convic- 
tions, and acts, they are genuine men, and not 

The ancient Romans, in some respects, were in 
advance of the present age in then practical 
physiological knowledge. This was specially the 
case in the habits of the women. They seemed 
to be fully aware of the fact that a hardy race 
must be born of healthful mothers, and conse- 
quently any usage or practice likely to affect 
injuriously the health of women was viewed by 
the State with suspicion. The muscles were 
systematically educated. Frequent bathiuy iv:n 
required by law. Large bath-houses were estab- 
lished, which were places of common resort. 
For several centuries of the first ages of Rome 
it was a criminal offence for a Roman mother 
to drink intoxicating liquors. At the tune of 
our Saviour on earth, and for a long period 

LoxnoN: PcMiahnd monthly by S W PARTRIDGE 4 Co., nt the Office, No. 9, Paternoster Row ; and W. TWEEIVTE, 33;, Strand 

No. 109. July, 1871. 


Price One Penny. 




Darby Brill's first home was made of oyster- 
shells ! It had an oyster-shell floor, and oyster- 
shell walls, and an oyster-shell roof, ami oyster- 
shell chimneys ; the front door was made of 
one gigantic oyster-shell, anil the back door of 

Darby Brill and Nancy Winkle built it with 
.ids ; and the oyster-shell house was 
dearer to them than man; ft castle is to its rich 
rjid coble lord. 

Darby did not reside all the year round at 
this marine residence, for lie, (hough oulyavery 
■ n i'Ii his father : 
md then Nancy always looked faithfully after the 
interests of the little home, repairing all the 
damage which wind and weather made in it, and 
gathering fresh shells for the enlargement dI the 
old Darby be so inclined when he 
came back from sea. 

By this time the reader will have perceived 
that Darby Brills first home was a toy one, and 
it maybe that, on making this discovery, he is 
inclined to charge me with making a mistake. 
and to say, surely I meant livt--, and nut limn'-. 

■ reader, I have made no mistake at 

.•mod now with homes, and not 
merely houses ; for, if Darby Brill had had only 

■ not a home, I should never have 
troubled myself with him at all. 

Yes ! the oyster house was Darby's first real 
home. For the house where he was bom was 
no home to him. Poor Darby had a drunken 
lather, and a mother who followed her husband's 
bad example, so there was little to make the 
"house" 'home'' to him — little comfort, little 
love, often even but little food. Many a day, 
the warmest fire Darby saw was the little one 
which lie and Nancy made in the make-believe 
kitchen of the oyster house ; and the best bit he 

gave her to make a feast. 

Is it any wonder then that the oyster house 
grew to be '' hon Dai by'a eyes, and 

in his heart too 1 

And if the res ting, and think 

that all this was not WOI I '■ 

house so high ■<_■ further told, 

that with that li was associated 

all that Darby Brill kneit of real love. 

he had some one to laugh 
with him when he laughed 

when he cried ; it was there he had an ear into 
which to pour all his little sorrows ; it was there 

saw Nancy's deep blue eyes looking at him ; and 
what pleasure could he have in them again, if lie 
were to return, feeling within Ins heart of hearts 
that he had made a stupid of himself, and that he 
had that which he must hide from Nancy, if In. 
were to keep her respect at all. 

"No! I'll bear anything rather than that," 
thought the youth : " ivi shall not be long now 

■ ting homo, and, for a few hours abuse from 

two or three fellows, I don't care about, I shall 
have many a day's pleasant sitting with Nancy 
in front of thl 

["hen were oi her thoughts, too, winch weigh 
in the youth's mind. Darby Brill had often 
been spoken to by the minister, as lie walked 
along the shore, and ho had frequently heard 
preach ; and he knew thai, go where he 
would, the holy eye was upon him, and the 
awful Book recording about, him : and the 
minister had described Jesus as being so beauti- 
ful, and kind, and holy, and so loving to Darby 
himself — aye, and to Nancy too — that he felt lie 
could not deliberately grieve Him, 

So Darby let the bad ones go, on what they 
called their spree, with. .ni him, and !>■ betook 
himself tn thinking what he would do with his 

Is it any wonder that Nancy in.'.' 
thoughts, and that she should be th< 
success/ Hitherto he had only been able to 
bring her home some thing that c ■-; 

I. nt. now ho culil li. :-... fine; mure. Nancy 

shoidd have a new gown, and il should be of liis 

It was a delicate thing — bin. m- 

Seeing that, when you are buying anything for i 
lady, for one chance of going right, you have 
about a hundred and twenty-one of going wrong, 
the leader will sympathize in Darby's present 

>ne stances, and be glad to hear he got well 

through the matter. He avoided all great 

. ■ - : :dt things 

which "must be cleared by ■ certain day," and 

so forth, and | ri..i to i. ■■ with a dress at 

once tasty and 

Alas! alas! little did poor Darl 

'■■- hai he li '.i i I ) ip :■ '. 

went to buy this drt . A dress is a serious 
matter sometimes, as the young 
to find out. 

When Darby get ashore, he made off with a 
rush to the shanty, the new gown in a bundle 
under hi i arm. There he soon mi I 

. ■ 
and lo ! also, he had become a i 

i [e could ■■■■■ 
something different from 

he had some one lo share everything with. m there stoh 

bo d hare with him, and that some ^e* him also a ki brent from 

one was Kttli j what he had befort ud 

yster house, Edont 1| '" 1 tnB dw"i '■ i "• l ''■ i ' 1 i( - there, 
ild have become of Darby Brill. doar shanty, he did not know what - 
iMwn-up a lad, and then a man, ', ifc — at ali y »te he didn't know how to give it to 
an affections, without thinking Nancy, 
that life was worth living for, without having j Wh,J haa not observed how, on some fine 
. bj '■ lo B-, or feeling that he morning, he awakes, and finds himseli 
ved himself; and he might have made '" summer !— thus it WBS thai [fancy and Darby 

I himself, as many a line fellow has Brill found themselves all of a sudden 


e moved on, and Darby grew to be 

a strong lad, and Nancy to be a blooming girl ; 

■ ame changes, as they ever 

will do. It not only affected Darby and Nancy, 

■v house also, Which had to give 

place to a little shanty which the boy and girl 

i i ft-wood ; and there, were 

i , i little goods ; there, they 

1 ' ■ pt in ■ i der by Nancy ; 


iturn home. 

la in our lives 

therto moved on in an 
sudden jump. 

And such a period came to Darby Brill and 
in the month of 

Darby, havin i rong useful lad, 

been taken on 
board a new b m 

much wages, but a small share in the voyage, if 
■ ■ 

ed i< . in- lad 
had not onl', I note, 

It was a deal of money ; and how Darby Brill 

i] i] ban! poinl in 

- of his mates drank theirs, and 

fiuenceB of the oj b i h md the late in- 
to, weie upon him ; he 

Now, if Darby had found thi 
.me morning when ho was by himself, or if 
Nancy had discovered it, when she was sitting 
some evening on the ledge before the shanty by 
herself, they would each hav< Eel 
comfortable than they did now. But there are 
things in this world for which then 

El j ire i e i hem, n by, you in -i 

them, and thi ra is n thing foi 
irith them. And 
■ "i the m.i 

Darby Brill all at once found h 

unable to aj all, oi indeed all ■ 

aboui the dress which he had brought Nancy. 

her hi 
had chosen it, and 1 he thought she 

would look in it. 

A woman, [f she be a real ■■ • 

herself out of such a position as that oi which 

11 i iting ; so Nancy helped 

|} '" ''>■■ tl igh md he ; L the dress, ad 

go and show it to her 

ii"-''. V little while ago sh< would 

received ii with girli b di light, and in all proba- 

I i r at all ; but 
whatever it was that had come ovei hei and 

turned her into a woman, also prompted her to 
talk to mother about that dress, But befbri 

■ ffrs. Winkle, Nanoj 
how everything had been .mJ \,.> u, ,.i,,l ,,!.,,, 

the little shanty ; how all ii>, ;, 

had bi in i. , lil 3 . 

and how tho little house was in pel I 

Now, whatever it was that had passed over 
the young fisherman since he and Nancy had 
met last, it had two most opposite affects— 
it had made him sharp in some things, and stu- 
pid in others, He had been dreadfully stupid 
about that gown. After thinking on the voyage 
home of all the things he would say, when it 
cone to the point, he found he could not say 
anything at all. But now he was as much the 
other way; ho observed thai Nancj had said, 
" the " house. Ah! why was thatl She used 
always to call it " eui " house. Well I that was 
odd, to be sure. Darby didn'i like it, and he 

wanted to come at the bott >i it, \itci 

having been together ever since they were chil- 
dren, and partners in the old original oyster 
house, and then in the shanty, was she now only 
just going to look after it for him ; and was she 
going no longer to have any interest in it herself i 
If that were the case, the shanty might be blown 
into the sea the next hurricane, for what he 

Indeed, Darby began to feel quite anxious 

■ '•( the mattei ■, thought followed thought like 

wave iftei wave, and. like the waves, each one 
was higher than that before it ; and by the time 
the walk from the shanty was over, and they had 
reached Mrs, Winkle's house, the young fisher- 
man had fully made up his mind that no house 
would he have, be it oyster house, shanty, cottage, 
or anything else, unless Nancy Winkle shared it 
with him. Nancy should say " our, ' just as she 

had done in former times, and, what was more, 

she should say it as long as they both lived. 

And Darby Brill succeeded. Mrs. Winkle 

Darbj had been always a broth* r 

to Nam | . she might take the dress j but Darby 

> ■■■P i - [ 'Ii.u ili"H!:li tlinl e, i, very nice, he had 

been thinking of something nicer, and he thought, 
"it Mis Winkle didn't mind, he'd rather be 
Nancy's husband — someday — not just yet," he 
1 :■; he'd tike to woi I .■ 
would work, that he would; she 
ihould ■■> i . and s<> should Nancy." 

i hinder 1 Mis Winkle wouldn't 

binder it. and Nancy was obliged to confess she 

wouldn't ; and it was henceforth an understood 

thing that, in due season, Darby Brill and Nancy 

■ ■ have suuiethiiiy more suksi.uii,,,] 

1 is, or the shanty, and that 

they were to think and talk of, and plan and 
work for, that which they were to know as "our 

Darby Brill wi oh ApeO] ■ 

■ ho ■ ■ i o !■■ i p d i on Qothing. Ho 

WOUld not do in real 

life, and he made- up his mind accordingly 
D ard work and honest work he meant 

to be his portion in life, but he knew he should 
i home to work for, and, therefore, 
all would be well 

Nancy knew that Darby loved her, and would 
lie. true to her, bo she was iii no hurry ; and 
Darby knew as much of Nancy, so he also was 
well content to wait. And well would it be for 

many j g lads and lasses if they did the like. 

'■ o see the ill-constructed, hastily-tossed- 

together homes which continually meet one's 
eye. One half the carelessness shown by many 
young people in setting up their homes, if allowed 
by the birds when they build their nests, would 
send them and their eggs to tho ground the 
first strung wind which blew. And the end of 
only too often the workhouse — a "house" 

I ■ ■■ I c." What is quickly made, is 

very often as quickly unmade. Surely they who 
cannot exercise a little sell denial before marriage, 

net likely to« .■■.. raise much — at least willingly 

Phi 'I i! i hi state of Darby's mind, 

■ . '-. In followed his business of 
md steadily. 
[i ■ inmenced his thrifty careei thi ei ■. daj 
after thai affair of the gown, by putting between 

n pounds in the savings' bank ; 

ms might come, there was that 

• i, in port; and money draws 

money to it — 'tis the most friendly thing in the 

■Id that way ; and Dai bj mi 


Wi.,,,. ,, .i,, iii,, llL _i,t struck him, as to what 

hi should be 

. .-. ol his foj .!■.-' ■ 

I bul Nancy I knd Darby got a friend 

just to make out a few lines saying ■ Thi 

id bis ti iend in this : I 
done ni proper t there was a deal too 

i . 
list aid thi was nothin 

.,,,1 B< .. .!,-■ ,1, l1 

' I . ■ itually thought 




fisherman when he sat hi front of the shanty — 
which Nancy now agreed to call "our" — and 
told her, that "he had something to givi her, 
which she was to keep very safe." 

Nancy was a trifle frightened at first, when 
she saw her companion draw a paper from his 
hrcast-puekct ; but she remtmbi red how well the 
affair of the gown had ended, and so she waited 
quietly until Darby told her what it was. 

"This is a paper," said he, "to say that 
whatever is in the savings' bank, or anything 
else I have, is to be yours, Nancy, if I go down 
at sea. Keep it safe ; there's no one I would 
rather trust it with than you." 

Poor Nancy ! the tears soon filled those deep 
blue eyes, and hung on the long lashes. What 
should she care for the money, if he who earned 

"Some one must get it," said Darby, "and 
I sha'n't be in a bit more danger for seeing that 
that some one is yourself ; " and he kissed the 
tears from her eyelids, and made her stow the 
paper safely away in her pocket. " Cheer up," 
said Darby, " 'tis only te be on the safe side, 

Nancy," And he was right. Aye, aye, be in 

every tiling, so far as you can, upon the safe 
side with regard to those you love ; make all as 
snug and sure for them as you are able. They 
have a right to this from you ; 'tis cruel and 
unmanly to leave undone what might be dono 
for those who, in God's providence, are made 
dependent upon us. 

Even now Darby Brill met with a reward for 
his forethought and love. Be had, without 
knowing it, or intending to do it, sown a s 
of confidence in the heart of his future wife— a 
teed which was destined to keep growing e 

■I moro when he was far away upon the 
waters; he had tinted her— could she t 
distrust him f Nan. . ■ ■ in-.t taste 

■■i the dcliylnnihu-., . i ' ...n "'— oi that tiust- 
fulness which belongs to all true love. And it 
made still ■ ■ , of her ; only thii 

time her womanhood did not drive her away 
from Darby Brill, but drew lu-r to him ; the 
man who was to be her husband, had begun 
love's life by trust. Nancy was " a wonw 
and " a trusted woman " too. 

It is quite plain that, if Darby Brill was < 
to have a real home of his own, he never could 
attain to it by sitting perched on the ledge of 
the rook on which stood the little shanty. This 
might do well enough for B sea-gull, but Darby 
being of a different d i lea-fowl, 

musl go aboard again. 

The smack was now ready for another voyage, 
i the old crew having given up, Darby 

was taken in his placo ; no longer OS re 

but as what would have been 

bodied seaman, had the smack " Elizabeth " 

been one of Her Majesty's ships. 

Every one in tho " Elizabeth " had a chance 
of realizing something more than his mere pay ; 
for the owner thought that each peisun -lunl.t 
have some interest in the success of the voyage. 
That was his way of doing business, and ho 
found it answer. His men had thus good spirit 
for their work ; and lie believed that in the 
he himself was much the gainer. 

The owner of the "Elizabeth" did bis best 
never to send her to sea except with a steady 
oew ; and he valued tho men who had been 

tried in his service ; and, amongst others. Darby 
Brill. He had his eye on Darby to do s( 

thins, re for bun, by-and-by, if he turned out 

all he promised to be. 

It was with great pleasure, then, that old 
I'm id \V;Ocis heard oi the affair with Nancy ; 
bj old man, who, in his day, himself 
had knocked about the world, knew something 
of the temptations of y< ung men, and ■■ 
of anything which would help to keep (hem 

" Be fcrm D lid old David. 

■ w hi d .' wi man gives a man s true b 
gives him the best she has in the world aye, 
even if the had thousands upon thi u ads b 
sides ; and to play false to her, even though no 
eyi oi man be upon pc i, ■■■■■ ill bi ing ■ tu i< - 

At the very idea of playing Nancy false in 
any way, thi tears wen ready 1 EnDarbj i 

eyes ; he hi ,.,,!■. ,■ , \ I 

■ .ml 1.. his empl. v , do, Mi- 
Waters ; l mi w ■ "■' Nancj W ink ■ tgood 

home, and to keep i I don I i a to 

havi one and then to tuu i ii I ked al 

■* Did i bear you lay ■ home, 1 lad. 

'Ay, ay " ud Darby. 
'I'll. ii. remembi >." continued Mr 

icrcd word til ■ word 
i:.ln i in Yi D nliy, work 



for the 'home' Save for it ; spend l.y-and-by Hut t he - Eli/.abcth ' was not long to reman. 
in it ■ and except what goes out fur t!,, .,,-vkv an own,,- A scapegrace gland nephew 
of t'od ui.l the good of your fellow-man, he ..f Mr. Waters* made his appearance, and. .is no 

jealous of all that ia spent outside it. God will .waa forthcoming, he laid claim to, and took 

intended the thought of ' !i ■ i- do much for all. A search was made, indeed, for a will, but 

.1 man ; I hope it will do much for you." nothing of the kind could be found. 

■ Home home " muttered old David Waters Tlie Brat thing young Griffin did was to diamiaa 

,e„ Darby had left the curious little the old crow of the " Elizabeth : " he did not 

wooden shed on tie ouay, which the good man want to have about mm any of his gnmd uncle's 

. , ■[, to call hia office; "the man men. \nd .10 poor Darby found himself thrown 

,i h. .ha^h.une'iii his heart, will, hyGod's blessing, adrift on the world. 

n-ii oul well. I'll keep my eye on Darby. I But all was not lost on that account. The 

boardmyboatawhothinltBofhome." little home was not going to he broken up, nor 

And thus Darby started on his first voyage were Darby's wife and child going to be houseless, 

. :,.,, ,iy ,,i ,',]! .,l.|.-l".,|ied man, with this homeless, and friendless. 

blessed idea of "home." He had rhc idea as Let Ms not be ashamed of saying that a tear 

rong within him who when home- lolled down Darby Drill's cheek when lie tl ght 

Hid bound. tf any one asked Darby where he of the tight " Elizabeth," the glory of all the 

tiled from, the chances are, lie tv.mkl have lisheimcn along the cast, and that he had now 

answered— at least if he said what was upper- no more to do with her. But Darby knew that 

most in his mind — " from ' Home : j tears wouldn't buy bread, so he put a bold face 

\.s nine passed on, Darby Brill made many on the matter, and said, "Nancy, come whal 

voyages in the "Elizabeth," and rose higher will, we'll keep up the home. I'll buy B coble 

and higher in old Mr. Waters' .-.pinion, until, at for myself, and, though 'tis only poor work after 

last, his place was next to the captain's. i being aboard the ' Elizabeth,' still 'twill bring 

must not be supposed that he met with no honest bread into our mouths, and keep an 

difficulties— no temptations, and that all was honest roof over our heads. The home was worth 

fair sailing. The "Elizabeth" had not always working, and worth saving, for; and now we 

steady men on board. Sometimes g 1 Mr won't part with it for want of a strong heart and 

Wafers was deceived in one or another of the hand; and we sha'n't want the blessing, without 

crew ; and at times, owing to accidents, he was which all would be in vain." 

obliged to take what he could get ; and many a I Yes ! 'twas hard work, but there 

taunt, as well as temptation, had Darby to bear share it, so it was only half as hard 

from such men. But all this only made the ' wise would have been. Nancy had 

home, which now was coming, full in view — for high notions to give up ; and when her husband's 

Darby had saved a tidy bit — all the more pre- boat came in, she was there with her basket to 

i. Heaven itself will, perhaps, be all the bring home the fish, and with little Nancy, very 

precious to us for the obstacles we have often, too. 

eveome, and trials to meet .before we yet there. J Many a happy home-coming had our friend 

The smooth things we would set tie for ourselves, aie Darby. The hearth, the heart, were uni 

not always those most likely to make us happy, home was unaltered. There wore no sour looks, 

Homes worked for and won — homes brought to- no reproaches, no mtirmurings ; Nancy Brill 

gether and held together by horn light such things unworthy of home ; it was 

amongst the strongestand most beautiful on earth, noji to such as these she wished 1 1 i 
There was now money enough for setting up return alter hia days oi nights ol toil 
the real home ; and 
Darby Brill's weddi 

had made himself was stimulus enough I so, 

1 Elizabeth," that tight craft cov. red herweli with little Nancy did thi 
bunting for the occasion. The Woude-rwasthat she j And, though the fisherman could not 

a't smothered with it, for DO less a pel Bon than bring home as nice things as he a 
Mr. Waters himself had been and borrowed no he often brought a little gift, just 
end of flags, some of which belonged to Udyvesscls had Ijuen thinking of them win n 
of much larger proportions than the " Elizabeth." ' Never had Darby Brill a happier home-coming 

But Mr. Waters did even more than this, than one day, when holding little Nancy in hi 
He invited himself to the wedding. He, so to arms, and his wife walking close to him with flu 
speak, dressed himself in bunting 1 for the occasion, lish, he received no end of kisses from the child 
purchasing therefore a blue .silk necktie, with for a little boat he had brought her as a present, 
large yellow spots ; and holding in each hand a " We'll call her the 'Elizabeth,'" said Darby, 

vsilk handkerchief, one red in the ground, with , "andsome day father will have an 'Elizabeth' of his 

green, amber, and black spots, and the union- ' own ; he'll work hard for it anyhow," said the 

jack in the centre, and a border tastefully ' fisherman, turning round and looking at his wife. 

l with flowers of a variety of colours, Bight nobly had Darby Brill wrought for his 

and the other decorated with the flags of all home, and not, as many an one doea, allowed 

'ins, with a thunder and lightning border, misfortune to rob him of it. And HOW the time 
signifying, perhaps, the vicissitudes of weather was coming when he was to have a great reward. 

which such Hags were exposed in all corners Old Mr. David Waters' grand nephew hail 
of the globe. This he held in his hand, perhaps been running a fine rig, and sold three or four of 
being under the impression, as he stood quite the vessels, but, happily, had not as yet, meddled 
close to Darby, that he would pass oft' as his beat J with the " Elizabeth." 

n — as such indeed he was, in a sense which He had just aold the wooden house on the 
would have made the worthy fisherman's heart quay, and Sam Shavings, the carpenter, was 
dance if he had only known it. pulling it down, when, hidden behind a piece of 

For it was only the day before that old Mr. skirting board, the worthy man came upon what 

Waters had made his will, and remembered looked like a piece of coloured chintz. 

the bridegroom handsomely therein. Neither 1 It was our old friend, the flaga of all nations, 

chick nor child had the old man ; and in dis- with the thundi C and lightning border. There 

if his property, he had left the "Elizabeth" it was, just B '.wedding 

i Darby. This was hia favourite boat; it was day ; but what did it contain I 

called after his wife, who had while she lived It was neatly tied round a document, which 

made home bright to him ; and he intended, first was neither more nor less than Davy Waters' will, 

that Darby, as soon as opportunity Ind there, aa plain as writing could say it, it 

: d be mi di h r captain, and then, was stated thai Darby Brill was to be the 

I lie Id possess her. ol the "Elizabeth." 

3hi il be well-handled and eared for," said And eccentric old Davy had put it do 1 

■ ; man, "by a captain who loves his tins way -■" ^nd to Darby Brill 1 leave the 

nd the ' Elizabeth ' can never be better ' Elizabeth,' with all her stores and gear, for the 

'■■>■<■]> that. I te up ' man that cares for his home, will care for his 

But good Mr. Waters never told Darby Brill ihip and her crow." 
of his kind intentions towards him. "He can The day after this disi ivery, Mr. Waters' 

i lone.' as it is," said the, owner of grand nephew disappeared, 10 Darby had i 
betli ' 'many a i when In . , his claim, A real "Elizabeth 

is to c : into a little something, becomes now his — a boat which should be a home < 

lazy, and has false expectations of various kinds; — one which should reward bis wife for all her 

better let Darby work on as he is : and 'twill love, and bravery, and self-denial. And, u thi 

eter from being w ae was kept togethei in the day of adversitg 

Time passed on, and at length, one day, when }, v [ovi . and prudence, and toil, so Darby, bj 

lie " "Elrzabelh " returned to port, it wan to (hid being humble, a imI < :, „1 , M ><1 r !,,,,, .1 ,. : 

herself without an owner, did not. allow it to be injured by prosperity. He 

The day before she . i life; and the r 

Waters died. He had little previous warning — were few happier days spent anywhere or bj 

just a rush of blood to the head —then a fit — any one than those of the home- 

and then all was over. Darby Brill. 


By a Ship-Master. 

It is generally the case with sailors after coming 

from a long voyage, or on a ship's company being 

paid off, after having been ship-niatea together, 

have what is called a " parting glass." The 

practice ia much to be deplored, because it often 

Ii ada to 70rj bad results: frequently to the loss 

of all the hard earnings of the past voyage, and 

sometimes to the losa of clothes and even life 

itself. It is well for ship-mates to part with 

ndly feeling, as it is probable that tlioy may 

iver see each other again. Many that I have 

-ailed with I have never seen again, and it is 

most likely that our next meeting will be before 

the bar of Qod. 

The "parting glass'' will be remembered by 
many with deep regret; and the circumstance 
that I am now about to relate, will serve to show 

the folly and consequences of it. If the hearty 
shake of the hand had been given on board, how 

i h l han over the intoxicating cup. 

ago, a young man I ■■:■, 
•orge was sailing with me, whom I very much 
respected ; he was greatly surprised one morning 
to find that he was locked up in the police station, 
having gone on shore over night and become so 
intoxicated as to be incapable of taking care of 

himself. I obtained his release, ,md he promised 

that it should not occur again. He was in a 

i lit and ashamed to be seen. I 

been informed that he swore, in the 

presence of his ship-mates, that he would taste 

i intoxicating drinks. He kept his 

for a month, when the ship was laid up, 

e of the hands paid off. On that day, 

was inclined to go and have a parting 

glass with them; that parting glass led to hi: 
going on -shore for another in the evening. At 
1(1 p.m. I was informed that two of ray 

were drowned, i hastened on board and found 
one man on deck intoxicated and in a state of 
nudity; but poor George was overboard; he had 
fallen into the water, and his head I 
into the mud. His companion was too far gone 
in a to tell the esjw I pol ■■■ hi re he fi II. 
When we found him, life was extinct. In a 
dreadful state of intoxication, and with oaths on 
his lips, he was ushered into the presence of his 

and gardens mc thus preserved. With charac- 

I eristic patience, a (itrm laturalial has been 

at the trouble of ascertaining that a single young 
starling « ill consume .lie hundi ■■•{ .nni foit\ 
snails in fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, 
during which the young nestlings are coimtantly 
fed, only about three minutes intervening be- 
tween the arrivals of the parents with fresh 
ippliea t the beaks of the little family. We 
cannot follow the writer through all his intricate 

calculations concerning a large swarm of starliugH 
that visited the part of Thuringia in which ho 
lived, and must content ourselves by giving our 
readers the extraordinary result — namely, that 

the 180,000 birds of which this unusualU large 
flock was composed could not have i li .■■■ 
ground of less than li', 000,000 snails and worms 
daily during the time they remained (n that 
neighbourhood."— From Gwwli's Bool ••}' Bvrda, 

We have been much gratified by the receipt of 
the following letter : — 

, . |-;i i.,IH with |-0»l«.t t 

■ . 

indjou n 

' ittsndlngMiiM plsos <rf public 

bam tiaveil livtly Uld jjfniU.'ful remombrfctiue of 

0] a, v ... t. ". hi in. inv imrtmioji, lidr irregular 


Uib)» Society's eilitii'Li, for Uil- 

t thoMrviaw. The fifty n 

[We long to see the day when, ia 

.... . ailwaj mi a Bhall Lave every 
sabbath to themselves, Throughout thi dominion 
:herc are no trains, not even mail train?, started 
■ lay. Iii (lie meantime, we hope 

■I ! ■ I n ing man had been the chief . 

,,,.*, , ., . .... .hat the plan adopted in Manchi tei nil be 

<nn 'port of his widowed mother. A ■ dincc! ' ' „ „, , 

, , , R , lollowed in m.o.y other I.n-e towns.— En. U If .1 
and hard-working young man could not well be 

ii.iiii.!. Mm- ;■ i ' i".'i ; ii i ;■■ "f '-'I , 

idowi 'I i ll ■"■ i" I ■■' l Of her support 

through the "parting gll 
Sailors, when 

■ of the hand, ask God's blessing 
each other, but never let the "part ing glass" be in 
troduced. In the end, "it biteth like a serpent 
and stingeth like an adder," 

It is impossible that any person, however 
thoughtless and unaccustomed to observe the 
works of creation, can look around him, even 
during a morning's ramble through the fields, 
without being struck with the number of living 
beings that offer themselves to his notice, pre- 
senting infinite diversity of form, and obviously 
adapted, by their construction and habits, to 
occupy various and widely different situations. 
The careless lounger, indeed, untaught to mark 
the less obtrusive and minuter features of the 
landscape, sees, perhaps, the cattle grazing in 
the field, watches the swallows as they glance 
along, or listens with undefined emotions of 
pleasure to the vocal choir of unseen feathered 
songsters ; and, content with these symptoms of 
life around him, passes unheeding onwards. 
Not so the curious ami enlightened wanderer, 
inquisitive to understand all that he finds around 
him : his prying eye and intelligent mind not 
"lily can appreciate the grosser beauties of the 
scene, and gather full enjoyment from the 
survey, but perceive objects of wonder multiply 
i he takes. The grass, the trees, the 
flowers, the earth, the air, swarm with innu- 
merable kinds of active living creatures ; every 
stone upturned reveals some insect wonder; 
nay, the stagnant ditch he knows to be a world 
wherein incalculable myriads pass their lives, 
and every drop to swarm with mil 
able to proclaim the Omnipotent Designer loudly 
as the stars themselves. 

■ i-'i v. pedi an o desei i in ■ of Ihe protection 

of man as them most meful birds, an account. 

rices in clearing the 
Loil ad othei I ful i ■ ires would sound 

.i.1iin,.-I iin.Tedil.le. Were We to compute the hosts 

of active destroyers from whose attacks our fields 

r affecting spectacle was presented, one 
about to part, give the ! m ornin£ Prussian war. On the 

bugle being oundi d, b boul 600 rid 

came prancing to the parade ground ! All their 
riders, alas ! had fallen victims to the horrors of 
war. This touching illustration of the horrors 
of war reminds us of Ischaggeny's celebrated 
painting, an engraving of which we now give to 
our readers on the next page. 

Let there be Peace. How long shall cursed War 
Trample with iron heel the verdant earth, 
And cannon feed on God-created man i 
Is death so slow in slaying, that we thus 
Such devilish arts and hellish arms devise 
To aid his sad exterminating work, 
Unpeopling the kingdoms I Let us not 
Thus play a game at which e'en winners lose — 
No longer broadcast sow the bloody seed 
Whcme bitterest harvests spring. The blood- 
less pen, 
Books, reasons, arbitration, arguments — 

■■ mime battles ; let our strife 
Be hi ii" forth only but for precedence 
I* th' onward march of love. Both great and 

Have been the warlike nations. Greater still, 
More prosperous and more famous, .-ho nil 1 be, 
Who shall sheathe the desolating sword, 
And teach the nations Peace and Harmony. 

Notices to Co n-espon dents. 


i ■■■ I'm- 1870, «tlli Covur I'riuUil in c'ul.tno 

Nos. 1 to 36, 

Illustrated Fly-Leaves. Nos. 1 to 40 may 
b« h..\ in B !'.•■■!■ '. !■.■■■■ i . Tnwl Dl toUmton will, wo 
hope, fill-! Hum foni^ptff 

Opinion of Qreat Men on Wax.— 1 ' We 
cannot make a more lively representation and 
emblem to ourselves of hell, than by the view 
of a kingdom in war." — Lord Clarendon. 
" War is an instrument entirely inefficient 
towards redressing wrong, and multiplies 

instead of indemnifying i 

losses." — President Jejfenon. 
" The sentiment, or rather | 
the principle, that in peace 
you must prepare fur war, iz 
one of difficulty and danger ; 
for while we keep large armies 
on hand to preserve peace, 
they are at the same time 
1 1 icei i ti ves and instruments 
of war." — Louis Philvppt. 
"It is quite true, it may be 
said, what are opinions against 
armies/ My answer is, opin- 
ions are stronger than armies--, 
Opinions, if they are founded 
in truth and justice, will, in 
the end, prevail against the 
bayonets of infantry, the fire 
of artillery, and the charges of 
cavalry." — Lord Palmerstm. 

nations, and to improve the overgrown situa- 
tion of their people."— The Duke of Wellington. 
"I PRAY that no war may break out. I want 
to see no more ; it is a fearftd work, in its 
best form, and revolting to me. Nothing can 
make me believe that o.nij num n-ho lias em- 

been in one buttlf, am icixh to I"- in << *>■<■< >m.l 
from personal feelings, if he has those of a 
man or a Christian. Woe to the ruffian that 
fights a battle that can possibly be avoided ; 
he is a wholesale murderer, for Ins own private 
selfishness." — Gtnerai Sir Oharla Wapicr. 

christian. i hold it tlio 
greatest of human crimes." — 
Lord Brougham. 
" Believe me, nothing ex- 
cept a battle lost, can be 
half so melancholy as a bat- 
tle won." 

" What is needed by the 
several governments is such 
a peace as would give them 
the power of reducing then 
military establishments, and 
the leisure to attend to the 
internal concerns of their 

The Poland-street Bell-ringers— The skill of 
these musical amateurs is most wonderful. 
We recently had the pleasure of being present 
nt a meeting <A soldiers in the Tower of London, 
when Mr. Miller and his comrades gave a musical 
treat, such as " the guards" had, perhaps, never 
iouBlyhad. Between the 
jus tunes, short addresses 
temperance and other 
kindred subjects were de- 
■ed, and warmly applauded 
by the soldiers. A friend, 
on leaving the room, remarked 
— " If in every regiment of 
the British army there was a 
• Bell-ringing Club,' like this, 
there would be very few cases 
in the ' defaulters' sheet.' " 

It is worthy of remark, that 
Mr. Mdler and his * 
patiions, who are all temper- 
ance men, are engaged in busi- 
ness duties during the day, 
and it is by the wise employ- 
ment ©f the leimrf evening 
hourt that they have 
quired such remarkable m 
cal skill. Her Majesty, last 
year, honoured these diligent 
and persevering men by in- 
viting them to perform at 
Olbome House, on the birth- 
day of the Princess Beatrice. 
We recommend those who 
are seeking to promote the 
injoyment and elevation of 



• tin- , 

of the celebrated Poland- 
ttreel BeU-ringera. Mr. 
Miller's address is— No. 53, 
Richmond Terrace, Clapham 
Road, London, s. \v. 

Lokdo* : Published monthly by S. W, PAimUDGE & Co., at tho Office, No. 9, Paternoster Row ; and W. TWEEDIE, 337, Strand. 

tttt: bktttst-i workman 

Price On« Penny. 



At the fiint of Monte I'" i, in the districl oi 
Varollo, there isasmall borough of 1200 in- 

habitant», called Alagn;i, where there lias not. 
been a criminal trial, not even a civil suit, for 
the last four hundred yean. In case of any 
rrrong committed, oronyveryblamahle conduct, 
flic gmlty person, marked by public reprobation, 
is soon compelled to quit the country. The 
authority of fathers, like that of the patriarchs, 
continues absolute all their lives, and at their 
death they dispose of their property '■ thej 
please, by verbally imparting their Inst will to 
or two friends, whose report of it is reckoned 
sufficient ; no objection is ever made to such 
I testament. Not long since a man died worth 
four thousand pounds sterling — a large fortune 
in that country ; lit* bequeathed a trifle- only to 
his heir. The latter mot, accidentally. 
at the neighbouring town <>f Varcllo, a lawyi 
• >f his acquaintance, and learned from him that 
he was entitled, legally, to the whole property 
thus unkindly denied him, and of win 
his assistance, ho might obtain ^■-■- - i-m v, w 
shortly. The disinherited man at. first declined 
the offer, but, upon being strongly urged, said 
ho would retleet upon it. For three days after 
this conversation he appeared very thoughtful, 
and owned to his friends that he was about to 
take an important determination. At last 
taken, and, calling on his legal adviser, he told 
iiiiii, "tin. 1 thing proposed hail never been done 
at Alagna, and ho would not be the first to do it" 

The property of these simple people 
of cattle. In their youth the men visit foreign 
countries for purposes of trade, the stock ..f many 

■ a" diem listing wholly of tigm. . 

green parrots, Chinese mandarins, mid other 

■ ; .i> ■ i :. i ■ i hi plaster, and stuck on a board, 
which they carry on their heads ; but they rarely 
fail to return home with the money thus gained; 

and even those whom superior talents, ■ t better 
opportunities, have enabled to amass a fortune, 
still seek that dear native [and again, Mid pi turn 
unchanged by foreign manners. — Simond's 

Two of tho earliest artistic efforts of this cele- 
brated painter are yet in existence. The one 
is the sign-board of the "Old Inn of Dyce," 
and the other the portrait of "Fair Helen," 
daughter of Mrs. Allardyce. Helen died when 
young, but was for years the companion of the 
artist. It is worth recording that, when John 
Phillip left his master, a house painter, because 

lie fell li tt ,1, , ..I. -I |.\ I,. I 

colour doors and v, imlow-sashes, ho made his 
way to Dyce, and, at the age of thirteen, was 
engaged as herd-boy to Ins friend and relative, 
Mrs. Allardyce. She remembers him arriving 
with his change of shirt, and, having washed one, 
it was put out to dry along with other clothes. 
During the night the clothes were stolen ; but 
she only grieved for the loss of Johnny Phillip's 
sliirt. When she mourned her loss to him, he 
replied, " Never mind, Mrs. Allardyce, wash the 
one I have on, and I'll gang to bed till it's dry ; 
my puir mother has. often to do that." 

To the credit of Phillip, about two years before 
his death, he who had wandered over Europe, and 
had been honoured by kings, queens, and princes, 
paid a visit to Mrs. Allardyce, and told a friend 
who was with him, " that Mrs. Allardyce and her 
husband were good friends to him when lie 
; mey." He pointed out, in (he true 
Spirit of an artist, the veritable churn he used to 

ad, ' i poke of his happy hours when herd- 
oallant -d Dyce. 

From .ih-Ii .-mall beginnings rose John Phillip- - 
" Phillip of Spain," as ho lias been named from 
ins faithful transcripts of Spanish lift ,,m artisi 
admitted by his brothers in art to excel in colour 
the most famous painters of the ancient schools. 
i Up. 

Thm arc! eat work, the Scott 

Monument in, one of tho noblest monuments of 
Edinburi -..,., humble shepherd, 
who heii opes of the Pent 

laud hills, George, at the 
being aenl ■ i i Roslin tillage, beheld, 
furtheiir.ii h , the h Iroua architecture of 

Itoslifl Ohftpi I ; anil ilie .■ i inn illir '1 V, nil 

heg8Jsed.<i i ch I 'Mi t the work not only 

confirmed bii choi s i I life, but dwell i 

wards in i As soon as he wn- 

tit for work, ho was apprenticed '■■ 

■ I when he had completed Ins ap- 

' ' went to London. 
Uiis tune he pursued his natural 
■ ■■■ !■■ n by itudying tlie remains of Gothi 

■ :- going diniierless ami 
tliat he might be able lo defray the i 
a trip to the ruins of some abbej 

For two years he travelled through England and 

France, in meeting the am l< ill remains oi archi- 

lerluie, and supporting him-elf, durm ■ I, ,; .1 iy 
in the neighbourhood of each, by wo 
ordinary trade. Kemp died just as Ins fame was 
spreading through Europe, but the monument, 
which lifts its fretted form in Edinburgh, is as 
much to his memory as that of Sir Walter Scott. 
The late Robert Chambers thus writes of 
Tho Scott Monument has been visited 
from every land ; engravings of it are diffused 
over the wide earth, and, as long as it stands in 
its majestic and imposing beauty, tho pilgrims oi 
future centuries, who gaze upon it in silent ad- 
miration, will connect the name of its buildei 
with the thought of him whom it commemorates." 
I may here relate an anecdote of Kemp, which 
up to the present time has never ippeared in 
print. At the conclusion of his apprenticeship, 
and before setting out for London, he resolved 
On taking a parting look of his favourite Melrose 
Ikbbey, ixcelled in beauty by any other re- 
ligious edifice that he ever beheld. Early on an 
autumn morning rtedfro l Edinburgh, and, 

when be had left the city some eight miles be- 
hind him, he was overtaken by a private carriage, 
111 which a gentleman sat alone. Leaning out oi 
the window, ho called on the postillion to stop. 
"Hullo! my lad!" he shouted to Kemp, 
"are you going far / " 

" To Melrose, bit," was the reply. 
"Then open the door and jump in, my lad." 
The lad jumped in ; and the long thirty miles lay bet. >ie 'hem ivas beguiled by 
tion. The gentleman spoke of Melroso Abbey 
as if he had been its build, r and founder, 
hid seemsdl to live in a land of 1 
listened to the tales of the kings and mighty 
who had worshipped "beneath its roof, and had 
been buried in its precincts. Kemp was sorry 
when the carriage drew up ,u 1 1 

"Here we must part," said the gentleman 
"I hope you will succeed ni your profession as 
an architect, for so you are at heart. When 
in Edinburgh, I shall always be happy to 
."ii.u ih\ llOU e.inCastle Street. Pleaseentermy 
address in your pocket book : — Walter Scott, 69, 
X.uth Castle Street." 

is the first, but hot the last meeting of 
the great author and the great architect 


Thf. parents .if Allan Cunningli 
humblest ranks of life. At the ago of 
Allan left his father's home to herd sheep 
mo,sy, moory bills of Dumfriesshire. At the age 
of eleven, Allan was bound apprentice to a stonc- 
1 1.1 be still could enjoy the benefit of his 
actions, whom he dfl i 
Bossing "a warm heart, lively fancy, and bene- 
volent humour." In his twenty-fifth year he 
went to London, and endeavoured to support 
himself by Ids pen. Francis < ' 
famous sculptor, was in want of a foreman who 
combined artistic imagination and ta te 

mechanical experience and skill, and he engagi .1 
Cunningham, the stone-mason, poet, and journal- 
ist, to till the post. Cunningham v i 

>■'] attitudes in figures, picturesque 
tolda "i draperies, and new proportions foi 
pedestals. The highest in rank, and the most 
distinguished in talent, were brought into daily 

iC with him. He 1- i t nu mb. red as on. 

of Scotland's most distinguished i .. and 

higher fame still, his ways were so upri| hi thai 

while living he was known as "hont l! \M 

I a ' rgfl workshops, where a number of hands 

are employed, there is usuallj f I one, 0] 

" d oul i'i in< nily from the rest, 

some eocentrii ;iy or pecu- 
liarity of character, temper, or 

Whatever that peenlimif > m.i> bo il n< V< l 
i H© d ; it either becomes the subject 

b the indii idu iJ to 

a queer, unsocial fellow ; in 

■ In. I, el. .0. 

. ipriate to in.-, clion 

1,J| " li bo flj fcnov li. shop Thi 

li John Hw 

l . . | :,.,,,... 
for " Ml I'i. v. him. 

■, trade b ■ rp uti r, 

in a shop where he had many fellow-Iabouren. 
According to the usual acceptance of the phrase, 
John i'. ."il. i have been regarded as a decent 
kind of a fellow, had it not been for one pre- 
dominant Failing. No one could say he was a 
dullard in his craft, nor was he devoid of that 

i amodity called— in the ■ ■•. . 
(actions of life— common .. ■ ■ John 
a gooil character for industry and iofarit . , 1 
one ever saw him drank. He belonged uol to 
the order of Monday saints, whose weekly fes- 
tival is usually characterized by idl I 
fulness, intemperance and vice ; nor was be 
destitute of kindness, for it was known thai he 
had done many a good-natured act for the 
purpose of helping a fellow-workman. Not- 
withstanding all these good qualities, it must, 
however, be told, that John had his failings as 
Well as Ins excellences, and one of these faults, 
too, was a monster. Now it has been eaid, 
"Every man has some but. or other" in his 
character, 01; condition, winch acts as a draw- 
back upon his merit, or enjoyment ; as in the 
case "I the Assyrian General of old time, of 
whom it is recorded, " He was ,, great man n Lth 
his master, but he was a teper." 

All ! these butt I how often do they stand in 
the way of men, or rest on their character like 
a Mot of ink on a drawing, which causes you 
time you look at it. Now John had 
his hut as well as others ; this but was a violent 
temper, ee ilj e cited and inflamed. Could lie 
always have soiled in smooth water, free from 
eddi< i and cross current . 01 I ive pui w d the 

journey of life in B path where no (horns or 

is obstructed bis progress^ it is likely be 

Id have got on wondrously well. But such 

mt the lot of man; there are no privileged 

paths for corned feet ; every one has his worries 

and annoyances, Ins grievances and trials, vary- 

ze and character, hut all more 01 teas 

trying to the temper, and serving to test what 
kind of metal a man is inado of. Thus it was 

tli John Hudson. It was the pet! 
of life that usually disturbed his equilibrium. 
As it has been stated, his great wei '■■ 
rritablo temper, as easily ignited as a lucifer- 
matcb, and which, when excited by any of the 
all teasing annoyances which enter into the 
evuiy-day experience of all, and which wise men 
endure with the .same calm indill. 
would the buzzing of a fly, would cause him to 
xplode like gunpowder. Vet, in great trials, 
John could display considerable endurance. It 
inlikely he would have endured the 
amputation of a limb with the patience of a 

Job ; but little worries completely coi I 

him ; and as these assail us almost daily, the 
(ability oi his temper caused him to spend 
halt" hi* time in little thunderstorms. It was 
this infirmity of temper that obtained for him 
liable title of "Gunpowder Jack." This 
iniinuity of bis often caused his associates to 
play upon Ids weakness, and many a roguish 
a3 executed for the purpose ; a just 
retaliation, as it was considered, for the annoy- 
In.' occasioned bj his combustible tempera- 
ment. As may be supposed, tliis served to 
In .-. il 
I enter nut into the causes of this peculiarity 
John's character ; I refer to the simple fact ; 
in 1.11 ing, however, the probability that it re- 
sulted chiefly from the evils of his earlj tm 

if that can lie called training which is devoid of 
instruction, discipline, and example. It maybe 
stated that his mother was one of those weak 
lien who, from indolence, or a blind indulgence, 
named affection, bring up. their children 
without any kind of discipline or restraint, and 
thus render them miserable in future life, by 
ending thi m forth into the world to endure its 
slights and kicks, with a temper winch has never 
felt bit or curb. We m..\ ,,.,,, ,,,,1, . i,.,,-. 

that John's eliara. ti.i' would have been much less 

■ 1 bis path in lite ■- ther and 

happii r, h id lie bi ell properly 11 

disciplined ill carh liffl, Be that OS it may, his 

ti mpi 1 wo ■ i" li ' w« have de ■■ ribed . he had 
been " broken in," nor hod ho evt v 

learned from any < tein ■■! ■ In -. I I .- ■ 

philo oplucal, thai it [a a great part of human 
[adorn to v. nil p ti Lvo tndiff ceni e the 

little b and annqyi 1 of life, which 

othei n i-.e would de Iproj I he 1 and equili 

bri i the mind, and throw it into ; , state of 

perpetual fermenl Had it been otherwise^ 

1 rn cd at the stoic virtue 
v ho, when his vira 

pom ■ i t an upper window n puil of b atei 

1 in In d, . aliidj looked ap, n itii tlie " mw i-, 

I though) after so much tli ; 

: ; ned the render thus far with a 

sketch of '■ Gunpowder Jack," because I regard 
him as the type of a class of persons who come in 
one's way from time t.. time, and who, whi »v< 

' they are met with, be it by the road- ide, in tli 

workshop, (he family, or elsewhere, 

rippling and disturbing the euneni of tin n .... , 

■ ■I that of Others, by their worn,:; 
account of the petty troubles they meet with. 

| You can scarcely come in contact with tb. m ... 
out being bored with a detail of theii pall . 
trials, or enter their houses without being *i< I., n. .1 
by the endless catalogue of their alight vexations 
and injuries. In some circles of life, little is 
talked of but the tricks of tradespeople, the 1111- 
manogeablenesB of children, the ingratitude of 

' friends, and the like ; and then follows a piteous 
complaint of the painful trials which these evils 
have caused. Thus they are always bror en,.. 

| their little miseries, nourishing their disconi. 1 
hawking about their griefs, ns if for the pur] ■■ 
of exciting commiseration, when, in fact, it is tlie 

' result of a morbid state of mind, which, by us 
persistent habit of brooding over disagreeables, is 
kept in .1 state of constant irritation— a 1 
to itself, and also to others. 

But these are not the persons 1 have immedi- 
ately in \it-w. My reference is especially to the 
class of whom " Gunpowder Jack " is the proj r 
type. The eharaetcis j llfl t described sutler thetu- 
selvca to be chafed by the worries of life until 
they become sullen, snappish, and miserable — 

ever complaining ; whereas thoBe I now refer to, 

from their inflammable temperament, are ignited 
by every little rub they expeiieiice, and at OI1C0 
break forth into a blaze of passion. Example 
hen will be better than description ; I therefore, 

place before the reader a few specimens of the 

class who so often in this way disturb the atmos- 
phere around them by a ''blowup" — an ex- 
plosion Oi temper. 

Here is a gentleman who, because his carriage 
is brought out live minutes later than the time 
ordered, becomes a perfect, fury, and loads his 
coachman with opprobrious epithets, although 
the delay has teen occasioned by the r- 
of a horse, by which the coachman's life lias been 
red. The delay is of no imporfanu e 

whatever, but the gcnlleman'a temper can brook 

no die ippointmeut / 

\ shopkeeper's assistant carelessly leavi 

•age, over which Ins master well nigh 
stumbles. Instead of a calm rebuke for Iho 

. thoughtless act, the shopkeeper's irritable temp. 1 
i'u • Lip into a Storm Ol passion, and, enniueia! in-, 

1 alamitous results that could pu*.-ibu 1, 

arisen from an actual stumble — such as, that he 
mighl have broken his leg, and have become a 
cripple, or his neck might have becu broken, 
and he have lost liis life — he abuses the unhappy 

delinquent with as much animosity as if 
evils bad actually occurred. 

j Here ia a young man who prides b... 
his epicurean taste, a most undesirable quality 
..■I .' s i.iuiy man to possess. He sits down to 
dinner, which be surveys with a scrutim 
the mutton he pronounces over-roasted, the 
potatoes are not boiled enough, the pastry Inn 
. not tho right flavour; everything is wrong, and 
I is partaken of as if every dish had been blended 
with wormwood and gall, thus annoying hi ■ 

Olid di In in.', be- wife, and all because his 
temper had been fired by an imaginary insult re- 
ceived from a friend just before he entered his 


A workman is at a loss for a tool, which he 

. has himself misplaced, but which he BUI ] ■ i I 

been removed by a fellow-workman; instantly 

Ins ire is kindled against the supposed ohYii'h r. 
and a flood of abuse is poured 011 his head. 
A second is arrested in liis work bj 

■ in the machinery. An hour or two 
will repair it, but he cannot brook the delay, and 
he freta and fumes, and works himself up b 

fever of discontent, at the loss of time he has 

A thud ■ eceivet an order to mike 1 
tion in a piece of work he has in hand j it will 
be .'1 provt ment , but an undoing in 

what he has dvut: touches his pride ; he fancies 

111.:.-. Il .e. ■!... ■. ■ e. .'I 'I ': . 1' 

-.train . bis BXCltcd passions fi"iu U ' 

A fourth, because his dinner is not ready at 
the moment he enters his duelling, flies in! 

1 :e i-. and, 'bo ii". tlie 1 1 '1. keeps ap s ■■ 

■ : invectives, regard- 
less Of the cxeus<! ot his wife, that the di 

■ ■ .:. child. 

i '| i,,-,.' 1 ..oiipl.-. have been Beli oted ■■■ ■■ ui 

but they will remind the reader of 1 | 1 flu 

and may so pQ'to ( xpoBe tlie 1 \ il and . ' 
temper whu h ba> be, u delineat, J. w ho ■■■ . 
Ld to these 

a not the instrument . 

r«dfceHr ,1 ■ pi kos contemp. ' Ho« , w I -,.■! ,1,, ^ I. ■ . . I 

who at every petty veiation .«*«« 1™ t, an, ■ 

L>rampantovcr reason, ud give- ^ to. b ■■ ■ -,1 I . l.« want. U.e 

oeaaei of rtga, which might, for their foUy,BXcit€ instrument, the Holy Spirit, to guide hia ■«- 

laughter, wore it not for the pain and confusion 

[Ju j ,,,.: ioil : Abiding friendship cannof c:-.: I 

with such persons, for at any time ft may be ■! 
stroyed by some sudden guat of pftiaion. Their 
fuiling ia not less destructive to | 
,,,,,,. i |ii Pj For they are perpetually attracting 
around them the elements of strife 
For this reason, men avoid any intimacy of con- 
nection. Like hedge-hogs, all bristles, no one 
loves to touch them, and a regard for 
comfort causes them to bo kepi al ■■■■ tance. 
Thus these tiery individuals lose a large amount 
of personal enjoyment, whilst they are the oc- 
casion of much annoyance and pain to others. 

Now, my wish is to say something to this class 
of'peraons that may be beneficial. It ia of no 
avail for them to say — "Thisquickness of temper 

quiries, to enlighten bis understanding, to teach 
his heart. 

But if Borne read the Bible and learn nothing, 
others read it and learn but little. They begin 
without prayer, and they end without medita- 
tion. They read, but they do not inwardly 
digest ; while others embrace its truths, seize 
and secure its treasures, and, to use the figure of 
Scripture, receive the engrafted word which is able 
to save their souls. — Sir T. Few "J' 

The nightingale, the lark, and the cuckoo, have 
had innumerable lyrists ; but we cannot readily 
pbody since Catullus who lias con- 
descended to pay a poetical compliment to the 

r n That knowing little bird— that oroi- 

ia on infirmity of our nature, and iwe cannot help {ht)ln „ icaI Cockney, so clever, vulgar, cheerful 
it." Yes, you can if you try. Our pa^mns au ;ni] . 1L 

very much under our own control. Men may ^ ft nionMr oi progam, an agent of civilization, 
subdue and keep them within proper limits it , u|(| an M t0 womB Wo bav0 ^nady 

they will only employ the right means. They mt , lltl01lol | tis 'imputation into New York, where 
may determine how far they w ill allow annoying (] ^ ^-^ ^^ anffcii]] ., fl ,, m thc ravagea of t | ie 
circumstances to exert influence over them, hi , mMe vei , nm knowil ;i3 the inch-wnnu, the 
and the best way to succeed is to look at them 
fairly and fully, and bravely meet them. In 
this way many things, that at the first glance 
look very bad, on a calm and near in- 
spection assume quite & different 
kinds of weather may be made agreeable if we will. 
Here ia one who wishes to take a country walk, 
but, on opening liis door, and looking out, he 
sees that the day is rainy and stormy ; it is a 
disappointment ; no matter, he determines to 
persevere in his purpose ; his health requires it. 
He puts on lus great-coat, buttm 
solutely sets out, regardless of ill 
soon finds that the weather ia not so bad a3 he 
supposed ; by-and-by the clouds break, gleams 
of sunshine brighten the scene, and, before his 
walk is half finished, he begins to think if is 
rather a fine healthy day, though a ti«!a breezy 
and boisterous. The reader cannot fail to per- 
ceive the moral of this. Instead, then, of allow- 
ing every alight in personal, social, or family life, 
to ruffle the temper, and make you feel wretched, 
resolve to face it manfully, to view it in its length 
and breadth, and on both sides, that you may 
not be deceived by first impressions, or by a 
partial view. Tins will be sure to make it look 
much smaller, to remove much of its annoying 
appearance — perhaps cause it to disappear al- 
together — leaving you to wonder at your folly in 
allowing yourself to be so excited by a mere 
phantom. In this way much of the wear and 
tear of life will be prevented, hours and days 
that are now passed in worry, misery, and strife 
will be spent in peace and enjoyment, and, in- 
stead of being the pitiful slave of nnbi idled pas- 
sion, you will rejoice in if* conquest, 

uii! mother, but d-esn't the Bible say, 'Love 

:, afterwards told me that this little 
I v upset her rem ogeful feelings 
that she could not say another word. There 
was in the same parish a young girl who had 
left school to take a situation, and unfortu- 
nately she fell in with a very hard taskmaster. 

Thc girl knew how earnest all her friends 
were that she should keep her place for a twelve- 
month in order to get a character, and she 
succeeded in doing bo. At the end of that time 
she came back and said to me, "I have had hard 
work to keep my place for the past twelvemonth, 
but it was the text Mr. Whit lock i.m-lii ui>- ih.ii 
enabled me to do so : — 

"Let patience have her perfect work." — 27i« 

flew. WMUock, M.A. 



If we do no more than take a snp..Tt'n'i,d 

the Bible, and just snatch a few fragments of 

truth from it, even this is better than its utter 


But this is not the way to gath 
Sacred Word those treasures of knowledge which 
it will yield. We must not lead if, but Btudy 
it : we must not cast a hasty glance upon it, 
but meditate upon it. deeply with fixed attention, 
with full purpose of heart, with all the energy 
of our minds, if we desire to beoome masters oi 
the treasures of revelation. And I am sure that 
Scripture, tlms diligently studied, read, marked, 
learned, and inwardly digested, and read, too, 
with prayer for the influence of the Holy Spirit, 
will furnish us with new light, open to us new 
views, and will appear to us in itself in a new 
character, adorned with ,i vainly ,.| I. aiilies 

-■■ 'lb |.' .: . I, I. ..till ..,,■■ ',, 

a vigour, and an appropriating ito our own needs. 
and with a harvest of divine instruction and 
cogent truth, never yielded to its careless culti- 
vation. I have known men, and nn -n oi I 

understanding, who hi 

When an oak, or any noble and useful tree, 
ia uprooted, his removal creates a blank. 
years after, when you look to the place which 
once knew him, you see that something 
missing. The branches of adjacent trees hart 
not yet supplied the void. They still hesitate 
to supply the place formerly tilled by their 
powerful neighbour ; and there is still a deep 
chasm in the ground — a rugged pit which Imws 
n, the leaf-worm, how flU ' his & ant roota once s l ,rcml - Bllt whc » 
ged hunchback. The rob,., would il ltivflt3S P yle > a " Wl -'» l' m " , 18 P Iucked °R 

eat th.s creature; the blue-bird left him comes easy and dean away. There a no rending 

alone with his absence of glory ; till at last the " f the tuif > »° >" amn S °} *"* landscape, 
sparrow was called for, and the , ,i<y created, no regret. It leaves no memento, 

The little Cockney, of course-, seemed favourable, 

terms, including, „ ample dietary and a free! Brctluen which are yon f A l.„ 

passage ; but it vai expected that, in return, he l' Ult ^ '» f* hou " " f *• Lmd ' f tin « a ? o1 
would at once take up his abode in Central Park, aild S»W«I ■***« on those amum! yeu 1 Are 
^ bis cure for worms \nd so >' ou P&hn-trees, fat and Hoin i-lnn-, yielding 
after o time, ha did ; but first ol all," rights *£?^**&^J^*jS "}"] \'"Z ?."!! 
considering that Malthuaianisui does not apply 
o a new country like the ](7nited States, he 
levoted himself, with 
Biderable success, to the multiplication of his 

took to eating the 

feathers, the poor bird did not. stir ; only its wings 
quivered, and its eye looked full of grief. Hon 

Long it would have ained thus I do not know. 

but it seemed best, at last, to take away the dead 
bird, and then the sorrowful survivor flew into 
some bushes. 

Now, let any boys, who arc tempted to take 
away young birds from tho nest, think of this 
touching fact, which shows how much affection 
and sorrow may be contained even in I 1 ■-. 
heart, and let them remember how much the 
parent, buds must suffer when their fender brood, 
in taken from them. I believe that even wild and 
reckless boys, if they WOuld but think how much 
pain they are causing, would be sorry to destroy 
the happy homes of the beautiful birds. 

i. a 

you? Are you so useful, that w< 
once away it would not be easy to fill your place 
again, but people, as they pointed to the void in 
the plantation, the pit in the ground, would say, 
" It was here that that old palm-tree diffused 
and his ''' 3 I;uiim ar shadow, and showered his mellow 

Some writers give the following analysis of the 
"Book of books," the Biblv : 

It is the book of Laws, to show the right " l 
wrong. It is the book of Wisdom, that makes 
tin: foolish wise. It is the book of Truth, whi- h 
detects all human errors. It is the book of Lit. 
which shows how to avoid everlasting death. It 

contains the most authentic and entertaining 
History ever published. It is a perfect book ot 
Divinity. It ia a book of Biography. It is s 
book of Travels. It is a book of Voyages. It 
is the best convenant ever made — the beBt ever 
written. It is the young man's best companion. 
It is the school boy's best instructor. It is the 
learned man's master-piece. It is the ignorant 
man's dictionary. It promises an eternal rew 
to the faithful and betieving. 

havo been gratefully recognized by the 
erection of " bird-houses " in Union-square. 
The winter cold is somewhat too severe for ih 

clusters I " Or arc you a peg, a pm, a rootless, 
branchless, fruitless tiling, that may be pulled 
up any day, and no one ever can 

strangers; but, with a comfortable little house ]liis ''^'"^"[..iV,., ^ ] f "^ ^'Vr'" v I , H ™ 
above their little heads, and a daily supply of 
food, they fare tolerably well after all. Insidi 

the boxes, nests are constructed of hair, cotton, 

I- .Klin--, I i.i -., i-i--.'. !■ i ' in 

foundation ; during the colder mouths the park- 
keeper feeds the birds with 
in thc summer they may be 
their dips from little bits of plant placed 
basin of the fountain. The horrible worm ia 
rapidly disappearing before then ; and — as the 
V» '" York Tiincs declares — u The astounding 
fact, that they alone, of all public servants of, 
this city, have fulfilled their contract, makes | °,_' __*_ 
their history not only interesting, but unique." 
Does not the thoughtful kindness with which the 
useful little birds are treated by the Americans 

contrast rather strongly with the stupid barbarity 
of our own "sparrow clubs, 1 ' ami the reckless 
slaughter of small birds in France ! — Duihj 

you contributing to the world's happh 
or the church's glory 1 What is your Enuui 

— Dr. Hamilton. 


One day I got off my horse to kill a rat, which 
I found on the road only half killed. I am 
shocked at the tlioii-iit!- - ■. hkIiv ■' ("■■■pie. 
yet I did a thing soon after, that has given me 
considerable uneasiness, and for which I reproach 
myself bitterly. As 1 was liding homeward, I a wa-.'^'on standing at a door, with three 

horses; the two foremost were eating corn from 
bags at their noses; but I observed the third 
had dropt his on the ground, and could not 
stoop to get anj " r, I rode on in 

absence, without av-.astiiiL; turn. Hut. when I had 

got nearly home, I remembered what I bad 

observed in absence of mind, and felt extremely 

■ i ivoukl have ridden back, 

had I not thought the waggoner might have 

come out of the house and relieved the horse, 

\ ail.- r ill not have had a better demand for 

getting off lus horse, than for such an act of 
been induced to lead humanity, n is by ab ence i I i und that we 
tho Bible, and who have protested that tbej "" l " many duties Jl SB. 

could make nothing of it, that they could not *•••* 

comprehend it ; no wonder : it is a sealed book to . THE VALUE OF LITTLE TEXTS. 
those who neither ask nor receive th.- Holy Spirit. ! i my country parish (here lived a very ignorant 
An astronomer looks at the face of the heavens woman. She had * daugli n lai 

through a telescope, spangled with stars and attendant al my Sniid..\ > lr I 

planets, onS sees a harmony, an order, a One day a nei^hi ki aer, In 

profuse display ot power and wisdom. An said, "If she comes near my house I mil breol 
ordinary man surveys the same skv with a her head." Her child, on hearing this, inunedi- 

naked eye, and observes nothing of all this ; he ately exclaimed, 

I- "1 t' kin" ^ 1ANY blessed conse^iu i;ccs How from having the 
- ° words of Scripture in the memory. We cannot 
always have our Bibles in our hands ; especially 
if our calling leads us to manual labour. 

When you walk by the way, good tbougtits 

will be promoted, and evil thoughts will be shut 

d word of God turned over in 

the mind. Choose your text in the morning 

with tliis view. 

When you are at work, you may derive 

speakable profit and comfort from ruminating on 
some savoury promise. It may, by the blessing 
of God, do you as much good as a sermon. 

When you are at prayer, texts of Scripture in 
the memory will aid yotu devotion, by awakening 
right feelings, suggesting seasonable requests, 
and prompting to suitable expressions. Thus 
you join the "Word of God and prayer." 

When y n retire to rest, or lie awake during 

the night-watches, or sit beside the sick or dying, 

you may taste thc sweetness of many a gracious 

■ may say, "In the multitude of my 

thoughts within me Thyconifoi ts delight mysoul." 

When ■. i are in pain, fear, sorrow, or sudden 
peril, ■■■ ■ rse of the Bible 0103 be tike a star 
to tho benighted mariner. 

Be persuaded to make it a part of every day's 

duty .mi 1 uiory at least one new 

verse ; and fail not to store them Up like treasures 

in the minds of your children.- Oospi I Tt umpst, 


I should like to tell any boys ffho are fond of 
birds -nesting, what happened one beautiful morn- 
ing in May. A thrush, flying happily about our 
garden, busy no doubt in building it oe t, c una 
e against a plate-glass window, and 
fell down dead. The sound brow ' 
see what had occurred, when a very touching 

sight was seen, "n the gr I !.i\ the dead bird 

with outstretched wings, and close by its side stood 
another thrush, quite still and motionless, keep- 
ing a faithful watch by the side of its dead com- 
panion. Even when the gardener .stroked its 

A man bad committed murder, was tried, found 
guilty, and condemned to he hung. A few days 
before his execution, upon the walls of his prison 
he drew a gallows, with five steps leading up to it. 

On the first step he wrote. Disobedience to 
Parents. Solomon says, "The eye that mock eth 
at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, 
the ravens of tj'c valley shall pick it out, and 
the young eagles shall eat it;'' that is, he shall 
perish by a violent death, he shall come to a 
miserable, wretched end. 

On the second step he wrote, Sahtfth-ln. .-/..,.■/ 
God, in His command, said, "Remember the 
Sabbath-day, to keep it holy." Visit your 
prisons and jails, and you will find that nine- 
tenths of its inmates have begun their downward 
course by breaking this command. 

On the third step he wrote, QaniblvftQ and 
IhunLiufM. The late Dr. Nott, having been a 
close observer of human events, truly says, "The 
finished gambler has no heart. He would play 
at lus brother's funeral, he would gamble upon 
his mother's coffin." 

Seven] years ago, a youth was hung for killiig 
his little brother. When on the gallows, the 
sheriff said, "If you have anything to say, speak 
now, for you have only five minutes to live." 
The boy, bursting into tears, said, "I have to 
die. I had only one little brother ; he had beau- 
tiful blue eyes and flaxen hair, and I loved him: 
But one day I got drunk, for the brBt time in my 
life, and coming home 1 found him gathering 
strawberries in the garden. I became angry with 
bun without a cause, and I killed him at one blow 
with a rake. I did not know anything about it 
till the next morning when I awoke from sleep, 
iiud found myself tied and guarded, and was told 
that when my little brother was found liia hair 
Was clotted with his blood and brains, and he 
Was dead. Whisky has done this. It has 
ruined me. I never was drunk but once I 
have only one more word to say, and then I am 
going to my final Judge. I say it to young 
neople : Never, nc\er, never, touch anything thai 
can mtos <"i<< !" 

On the fourth step he wrote, Murder. God's 
command is, " Thou ahalt not kill." 

On the fifth step he wrote. 2Vu! Fated Platform. 
It is impossible for us to form a correct idea of 
the thoughts that must rush through the mind 

of a man under such circumstances the disgrace 
and ignominy attached to his name; the pains 
and agony of such a death ;the want of sympathy 

111 the community around him ; the fearful for- 
bodingl Of his guilty soul at tlie bar of a holy God. 

I was called, m the early part of mj ministry, 

to write the confession of a murderer, apd. attend^ 

him 011 the gallows. His name was Moses Lyons. 
He, ffhen drunk, murdered Ins wife. Being 

madd I by liq ', be b< i *d her by the hair, 

and jammed her head on the hearth until she 

v. ;n .lead. Two men who were passing by, 
hearing her shrieks, rushed in and caught him 


evil which, we fear, 13 widely spreading 
through our country. Many young men 
are being mined by gambling and " betting 
boot " propensities. Our jails, at the 

present ti , contain not a few prisoners, 

villus,' downfall rs attributable to gam- 
—En. B. FT, 

>i rfAT a strange power there is in 

silenee.' How many resolutions are formed 
— how many sublime conquests effected 
■liinng that pause, when the lips are closed, 
and the soul secretly teels the eye of her 
Maker upon her !" 

in this murderous, brutal act. 
jail from time to time, with a 
him to Christ. In his confessio 
is dead. I must have done 
nothing about it." His mind 

visited him in 
ieiv of leading 
, he said, "She 
t, but I know 

by rum, that under the evil spirit he committed 
this brutal, this horrid deed. Alluding to his 
parents, he says, " The advice of my dear, parents 
to serve God I did not listen to. Oh, had I 
done so, I should not have come to this shameful 
end ! They have gone to their graves — peace be 
to them. Could I visit the spot where they lie 
buried, I would bathe their graves with my 
tears." Ho had two daughters ; when he spoke 
of them he wept aloud. After a long pause, he 
said, " I hope the world will not visit on them 
the iniquity of their father. Parents, bring up 
your children in the nurture and admonition of 
the Lord ; set a good example before them ; do 

not to them as I have done to mine. Children 
obey your parents in the Lord ; listen to their 

counsel and advice ; look at me, and see my fate 
for not walking as my parents directed me." 

-;:£K/,^5 ; - 

r was the practice of Vespasian, the Ro- 
iaii emperor, to call himself to an account 
every mejit for the actions of the past day ; 
is often as he let slip one day without 
doing good, he entered upon his diary this 
orial : " I have loBt a day." 


re glad to find that a Committee has been 

formed in connect iuihv 1 Hi the London City Mission, 
for the purpose of promoting " the evangelization 
and welfare of Foreigners in London." 

The Earl of Shaftesbury is at the head of this 
good movement. A friend, who takes a special 
interest in the poor Italians now in London, 
recently invited (through Mr. Travers and Mr. 
Brown, two of the City Missionaries to Foreigners) 
a number of Italians to tea, and it ia impossible to 
describe the gratitude evu iced by the simple-minded 
guests, amongst whom were the father and daugh- 
ter whose portraits are given in our illustration. 

Those who desire further information respect- 
ing the " Mission to Foreigners," will do well to 
send a stamped envelope to the Hon. Secretary, 
Herbert Mayo, Esq., 8a, Red Lion Square, 
and ask for the printed statement just issued by 
the Committee. Special Contributions are needed 
for the salaries of the missionaries, the purchase 
of Foreign Tracts and Books, the holding of 
social gatherings, rent of Mission Rooms, &c., &c. 
Divine Service, in Italian, is held every Sunday 
evening, at 50, Creek Street, Soho. 

On taking a walk with a friend on the romantic 
coast, near Teigninoiith, in Devonshire, we came 
to the entrance to some attractive tea gardens. 
There was something an unusual in the wording 
of the sign-board, that I took out my pencil and 
pocket-book, and made a rough sketch of it. 

Well would it be for all classes, and especially 
for the working classes of this country, if tJiey 
were fully alive to their best interests, and 
firmly said, when tempted to work on the Sunday, 
"No ; all days, except Sundays." 

We tremble for the future of our country, 
more particularly with reference to the increase 
of Sabbath desecration, It behoves working 
men to beware, or they will assuredly, ere long, 
find that, instead of God's merciful law — six 
days' work for seven days' bread, it will be seven 
days' work and six days' pay ! Surely we ought 
to take warning from France ! s. 


' V. """..,.1 .- »f'" l-.l ni.' . ..'." <^™,..h), i.n in tlie pre*. 


er writes as follows, in the 

' East London Evangelist " : — 

" Under the railway arches of Bethnal Green, 

on the Lord's Day, multitudes of 

young men assemble to play at 

pitch and toss. 

" I was once a gambler myself. 
Dominoes, dice, and nine-pins 
were my gods, and the public- 
house parlour and skittle-ground 
my favourite haunts. God in 
mercy caught me, and my heart 
yearns for those who are led on 
blindly in the same delusive and 
dangerous path, I went up to a 
group of them, and, as an intro- 
duction, offered them the 'British 
Workman,' which they received 
kindly. One of them opened his 
paper while I stood speaking to 
them. His eye caught a piece 
headed — 'Show your Colours.* 
He said, ' Truly vie are showing 
our colours this afternoon.' They 
listened attentively, and one of 
thorn, turning to his companions, 
said, 'All the money I earned 
last week I spent on beer and gin, 
and what better am I f or it 1 ' 
Another said, 'We are as miser- 
able as we can be. Good-bye, 
old fellow.'" 

[Wo are always thankful to 
learn of any efforts for checking 
the practice of gambling, an 

London: Published monthly by S. \V. PARTRIDGE & Co., at tho Office, No. 0, Paternoster Row; and W. TWEF.DIE, 337, Strand. 

No. 201. Sept. 1871. 




Sweet picture of a golden age, 

Bright uitij -i 1 1 ■ .= - -iiiy - >'■ <■! Truth, 
Still shining on the Sacred Page 

Whieh tells us of the gleaner Ruth. 

To BethleheWs hills, bedeckt with corn, 
It wafts us, when the world was young, 

Long centuries ere the Christ was burn, 
Or the sweet Psalmist's harp was strung. 

We see the reapers bind the sheaves, 
We see the maidens stoop to glean 

The ears a pious bounty leaves — 
We look and bless the happy scene. 

The godly Master drawing nigh, 

" The Lord be with you ! " soon is heard ; 
While "The Lord bless thee ! " they reply— 

We hear and hail the holy word. 
Oh, that the world could now regain 

The dewy freslmess of its youth, 
And use once more the gracious strain 

Winch breathed around the gleaner Ruth, 

The simple, heart-felt love of God 

Tltf>se reapers to their Master bound ; 

Where love divine is shed abroad 

There love from man to man is found. 

The harvest field before him glows 

With smiling sheaves and merry toil ; 
The Master's heart with joy o'erflows 

At sight of Nature's golden spoil. 

But not for his own threshing floor 
He gathers all the precious grain, 

And not inside his own barn-door 
He treasures up his choicest gain. 

The corners* of his field he leaves, 
Nor of the ears clean riddance makes," 

But scatters haudfuls 'mid tho sheaves 
For widows' and for strangers' sokes, 

God lends to him that he may yield 

A due proportion to the poor ; 
He gives the tirstfruits of his field, 

And holds the residue secure. 

e gives to God, and God will pour 
A larger blessing on his life, 


>oa measure, prest, and runnir 
A bosom-gift, a prudent wife. 

He grant 

"v giouu) a, stranger leave to gUwi, 
And reaps himself a rich reward, 

When a fair bride at home is seen, 
Ancestress of our common Lord. 

So if in Life's brief harvest-day 

We scatter gleanings, for Christ's love, 

To feed the poor, God will repay 

With sheaves of joy in heaven above. 

Through the ripe fulness of the earth, 

Aud golden spaces of the sky, 
He brings us Home with harvest mirth 

And shouts of immortality ! 

Richahd Wilton, M. A. 

"The Bible the word of God?" "No," says a 
young sceptic who had been reading an infidel 
book. "No! it is the invention of men." 

But the Bible claims to be the word of God, 

"Yes, the men who wrote it pretend that they 
'spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost.' 
and that wa3 why they said, 'Thus aaith the 
Lord.' But that was only a cunning deception, 
in order to make menthe more readily believe it." 

If the Bible, then, is not what it claims to be, 
it is, you think, an imposture, and [fca writers 
are deceivers and liars 1 

"YeB, that is what I believe." 

Good men would not lie and deceive, would they ? 

"Of c 

could not have 

Then the Bible, you 
been written by good n 

"I feel certain it was not." 

And if not the work of good men, it must be 
tho "invention" of bad men / 

"I believe it was." 

sin, and threaten bad men with punishment I 


Docs it declare that liars shall perish; that 
Ananias for lying was struck dead ; and that false 
prophet*, who speak deceit m the name of the 
Lord, and all who love and make a lie, shall be 
shut out ol t']<e kingd si heaven I 

"It does." 

And would bad men— ( >l ^ [■>. 
and liars — make a book that condemns their own 
sins and threatens themselves with everlasting 
punishment 7 

"They would not be likely to, certainly." 

Then Hie Bible could not have been written 
by bad men, could it I 

"I must admit, it is not easy to see how it 

If, then, as you admit, it could net be the 
"invention" of bad man — because they could 
ii. i be guilty of an imposture — who else could 
be its author but God ? And if it is God's book, 
why not believe it and obey it ? 

Two springs which issued from the same moun- 
tain began their course together ; one of them 
took her way in a silent and gentle flowing stream, 
while the other rushed along with a noisy and 
rapid current. " Sister," said the latter, "at the 
rate you move, you will probably be dried up 
before you advance much farther ; whereas, for 
myself, I shall probably become navigable within 

Dr three hundred furlongs, and, after dis- 
tributing commerce and wealth wherever I flow, 
I shall majestically proceed to pay my tribute to 

iceau. So farewell, and patiently submit 
yourself to your fate." Her quiet sister made 
reply ; but calmly descended to the meadow 
below, and, patiently proceeding on her way, she 
increased her strength by numberless little rills, 
which she collected in her progress, till, at length, 
she was enabled to rise into a considerable river ; 
while the proud stream, who had the vanity to 
depend solely upon her own sufficiency, continued 
shalh.nv brook, and was glad, at last, to be 
helped forward, by throwing herself into the arms 
of her despised sister. 

is made up of little things. He who travels 
a continent must go step by step. He who 
s a book must do it sentence by sentence ; 
he who learns a science must master it fact by 
fact, and principle after principle. What is the 
happiness of our life made up of? Little 
curtesies, little kindnesses, pleasant words, genial 
miles, a friendly letter, good wishes, and good 
deeds. One in a million, once in a lifetime, may 
do a heroic action. But the little things that 
iake up our life come every day and every hour. 
■ we make the little events of life beautiful and 
good, then is the whole full of beauty and good- 


1. Remember and adore thy Creator every day. 

2. Speak the truth strictly on every occasion. 

3. Beware of sensuality, pride, and extravagance. 

4. Be honest and just, and pay all thy debts. 

5. Abstain from all kinds of intoxicating liquors. 
0. Love all men, even thine enemies, and do them 

7. Never speak of any man's faults behind his 

8. Do not render evil for evil to any man. 

9. Visit and relievo the poor every week. 

10. Guard against treasuring up wealth on the 

11. Repent, and forsake all thy sins. 

12. Think of death, aud prepare for heaven. 

(ASequelto"Qioijit) Away aChild," inMarchNo.) 

' Which shall it be I Which shall it be V 
I looked at John — John looked at me, 
(Dear patient John, who loves me yet 
As well as though my locks were jet.) 
And when I found that 1 must speak, 
My voice seemed strangely low and weak ; 

1 Tell me again what Robert said t" 
And then I Hst'niny bent my head : 

* This is liis letter : 

"'I will give 
A house and land while you shall live, 
If in return, from out your seven, 
One child to me for aye is given.'" 

I looked at John's old garments worn, 
I thought of all that John had borne 

uid work, iftid care, 
Which I, though willing, could not share ; 
I thought of seven mouths to feed, 
■ i. seven hi tic children's need, 
And then of this, 

"Come, John, "said I, 
1 We'll choose among them as they lie 
Asleep.'' So, walking hand in hand, 
Dear John and I surveyed our bund. 
First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
Where Lilian, the baby, slept, 
A glory 'gainst the pillow white. 
Softly the father stooped to lay 
Hls rough hand down in loving way, 
When drtam or whisper made her stir, 
And huskily he said, "Not her — not her," 

Wo stooped beside the trundle-bed, 
And one long ray of lamplight shed 
Athwart the boyish faces there, 
In sleep so beautiful and fair. 
I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek 
A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 
' He's but a baby too," said I, 
And kissed him, as we hurried by. 

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 
'No, for a thousand crowns, not Idm," 
He whispered, while our eyes where dim. 

Poor Dick J bad Dick ! our wayward son — 
Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 
Could he be spared i Nay, He who gave 
Bid us befriend him to the grave ; 
Only a mother's heart could be 
Patient enough for such as he ; 
'And so," said John, " I would not dare 
To send hini from her bed-side prayer." 

Then stole wa softly up above, 
And knelt by Mary, child of love. 
' Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 
I said to John. Quite silently 
He lifted up a curl that lay 
Across her cheek in wilful way, 
And shook his head. "Nay, love, not thee. 
The while my heart beat audibly. 

Only one more, our eldest lad, 
Trusty and truthful, good and glad — 
So like his father. " No, John, no ; 
I cannot, will not, let him go." 

And so we wrote, in courteous way, 
We could not drive one child. away. 1 
And afterward toil lighter seemed, 
Thinking of that of which we dreamed ; 
Happy, in truth, that not one face 
We missed from its accustomed place ; 
Thankful to work for all the seven, 
Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 

There lived in the west of England, a few years 
since, an enthusiastic geologist — a Doctor of 
Divinity, and Chairman of the Quarter Sess 
A farmer, who had seen him presiding on the 
bench, overtook him. shortly afterwards, while 
seated by the roadside on a heap of stones, which 
he was busily breaking in search of fossils. The 
farmer reined up his horse, gazed at him for 
minute, shook his head in commiseration of the 
mutability of human things : then exclaimed, ii; 
mingled tones of pity and surprise, "What, 
Doctor ! be you come to this a'ready '? " — 
Quarterly .Review. 


Like flakes of snow that fall unperceived upon 
the earth, tho seemingly unimportant actions 
of life succeed each other. As the snow gathers 
together, so are our habits formed. No singh 
flake, that is added to the pile, produces i 
sensible change ; no single action creates, how^ 
over it may exhibit, man's character ; but at 
tho tempest hurls the avalanche down the 
mountain, and overwhelms the inhabitant, and 
his habitation, so passion, acting upon the 
elements of mischief which pernicious habits 
have brought together, by imperceptible i 
mulation, may overthrow the edifice of truth 
and virtue. 



The Eorson of the British Workman has been 
gratified by the receipt of the following voluntary 

cue J*jwtrf«i «»!**<■ 

™^TX C 


?,s£ril B \ c/E 

Mf. Joseph Flicker might have been called a 
"cobbler," by that class of persons who always 
take delight in giving their fellow-creatures 
credit for as little as possible ; but those who 
were of a generous turn of mind would probably 
have called hiin a " shoemaker ; " and perhaps 
this latter term would have been the more 
courteous of the two. Not that it made much 
difference to our friend Joseph whether they 
called him "cobbler" or "shoemaker;" bis 
destiny in life appeared to be to repair boots 
and shoes, rather than to make them ; but this 
want of originality in the worthy man's work 
did not prevent his having some very original 
thoughts in his mind ; and to have a good, 
original thought in one's mind is better any 
day than to make a new and perfectly original 
pair of shoes or boots, even of such a pattern 
as men's eyes had never seen, or ladies' tortured 
feet wriggled in before. But this observation, 
like many others in the world, requires qualifi- 
cation. Whether the original thought is better 
than the original boots, will depend upon whether 
a man keeps it to himself or not. Now, Joe 
Flicker held this opinion. He believed that 
good thoughts were meant, like good boots and 
shoes, to walk about the world ; and they had 
this advantage — that they never would wear out. 
Accordingly, when Joe got a thought, and was 
sure that it was a genuine good one, and likely 
to be of benefit to his fellow-creatures, lie started 
it. forth in the world, and charged people no- 
thing for the use of it. Whether the world would 
have given Joe anything for Ms thoughts, is 
perhaps a question ; but aa the cobbler thought 
that to be the father of a good original notion 
was a very high honour, wo need not trouble 
ourselves about his dealings with the world in 
relation thereto, nor with the world's dealings 
with him. If there were any dealings upou this 
matter at, all, they were amicable and perhaps 
liberal for all we know ; for Joe was always 
happy ; his eye was always bright, aud his lipa 
always wore a smile. 

When Joe first started in life, 

,„ .,|| a hueiiKikcrs, viz., to 
a j ,■ ipan no* woo! i wad ilio 
no doubt, often crossed his mind of bis rising '" 
liis trade. But whenever ho climbed 
up the hill a little bit, and gut so far as to have 
half-a-dozen pairs of boots and shoes in his httlo 
window, he invariably tumbled 

i„- really believed it was never 
meant that, he should climb up the bill at all. 

Tins oiWUmBtonoe, no doubt, helped to settle 
Flicker's position in life as a "cobbler;" 
or, as bis wife, who was fond of a touch of 
gentility, called him, " a jobbing shoemaker." 
But there was another circumstance which seemed 
to point out that Joe was to provide for his 
family, and benefit his fellow-creatures in the 
location Of a "cobbler." Our friend had a 
positive talent for repairing boots and shoes ; he 
Oould vamp, and sole, and heel, and turn out an 
old friend as good as new ; and as to those little 
tOB-pieCM, winch are so familiar to most mothers 
and nurses of large families, Joe Flicker could make 
thorn look quite ornamental, so as to leave it 
almost a matter of doubt, whether the little shoe 
wasn't better in its last estate than in its first. 
Joe Flicker took a delight in his work ; and many 
were the dilapidated shoes that would otherwise 
have been thrown away, which were set up by 
liia doctoring with, so to speak, a new constiti 
tion altogether ; and which, instead of lying 
it ditch, might bo seen in high romps at football 
and leap-frog on the village green. 

Fame brought fortune to a certain extent to 
our fncud Joe Flicker. All the neighbourhood 
brought him boots and shoes to repair ; and, as 
every one was willing to pay a good price for 
really good work, the worthy man throve, and 
did an excellent trade in a small way. 

Seeing that his life was thus spent in piecing 
Bad patohing, is it any wonder that the cobbler's 
mind was constantly fixed upon the subject of 
repairs t And, seeing that most of the craft are 
mora or less thinking men, is it any wonder that 
Joe Flicker thought, as lie cobbled and patched i 
He did think ; and his mind, taking his stool 
and bench as a centre, travelled forth into 
contemplations of many of the problems and 
relationships of daily life. 

Wherever Joe turned, he saw not only that 
tilings were, for the most part, what they ought 
not to be, but also not what they might be 
" The tendency of everything," said the cobbler 
to himself, " is to go to ruin. As soon as ever 
you make a shoe it begins to wear out ; as soon 
as you wind up a clock it begins to run down : 
you no sooner build a house, but it begins to 
want something to keep it up ; and if things go 
beyond a certain point, it is impossible to bring 
them back." It was in vain that Joe Flicker 
pondered on a remedy for this ; he thought 
long, and deeply ; but such a thing was not to 
bo found ; and, at last, he came to tho conclu- 
sion, that all this was owing to sin, and the 
curse in the world, and that so it would be to 
the end. 

"But now," said the cobbler to himself, 
"though we can't remedy this state of things | 
altogether, still it is our duty, and it certainly 
will be both to our comfort and advantage, to 
improve it as much as lies in our power. The 
great point, then, is to keep a Bharp look-out, 
and keep everything in repair ; " and upon this 
principle in life Joe determined to go. " And 
I'm sure," said the cobbler, when he made this 
resolution, " I shall be happier and richer for it 
too. For just look," said he to himself, " at 
this shoe, as he turned and twisted a small one 
in his hands ; "Sirs. Smith will have to pay six- 
pence for these toe-caps ; and she can't well 
afford that. There are six of them to be shod ; and 
her husband's wages arc only sixteen shillings a- 
weck. Now, I can see all about tin* shoo m 
tho twinkle of an eye. This is what. I call a 
stitch-in-time shoe ; if Mrs. Smith had only sent 
it to me when the first stitch began to rip, 
'twould have coat her only twopence instead of 
sixpence, as it will now j dear me ! when will | 
folk learn to look after repairs ; and that, in 
everything as well as their shoes i " 

Joe Flicker might have branched out into a 
great variety of thoughts, but that his attention 
was turned to a rapping at the door ; and, in a 
moment after, there entered a long, lanky-looking 
man, with uncombed hair, and dilapidated clothes ; 
and in his hands he held the skeleton of a pair 
of boots. 

" Here, Joe," said the lanky man, " can you 
make anything of these here boots i if any man 
in the parish can, you are the man." 

" Let's see them," answered Joe. "They're 
very far gone." 

" I let them go too far," Baid the lanky man ; 

they wore P ' P ifc J I didn't 

them in repair." 
'• >Tia i 

" bun wltU ■ 

.., tho points of his own 

i pity, John Thatch, that you don t 

f is repair -, " and ho laid strong 

this word "yourself." 

Jack Thatch looked hard at the cobbler foi a 

few momenta, holding the half skeleton, half 

ghost-like boots at full length from him ; and 

"aid in a half-puKzled, half-boozy kind ->i way 

— " Joe Flicker, what do yon meal ' " 

" Throw down those boots,' 1 said Joe ; " it's 
10 uso your trying to make them stand up like 

respectable boots ; throw them down bl I ' 

ill-used creatmres, and I'll tell you what I mem." 
'Tis my belief," said the cobbler, " that 
every man has only a lease of himself— and that 
a repairing one ; and tho like of his wife and 
children ; and 'tis as plain as that I have this 
shoe in my hand, that you aren't keeping your- 
df in repair." 
n Oo on," said Jack Thatch. "It does a 
man good to hear you talk, he ! he ! I don't 
think I've been in repair for a precious long 

" I ».,!! go on," said the cobbler : " whenever 
I make a beginning I always like to go on until 
I come to the end. Now look at your hat — a 
hat is a man's roof ; and yours wouldn't fetch 
sixpence ; I wonder you ain't dead long before 
this with cold in your head. And look at your 
coat ! 'tis hanging in ribbons on your bad; ; 
and then your boots— boots might he said to be 
a man's foundation ; anyhow," said Joe, " they're 
the lowest storey ; and from your attic to your 
basement you're out of repair." 

Go on, Joe," said John Thatch." 
Ves, I mil go on, John ; and how do you 
a to be out of repair ? Why, by that horrid 
a-ahop that you are always at ; and you'll 
>r be in decent repair, as long as you go there. " 
Well, you're in tidy repair anyhow," said 
n Thatch, as he looked at the cobbler's 
ouuiing face and decent clothes ; and rolled his 
eyes round the comfortable little room. 

" So I am," said Joe. " I'm in what I call 

tenantable repair ; I ain't what the agent calls 

iu decorative repair— that means painting and 

gilding, and such-like finery ; but aU good and 

did— at least as good and aobd as I can make 

; weather-proof, you know, not hurt by wind 

"That'll do now," said Jack Thatch, "when 
will the boots he done i " 

"'Twill set me hard to do them at all," 
answered the cobbler ; " still, though I say it, if 
any man in the parish can do them, I'm the 
man ; but you can't have them for a month. I'm 
not one of those men that say a fortnight when 
they mean a month. When I say a day, I mean 
to keep to it ; and I've promised so many folk 
before you, that it will be a month before these 
boots are done." ■ 

" Well, go on," said Jack Thatch ; " and I'll 
call for them then." 

As soon as the cobbler and bis visitor parted, 
they fell, each of them, into their own particular 
train of thought. The cobbler with some diffi- 
culty made Jack's boots stand up ; and having 
--- omplished this, he proceeded to address them 
if Jack's feet were inside them, and, by 
consequence, as if Jack himself were there. 

" Ah ! Cousin Jack," said he, " you got 
_ better start in Ufa than I did ; you were Bent 
out into the world bran new, with a neat house 
and a good business ; but see what you're come 
to. You began to get out of order when you 
dropped in every day for a half-pint at the 
" Boar with the Sliming Tusks ;" and that was 
,!„.. in il tatfl off the roof i and then, when you 
took to lounging in of an evening, there were 
tho rafter* gone ; and when you tottered and 
tumbled out, there were the foundations gone. 
If I were a pair of boots I'd rather be thrown 
away at once, than tumbling about in that 
fashion. I don't know that 'tis a kindness to 
cepah '.-■' al all," laid Jack, addressing the 
boots; "but as I promised to do so, I will; 

and, perhaps, your owner will be ashi id when 

ho sees yon looking so much more decent than 


Jack Thatch had acquired thai ad ■■'■ 

habit of looking stupid, but ho was uot always 
indifferent to what was said ; and on the present 
occasion ho was sober, and quite able to take 
in the remarks the cobbler had made. 

" St. I'm out of repair," said Jack, "am I — 
aumpl . that's a new light to look at one's sell 

in — from the roof down to the cellar — eh ! that 
ain't creditable is it 1 especially for a young 
man who comes of people who always kept 

themselves »p 

I'm put in repair tho better, that'; all 

:■■ ■ Bow 9 

Tusks," in he stepped, to tako a half-pint, Thi 
half-pint was drawn, and stood foaming on the 
counter ; and Jack put his hands in his ragged 
trousers' pocket to find wherewithal to pay ; but 

he had not a penny, and he began 

giae to the landlady as ho took the glass in Ins 

But that glass of beer Jack Thatch was never 
destined to drink ; and a very good thing it 
turned out for liim that lie was not. 

1 Stay, stay," said tho landlady, sketching 
t her fat, rosy arm, and laying hold of the 
US; "do you think, Jdhn Thfttch, that we- 
ll always be giving credit ? I'd like to know 
how we can keep aim roof over our heads, and 
pay house-rent and taxes, to say nothing of 
ep;ur i, if wo go on in this style ; no ! no ! No 
uore liquor for you, Mr. Thatch, except what 
you pay down for." 

Poor Jack looked stupidly at tho landlady, 
who in turn looked saucily at him, and slowly 
and sorrowfully turned away from the bar, 
while his beer was handed over to a customer 
who was standing by, and who had put down 
the money on the counter. 

" Repairs ! " said Jack, slowly to himself, 
" repairs ! she couldn't keep her hot 
but for my money, and that of other drinking 
folk— and she does keep her house in repair, 
doesn't she I" said Jack, looking at the plate- 
glass windows and the bright new paint ; 'she 
Keeps her place in repair, and Joe Fli I ■ 
I don't keep myself in repair ; OtU 
two," said Jack, "and, putting these 

gethw — that I'm out of repair, and the 
Boar with the Shining Tusks " is always look- 
ing span new, I'm of opinion that we can't bath 

be kept in repair at the same time ; and I'll look 

it and try whether I can't do myself up a bit." 

So Jack Thatch refrained from the " Boar with 

the Shining Tusks" for a month, and kept hard 

It was fortunate that tho nature of his 

such that most of it could be done in 

the half-worn out slippers, in which he had gone 

to the cobbler's, otherwise he could not have 

commenced his new career until his boots were 

mended ; and that would have been a whole 

month lost. 

In due course of time it came to be the turn of 
Jack Thatch's boots to be taken in hand. They 
were now taken down from the wall, where they 
had been hung by his cousin the cobbler, partly 
to be out of the way, partly, to be gibbeted as 
representatives of their owner, who deserved in 
some way to be made an example of, and partly, 
to be kept in their proper turn : for Joe Flicker 

would show them no favour, and there were several 

others to come before them. 

Nor were the boots any losers by thus having 
to await their turn. During this interval the 
cobbler had heard of the attempts of his cousin 
to reform ; and he determined to give him a good 
start, as he was getting on his legs again. So 
he Boled and heeled and vamped the boots ; and 
stuck a new piece of red lining inside ; and 
polished them up, until the cat made a looking 
glaM of them, and shook hands with herself in 
them, in half a friendly and half a suspicious way. 
Then Joe hung up the boots again, and covered 
them with a cloth, to keep them perfectly bright 
until their owner appeared. 

As Jack knew that the cobbler was a man of 
Ids word, and that the boots would be surely done 
to the moment when they were promised, and 
as lie was now ashamed to be seen in the worn 
slippers, and so generally out of repair, he came 
to Joe Flicker's shop on the appointed day 
And to Jack's credit it must be chronicled, that 
'•3 arrived in much better condition than he was 
i on Ins first visit ; for lie had been able to take 
few things out of pawn, and put himself a little 

■■ \\ . ll, .1. ■ . ive Hie bants duiie- I ' asked Jack 
Thatch, as be entered the little Bhop. 

Joe Flicker looked up, and then laid downh 
awl, and the shoe which he was mending ; and 
finally rose from liis bench, and deliberately 
iralked three times round Jack Thatch, without 
aaying b single word which could account for so 
extraordinary a journey. Having performed 
these revolutions, ho retired backward to hi* 
stool, and dropped down upon it, still keepin. 
bis eyes fixed upon Jack. 

At length he broke silence, and said, "Jack 
Thatch, you've been and got yourself repaired." 

"Yes," sold Jaok, "I've been repairing myself 
ami I'm all the better for being a little dmic up." 

'• Yi.iu ar*," said Joe Flicker ; and he laid 
long, strong emphasis on the word ' ' arc "— ' ' Yon 

■.. ., i.,, i, si ati d him elf 

■ ■ ' 
Baid; and then, how i 
. the landlady's speech ; and tl i 
horrid il seemed to him, that hi I 

himself and those belonging to him. while ho 

irere going to ruin, worse and worse 
every day ; and— but the cobbler could hold out 
no lunger ; jumping liastily up, he rushed to the 

'.,11, ami unveiled the sparkling hnoU, and cried, 

"Jack Thatch, you'll yet be worthy of those 

boots ; aye and of much more too : there they 
are; and not a penny will I take t ■ ■■ ! 

■ i . 
thorough repair, and, so to speak, made 

The tears came into poor Jack's eyes, as the 

cobbler made him then i ad then into the 

■i.l stand in them with his feet in dif- 

. i, attitudes, to see how he looked ; and then 

,,,, by the hands, and slapped him on 

the back, and wished him, "Good speed." 

■ Ah ! Joe," said Jack," 'tis much better to do 
„ you have done— not to allow oneself to get 
out of repair, than to make such a mistake, and 
repair it ever so well at last. How did you keep 
nliout half the chances I have had P 1 
"■■Don't say 'keep right,'" said the cobbler, 
with a serious look — " who keeps right ? — 'tis 
just because I knew 1 was always by nature 
likely tt> get out of repair, that I watched myself , 
and what I say of myself, I may say of allbelong- 
.. too. You see, Jack, here's what I 
Things ain't now as they first was 
before sin came into -the world. That put rot- 
mess into everything, and made it its nature 
decay, and get out of repair ; and so if will be 
long as the world is as it is now. Dur bodies ! 
l't they always getting out of order, md want- 
ing the doctor/ our houses! our clothes! our 
tempers! our business: everj thing goes Ttrong by 
nature, instead of right ; and unless we're always 
getting them put to right, they'll soon go to the 


to think 

Well, Joe, and how did you 
ol all tin:.'" *t 

"I used my eyes," said the cobbler, "and 
saw it ; didn't the very business of my life— 
always repairing — tell me something about it ? 
And I used this," said Joe ; and he pulled out a 
small book from a kind of little bos in his bench ; 
"you know this book well— many people are 
ashamed of it, but I'm not— 'tis a Bible ; and 
this taught me how all the decay comes ; and it 
ahi wed me where to go to to get it repaired. I 
say, first and chief, this has been my counsellor 
and friend ; there would be less want of repairs 
if people attended to what it says ; and when 
repairs are wanted, they'd be better done if they 
minded it then ; but folk are wise enough in their 
own eyes, and that's the way to become fools." 

" Well," said Jack Thatch, " but don't you <fo 
anything to keep yourself all right ( You're 
smirking and smiling when other peeple are 
frowning and growling ; and you always have 
decent clothes, when many a man with as good 
earnings is naked ; I'd like to know what you «to." 
"Well, cousin," answered the cobbler, "] do 
all I can to keep myself in repair. Here's this 
little body— 'taint half tho size of yours, and it 
has had a wonderful deal better treatment ; but 
if I were careless about it, I'd soon be laid up 
and unfitted to work, and then who'd look after 
my wife and cluldren here ? What's food 1 isn't 
t repairs for the waste of the body ; and wind's 
ileepl isn't it the same ; so I take care, out of what I 
earn, to havegood wholesome food, and stout, warm 
clothes ; and I go to bed at decent hours, and 
get enough of sleep : that's what I do. And 
when this little room gets foul and close, then I 
throw open the window, and that repair- it , and 
so I go on always repairing, ;md always keeping m 
repair. And mind you, Jack Thatch, the great 
thing is to repair at once. 'A stitch in time 
saves nine.' Many a shoe that comes here with 
sixpence and eightpence for repairs, would have 
only been twopence if it had been brought in 
time. We must not be put out, Jack, at havu g 
repairs to do . 'tis unreasonable that we should ; 
'twill be so as long as we are in this world at 
all And remember, things get worse faster 
and faster, twice as fast to-morrow, and four 
times as fast as that the next day ; that's a thing 
to bo remembered, when we are letting our- 
..,, . ^ to macs and ruin, as we are by nature 

inclined to do. 

"And I sometimes do some ■ xt,;< repairs. w hen 
I get seedy, I treat myself to a half-holiday, 
and go in the train over to the hills, and come 
home a new kind of man; .and tins is the way, in 



Wife 1 

j fro 

part, that I'm always smiling and always happy.'' 
" Well, Joe, but many folk live well ; and 
they're not happy." 

'■Aye," said Joe, "perhaps they live to eat, 
and don't eat to live. But I ilo something more 
to myself than this ; I'm always keeping my 
temper in repair. You wouldn't believe it," said 
Joe, "but I'm sometimes inclined to be as sharp 
as tins awl ; then I turn to this good friend " — 
and the cobbler laid his hand on the Book — "and 
I go down upon my kneea ; and I get the better 
of myself. Believe me. Jack, a man's knees are 
wonderful tools, if he'd only use them as he 
"bit And sometimes I ait and think — aye, 
Jack, you're not much given to thinking, but 
thought is a wonderful tool, if you have the 
patience to use it — and I say to myself, ' Joe 
Flicker, how much better off are you than others!' 
' Joe Flicker, how much better off are you than 
you deserve to he ! * 'Joe Flicker, after all, 
does this trouble matter so very much ; won't 
it soon be over 1 ' ' Joe Flicker, how will you 
make the best of it t perhaps it needn't be as 
bad as it looks.' Then I always wind up with 
this one Baying, ' Joe Flicker, 'tis only for a 

" I say many such things,'' said the cobbler, 
" but these are some of them ; and what between 
the Book, and the knees, and this talk with my- 
self, I very soon come right." 

" Well, '."ii'ie a happy man," said Jack Thatch, 
who now Mat with Ins legs stretched out before 
him, and his eyes riveted upon his transformed 
boots. Whether Jack was oppressed with the 
responsibility of being in such good boots, aftei 
having gone about for so long a time down at 
heel in hia uld slippers ; or whether he was 
meditating how he ought to conduct himself in j 

those boots, winch were evidently intended for 
a respectable, well-to-do kind of man, we cannot 
tell ; but so it was, that he looked very serums, 
and apparently full of thought. In this reverie, 
the cobbler, who was a thinking man himself, 
allowed his visitor to indulge for a while ; and 
after a considerable pause, he said, " Well, 
cousin Jack, what are you thinking about — 
admiring the boots still ? eh ! or what I " 

And thought with a nervous dread 
Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more 

Than a dozen mouths to be fed ; 
Of the meals to get for the men in the field, 

And the children to send away 
To school, and the milk to he- skimmed and churned; 

And all to be done that day. 

It had rained in the night, and all the wood 
Was wet as it could be ; 

here were puddings and pies to bake, besides 
A loaf of cake for tea. 
nd the day was hot, and her aching head 

Throbbed wcaiih a-, -lie said, 

li maidens knew what good wives know, 

They would be in no haste to wed ! " 

Jessie whoi do rou think 1 told Ben Brown?" 

And the dearest wife in town ! " 

The farmer went hack to the field, and the wife, 

In a smiling and absent way, 
Sany snatches of tender little songs 

She'd not sung for many a day. 
And the pain in her head was gone, and the 


Were as white as the foam of the sea ; 
Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet, 
And gulden as it could be. 

"Just think," the children all called in a breath, 

" Tom Wood has run off to sea ; 
lie wouldn't, I know, if he oidy had 

As happy a home as we." 

'he night came down, and the good wife smiled 

To herself, as she softly said : 
: 'Tis so sweet to labour for those we love, 

It's not strange that maids will wed ! " 
From "Poems of Borne Life." 

have every man of close occupatic 
sacred duty to keep up a living know- 
ledge ot, and interest in, some pursuit, scit 
art, or craft, outside the circle of his daily task. 
Thereby he will keep his mental faculties in 
play upon their appointed objects, and lay up I 
for himself a pursuit and an education which will 
occupy nobly and happily the autumn of life. 
What men want is something to carry on their 
education till they die, soitiethiny which will con- 
tinually draw them out to fresh observation, 
fresh reflection, fresh acquisition, with ever 
stronger and riper power. Ofip a bit from your 
daily earnings rather than from your daily study. 
The play, and even the strain of the faculties — the 
various faculties of body, and mind, and spirit, m 
wise proportions ami alterations — is the true 
human joy. Plenty to think of, plenty to observe, 
plenty to pursue, plenty to delight in, plenty to 
help, plenty to love, these make the gladness and 
the riches of the being. — Baldwin Brown. ■ 

The most necessary of all the sciences is to learn, 
by God's help, to protect ones-self from the 

euntagion <>f had example. 

Notices to Correspondents. 

rubli*„dmonthI,by s. W. PABTOIDGE * Co., at the Mb.. No. ■>, Bow; and W. TWEEDIE, 337, Blmnd. 

No. 202- Oot. 1871. 




The horse's foot is a moat wonderful piece of 
mechanism, and excites far more surprise and 
admiration than the feet of all other 
So wonderful, indeed, 13 it, that any one who had 
not closely studied its structure and functions 
would scarcely believe the hard, insi nsible hool 
could contain such a multiplicity of beautiful 
rangements, all adapted to serve most important 
purposes, and to render tins noble animal so use- 
ful to mankind. The bones are constructed and 
placed with n view to speed, lightness, and 
mgth ; ligaments of marvellous tenacity bind 
them together so firmly that dismii ii 1- aJJ but 
impossible, while they are so ingeniously dis- 
posed as not to hinder, in iho slightest degree, 
the remarkably swift and easy movements of the 
!9 upon each other ; elastic pads and cavt.i- 
1 are situated in those parte of thi 

are most required to protect it from jar, 
serve to compensate for the absence of the 
toes which are seen on the feet of all other 
creatures except the horse species. All these 
parts are covered by a living membrane, which en- 
>es them like a sock, and is exquisitely sen- 
sitive, in addition to being everywhere covered 
by fine networks of blood-vessels in the greatest 
profusion. This membrane endows the I 
the sense of touch, without which the horse could 
not be so sure- footed, nor run with such astonishing 
speed, and it also furnishes the blood from which 
the hoof is formed. The hoof itself, s 
insensible, and to all appearance scarcely worthy 
of observation, reveals a world r . i 
i have exhausted those to be found in its in- 
rior. It is made of fibres, all gro 
direction — towards the ground, . 

the most favourable for sustaining strain, 
These fibres are extremely tine, and they are 
hardest and most resisting on the outer surface ; 
is a tube, composed "i thousands of minute 
cells, so arranged as to confer strength a id dura- 
bility, wliile the tubular form of the fibre en- 
s lightness. Each part of the hoof has its 
share of responsibility in protecting the 
living parts it contains. The wall ia the portion 
e when the horse ia standing firmly on the 
ground. It grows from the upper part of the 
foot, the coronet ; and this growth is always go- 
1 to counterbalance the wear that is taking 
place at its lower border. Its outer surface is 
beautifully dense and smooth in the natural 
state ; and altogether the wall is perfectly 
adapted to meet the wear that occurs when the 
horse is running at liberty in an unship statu. 
s also the part, on which the shoe rests, and 
through which the farrier drives the nails that 
attach it. 

When the foot is lifted up backwards, we see 
and the frog. The sole is the part that 
lies within the wall ; it is slightly hollow in a 
good foot, and is thick, strong, and covered with 
flakes of loose horn in one which has not been 
pared by the farrier's knife. The frog is a soft 
triangular piece of horn in the middle of the 
sole, towards the heels. It is very clastic, and 
i a most important purpose, as it acts as a 
cushion to prevent concussion, and also hinders 
the horse from slipping. The sole, frog, and 
lower border of the wall have all to come in con- 
tact with the ground ami loose stones ; therefore 
e has furnished them with an abundance of 
horn to make them strong enough to hear the 
horse's weight, withstand wear, and keep the 
delicate parts inside from injury. 

So long as the horse is not compelled to work 
n hard roads, its hoofs are well suited to cOJ 
that is required of them ; but our civilization 
demands that we should have paved and macada- 
1 treats, and on these the hoofs would 
1 I be jro 1 iray, especially it the horse had 
to draw or carry heavy loads ; consequently 
lameness would ensue. It is therefore b 
lutely necessary to prevent thi, mishap by ihoe- 
ing the hoof with iron, as we shoe carriage 
wheels with tires, the ends of walliiM- "I 
wiih ferules, eve. Tin.; L-lioting has Ut 1 
boon to mankind, as it has rendered the horse a 
hundredfold more useful than ltwouH < 
be, 1 has made il indepi ndent of the kind 
of roads over which it has to travel. 

The primitive idea of shoeing was to protect 

the lower border of the hoof from undue weai . 

10 doubt, for many ages this idea was 

and. a b - pplied when 

1] □ had been i\o) 11 a .vav ; u nun h a, to 
'■'■ li '■ ■' ■ he hoi 1 .1 1, , however, 

the farrier began t» improve npnii 1 1 ■ 1 « . r ■ . .. . 1>. 

Hi' '.'. I'll ■'■ ■ . Ill-, i-.nv bron-lit Hlti. 

free use ; the horn that was so well adapted as 

■ ■ '..:.- cut away from the sole and fin- 

to such a decree that the poor animal, if it 
chanced to put its foot suddenly upon a stone, 
either came down with a crash, or limped along 
from the pam caused by the injury to the sensi- 
tive parts, which had now been almost com- 
pletely exposed. In addition to this, and to 
compensate for robbing the foot of its horn, 
heavy, wide-surfaced shoes were put on to cover 
the mutilated sole and frog ; these required a 
large number of big nails to attach them se- 
curely, and these nails split tin- hoof and pressed 
upon the quick ; so that what between the pain- 
fully tender sole and frog, the unwieldy, leg- 
tiring, clumsy shoes, and the munerous large nails 
that squeezed in upon the sensiti 
cannot wonder that the unfortunate horse suf- 
fered an amount of torture that makes one's 

I 1 . I ■■..,, i ..'■■.■ I ..: :j . 

111. and prematurely ended his days. 

In addition to this barbarous treatment, in 

der to make tine work, the outer surface of the 
wall — composed of the dense smooth fibres — was 

;ped unmercifully away as high almost as the 
hair roots, and this exposed the soft immature 
fibres within ; these shrivelled up and broke, and 
being unable to sustain the nails, the shoe fre- 
quently caine off, and not only was the foot still 
damaged, but the "cast,'' or "lost shoe," 
a source of inconvenience and annoyance. 
Nay, the lives of individuals, or the fate of king- 
doms, may at times have been at stake through 
such an apparently trivial misfortune as a shoe 
coming off owing to this improper treatment. 

We all remember how Benjamin Franklin, 
earnestly solicitous of im] n _ ion us the 
great value of attending t.i the snu ' details oi 
everyday life, in order sometimes I id gn 

calamities, makes Poor Richard . "A little 
l' ced great mischief. For want of 
a nail the shoe was lost ; for want of a shoe the 
horse was lost ; and for want of a horso the 
rider was lost, being overtaken and slain by the 
enemy ; all for want of a little care about a horse- 

done by tact and kindness. The horsj that is 

being shod stands as quietly, uw' ■ 

of any kind, as if it knew that thi 1 ■ rth] old 
farrier was it3 dearest friend, and was performing 
for it one of the most necessary offices possible. 
Even its companion, the happy-looking ass, looks 
as if it wished its turn had come, so that it might 
submit its limbs and hoofs to the soft manipula- 
tion and protected efforts of the village Wayland 
Smith. And we may be sure that the hound 
always welcomes the day on which it accompanies 
its two companions to the smithy. (We might 
even fancy that it wonders why its feet are not 
shod in a similar manner when they become 
sore through long runs over hard ground.) 

A humane and intelligent farrier is a boon to 
every community ; but one who is harsh, inob- 
servant, and pays no attention to perfecting his 
most useful art, is a torturer of animals and a 
destroyer of property. 

Farriers, of all men who have to do with 
horses, can confer upon these good creatures the 
greatest amount of relief and comfort, by attend- 
ing to the simple indications of nature, and using 
their own common sense and judgment, instead 
of adhering to stupid and blind routine, which 
never improves, but, on the contrary, retrogrades. 
Every lover of the horse should see that its 
beauty is not deformed, nor its utility marred, 
by a farriery system which is as outrageous to the 
meanest comprehension as it is disgraceful to the 
age we live in. The more we understand 
the Great Creator's merciful intentions, the less 
likely are we to thwart them. 

G. Fleming, Royal Engineers, Chatham. 


. These evils of farriery are as prevalent and 
destructive to-day as they were fifty years ago. 
The number of horses tortured and ruined by 
this unreasonable paring and rasping, in addition 
to the heavy shoes, too small for the feet, and 
badly formed, is beyond computation. The frog 
pari d; they flake off 
gradually when they have reached a certain and 
proper thickness ; and as they have to come in 
contact with the inequalities of the ground, and 
with the loose, ehaip stones so frequently on its 
surface, is it not reasonable to urge that they 
Bhould be allowed to retain their natural con- 
dition 1 Whoever pares, or causes to be pared, 
a horse's sole3 or frogs, is guilty of cruelty to 
the horse whose feet are so mutilated. 

0J er be rasped. 

It destroys it, and makes it thin and brittle. It 
ought to be allowed to retain its close, glossy, 
tough surface, so well adapted for resisting the 
weather and holding the nails. As the wall is 
always growing, and as the shoe prevents its 
down to a natural length, when the 
taken off in the operation of shoeing 
the lower end only of this part of the hoof should 
be rasped down until the excess of length has 
been removed : nothing more. 

The shoes should be as light as possible, and 
fastened on with as small a number of nails as 
will retain them. They ought to be the full size 
of the circumference of the hoof, ai 1 the hoof 
11 . but (As sftoe 
to jit tMhaof. 

A proper and rational method of shoeing is a 
boon to the horse and its owner ; an improper 
method, which destroys the integrity of the hoof 
and wearies the limbs, is a curse and a torture to 
the one, and loss and annoyance to the other. 

When horses go to be shod at a forge, care 
should be taken that they are not ill-treated or 
frightened, particularly young horses. By bad 
treatment, or unskilfulnesa in handling their tegs 
and feet, they are frequently made so timid and 
B, that severe measures have to be resorted 
'■■''■' to en ore safety to the farrier while 
shooing them. A few kind words, a few 
n the neck, a few gentle stroking 1 of tin: 
limbs, and a little persuasive coaxing, will prove 
a thousand timeB more effectual in inducing horses 
bo be patient in shoeing than all the harsh, loud- 
pitched words, hard knocks, twitches on nose, 
and other unmeaning and uuhorsemanlike pro- 
ceedings can In 

Sir Edwin Landseer, who, by his beautiful 
and everlasting conceptions — so truthfully and 
exquisitely portrayed — has done so much to foster 
among us a love for animals, shows, in the 
accompanying illustration, how much may be 

living at a cattle station near 
Ipswich, Queensland, often noticed two very old 
mares : the one had a fine foal by her side, the 
other had none. For many years these aged 
maies had run together ; in winter they sought 
the ridges for shelter, in summer the banks of 
creeks were their resort. A deserted shepherd's 
hut stood by a creek, and onnearingittheowner 
of the station had his attention arrested by the 
state of agony and despair the foal seemed to be 
in ; for now it would gallop round the hut, mak- 
ing the whole valley ring with its piteous appeals, 
and then would timidly make its way back to the 
hut, peering in at an opening, and then again, 
as if in utter despair, scamper back to the creek. 
When the owner went to the hut, one of the 
inures was outside, standing still, and seemed to 
take little or no notice of him, wliile the mother 
of the foal was lying down (quite naturally) 
inside the building ; her posture was that of a 
tired horse trying to rest every limb at once. 
Her ears inclining forwards, gave her the ap- 
pearance of being asleep. He felt so sure that 
she was asleep that he touched her with his 
whip — no move ; again, no stir. On closer 
inspection he saw that she was dead — that she 
had died so easy and free from pain, that she 
must have ceased to breathe while sleeping sound- 
ly. Her old companion remained upon the same 
spot, the foal increasing its speed and the eager- 
ness of its cries in proportion to its growing 
hunger. After a lapse of three days, the owner, 
in company with his stockman, visited the spot : 
they saw only the foal outside the hut ; the old 
faithful friend had herself gone and laid down 
close alongside her former coinpaiuon,and, strange 
to say, was quite dead also. 

The Bishop of Durham's "Wonder." 
I received the following story from the lips of 
the coachman of the late Bishop of Durham : — 

One of the horses in the bishop's stable went 
by the name of " Wonder." It was docile and 
sagacious, and gifted with great strength and 
symmetry of form. It never, like some of the 
other horses, indulged in any vicious tricks, and 
so was a universal favourite with the bishop and 
fill his household. On one occasion "Wonder" 
fell sick. The best veterinary aid that could be 
procured was called in, and after trying all the 
remedies they could devise, the doctors declared 
that " Wonder " was incurable. The disease, they 
said, had taken hold of his brain, and the best 
thing that could be done for the poor suffering 
animal was to shoot him, My informant strongly 
objected to such a proposition. He went to his 
master, and implored him to spare "Wonder's" 
life for a short time longer. "I will try what 
my skill can do, my lord, if you will let me have 
my own way with him for a week or so." 

"But they tell me that ho has become so 
savage that it is dangerous to approach him ; he 
has hied to bite some of the stable men." 

" That he has, my lend, but he is quite gentle 

v.nli .... 1 " * ' him entirely myself, 

The coachn; d leave. Hi 1 

for a fortnight in 1 1 b which " M ndei " 
lay, for the animal was too weak to stand. Hour 
after hour did James sit with " Wonder's" head 
on his knees, nursing the patient as a mother 
might her child. It was with great difficulty and 
danger that the doctors had tried to force their 
medicines down its throat, but from James's 
hand it took them willingly. 

"For three days I despaired of the poor animal, 
but on the fourth day, as I sat with his head on 
my knee, gently patting its cheek, and speaking 
softly and kindly to it, it opened its eye and gave 
me such a look of thankfulness that I don't mind 
telling you, for I don't feci a bit ashamed of it, 
that I dropped a few tears." 

"Wonder" completely recovered, and returned 
to his carriage work. He would allow no one to 
drive him but James ; would neigh with delight 
when he heard him entering the stable, and drop 
his ears at. the sound of his departing footsteps. 
On the death of the bishop, who, by-the-by, re- 
warded James's kindness to his animals by a 
handsome annuity, James came up to London to 
rill a government situation which had been pro- 
cured for him through the interest of his late 
master. Some years after, during his fortnight's 
holiday, he paid a visit to Durham. Hearing 
that there was a sale of horses in the city he 
repaired to the auction yard. While engaged in 
conversation with some old friends that he met 
there, another old friend, whom he had not pre- 
viously observed, came and laid his great head on 
James's shoulder and neighed a loud "How 
d'ye do — I am so happy to see you." It was 
" Wonder !" James could not tell me whether 
he or the horse were happiest at meeting, s. 

A Clever Door-beeper. 
A correspondent, who signs liimself "W. G. S.," 
writes as follows to"Hard\vicke's Science Gossip"': 
" Last year, during a tour for toadstools, I mace 
a temporary stay at a small house in Bedford- 
shire, where a horse in the back-yard grasped 
with his mouth the handle of the door of the 
room in which I was sitting, and by a twist of 
his head turned the spindle and entered the 
room. The mistress of the house, knowing his 
habit, put a piece of loaf-sugar into his mouth, 
when he immediately backed out, and again, 
grasping the handle, closed the door after him. 
The woman told me that when the horse was 
disengaged in the yard, he often came inside for 
a piece of sugar in that way. 



Jack Thatch was roused from his reverie by the 
cobbler's voice ; and the latter not being quite 
sure as to whether his question had been heard, 
again asked his cousin what he was thinking 
about 1 

"About my wife," said Jack. 

"And a very good thing to think about too," 
said the cobbler; " if a wife's worth having, 
she's worth thinking about, and thinking a great 
deal about, too. I wish men would think 
little more about their wives. There would be 
a deal more comfort in families if they did." 

"Mine gives me a plaguy deal to think about,' 
said Jack Thatch. 

" That's because you don't think enough about 
her," said the cobbler. "There's a kind of riddle 
here ; and indeed some folk say that where 
there's a woman, there's a riddle ; however, he] -■ 
it is, ' The more you think about your wife, the 
less shell give you to think about.'" 

"I'm not good at riddles," said Jack Thauh ; 
"and what's that m plain English]" 

•■ Why. the meaning of it is this ; if you make 
it your business to take thought for your wife, 
she'll know she's cared for ; and sheil value il 
and value you ; and she'll try to bo a credit to 
you ; and she won't give you cause for anxiety — 
running into debt, neglecting your ciuMi. n . . 
yniusclf, and perhaps drinking — driven to it, 
by neglect and ill words, and, if. may 1.. . 
hard blows. That's not the kind of treatment 
that women require," said the cobbler; "they*r 
very brittle kind of things. So far from bei 

banged about cither With words or Mr. 
anything unkind, they require a deal of ca 
They're likely enough io go out of order, 


themselves, without oui doing with thai little hit of trinrming, though 

ihem any harm ; in fact, they're like you ind 
they want to be kept always in repair. B 

: Ever 

n't [ to be thought about. And now, Jack Thatch, 

if you take my advice, you'll do as I do, and 

«<■ I got Mm. Flicker." said the set about repairing Mm. Thatoh a bit. Poor 

broken bIiocs, and 
battered bonnet, and ragged gown — she needs 
much. And never yon mind if you c.m'i do it a 
great deal all at once ; jiut do a little at a time ; 
only, begin at once — that's the great thing ; and, 
if you begin repairing her, you'll 
repairing herself ; for she'll get new heart and 
spirit ; and when there are two of yon 
depend upon it, it will yet on much faster than 
you think. Just look at those boots,' laid fcht 
cobbler, pointing with professional pride at the 
shining coverings of Jaclc Thatch's lege ;" how 
could you walk about in those boots and see hei 
slipshod, and the children out at the toes ? Re- 
■ink, and the heart sickens, and the member, you are'all a part of the same premises, 

go all astray, and nobody cm tell where ' and all must be kept in order together." 
tcDutiiint out of ths m od I the repaid era wanting ihow they are to be | But it will 3Mne 'Jnc:mn:a harl jjwi a 
""-en I have kind words for her; and man," said Jack Thatch, "to keep wife and 
almost always to find out the sore ' children too in order. If I keep the woman, the 
places, and drop like oil upon them, and heal woman ought to keep the children." 

But there are times, Jack, when even [ "That's just a pai t ..f ih.- m. Ilii-hm- -^ "said the 
these won't do. Then I bring out this Book, cobbler, "that there's a deal too much of in 
and I find that it can do for her and me what the world Don't the children belong to you 
othing else can, and I try these," said the cob- both t Ain't one of you the father of them, and 
bier, laying down the shoe lie was mending, and j the other the 
putting a hand on each knee ; " and if I were to you, and 

■■..:, ,-, with an 
Eacej "here she comes; 
,i | ...i,, | lad I am always to see hor, although 
. a inrnored to one she wants some- 
But this sentiment the cobbler had all to him- 
self, Jack Thatch was not at all anxious to see 
Mrs, Flicker; for the latter was a rery out- 
spoken, and indeed, sometimes, vehement woman; 

and she had more than once given her cousin a 
bit of her mind about his conduct to his wife 
and children. 

Now, this the cobbler knew very well ; and as 
pour Jack was evidently on the mending hand food u 
lie did not want him to get a lecture from M i 
Flicker at this particular time. Tlio only thing, 
therefore, was to put him out of the way ; and ^ 

this could be done only by stuffing him into a . done. Then I have kind 
little kind of cupboard, which at that particular they 
time was fortunately empty, but which generally 
held the cobbler's stores of leather. In a trice, 
accordingly, .lack found himself imprisoned ; and. 
in another trice, Mrs. Flicker 
little room. 

cobbler, "and I took up this notion of 'Repairs, 
I've put it in practice on her ; and so she is what 
she ia to-day. Borne folk starve their poor wives, 
for they spend their wages you know how ; but 
I said to myself, how can a woman keep up, if 
she isn't well fed 1 and how can she respect her- 
self, if you don't give her the means of bung 
respectable? and I'm proud to say," said the 
cobbler, drawing his waxed threads so tight, 
thai the wonder was they didn't break, and 
holding them there ; " I'm proud to say, she has 

never wanted since the day I called her mine. 

hines, Jack, when all the good 

1 nourish — times when the 

i her husband'; 

half said, half sang, the cobbler; "you know, 
Betsy, though I'm very fond of singing, I never 
in my life, but this one ; and I sing 
it whenever you come to visit me at my bench. 
Come, sit down a minute on that chair." 

" I cant sit down," said Mrs. Flicker, " for 
Mrs. Stone is going to Burnthorpe to-day ; and 
she offered me a ride in her cart, if I chose to 
go. Drapery is much cheaper there than here ; 
and Mary wants a new frock, and Joseph can't 
go longer without two more shirts; and as we 
don't run credit, I'm come to know if you can 
give me some money." 

" How much will they be i" said Joe. 

"They'll be fifteen shillings the lot.'* 

" Fifteen shillings," repeated the cobbler — 

'and five for a new ribbon for your bonnet, 

Betsy ; that'fl twenty j and there's a sovereign.' 

" But you can't spare it )'' said Mrs. Flicker, 

"Aye, aye," answered her husband, "I car 

always spare something for my wife. I'vesavec 

" that sovereign on purpose, when I heard you say 

at Christinas that you thought the young ones 

were getting shabby ; and I'll never forget the 

mother, when I remember the children," said 

the cobbler, "no never ; " and he cried, "catch," 

and sent the coin tumbling over and over in the 

air, until it fell into his wife's hand. 

" There's a good man," said Mrs. Flicker ; and 

she nodded twenty little nods of a very loving 

kind at her husband, wliich nods the latter ap- 

, received quite safely, for he looked 

brim full of satisfaction and delight, and 

tell you how much all this has brought us throng! 
you wouldn't believe it, no, nor would anybody, 
unless they tried, and found it for themselves. 
Yon hear folk making sport of religion, and of 
prayer, and saying ' there's nothing in it ; ' but 
there's two ways of trying a thing ; and if folk 
not earnest and real, what wonder if they 
found no good ?" 

'Tis my wife's temper that troubles me," 
said Jack Thatch— " she's wonderful fretty, and 
at times fractious, too." 

"Ah," said the cobbler, "when this happens, 
she's out of repair ; and you should set to work 
and put her to rights as soon as ever you can. 
I take just a3 much pains to keep my good 
woman's temper right as anything else." 

"Why, to look at Mrs. Flicker," interrupted 
Jack Thatch, "no one would think that her 
temper was ever put out." 

"Jack Thatch," said the cobbler, a little 
quickly, "my wife is oidy a woman. She's 
flesh and blood ; and what worries flesh and blood 
will worry her. Women have often a great 
deal more to worry them than men ; and, what' 
more, they can't get away from their worries fi 
wc can. The wonder to me is, that any woman 
thai brings up a large family of children bos 
any temper left ; yes ! that there's any of her 
left at all ; and I act accordingly. I believe, as 
1 have told you already, that there are ways above 
tliis world of keeping us up in our troubles, and 
repairing us when we arc wearing out ; but i 
know i is my duty to do all I can, and use what- 

of them like 
i her, and 

that ever had been made, together with sunshine, 
and mountain air, and laughing goa, and hap- 
iir. mid u i l' 1 1 1 k . and a hodge-podge of delight, 
fizzing, and sparkling, and popping, and shoot- 
ing the cork clean out of her keairl . altogether 
unlike anything she had ever felt since Bhe was 
a child. 

And when the good woman's heart thus swelled, 
and she could contain herself no longer, she used 
to ling DUt, and praise the One who had looked 
at. her poor husband on his knees, and taught 
him on) of the Book, and put good thoughts into 
his head, and given him the heart to cany thein 
out. And, at times, she would go to her room, 
and shut herself in ; and while she was there one 
day, Jack was listening at the door ; and v. ithout 
saying B word, he walked in, and knelt down 
by her side. And neither of them said anything, 
though they both tried ; and they got up off their 
knees, and looked at each other, and those looks 
explained all ; and they never had much talk 
about what had passed ; for tl.. 
tongues — yes, and though they couldn't say a 
word on their knees, their hearts had tongues ; 
and as once they had knelt together, they seemed 
to feel as though they could henceforth go well 
through life together — and so they did. 

And under Joe Flicker's directions, and with 

his helping advice, Jack Thatch start* d ev« a Btill 

them like both of you together; and how can ' more extensively in the repairing line than he 
\nu m.i U out that you have nothing to do with had thought of at first. For, when in the course 
\ w , mlth . cn r • of a little time he came to ordei a new pair of 

"Well, Joe Flicker, I feel uncommon as though boots for the winter for his wife, and sue pairs 
1 should like to be cross with you, but I can't, for his six children, he and Joe had anotbffl 
I'll try the wife, but I won't the children : <■■■< le.-.nn.u,..! ^hich, though it produced further 

even if I wished, 'twould be no good, for I great results, wc can now give only the sum. 

r knew what to do with them in my life." I Jack Thatch told the cobbler all Ik w, ,,. .In-i- I. 

I'll tell you what to do," answered the in his efforts to repair himself, his wife and 
cobbler—" yon set about repairing them in their ' children, Ids house and all be had. He owned, 
bodies as quick as you can. You spend your like an honest man, what lie felt ; that he never 
money on warm clothes for them; and get their ' could have succeeded if he had not sought help 

1 1 5 and shoes mended up, and buy them new ' above his own. And be gave Ins experiences 

ones as soon as you can; and that will repair also of his efforts with the various children, fed 
them outside. Then get them good bread and whom he now came to get a supply of boots, 
milk for their meals, and a bit of meat when you "' I tried the laughing," said Jack, "and it did 
can- and that will repair their insides j and 'tis with ollbutlittle Sophy ; you know she's delicate, 
sorely they want it, if I know aright. And then and she wan very shy of me; foi 'twas so strange 
rive them a penny toj now and again-* penny to see me with her brothers and sisters at all 
aint much to spend on one's young family— and But when the baby tumbled me down, and I 
be with them for a minute or two when you can | began to cry, poor little Sophy couldn't stand 
spare the time, and tumble them about ; and that, and keep on her stool any longer ; so she 
never mind letting them give you a tumble, too. crept over to me, and kissed me, and wiped my 
Make a tumble for yourself, Jack, if they can't ' eyes with her little ragged frock ; and ever since 
make H for you, and then laugh as loud as you that we've been like father and child ; and to 
if that don't suit you, why, pretend to come to an end, were all as happy as a family 
ory ; that'll do as well ; and then they'll come to can he. To be sure," said Jack 
make you well ; and they'll be twice as fond of queer to be knocked down by c 

and you don't know how fond you'll get of ' and to feel it crawling all —- ■ 
them. Yes, Jack, though you're a great big ' but I got used to it very 

them all back to his wife again. "Now I'm I ever means I have ; and so I pray and work too." 

off," Sflid Mrs. Flicker ; and giving her husband J " What kind of things do you do ?" asked 

;t farewell nod at the door, she disappeared. Jack Thatch, who, although he understood by 

And a great thing it was for Jack Thatch that this time how the body was to be kept in repair, 

Flicker had taken herself off so quickly ; ' could not, for the life of him, imagine how this 

desirable result was to be obtained in the matter 

of the temper. 

• ; Well," answered the cobbler, "sometimes I 
gather all the cluldren, and have them out 
garden for a play, and leave Mrs. Flicker the 
house all to herself. Believe me, 'i 
tng to have a little quiet now and again, and be 
able to move about without looking to see that 
■ ad on some one. I alwa; Unci liei 
the better for that. And I generally manage so 
as to have five or six shillings in m 
an occasion, whenever one comes ; and though 
1't go f or change of air long together, as 
gentlefolk do, still we can have a little turn now 

i . nd I tokC hel' nil . 

Sometimes we go by rail, and 


for the closet was so small, that he could not 
have remained there long ; and much he dreaded 
.in interview with this good woman, who knew 
well how little he had done for his wife and family. 
Jack first peered cautiously out of the cupboard 
door, to make sure that the last particle of Mrs. 
Flicker had disappeared ; then he cameout ; and 
on the cobbler's assuring him that his wife would 
ii'-t return, he seated himself again in his former 

tie cobbler, "yon saw — or 
at least you heard — me do a little bit of repairs, 

[ repair Mis. Flicker fiom time to time, just as 
I do myself ; for we're both made of the same 
flesh and blood. Men don't always remember 
that. They -seem to think that women ore always 

: .'1. being worried with ' of the 

■ '■ Idren, and io i ■.-. knoi i v. hat , 1 v. I 

to kei p them up. That's how 
some women become drunkards. They have no 
one to chaer them up a bit ; and they think 

spirits and beer will do it ; bul they make a gre if 
I : r ol my ■ iddlea," said 

■ !'"■■■ man keep hi i wife in 

.....l ipititH iviilioni .sj.. nding anything onliquor I" 

" Vi.l tow often ■! . v"ii repair Mis. Flicker V 

asked Jack Thatch. 

■■ I'm .iiv. ay . .Li it." answei ad the i obblei 
'more o li for d | ■■ ee, couei ■ ' 

|i m decorative as n ell 

■ . Mid I du enjoy seeing her 

i lo I'm not a man 
i . bul I like wh it's a little tasty. 

way. You'll 

.li.: ■ l bit of ribbon i 

'r 11 look all the fresh* 

spring caits ; but, howevei 

:>nelike an earwig ; 

; and I 
fellow, you'll be ready to "cry "if anything is the cheap way of making a friend" 

atter with them. Then, man, your children j " Now Jack," said the cobbler, "you must go 
Will love you, and they'll obey you from love ; on and do still more in this repairing line. You 
and your wife won't have half the trouble with ' must keep your business in repair, by watching 
them ; and, as I've just now said, you'll all be in ' every little thing. Never let a customer be dis- 
repair together, and a very nice family you'll be. " | satisfied, or have 

Whether Jack Thatch saw any visions of 
brightness in the brilliant boots which glittered 

go, I always find she's the better for it for 

weeks after she comes back. In my opinion. 

Jack, we're all likely to become seedy, if we don't 

■ liange from time to time ; it gives 

one something ne* to think about ; and it gets 

many gloomy lie 
mind 1 1 liki ly to brood upon ; and it gives one a 

general stir up ; and without being able exactly 

.. ' if this is, it means a good deal, 

i. seems td me that all the little troubles of life 

ap | hering, gathering, until they come to a 

head, and they must, then be got rid of some- 

find that the fresh air often blows 

them away. 

"Then, about that little present that you saw 
me make Mrs. Flicker i 

hand — 'twas but a trifle, still it showed her that 
■ r ; and women like well 

upon his feet or no, we cannot tell ; but some 
such vision certainly passed before him, for, 
after a long pause, he said, " A very nice family 
we'll be— yes! we'll all be in repair together ; 
and a very nice family we'll be." So saying, 
Mi'. Thatch rose from his seat, drew down his 
trousers over his boots, cast a look of ineffable 
3Com at his old slippers, stretched out his hand 
to the cobbler, and, without more ado, man hi d 
out of the little shop with the air of a man that 
was well set up on his legs, and didn't mean to 
trip for any one. 

From time to nine the cobbler lieard intelli- 
gence of the private life of his cousin ; and every - 

!,,, u d to promise that he, and his house, 

and household, together with their tempers, and 
boots, and shoes, and clothes, ami all belonging 
to them, would soon be very different from what 
they had been for many a long day. For, to 
Jack Thatch's credit, it must be told that he set 
about all these needful repairs at one i ■ h d 
a Hook like Joe Flicker's, and he took to n idil fj 

it ; and he had knee- like Joe's, and he took to 

ike the cobbler's, 

with brains inside, Bid he bi (j in to use it too ; 

and he found, i 1 ■' dunking, and 

praying, and tin u in.niti. 

I,,, e dj J i ould be - 1 ■■ ! ''' ' ■ "■ " 

i that didn't talk too much ; and 

■ Mowed hei-sflf 
word about the 
past. Only at times she felt her 1. 
within her ; not OB 
let out the <!.■■■ 

. follof all sorts of cordials 

impression of anything, 
be disobliged ; keep always repairing your 
stock ; keep your customers' good opinion of you 
repair ; never mind trouble — no, not even a 
little loss — if it is to do a stroke of repairs ; re- 
member, that nothing will keep right in this world ; 
it must be kept right, and you'll have to be at 
this work as long as ever you live. And do for 
your neighbours what you do for yourself. 
Never pass by a chance of putting them into 
repair, when you get an opportunity of doing so. 

li \.i, r neighbour in want, hold out 

your hand to him J give him a bit of what you 
can spare. And if you see a poor fellow down- 
hearted, or down-trodden, give him a kind word. 
Or if you see a poor foolish fellow going wrong, 
put him in the right way, and teach him the 
secret erf the Book, the knees, and the head. 

Y, j and if pou se< n< ighl rs quai railing, 1 1 1 

them right ; perhaps ten minutes' kindly talk will 
do it, and repair what otherwise may come to 
ruin altogether. If we do this, Jack, we shall 
not. have lived for nothing. We may be poor, 

and not have the chance of doing any great thing, 

1 1 rhaps we couldn't do 

it ; but our business is to try and do what lies 

in our power, and 'tis for that we shall have to 

give our account, by -and- by." 

Thus did Jack Thatch ; and be and the cob- 

. friends. And though Jack became 

n, and a happy 

family man, and a man who fffl l i ' '' "■' 

respected, that which he I 

himself, was the thought that he was 

C.Hi.l read. . ■ l ' ' 

i ok Thatch ; andyon 

hebi de at, bap] | . 


useful man, The writer Uopea that you have 
been interested, and, perhaps, entertained ; but 
he aaa a further hope, and is, that you may- 
be profited also. Fur the end of all reading 
sh.mli) lie profit. 

Hence, pomtil yourself to be naked, whether 

there be nol B i points in which you also are 

and not altogether as your best 
friends, oi perhaps, as even yon yourself, on 
. rill you ought to be. 

Am! it', even at the first consideration -I Ihis 
question, you do not see anything particularls 
amiss, just take a walk round yourself, and 
inspect your various ways and habits, both a 
regards your fellow-men and your own daily life 
And it may be that the inspector will report that 
there are many little holes which want tilling ; 
some rust, which should be cleaned off J some pipes 
which should be unstopped ; some parts of your 
premises which need a repairing band. 

There are holes through which evil reports 
get into your brain ; stop them Up, There is n 
d<>or which should be generally kept shut, which 
swings open too easily, and lets out unkind words ; 
get a new lock, and put it on, and keep them in. 
There are fireplaces which won't draw, for the 
chimneys want sweeping, and so, you are cold m 
yourself, and oold to your neighbours; get rid ol 
whatever is hindering warmth and hive ; and be 
comfortable yourself, and make others so, by a 
glowing, cheery, sparkling heart. And keep from 
looking din^y and ihimp, and tr.iin up afew dower- 
ing creepers on the wans of your outward life, 
so as to remind men of freshness and beauty, 
cheering the hearts of those who pass by, blessing 
all who see you, even though they know but 
Uttle of your real inner self. For pleasant smiles 
and words and looks are good garnishing for 
solid worth, and it may be that others will be 
won to what is lovely and of good report, and 
you in your own sphere will teach many to follow 
i_he example of 


Mi;. St.w;ti\. of Ilnlunoud, dairyman, now pos- 
sesses a dog, of the black-und-tan terrier breed, 
that may be daily seen perched on the back of 
his stable companion — -the. horse- — whilst making 
his usual calls. The affection of the two animals 
i Lch other has not been surpassed in the 

"■ such sympathetic friendships. The dog 

i rfectly at home in his rather precarious 
position, and whether at a walk, trot, canter, or 
full gallop, is scarcely ever seen to falter in bis 
..-•piiliU-iniii. During the absence of his master, 
while transacting business in the houses of his 
customers, the dog guards, like a faithful servant, 
both cart and horse, and never for a moment 
deserts his post. Bo long have the two animals 
been allowed to continue in the indulgence of 
then- favourite habit, that it becomes a question 
(voi bhj i onsideration what the i onsequencei 
would be n they were separated. They may still 

In- scon evt-i-y day at their united labours, to 
the great amusement of the good folks of Rich- 
im. ml and the surrounding neighbourhood, where 
hoth arc well known and greatly appreciated. 


\mong>i- the thousands who visited the Royal 
\r.nlri!iv this year, and were delighted with the 
■.pleudid paintings and drawings with which the 
walls were lined, not a few eyes were directed 
to Harrison Weir's bfe-like painting of " The 
Happy Family." We have much pleasure in 
giving our leaders an engraving of tin-, painting, 

retting that we cannot afford them the 
gratification of seeing the coloured original We 
should rejoice it tlie Royal Academicians would 

in future years arrange fur the admission of 
the working classes and their families, on certain 
days, at a low fee. We have great faith in tho 
elevating tendency of good pictures on the masses. 

Lomuok: Fubhshcd monthly by S. W. FABTBXDOE A Co.. al the Office, No. 0, Paternoster Bow ; and W. TWEEDIE, 337, Strand. 

Printed by Watsok * 

No. 203. Hov 1871 





The world we live in is a rough world, a crooked 
world, a thorny world, an awkward world to get 
through ; but it might be worse. It might be 
better, however, if everyone would try in earnest 

I was walking sonic iime ago with a country- 
man, whom I observed, every now and then, to 
kick aside any particularly large or jagged stone 
that lay loose upon the horse-track. 

" I don't like to see a atone like that in the 
road," said he, " and not move it. It might 
trip up a horse, and break a rider's neck ; and 
"lis very little trouble to kick it aside." 

Now if all passers through the world would 
but act on the same plan ! 

I don't think anybody in the village of Frog- 
field liked Grundy Archer. He was a surly fel- 
low at the best, and sometimes he was downright 
quarrelsome. He had his good points too. He 
was sober and industrious. He prided himself 
particularly upou his own cottage-garden, in 
which, every evening, after he had left working 
for Ins master, lie worked for himself. Grundy's 

ighbo>_ .... 

(histriousas himself ; and, as their gard 
there was a kind of rivalry kept up as to which — 
Tom Carter or Grundy Archer— should have the 
earliest peas, the biggest cabbages, and so forth. 
On the part of Carter, this rivalry was carried 
on with pleasant good-humour ; but when he 
happened to get the upper hand, Grundy w&a 

One morning in March, Grundy looked out of 
his clumber-window as he was dressing, and saw 
sight which might have made a better-tempered 
an than he cross. A number of fowls had got 
to his garden, and were as busy as bees, 
scratching up a row of peas which were just ap- 
pearing above ground, and devouring them by 
wholesale. He did not wait to put on the rest 
of his clothes, but, rushing downstairs in a fury, 
he made a sudden onslaught into the thick of the 
offenders, and soon dispersed them ; but not till 
a fine hens were gasping their last on the un- 
lucky row of peas. 

The fowls were Tom Carter's. They had made 
i breach in their place of confinement, and, try- 
ing to make the best of their short liberty, had 
unfortunately strayed into Grundy's gard 
after having done mischief enough in their 

Archer was rather ashamed of himself when 
the deed was done, and managed matters so that 
the dead fowls were found in a field at the back 
of the two gardens, while he repaired the damages 
they had done in his own. And when they were 
found, he pretended to know nothing about th^ 
matter. But Tom had his suspicions, neverthe- 
less ; and from that time the two neighbours 
and their wives were as cool as cuoumDen 
towards each other. 

A few months later, Archer's garden began to 
'ear a neglected look. After the autumn crops 
rere gathered in. it became more and more of a 
wilderness. Weeds overran the empty beds, and 
there was no attempt to eradicate them— no 
turning up the ground to prepare it for fresh 
crops. Winter came ; and the gooseberry- bushes, 
and currant-bushes, and apple-trees were left un- 
cut. Spring was coming on ; and the garden 
looked more desolate than ever. 

Grundy Archer had fallen from the top of _ 
,-aggon while carrying corn at harvest- time, had 
broken his leg and two or three of his ribs, and 
for months was lying in bed helpless. 

s pretty well cared for by his master 
and the parish together; but his garden, the 
pride of his life, nobody cared for that. 

" I can't bear to Bee it so," said Tom Carter 
e day to his wife. " 'Tisn't doing as we would 
be done by. I'll take a spell at poor Grundy*! 
garden myself." 

" He doesn't deserve it, though," said Mrs. 
Carter, who was thinking of her two dead hr,,.s. 
"The Bible tells us to bear one another')) 
burdens," said Tom. 

"Grundy wouldn't have put out his little 
finger to bear one of ours," said Mrs, Carter. 

"'If ye do good only to them that do 

good to you, what thank have ye ? ' " answered 

T an, quoting a text we should all do well to 

study m«re, and to follow as well as study. 

" 1 believe you are right, Tom," returned Mrs. 

Carter; "but there' i ,, , ,, [ m wanta 

much work as you can give it." 

' Look not every man on his own thin 
but every man also on the things of others! 

lie was getting better ; and they say that when a 
sick man gets extra cross, it is one sign (hat he 
is mending. 

The door opened, and in came his neighbour 

" How d'ye do, mate , " B aid Tom, kindly. 

"None the better for seeing you," Grundy 
would have said, perhaps, if he had spoken his 
mind, but he growled out a half civil reply 

" About your garden, neighbour," Tom began 

" What about it ." asked Grundy, quickly. 
" 'Tis in a terrible mess." 

''Could have told you that," said the si. k man. 
" I want to put it to rights a bit, if you'd 


"Yes, I: why not? There's them goose- 
berry trees, now ; they want cutting." 
" I know they do," growled Archer. 
"Tis time to think of putting in seeds," 
"Of course it is," replied Archer, testily. 
"And a good many other tilings want seeing 
to," continued Tom Carter. 

"You needn't tell me that," said the man 
with the fractured leg and ribs. 
" May I do it J " asked Tom. 
What for i " said Grundy : " I can't pay you 
for it, if you do." 

"I don't want you to : may I do it ? " 
" If you like," replied Archer. 
A month later, and Grundy was in his garden 
hobbling on with a stick, looking with a curious 
expression of countenance at Tom, who was 
raking over the onion-bed. Everything was neat 
and tidy as ever. Trees and bushes had been 
trimmed, weeds burned, ground dug in, seeds 
Bown and planted. Grundy looked" o\ f er the 
fence into his neighbour's garden. 

Why, Tom, you are backward with your 
work ! " J 

Rather, neighbour, but I'll soon fetch up. 
There, I think that puts the finishing-stroke," 
he added, shouldering the rake. 

"But, Tom— stop a bit, Tom— I have got 
[nothing to say. I say, Tom, this is very kind 
of you. I could not have thought if. And, 
Tom— I say, Tom, I can't bear it ; " and Grundy 
Archer drew his brown, bony hand across his 
face, and took it away moist. 'T can't bear it ! 
Tom , to think how crooked I've always been 
with you. Them hens of yours, Tom." 
"Never mind about them, Grundy " 
" 'Twos I that killed 'em, Tom." 
"Never mind," answered Tom Cur,, they 
shouldn't have got into your garden." 
"Did you know I did it, then ?" 
Well, I gave a pretty dose guess ; but what 

When the father ; 

?ed he called his son to 
him. "Show me, now, "said he, "what progress 
thou hast made with the studies that I marked 
out for thee." 

The son answered, " I have never attended to 
them, my father, and, therefore, have made 

"Perhaps," said the father, "it was beca 
he care of the estate was more severe than I 
1 ad ■■■ pe. ted, and thou hast spent all thy time 
therefore, unat improve- 

■led the 

ade he 

jplied the son, " 1 have entirely 

irely," said the father, " thou hast paid 
attention to the poor, whose interests are so 
dear to me— thou hast not certainly neglected 

Yes, my father, I have neglected the poor 
rely. I have done nothing for them." 
And in what then hast thou spent thy time V 
My whole time, O father, has been spent in 

But, at least," said the father, "restore me 
the property that I intrusted to thee for these 
purposes which thou hast neglected." 

"I cannot restore it," said the son ; "I have 
spent it all upon my own pleasures ;" and the son 

'ered his face, for he expected the reproaches 
of his father, but his father was silent— and that 
silence was more dreadful than words. 

At length the father approached him. and said, 
"Thou canst not recall the time that thou wasted 
—thou canst not repay to the sick and the poor 
their sufferings through thy neglect — thou canst 
not restore the erring and ignorant whom thou 
shouldst have guided— thou canst not return the 
property thou hast squandered ; but, even now, 
: - thy shame, thy sorrow, and thy poverty, thou 

st yet one thing which thou canst give, and 
which I will accept in place of all the past." 

"Oh, tell me what i" replied the son ; weeping 

he threw himself at his father's feet. 


Sun up for your Sundays ; let nothing have 

To take from God's children their birthright and 

The . i st day appointed in Eden's fair bower 
Ere sin had yet clouded earth's glad morning 

Stond up for your Sundays, the Sabbath of teat. 
God's solemn commandment from Sinai's crest 
When awed by the thunder, by darkness oppre.t, 
Their sin and their weakness His people contest. 
Stand up for your Sundays ; the Saviour arose 
In triumph on Sunday, and scattered your foes, 
His labours all ended, and borne all His woes 
That you might have pardon and faith's sweet 

Stand up foryour Sundays j the Spirit came down 
On Sunday, and gave it a gladsome renown ; 
On calm Christian Sabbaths no thunder-clouda 

Grace, peace, and rejoicing are Sunday's bright 
Stand up for your Sundays ; earth's business 

matters 1 " 

"You've beat me," sobbed Grundy Archer ; 
"you've beat me out and out. God bless you 
for it, Tom ! " and he held out his hand to Carter, 
who shook it with a hearty grip of good-will. 

TomCarter had found outonewayofdoinggood. 

; Be not 


His father raised him, and said in a low and 

" A broken and a contrite heart, even now I 
will not despise." 

And now, immortal being, whoever thou art, 
through whose mind this story has passed, has it 
for thee no meanin"? 

Hast thou not a Father who hast placed thee 
here, in this distant world, and whose delicate 

care of thy happ: 
of thy existence I I 
which He hath open* 
creation I Is it not 
He hath sti-ung like a 
not revealed in the u 

six weary work-days have more than their 

Then comes the blest Sabbath : of labour beware 
Which atealsfrom thercst-day to which you are heir. 
Stand up for your Sundays; of pka ur, take 

Which seeks from God's worship your footsteps 

to lead : 
Oh, pause, Sabbath-breaker, that flower is a weed 
Which stings as you pluck it and bears deadly seed. 

Stand up for your Sundays, the earnest and 

Of " rest " that " remaineth " in mansions divine ; 
With streaks of heaven's glory our Sabbaths how 

Some grapes they now yield us from Eshcol'a 

Stand up for your Sundays ; these happy Lord's- 

On wings as of eagles your souls shall upraise, 
While faith's joyful worship and hope's cheerijw 

Ring in the grand Sabbath and thunders of praise ! 
. RU-haiti Wilim MA. 

lo of the first a 


to have studied the 
easy chair 

Theke was once a son to whom a kind and 
generous father had intrusted the manageme: 
of his distant estates. He had provided hi 
with a most liberal outfit ; and in all the anange- 

mentawhich had been made for him, had ahown the 
most thoughtful consideration for his happiness. 

He required of him to spend a part of his time 
in the cultivation of his own mind ; to pay par- 
ticular attention to the improvement of the 
estate ; to have regard to the (rants of the poor, 
the sick mA distressed, as well as to the instruc- 
tion of the ignorant ; and for all these purposes 
he granted him liberal appropriations. 

m went to the estate ; but, entir. ly for- 
getful of the kindness and commands of his father, 

spent his whole time in the riotous pursuit of 
pleasure. The estate went to ruin ; the poor 
neglected ; the sick perished from want ; 
and the money which had been given for their 
relief was spent by the BOn in every form of dis- 
'i" ion and excess. 

After sometime the son received tidings thatlus 
father was coming to investigate the afi . 

" ,;ii '' ■"" l iMMKUhlh-d and ,,,.,.„.. 

"Whal .hall I do?" he said; "shall I flee 
from the face of my father I That I might do if 
I never designed to do any better— if I would 
make the case entirely hopeless. No, I am re- 
solved what I will do, I will see my father and 
tell him the truth, let the consequences be what 
■ : . . 

by every hou_ 

told thee by lliat eye 
■fleet upon a beautiful 
i n noi whispered in that ear which 
ng like a cunning instrument? Is it 
m the unceasing pulse, the u-ntiring 
ry movement of that strange maohi- 
lough it might bring thee such agony, 
-e bo much happiness ? 

of tl,v'.',' i'' »''" T '»,' C i] ' rM "Z' » ml . T <™ American named and Watson, 
lonymgs of tlyspu.t— ,ts restless d.scontent with ' were, a few week, bade, charged .,t the Middled 
all it sees and possesses— its craving for .ome Sessions— one with «(.,! 7 .7, 7. , 

high and I yet aafotmd good- ,,s , ,„„.,, .^one neX 7 an' .n^tron 

immortal capab.hlies-teach thee that th.m hast Sir. All,,,',, in Dm , „.,.„„° . "t Stmm, ,7 

; 7 7777 77, 177 "', ' '^^^m^^SJiI 

fc H 1 " l,|, " ! " ! Mr - Sc '>' a '" C " s " »"* r «"> circumstances, 

, ■:' '::; 7:; "* y °n'- rV, *~* ; "' : ^nrsff^r^FSw 

.-.,,. ,7,, p;ZZ&J% &£ ^bacVrin^nrnoCtra^dt 

77, i 77"h77 '7" ,", """f^U'^'d •>' the case. The prisoner promised his 

° * , ""* ] "° h anJ sacred : lordship that he would weigh his words well 

, to the capac.t.e, which He and take warning by what had occur,, ,i 

.th given thee ? 
And arc there never times in thy life when 
strange thoughtfuhiess and awe pervades thy 
spirit, as if that unseen Father were drawing 
to thee. Hearest thou never a still, small 
1, saying, " To what purpose hast thou been 
In me! VUiat progress hast thou made in thy 
education for eternity 1 What use hast thou 
made of the time which I have given 1 What 
hast thou done with the property which I have 
intrusted to thy hands I Whom hast thou suc- 
coured, enlightened, guided, comforted, and led 
to heaven, by all the various talents that I in- 
trusted to thee fur that purpose 1" And what 
answer, in such hours, canst thou nialto to thv 
God and Father ] 

But how wonderful is the goodness of that 
God, who, when every thing that He has forbidden 
is done, and everything that He has commanded 
is left undone —when the spirit stands before Him 
In Ipl, ss, speechless, ami despairi.ig-.t01 accepts 

''" '■' ' 1 >' "tiering it lias to bring, and receives 

a contrite heart in place of that past, which can 

" "' ' i:l| led ; and what must be thought of 

that child who should turn from the forgiving 
parent fflld say, " No— 1 have not even that to 

only too glad to return to America. They wen 
thereupon discharged. 

Tina morning Mr. Abrams handed a letter to 
Mr. Serjeant Cox. It was addressed, "Judge Cox, 
care of Mr. Abrams, Bow-street," and ran as 
fellows, : — 

"New York, Aug. 8, 1871. 
" Sir, — 1 write to inform yon of my safe 
iv.d here, and that I have c plied » ith the re- 
quest of the Court, and also to express the thank- 
fulness I feel on being saved from disgrace and 
I left London on the 18th July for Liver- 
pool, sailing on the 10th in the steamer "France," 
of the National line, arriving in New Y. 1 1 i 
the 1st of August, I thank God that I 1 
arrived in my own country and home, escaping 
dancers seen and unseen, and shall nowstrive, with 
God's help, to lead an honest Christian life, i h I 
may be a blessing to those with whom I come in 
dally contact. Your I shall always 
hold dear, and shall act in future so that yon wiH 
sr have cause to regret the action von took 

y ease —Yours respectfully, H W . 

P.S. — C. W. (the other prisoner) is here, 
and doing well." 

Mr. Serjeant Ooi said it was von- satisfactory 
to the Court.— The rimes, August 33rd, 187 i. 


"On, father," said little Mary Bruce, as alio 
bounded in from school, hung her white cotton 
bonnet on ita hook, and sat down in her little 
ohair by the fireside — ''oh, father, we saw such 
.i dreadful man in George-street, as we were 
coming from school, and he was shouting such 
wicked words ; his clothes were all torn ami muddy, 
and his face so red ; and when he turned round 
and looked at me I thought he was mad, his eyes 
burned so ; and I screamed, and ran down the 
street ; but Ellen Lowe laughed at me, and said 
it was Will Brown, and he was only drunk. 
What makes people drunk, father 1 " 

'* Why, drinking ale and such like, to be sure, 
child," answered the father, looking down into 
the blue eyes so earnestly lifted to Ins face. 

"What! ale like this, father?" said Mary, 
springing up and standing on tiptoe to point and 
peep into a jug her mother at that moment 
placed upon the dinner table. 

"Yes, like that, Mary; they take too much, 
and then it makes them drunk." 

"Too nine?*," persisted the child ; "but why 

do they take too muoli? Don't they know whal 
it will do to them!" 

" Why, yes, I suppose they do," said the father, 
thoughtfully ; "but they like it, you see, and 
don't think of what will come afterwards." 

Mary looked serious a luniiite, and then said 
in low, quick, anxious tones, "Our Willie likes 
it, father; I heard him say so yesterday; do y«U 
think he will ever be like Will Brown f" 

A flush passed over the father's face, and a 
troubled look sprang to his eyes ; but all answer 
was prevented just then by the entrance of the 
boys, Willie and John, rosy and panting with 
their quick walk from school, and hungry as 
hunters; just then, too, Mrs. Bruce announced 
that dinner was quite ready. By the time they 
were seated round the table, and a blessing had 
been asked on their food, little Mary was so 
busy despatching the contents of her plate, and 
laughing at the boys' jokes, that she forgot all 
aboutthe question and tin- 1 houghts that had led her 
to ask it. Not so her father, however ; the simple 
words of his little daughter were still ringing in 

his ear, 1 Ins imagination was buBy picturing 

his -.,n Willie — his high-spirited, affectionate, 
impulsive Willie — grown "like Will Brown." 
Mi's. Bruce noticed Ins abstraction, and, like a 
wise wife, forbore to remark; the children's 
lively conversation passed off the meal as 
pleasantly as usual, and, soon after, the husband 
and father rose to walk back to his workshop. 

John Bruce was a thinking man. Energetic, 
steady, industrious, he had risen by diligent 
effort from comparative poverty to his present 
position of comfort. He was a clever mechanic, 
and his employers knew how to value him ; for to 
his energetic mind they were indebted for many 
of the inventions and improvements which had 
made their name famous. He was a Christian 
man, too, and awake to his responsibilities ; tiini- 
minded, moreover, and in possession of a con- 
science which was kept in con-taut use, and had 
grown strong by exercise; and whenever this 
conscience pointed out the path of duty, thither 
John Bruce's feet turned, no matter at how great 
a sacrifice. He was a thinking man, we said ; 
and to-day, as he walked along, his thoughts took 
the form »f reminiscences; and thus ran his 
musings : — "My Willie like Will Brown! If he 
ever should be! But Will was not always as he 

is now, poor fellow. How hand- e he was in 

the days when we went together to the village 
school! How proud I felt of Ins friendship, 
such a favourite as he was, and so kind, too ! 
H<.w well I remember our parting on the day I 
set out for my first situation ; and that last walk 
I'ler; and the hopeful, earnest words 
with which he cheered ami strengthened my 
drooping spirits ! And then to think of what he 
was when we met again only a few months ago, 
and what he is now — a scorn, a by-word, a 
laughing-stock; his sweet young wife hurried to 
an early grave by his misconduct, and himself 
left degraded, wretched, ruined. And did he 
not say to me the other day, when 1 was pleading 
with him to reform, and calling to Lis remem- 
brance the years of our early happiness — did he 
it> toe late uov. , John * I learned 
the habit at my father's table, and it has me fast 
now 1 My father took his noonday draught, and 

yet died an honourable man. I though! I I 

do the same ; but though I learned his habit, he 

could not give me his strength of mind, and 

I of my danger till 1 found myself 

a drunkard. It too late &0W, " How 
despairingly he looked at me as ho said it. And 
I. too, ki ep ■ and mj boyi are 

biu-ning my habits from it. My nv n losi pe] - 
haps, does me no more harm than good old Mr. 

Brown's did him, but who knows the ruin I am 
working out for them f God forgive me — how 

blind 1 have been ! And there Wfi B 

Naylor, too ; didn't I stand by his bedside only 
three weeks ago, and shudder as I heard him in 
his delirium reproaching his mother — his fond, 
doting mother — as the instrument of his destruc- 
tion 1 And I knew all this, and took no heed ; 
went on in the old way, never thinking that 
some time my Own children might rise up to curse 
me. Ah, little Mary ! you have opened my eyes. 
But I see my duty now, thank Cod. and I'll do 
it." Here his destination was reached, and as 
with his fellow-workmen he passed between the 
great gates, his compressed lips and firm tread 
told of a resolution formed to be fulfilled. 

That same night, as John Bruce sat with his 
wife by their cheerful hearth, he told her bis 
thoughts of the morning, and said, as he ended, 
" And, Mary, we are responsible for the habits 
our children form while at home, under our care, 
influenced by our example. This home-learnt, 
moderate drinking seems to lie at the root of a 
great deal, if not all, of the drunkenness of our 
land. We don't know v. hat temptations our boys 
may meet with in after life, and it is best to 
strengthen them against the teinpternow ; so, if you 
are willing, not a drepof anything more dangerous 
than water shall ever appear on our table again." 

"Yon are right, John," said Mrs. Bruce, 
"and I am willing. ' Prevention is better than 
cure.' But — " after a moment's pause— "what 
will you do with the ale barrel that is in the 
cellar ( it is above half full, you know." 

" I have thought of that, too," answered her 
husband, "and am convinced it will never do 
any good, and would better be put out of the 
way as soon as possible ; so to-morrow we'll pour 
it into the ditch at the bottom of the garden ; it 
will be done with then, and the boys will re- 
iiiein'in it as long as they lire." 

"»ii the morrow, accordingly, the children were 

called together, Will Brown's history told them, 
the dangers of the intoxicating glass pointed out, 
and the father's plan unfolded. Of course, the 
boys entered into it quite heartily (as boys always 
do into anything spirited and manly); so the 
barrel was hauled out of the cellar . 
down the garden, and emptied into the ditch, 
and filially broken up for firewood ; and from 
that hour, the whole family of the Bmces took 
their stand as "real, stanch teetotalers." 

" We shall be laughed at, no doubt," said the 
father, " but, no matter ; we have the right on 
our side, and may Cud give us strength to stand 
fast To our col ■•-" 

Years after, as John Bruce looked round on his ■ 
family, all honoured and useful members «>f 
society — Willie, a flourishing tradesman in a 
distant town ; the quieter John, a clever draughts- 
man ; and the bright-eyed Mary, the light and 
blessing of his own household ; as he saw them 
thus, and thought of what they mi<M have been, , 
he turned to his wife with a happy smile, and 
said, as he recalled the incidents of which we 

have written, "We have proved it true, wife, 

we have proved it true — 'Prevention , 
than cure."' M. E. 

Mother, on thy knee aittest d bl ssom that, has 
fruit to bear twice : — first in time, Becond in 
eternity. The fruit in both cases, will, in great 
measure, depend on thee. Thy relation to that 
young immortal is the closest which natural af- 
fection can yield. Thou hast an entrance to that 
heart such as no other can ever possess. When 
no one ehe can understand its little wants, thou 
canst intuitively interpret its inarticulate mutter- 
ings, and unerringly knowest how to gratify its 
desires. And soon tloes the tender one recognize 
thy superiority to all others. Its infant affectioilf 
nestle around thee. 

The expressions of thy countenance are under- 
stood ere thou mayest be aware, and go to form 
its character before it can intellectually apprehend 
the meaning of a syllable of spoken language. 
Ere yet it has Uttered, 'Ta, ta,' under thy 
material influence, its moral nature — the basis 
of character — has begun to take form. — How 
important and responsible thy position! The 
germs of future feeling, thought, and action, are 
embedded deep down in the soul of thy little 
one ; and art thou concentrating the proper 
influences to develope these for truth, for virtue, 
and for God ? In a word, art thou living hourly 
properly impressed with the great yet cheering 
reality, that God is the owner of thy babe, and 
that He has intrusted it to thy care I Think of 
your child only as your own, and you will spoil 
it, ; think of it as God's, and the thought will go 
far to assist you in the discharge of your study. 

As old man is like an old waggon ; with light 
loading and careful usage it will last for years ; 
but one heavy load ur sudden strain will break 
it and ruin it for ever. So many people reach 
the age of fifty, sixty, or even seventy, measur- 
ably free from most of the pains and infirmities 
of age, cheery in heart and sound in health, ripe 
in wisdom and experience, with sympathies 
mellowed by age, and with reasonable prospects 
and opportunities for continued usefulness in the 
world for a considerable time. 

Let such persons be thankful, but let them 
also bo careful. An old constitution is like an 
old bone ; broken with ease, mended with diffi- 
culty. A young tree bends to the gale, an old 
one snaps and falls before the blast. A single 
hard lift ; an hour of heating work ; an evening 
of exposure to rain or damp ; a severe chill ; an 
excess of food ; the unusual indulgence of any 
appetite or passion ; a sudden fit of anger ; an 
improper dose of medicine; — any of these or 
other similar things may cut off a valuable life 
in an hour, and leave the fair hopes of usefulness 
and enjoyment hut a shapeless wreck. 

Let the aged have a care of their health ; let 
thi li walk softie Wefors the Lord, and live care- 

! as i i HU Fi . They have no right to 

Bquander I i i b < ace of a Lifetime, and 

waste theii oppi rtunities for well-doing, in some 
■ ■ I carelessness and excess. There- 
fore "let your moderation be known unto all 
men ■. "' and " whether ye eal or drink, or whatso- 
ever \e'lo, do all to tin- glory of Cod." n. L. U, 

The most excruciating tortures were frequently 
inflicted on many of the ancient Christians, who 
refused to deliver up their copies of the Scriptures 
to the heathen ; but all kinds of suffering, and 
even death itself, were nobly braved by many 
Christian worthies, to whom the Book of God 
was more precious than life. Felix, an African, 
being apprehended asaChristian,wascommanded] 

by the civil magistrate of the city, to deliver up 

all 1 ks and writings belonging to his church, 

rhat they might be burned. The martyr replied, 
that it was better he himself should be burned. 
The magistrates therefore Bent him to the Pro- 
Consul at Carthage, by whom he was delivered 
over to the Prefect of the Pra torium, who was 
then in Africa. This supreme officer, offended 
at his bold and candid confession, commanded 
him to be loaded with heavier bolts and irons ; 
and after being kept in a close and miserable 
dungeon nine days, ordered him to be put on 
ln.ard ;■ vessel, say in'.-, he should stand his trial 
before the Emperor. In tins voyage he lay for 
four days under the hatches of the ship, between 
l,< it, without eating or drinking. 

He was landed al Vgragentum, in Sicily ; and 

when brought by the Prelect as far asVenosa, in 
Apulia, his irons were knocked off, and he was 
again asked whether he had the Scriptures, and 
would deliver them up. — "I have them." said 
he, " but will nut part with them." On making 
this assertion, he was instantly condemned to be 
beheaded, '• I thank Thee, Lord," exclaimed 

this faithful and heroic martyr, "that 1 have 
lived fifty-six years, have pus. ived ike '■'osp. I. 
and have preached the faith and truth, it my 
Lord Jesus Christ, the God of heaven and earth, 
I bow my head to be sacrificed to Thee, "Who 
livest to all eternity.'' 

• I have brought your dinner, father," 
The blacksmith's daughter said, 
As she took from her ami the kettle, 
And lifted its shining lid. 
' There's not any pie or pudding, 
So I will give you this," 
And upon his toil-worn forehead 
She left, the childish kiss. 

The blacksmith took off his apron 

And dined in happy mood, 
Wondering much at the savour 

Hid in Ins humble food ; 
While all about him were visions 

Full of prophetic bliss ; 
But he never thought of magic 

In his little daughter's kiss. 

"While she, with the kettle swinging', 

Merrily trudged away, 
Stopping at, sight of a souim I, 

* latching some wild bud's lay ; 
And I thought how many a shadow 

On life's chequered path we should i 
If always our frugal dinners 

Were seasoned with a kiss. 


M \vy years ago I spent my midsummer holidays 

at Dalnacurdoeh, nl t fen miles north of Blair 

Athol, in Perthshire. The Highland Railway 
had not as yet laid down its lines among the 
valleys of the Grampian Hills. On the day pre- 
vious to my return homewards, the friend with 
whom I resided suggested that I should horrow 
obi Donald McKay's old pony, and pay a fare- 
well visit to some of the fanners and shepherds 
whose acquaintance I had formed during my stay. 
The pony was most willingly place -1 at my dis- 
posal, and I set off. When the twilight was 
gathering over the mighty hills, I sat in my 
saddle al Niel McKerrachar'a door, bidding him 
and his family good-bye. >"iel was loath topart 
with me, and detained me so long talking about 
many things, that twilight was giving place to 
night when we parted. The stars were coming 
out as I rode down the bridle path that wound 
along the glen. I had a journey of about, seven 
miles before me ere I could reach the highway 
wliali lay far beneath me. Suddenly a thick 
mist obscured the stars, and the narrow- path dis- 
appeared in the darkness. After proceeding a 
few yards the pony stood still, and all my at- 
tempts at coaxing him forward failed, i had 
read many stories of the sagacity of horses and 
ponies finding their way home, so resolved on 
testing their probability. I laid the reins on 
the pony's neck, and had no sooner done so, 
then it turned aside from the bridle path and 
struck out a path for itself, through the tall 
headier along the mountain side, davellint'slowly, 
and never once making a slip or false step. 
Instead of, as I expected, carrying me to the 
door of its master, it drew up in front of that of 
my friend, where I had mounted it. in (he morn- 
ing. I was about to take the pony back to 
Donald, whose house was about a mile distant, 
when my friend said that such a proceeding was 
unnecessary. He called out in Gaelic to the 
pony, "Good night, 'Rory,' trot away home, "and, 
neighing a " good night " reply, off went "Rory" 
across the moor, and was at once lost in the 
darkness. I found next morning that he reached 
his master's cottnge a few minutes after taking 

It is related in the life of the celebrated mathe- 
matician, William Hutton, that a respectable- 
looking countrywoman called upon him one day, 
anxious to speak with him. She told him, with 
an air of secrecy, that her husband behaved 
unkindly to her, and sought other company, 
frequently passing his evenings from home, which 
made her feel extremely unhappy ; and knowing 
Mr. Hutton to be a wise man, bIio thought he 
might bo able to tell her how she should manage 
to cure her husband. The case ... 

one, and he thought he could prescribe for.ii 

without losing Ins reputation as a conjurer. 

"-The remedy is a simple om BO I lie, ' bl 
I have never known it to fail. 
.iuii,- In* thand with a ■■■■ 

The woman expressed her thanks, dropped a 
courtesy, and went away. A fow 
warns she waited on Mr. Hutton with a couple 

Of fine fowls, which she hew-d him t., accept. 

she told him, while a teai 

glistened in her eye, that she had followed ins 

advice, and her husband was cured. He no 

[<. ■u-'i l -hi i lie e.,IMj. ■ . .. ,; 

hei with constant love and kindness. 



ii (bid in It* Family pytetd ion •■ ■ • - Hi nl 



cordial reception which they usually have on 
shipboard, botli from English and foreign crews. 
Our engraving represents Mr. Chapman, the 
missionary who labours in the Commercial Docks, 
making one of his visits, by means of his " Mission 
Boat," to a ship in the Thames. We rejoice to 
find that the translations of some numbers of 
the l '£rit't!fli Workman " 
into the French, Italian, 
German, Dutch, Norwe- 
gian, Polish, Malagasy, and 
Spanish languages have 
been found most helpful 
to the missionaries, both 
at home and abroad. We 
hope, shortly, to have 
translations in several other 
languages for their use. 

in bold letters. On asking the meaning of them, 
my friend replied, — 

" When I went as an apprentice, I was im- 
portuned to accompany some of my shopmates 
in their Sunday rides and drives, and to join 
them in their smoking and drinking habits. My 

The mouth of the whah 
offers an instance of in 
genuity and foresight 
Comparing it to human in 
ventions, it is a shrimpim 
net ; while no one couk 
have divined that thi 
largest animal of creatioi 
should have been com 
manded to seek its foot 
among the smallest; tha 
millions should be dailj 
destroyed to support 

On the 7th of June last, the Friends' Burial- 
ground, at Hitchin, was crowded with an unusual 
concourse of persons of all sect3 and parties. 
They were gathered to do honour to the memory 
of one of the noblest of men, Benjamin Seebohm, 
of Luton, the biographer of the equally celebrated 
and worthy Stephen Grellet. We are thankful 
to be able to give a lifelike portrait of this 
estimable minister and philanthropist. Many of 
our readers will remember that, some years ago, 
we gave an engraving of the " Last days of Tom 
Paine," with some particulars of hU death. 

The testimony of Mary Roscoe, the nurse who 
attended Paine in his last moments, and heard 
his dying prayer and "recantation," was re- 
peatedly heard by Mr. Seebohm. 

With the view of securing further reliable 
evidence on this subject, we went down to Luton 
some months before -Mr Seebi.-hm's decease, and 
heard from his own lips, " The report given in 
your 'British Workman 1 (see Nos. 85 and 88) 
is perfectly correct. From Mary Roscoe's own 
lips I heard what I have written about Paine." 

Amid much to discourage the Christian workers 
in our country, it is matter for thanksgiving 
that so many labourers in the Master's vineyard 
are reporting progress in their work. The 
missionaries of the London City Mission, the 
British and Foreign Sailors' Society, and the 
Missions to Seamen, all bear testimony to the 

So, however, has it 
been ordered. But had 
the whale been condemned 
to swallow all the water 
which it must draw into its 
mouth together with its 
prey, the 
which would hav 
lowed are obvious. To prevent this it is pro- 
vided with a singular piece of machinery, consist- 
ing of a series of Hat hoops, meeting from both 
sides of the mouth into arches, and carrying 
ranges of bristles, which form a strainer and also 
a kind of net. The water is thus rejected, and 
the mass of shrimps is delivered to the throat. — 

,'isiting a much-respected tradesman, I 

parents supplied me liberally with pocket-money, 
and had I yielded to the entreaties of my fellow- 
apprentices, I believe that I should soon have 
been ruined. Happily for me, my good mother 
and Sunday-school teacher bad faithfully ct 
selled me not to profane the Lord's Day, and not 
to drink or smoke, or go to the theatre. I there- 
fore, every week, put into a little box the sumi 
which I supposed I should have spent had I 
gone with my shopmates, and with this money 
I purchased, monthly, some instructive and use- 
ful books. Before the close of my apprentice- 
ship I had gathered together an excellent library, 
and on becoming a householder, it occurred to 
me one day to have the shelves painted with these 
words on, to show to my children thc.Wn/ trr.i.m, </ 
I gained, when young , by following good, 
siead of bad, advice. In addition t<> being kept 
fn>m many evil ways, the knowledge winch I have 
gained from these books is to me now much better 
than a mine of wealth." a. t. s 

'. TWEEDIT, ::■;. ■".■ ■ ,,(. 


Price One Penny. 





By Dr. Point. 

As we approach Christmas the robin-redbreast 
seems to claim a prescriptive right of coming to 
the fore. At this season lie commands the situa- 
tion. You find him about the beginning of 
December taking a few preliminary hops before 
the public, appearing here and there in the 
windows of a print shop ; but wait awhile, and 
you shall sec turn here, and there, and every- 

Therefore it is not to be wondered at that he 
should put. in an appearance on our pages, and 
even go so far as to venture on the first page 




carnage. He'll be taken on to nobody knows 
where, unless some one helps him to the right 
carriage. Ah ! here cornea the very man to do 
it. We shan't give his number, for we don't 
want to make him blush — but here he is. 
The old gentleman mutters and murmuvs, for his 
teeth, with the exception of one lonely grinder, 
have departed long ago, and never taken a re- 
turn ticket ; tlie "hi gentleman mutters and mur- 
murs, but our friend does not hurry him, or 
shake him up. It may be that his conscience 
would prick him if he did, saying, "'Ah, friend, 
do you always call out places quite distinctly 
yourself ! " but that is not the reason ; he respects 
the old man's age, he pities bis helplessness, and, 
just by a little gentleness, he so reassures the 
old gentleman, who was beginning to doubt 
here he shall be welcome; but ! whether he was on his head or his heels, and 
erything else I hope dues which whether •■"■' -*-■-■"■■■ ■•■■•' ■<-• »'ere ""< he-innmg 

^ets into the pages *.. f the " British Workman- 
he must contribute his quota to the general 
pleasure and good. First, then, let us hear a 
little of cock-robin's history. 

L;i*>t Clmstmas a poor starved robin tlew 

round, that lie gasps out, " Pe — Pet, : 
"Oh, aye, all right, master — Peterborough; 
here you are — and you sit over at that off side 
and you won't have the wind so sharp on you. 
There you are ; now then, are yon all 

the compartment of one of the guards of ^e ] Md with aWendly nod he^ left the old gentle- 
Edgware train. The latter was a kind-hearted 

i, determined, however, in his own mind. 
he gentry and tenderly put poor cock- I tIiat he would 8ee llil11 0llt ^ >^' llt ■* PctM " 
robin into his breast-coat pocket for warmth. , horough. 

Arrived at the King's Cross Station he never I The » there are tIie women and children. How 
asked the little traveller for his ticket, but took man y " Iittle treasures," and " .sweet darlings," 
him off to the guar-ds'-room. aYe committed to the care of the railway guards. 

Cock-robin when he entered the guard's com- If ;t were not for the civility and trustworthy 
partuicnt liad not contemplated spending the "^ ' ,f l] ' v ' 1 ' men, we should at times have no 
Christmas in town : no doubt if lie had taken a alternative but to send some one specially with 
ticket at all it would have been a return one, for children, or put them in a hamper, duly directed 
to be "alone in London " is even for a robin- with " T!,,s " da U P-" If ■ uch a t,im ~ c "" 1,1 be 
redbreast a serious thing. * aB tllilt a h&hy in long-clothes could be given in 

Ha^py was it for the° little bird that he had cnar ^ to the F 1 "*. we OeUeve thai -.,.,. kofl 
flown into the carriage of a kind man, and that he « " l, ^ r > ne would m "»ag e to deliver it up "all 
was stowed away into that compartment of the "g"*- 

man's coat which goes by the name of the breast- Tnere ,s th;d ,K ""1" ■''" " lUl codfisn and oysters 
pocket. The breast pocket was near the heart., that is '"tended for Mr. Tobias Wrigglesthorp, 
and the heart is the warmest part of the body— tlown in the country. It is '" : - 
cock-robin rode first class we should say, as h y llis .?"""•■" "" 
every one dowwhajs carried about near the heart. °^ J?* 1116 ' 

The man in charge being of a genial nature 
gladly fed and cared for the little 

noticed that 1 


track or pathway had been made 
id he hesitated about letting lus 
boy follow him. But the soft, fleecy snow looked 
so tempting, so pearly white, that he concluded 
to allow the child to walk after him, He took long 
and rapid strides through the untrodden snow, 
when, suddenly remembering his "little boy," 
he paused, looked back for him, and exclaimed ; 

" Well, my son, don't you find it hard work 
to walk in this deep snow i " 

"Oh ! no," said the boy, "I'm coming ; for, 
father, J step vn all of your trackt." 

True enough, the dear child was planting his deBtroye d the health he once enjoyed by years 
tiny feet just where the parent's had trodden. of excessive drinking; but this reflection did 
The child's reply startled the father, as he re-' t make llis , r0Vlble ^y easiei . to bear _ fai 

Heeled that thus Would hi* child keep pace with f rom ft 

him, and follow in his tracks through life. He I It was now e3Uct]y twelve mout , 13 8mce he ^ 
was not a friend to Jesus— not a man of pray,;, d the kd . an( j mstead of ]ooki batk 

and not a Christian ; and well might he pause Wlt „ ]oy , |1L , t]iantfn j ne88 „,. on tlie ] iappy cliajlge 
and tremble as he thought of his child, ^v-''" , w]i k.|i 1,^,1 place n, lnm..elf, his family, and 
striving to "step in all of lus tracks," onward, his home dm .* ng that w ^ , R , ml . mi , , h , , 
onward, through life's mysterious mazes and to i ook &i tvt . r y t!img in a Iig i lt ^ gloomy M 
myths, toward eternity ! The little boys ™piy that of this grey, frosty, cheerless Christmas 

John Cosnett felt very much like "Mr. Ready- 
to-halt," as he walked along under the gloomy 
sky of a certain 24th of December. 

John had not a very robust constitution, and 
he felt the influences of weather and surrounding 
circumstances more than he would have done 
had he been a stronger man. He knew that it 
a great extent his own fault : that he had 

brought that strong, stubborn-hearted 

ihink, when even the preached word of God had 

made no impression upon him. Finally he 

repented, and sought and found peace in believing j <■• jS-j,^^ -j] WL 

in Christ. We believe he is now making such of debt but ho ~ 

day that 

I don't see that we're much better off Or.n 

this time last year," he said to himself. 

is, that we are quite out 

much tetter that I can 

I have been blamed by men of science, both 
America a::d ::i England, te Rioting the Kble ^ jj p„ ]ly n£B <£,/ ^ what ^ icIdy p^ 3 

see. Fifty things that we wanted then to make 
it comfortable, we want yet ; and I can't see 
any prospect of getting 'em. It has been nothing 
but patch, patch, patch, after all our striving ; 
and there are lots of things that wife and tlie 
children want this cold weather, that can't be 
ot and won't be got for many a day. Then 

sent to hi 
, not because he expects a box 
i Stilton cheese in return, but be- 

grandfather had seen better days ; and 
though he is now not much used to see such 

of tlie doctrines of physical ; mite slle ;, ,,;,, . , s]lc , ukln - t wonder a bit j, ^ 
geography, ihe Bible, they say, was not written lost 1|M . aml , „ mlk lt „., iuld ,,, iv( , mc , ve „. r , jtl , 
for .aentiBc purposes and is therefore of no I ma(l to , Me p<)]1 A] „• do ]ook ^r, 
authority I beg pardon; the .Bible u authority i M<1 lhm ,,„„„.,'„,,„ llluh en< . 0UMgemMlt to 

'^'""S " tM,clws - TOat would y° u 'keepon. Wife anil the children don't seem ev.n 

to remember that this is the anniversary of the 
day on which I gave up the drink, although it 
was the hardest trial of my life to do it. Not ;i 
word have they said about it, and they don't 
e,t > I seem to care. I suppose they wouldn't care if 

In a day or two the latter, perhaps being thhl H a u " his loueI y tal>Ie < atU1 his grandson lias 
more of a citizen of the world than we gave him made u l» ms mind that - as lo,, S as ever the oM 
credit for, made himself quite at home, and, for gentleman lives, he shall always have a jolly 
aught that we know, might have been prepared OhriitmM. The train is just going ; the Wrig- 
to take a lease of the premises if cock-robins glesthorp cod and oysters are likely to be left 
entered upon such large transactions. All day on the platform, for part of the label is torn, 
long, men came and went, bells ran-', twines and the porter iias rushed off to the paste-box to 
v:i'.;. died ami whistled and puffed ; buu'ock-robin Set his brush to stick it right. 'Tis no part of 
never mad. any attempt to leave the room. On ,he S uar<1 ' 3 o»si»ess to be a walking pincushion ; 
the i intrary he made himself at home, and became Ijnt in a moment he pulls a pin from his coat, 
so sociable and of such a confiding turn of mind aml ■J uins tlie ticket as neatly as if he had been 
that he made friends with the men who were apprenticed to a court milliner ; his good heart 
dining, and even went so far as to accept a general 'wouldn't let him see a fellow-creature disap- 
invitation which he gave himself, to drop in and ported even of such a little pleasure, if he could 
dine with them without ceremony, just in a liel P il - First > there is a little whistle, which 
friendly kiud of way. ,the engine answers with a big one ; then a snort 

On these occasions the bird used to perch on aad a P un °> and °^ S° the Wrigglesthorp cod and 
their shoulders, and come up to the edges f oysters ; and the poor old man won't spend 
their plates on the table to be helped with crumbs. , Christinas evening fretting that he's forgotten 

think of the histoi ian who .should refuse to 
the historical records of the Bible because the 
Bible was not written for the purpose of history ', 
The Bible is true, and science is true ; and when 

of science, with vain and hasty conceit, 

the discovery of a disagreement between I T ■ . ■,- . T om H, 
them, rely upon it, the fault U not with the ^ k ChriatmaTEv 

witness or his records, but with the " "• 
who essays to h 
not understand. 

When I. 
beautiful science, discover the tiuths of revelation 
and the truths of science reflecting light 

! to S 

ith him and the 

rest of 'em at "The Golden Goose." Well, if I 

terpret evidence winch he does m> ft wouIdn > t be so bad) a{ter alh Haven - t x 

, , . kept the pledge a whole yeai ! And that's iin.e 

pioneer in one department of this t]lau manJ , C]U1 My „ , diiixm n bi , „, ( ,, M , lV _ 

-"— ation | me|lt , . ni „i lt j couU ,j n a „ ain aftc ., Keff . 

"P 011 Year's Day." 

days this seasonable conviviality 
carried on, but on the tenth night poor robin- 
redbreast was lost. Had he only remained until 
Twelfth Night, there is no knowing what entertain- 
ment he might have had ; but alas! it is believed 
that a prowling cat entertained himself on poor , 

and that he has worn out the last person 
that cares for him, and that the fewer Christ- 
masea he spends in this cold world the better. 

But why should not we all thus do what we 
can, by courtesy and lending a hand and an ear, 
to make Christmas time — -yes, and all times — as 
happy and comfortable as we can to all around us. 
( The sorrow in the room amongst the guards I 0ur frieuda on the Great Northern are, we 
was remarkable, more especially that of the are tolu > uotetl fo1 ' ,lK * ir ci vihty and courtesy : 
keeper of the room, who had been [oudly praised ;m<l ffe ,J;L " , -"- llL ' V1 '' lt > fo1 ' ffa hiivv experienced 
by the men for his kindness to poor robin. i bu,h ourselves. 

I like to look at cock-robin in this picture I They bring us up many good things at Christ- 
amongst these bearded men. And I like it all mas time, but, perhaps, one, not of the least of 
the better, because cock-robin was a real, and not t,u ' ^""" i Christmas thingSj will be the lessons we 
a make-believe, bird; and because all this is lllilv ^ain from their kind treatment of pool 
true— even the likenesses of the men will be iob in- redbreast. 

recognized as exact. | We would remind some of our readers that 

And it rouses many thoughts : some of them there is a breeches, as well as a breast, pocket ; 
Christmas thoughts, and some of them thoughts ■""'' t!l " u ^' «'« can't put those who want our 
for all times. help into our breeches pocket, we may bring 

When kindness is shown to animals or birds, something out of it for them— something to warm, 
or any living things, we may be sure it comes io fce<1 > to shelter, to help through the journey 
from a kindly nature. No doubtmany afellow- °* u ^ ft ■* * ; "'- (U "* weary, aud wearing jourm ■. 
creature experienced one little act of kindness '^ is to "lany. Surely it is a blessed Christmas 
and another from the very same feeling winch keeping when, by kindness of word or deed, we 
gave the poor country robin his free passage in help any on then v, ..y. 

the breast-coat pocket, the run of the guards'- ♦*•*♦ _ 

room and a share of their bread. I „ . „,„„,, 


that kindly feeling acting in many . 

'h.'i bil of orange-peel would, perhaps, have Osb bright winter's morning, after a snow-storm, 

broken that old lady's leg ; the porter, who might a father took his hat for a walk to attend to 

: " ll l ' was none of his business to kick some farm affairs requiring attention. As he 

orange peel shout, picks it up, and throws it started, his little boy of Bve bi i i 

'" " ' '" ,L| "o harm. j snatched hitv hot, and followed the father with 

That utterly bothered old man from the mock dignity, and an assumed, business-like air. 

country is going, most assuredly, into a wrong When they reached the door the gentleman 

the other, and each sustaining the other, how 
can I, as a truth-loving, knoVi ledge-seeking 
fail to point out the beauty, and rejoice ii 
discovery i And were I tosuppre 
with which such discoveries ought to stir the soul, 
the waves would lift up their voice, and the very 
stones of the earth cry out against me. 

As a student of physical geography, I regard 
the earth, sea, air, and water, as pieces of mecha- 
nism not made with hands, but to which, never- 
theless, certain offices have been assigned in the 
terrestrial economy. It is good and profitable 
to seek to find out these offices, and point them 
out to our fellows. And when, after patient 
research, I am led to the discovery of any one 
of them, I feel, with the astronomer of old, as 
though I had " thought one of God's thoughts," 
and tremble. — Lieut. Maury. 


John thrust his cold hands into his pockets, 
and jingled the silver about in them that he had 
just received for wages. It seemed as if he tried 
to look and feel as miserable as he possibly could. 

Ah, John, John ! Don't you know how easy 
it is to make everything in life look as black as 
night, if we are bent upon murmuring and re- 
pining J And don't you know that there is a 
sunny side to every cloud, and that oftentimes 
tilings are not nearly so bad as they seem to be 'i 
Now if your " good angel " could have whispei>. d 
into your ear just then, what might you have 
heard I Something like this : — 

Now, John, man, pray reflect upon what >■ n 
have been saying. You are a deal better off 
than you were this time last year. Not only 
can you hold up your head before the whole 
world, and say, " I owe no man a penny ; ' but 
your money has done -many blessed things besides 
getting out of debt, Certainly there is not much 
show for it yet ; but it lias kept the child: 

Health is the f.iuinlation of worldly prosperity. . 

Wealth .8 the result of the toils of health. A plentifully supphej luth good toed all the v . r 
sound body is 'a good capital to begin business ' " I,M ke P' ">"'' sllocs s ™'" 1 . a,ltl *''<-'''' d " tl " 
with. Asoundnuud and sound judgment add j '"^ ' '' I,I,S h '<""M many little KnMorts to 
immensely to its value. Possessed of these, a ' J"" 11 home ' aud m ' ie >'° llr wife a s'" a mi 
man may earn a living, and have .1 when it is t'">' k l"' "Oman. And thougb many things are 
earne d snl1 .'anted, they can be dune without a little 

* Tin man «l,o would gain wealth must preserve", lor S er . »"" 5'™ >"" Set them in very good time 
health. He who would enjoy wealth when lf >'"" lu ' ld "" '"^cly. Then, although jour 
gained must retain health. Health , wealth. ' huh "« h ' Ue Pull >' I '"» b,el > s0 lU ' sllc ™ n,,,v 
The man who is sound in heart aud soul and almost well, you may say, and, with ca.c. may 
body, without a shilling in his pocket, IB i.cliev ,m » ""» M *''""- «■ •'">' =• "» ' ,l1 "-' children. 

far than he who, along with uncounted hoards Aml lf il »' ''' P leMe <iuJ lo t;,lc ' her > ,K ' 

and lands outstretching his vision, is yet wretched, »»«M surely pve you strength aooording to 
nervous, dyspeptic, and discontented, lie »b,, y""' day, and help yuu to say, "His will be 
loses health to gain wealth may soon see the <,011e >" if ■""' lo " ked to H "" A " d "• ,or " ,fe 

. '.. ,. he »,.nld part with all llis hoards to »" J children not caring -about this important 

bring back his lost health again. H. L. H, anniversary ! you just wait a bit and see ! It 

is because they are so afraid of " lettmg the 
***** cat out of the bag," as your eldest boy, Arthur, 

says, that they have not said a wold abl . , il 
"a" during the past two or three weeks. 
1110 lie a man, John ! Don't bo so foolish, nay 
', wicked, astogooffto " The Golden Goose" Beet 
\Y in >j ■' enjoyment ! " You know well enough you 
an* wouldn't find it there. Didn't you try through 
m * many a weary year to get ■iij»tjm<i<t in such 
and after all didn't you tiud yourself in 
the very depths of misery and despair 1 And 



p ray don't let Satan deceive you with the notion 
that you would go and sign the pledge very easily 
again after New-Yea* Day. Vou might rw. 
sign again, if you wantonly broke it 
then woe, woe, woe to yourself and ■ 
belonging to you. 

Go home, John, go home ! Home is tne 
place for the tempted and the gloomy. It is a 
haven to run into and escape Bhipwreck If 
things look dark to you now, go Home, and hope 
for the shining of the sun to-morrow ! 

Whether John's reflections took a turn tins 
way, 1 know not ; but certainly he kept straight 
on in the direction of home, turning not to the 
right hand or to the left, where lay many of Ins 
old well-known haunts, like man-traps to en- 
snare the weak and foolish. 

He quickened his steps, for it was intensely 
cold ; but before he had gone far, he saw, a long 
way off, n little group turn the corner of the 
street, to come towards him. " I wonder where 
they're off to," he Boid, "and Polly, too, I de- 
clare ! I'll just step out of sight, and follow 
them when they pass by." So he stepped up a 
passage close at hand, and stayed there, hoping 
ho would not be noticed. In a few minutes 
his children passed by— Arthur, and Willie, 
and Polly, and Susie — all so well wrapped 
up, and so chatty and merry, that he thought 
' ;1 v MUBt be out on some happy errand. 
Before we follow after them with the father, we 
will learn what took place before they started out. 

Tor many a day past little Polly had been saying 

" Oh, mother ! I hope I shall be well enough 
to go out with Arthur on father's teetotal birth- 
day. Even if it snows, I may go, mayn't 1 I 
A bit of snow wouldn't hurt, if I get a deal 
better and oh, I do so want to fieip to buy 
father's book." 

" Now, you'd better not say any more about 
it tdl the day comes," Arthur said one evening ; 
" for if you keep on so about it, I know you'll 
let the cat out of the bag before father, and that 
would just spoil everything. And seven-aud- 
sixpence is too much to pay after having our 
plan spoilt. Hi ! seven- and-sixpence, mother ! " 
he added, with a happy laugh, " isn't it a lot to 
give for a book I I never spent so much money 
in my life before. I do hope, when we go out on 
Christmas Eve, to. buy it, that we shan't meet 
any pick-pockets." 

' 'Yon mustn't trust it in your pocket, Arthur ; 
you must carry it tight in your hand," said little 
SuBie, with a wise nod of her curly head. 

"There's a knowing Susie!" cried Arthur. 
" Now that's just what I'll do, if you'll walk 
without holding my hand." 

Seven-and -sixpence for a present for the 
father ! It may be asked how they could get 
such a sum for such a purpose ; and the answer 
is that it was the fruit of self-denial and filial 
affection. "Father's fint teetotal birthday," 
that was coming, had been talked of many times 
during the past year, and the children had re- 
solved that ho should have some little present 
in remembrance. So they saved by every half- 
penny they could get, Arthur frequently earning 
a few pence by running errands for persons in 
the neighbourhood. And when Polly fell ill, 
and kind friends dropped in to see her, Bhe had 
pence often given her with advice to buy eggs, 
or oranges, or cakes with them, to tempt her 
poor appetite. But not a penny would she spend 
on herself. She remembered the want and misery 
of the time before herfatherhad signed the pledge ; 
and she thought he had been such a dear, good 
father ever since last Christmas that, she could 
not possibly do too much for him. Besides, the 
present they had set their hearts upon getting 
was so expensive for them, that it was urgent 
lid save every penny that 

something that would bo exactly the thing for 
father's present. You know Robinson's old book- 
shop 1 Well, I was looking in, and I saw such a 
grand Bible ; it isn't new, but it looks as good 

if it had never been used, and it has such 

lovely pictures. It is a real family-Bible, a 

beauty ! And I went in to look at it, and ask 

what it was." 

re than five shillings it isn't 
much good to know the price," said Mrs. Cosuett. 

" Well it was nine, mother, and when I heard 
that I could have cried, I felt so sorry. I said 

Mr. Robinson that we should not be able to 

re it, as it was too much ; and he asked me a 
lot of questions about who it was for and alt that, 
and at last he said we should have it for seven- 
and-sixpence, and he would keep it for us until 
I brought him a decided answer. Now you see 
there is half-a-crown of mine, eighteenpence of 
Polly's, sixpence of Willie's, and sixpence of 
S«sie*8— five shillings. How could we manage 
to get the other half-crown I Do you think you 
could afford to help, mother 1" 

Mrs. Cosnett thought of a small sum of money 
which she had put by sixpence at a time to buy 
herself a pair of boots, which she needed very 

"Just think," Arthur went on pleading, "how 
nice tins Book would be : something to be always 
using, and yet something to last all our lives." 

And something to be a real blessing to us all," 

the mother added. And while she spoke she 

res. .1 vedto wait for her boots, and add half-a-crown 

of her money to the children's precious 

Yes, you shall have half- 

« 1 don'1 doubt it," said John, as he left the 

iom to make ready for their return home. 

They came in while he was still engaged in 

md the large package which Arthur 

put away in a drawer out of sight. 

I wish you could look over it now, mother," 

he whispered ; "it is such a beauty ; I think it 

must be worth five times the puce we had to 

Polly brought back such a colour on her cheeks, 
that her mother declared she looked as if she 
had never been ill at all. And what radiant 
faces they all had— what sparkling eyes ' 

Mrs. Cosnett folded away their walking-clothes, 
and they stood around the bright fire i warming 
their hands, when their father made his appear- 
ance ; little Susie, the youngest of the four, 
began clapping her hands as her father 
and said, mysteriously, 
know lomefin' ! " 

Arthur pulled at her frock to stop hertongUft 
"Don't pull so, Arthur," she said, in an in- 
jured tone, " I isn't going to tell." 

This only made matters worse in Arthur's 
opinion ; his face coloured, and he proposed 
that Susie should go to bed if she didn't keep 

"You mustn't say anything 'cept what you're 
told," said Polly. At which Susie opened her 
eyes wide, and said, "Oh, oh! can't I talk 
about tea, and all that, by myself ? " 

"Yes, but not about anything else," said 
Polly, feeling very anxious about then- secret. 

" Well," said Susie, " we shall talk after tea 
about— now, 'member, I isn't going to tell what 

'All, dadda ! you don' 

she said. " There could be nothing better for about." 

father's teetotal birthday than that." Mr. Cosnett burst out laughing, and very 

So Arthur called next day to tell the old book- Uiderately began talking about something 

seller that they would come and buy the Book divert Susie's eager mind from the secret w 

And when the day came, they all wanted to keep a little longer- 

going, but 

Polly prevailed upon her mother to let her go 

the happy errand with the others : she was 

e she was well enough, and she didn't care 

how much her mother muffled her up so that she 

ght go and carry her eighteen pence to the .-hup. 

Off they went ; and as they neared the place 

the dim light of the fading afternoon their 

father overheard the words, " Won't father be 

glad/" from Willie; "Who'll have to give 

it him I " from Susie ; "We shall see when the 

time comes," from Arthur; and "Mind you 

don't lose your sixpences, Susie and Willie, or 

wo shan't be able to buy it," from Polly. ^ 

When the father had heard so much, a sense 
of honour forbade him to pry further into their 
glad secret. He guessed that they were intend 
ing and hoping to give him a surprise, and asur 
prise he resolved it should be. He would 
even look to see whither they «ci 
turned directly back towards home. 

What a change the sight of them, and the 
sound of their words, had wrought in his feelings ! 
A great weight seemed to be lifted off his heart. 
He° thought no more of Tom Hanvers's proposal, 
which just now appeared quite tempti 
The dear things are thinking of me. 
with fatherly fondness ; "and I was thinking of 
turning my back upon them to-night, and play- 
ing the traitor to home. May God forgive me, 
and make me strong to do the right evermore. 

\ CHAPTEB ill. 

When John reached home he did not say any- 
thing at finding his wife alone, though she sup- 
posed he would when he missed Polly, who had 
not been out for so long a tune, Among other 
good things which John had learned since he be- 
came a total abstainer, was to have a great re- 
gard for truth. Teetotalisnl does not add much 
dignity to a character win a the ai 
virtues of tmthf uluess and perfect honesty ai 

So when Mrs. Cosnett said, "You don't seet 
surprised at not seeing Polly," he replied, "Nc 

because l &a« her out with the other children 

Do you think it i 

The little ones sat down to the tire with father, 
while Mrs, Cosnett got the tea ; and meanwhile 
Arthur was buBy in another room. He had 
carried the Bible away unnoticed by the others, 
and was there inscribing within the cover words 
that they had decided upon during the day. 
When that was done, Mrs. Cosnett brought a 
beautiful book-marker that she had worked in 
her young days, and put it between the leaves. 
Then they left it there, and went away to tea. 

I must not dwell upon that happy tea-time. 
You may imagine all about the cosy brightness 
of the room, the chatter of the children, r— ' 
their cnjoynient of the good things provided 
honour of their father's teetotal birthday. 

As Boon as the meal was over and all cleared 
away, Susie said, joyfully, "Now Arthur 
to go and fetch sometiu'." And, lest the secret 
should* suddenly burst the bounds of her rosy 
hps, Arthur went and fetched the present. He- 
brought it in with a flushed face, and placed it 
on the table in front of his father. 

"There now, dadda," dried Susie, "we'f 
bought that for you with our very own money, 
to him. 'and I put sixpence to it." 

he said, | " Did you, pussy J " said her father, laughing. 
Then he opened the beautiful book, and read, 

when it moveth itself aright. At the last it 
biteth like a serpent, and stuigeth like an ad. I. i 
And, " Wme is a mocker, strong dnnl. ■ 
and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise." 

turned again, and read, "Cod is faithful, 

who will not suffer you to be tempted above that 
able; but will with the temptation also 
make a way to escape, that ye may be able to 
bear- it." Onco more ho turned the leaves, 
and read, "He that ovcrcometh, ti,. 
be clothed in white raiment ; and 1 will not 
blot out bis name out of the book of life, hut 
I will confess his name before my Father, 
and before his angels." "Be thou faithful 
unto death, and 1 will give thee a crown of 

John closed the Book for a moment, and said, 

"Ah, where else could we find such inspiring 

words of counsel and comfort i They i 

vigour into me. Never, never as long as I live 

shall I forget this my first teetotal birthday ; and 

I do pray that every Christmas we may yet be 

spared to see, may find us all more precious to 

each other than ever. You have made this a 

happy Christmas indeed to me, wife and chddren ; 

and I shall sec how much I can do henceforth to 

make Cliristmas and all times ha>py to you." 

Father," said Arthur, presently, "there is 

text you ought to have spoken for us just 

. I think we've got it quite deep down in 

hearts, though " 

What is it, Arthur 1 " 

This, father: "ft is mors biased to pies 
than to receive,"' 

Ah, that's a beautiful text to have in your 
hearts and to practise in your lives, my lad — a 
text for Christmas and all times, for you and 
everybody else, if the world is to be made bright 
and happy as our little world at home here is 

their hands 

At first they were very undecided about what j but tiny did no* » e u 
to get. They frequently sat down in solemn safe for her to bo out I " 
conclave over thi question bul could not come "I don't think she will hurt, 
to a decision. Arthur voted that they should are not gone far; and the air is clear, though 
the] 1 I wrapped her up right well; and 

■■■■■'■ d i o bi lightlj spent. 

Should it be soiuctloii-j i.> ^.■,u-, i.. ..:,,. i m [.. ii.-.. ■ : 
They decided that it must not be anything either 
to wear or to eat, because they would like it to 
be kept for years in remembrance of the impor- 
tant occasion. "It should be something to 

remind father urj I i una to come 

in . in i t. utotal birthday was," 
said Mm. Cosnett. 

One day the question was decided all of a 
sudden. Arthur came bounding in from School, 
with a face glowing like a June rose, though his 
jacket was powdered with ml.w. 

"Oh, mother!" he exclaimed, 

. ..Ik fast, 

■'. ,;,■_■ fa i.' aid Jolin, 

I |, m1 i„. i; , , i up abitbefore 

bhi .■ i> >'■'■< k. I suppose you will wanf na all 

ir tt.-i t. i I o help get the thing* ready for the pud- 
dings. Well, it will be a pleasant hit of em- 
ploy m» of, i.LthiT new to us. 

,1 the dear children an 

it. It would do your hear! good to hear them 
talk, John. They think they are going to have 

the happiest Christmas of any people under the 

Bun ! I'm sure it will seem a reward for well- 

lion joyful thej are," Baid Mi -. 

Cosnett, with tearsof delight glistening m her eyes. 


Christmas, 1808." 
He read the wordi over mora than once, till at 
last they looked all binned '•■ him, and a bright 
drop fell just below the inscription, 
he ^id, presentl] 
unsteady voice, "you are very good to remem- 
ber father so. I can't tell you how much good 
has done me, or how great a bless- 
in- it may yet be to me and to all of us. Come, 
I must kiss you all round for it. 
Mias Susie, who has put the noble vara oi six- 
buying dadda this beautiful Book!" 
;1 . fchem. Polly's 

thin face was glow ing n ith ji fj, 

■■ You must kiss mother, too," she said, " for 

...i bii towardi i 
"Yea; I'll kiss mother," be- said, merrily, 
"though till within the last year, I must confess, 
I'd almost forgotten how to. Th< 1 1 
he added, after kissing away a tear that w 

rolling down her face. "And now lei ua jus* 

.,, three Uimhar old texts in 
Book, and then we will all look at the splendid 

He turned over the leaves, and read, "When 
I .said, My foot slippeth ; thy mercy, O Lord, 
held mo up." He turned the Lea- 1 ■ ■ 
m d, " Look not thou upon the wine when 
it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, 


Ah, what means that outstretched finger* 
What that eager, wistful gaze 1 

Why do those brave soldiers linger 
Peering at the distant haze I 

What has warmed their pallid faces 

With an unaccustomed glow, 
Smoothing, hiding pain's sad traces — 

Furrows of war's various woe I 

Is it from the sunrise yonder 

They have caught that happy gleam I 

Is it coloured clouds they ponder, 
Morning's gold and crimson beam ? 

No, it is the welcome whiteness 
Of dear- England's Hearing shore ; 

And their faces take a brightness 
From beholding Home once more. 

How they love the very breezes 

Which come whispering out to sea ; 

How the wandering land-bird pleases, 
Telling of green field and tree. 

Oh, what happiness surprises 

Those brave hearts in view .>i >/■ ,. ■ , 

While the white cliff slowly rises, 
Sinning o'er the mist and foam ! 

i .-.nig nearer, nearer 
To Mil Home, oa years glide by : 
Does that heavenly shore grow dearer 
To our longing heart and eye i 

Have we shown a soldier's bearing 
In life's long and painful fight — 

Duties, hardships bravely shai 
As in our great Captain's sight I 

Do we prize each whispered token, 

Bri n liing of the land above, 
And each winged message spoken 

From the God of grace and love '■ 
Soon Heaven's walls sublime and glorio is 

Shall surprise our raptured eye, 
And, i I '■>■-', through Ohrisl i ■ 

., ..,;. ii.. ■ on high ! 
Rrhard Wilton MA. 

e-Yton' V. ii 
-1SC9. Jh. «eh. Clotli, Eilt edgtt, 10*. "M. 



He>-ry William Febdixand Bolckow, the 
founder of the great iron industry of Middles- 
brough, was born at Sulten, in Mecklenburg, 
Germany, En 1806 ; and when fifteen years of 
age, he was placed by his parents in a merchant': 
office at Rostock, where he remained till induced 
l 1827, by a former companion, then residing 
i Newcastle-on-Tyne, to visit England. After 
thirteen years of successful business operations, 
i conjunction with that friend, his attention 
as directed to the development of the iron 
trade, which was at that time in its infancy, so far 
a the North of England was concerned. With 
ire foresight he selected Middlesbrough as the 
centre of operations — a place hitherto almost un- 
known to geographers— a not very successful coal 
port of six or seven thousand inhabitants, and 
he took into partnership with him the late Mr. 
Jolin Vaughan — a man not inferior in creative 
genius to the elder Stephenson — who, from being 
umion iron-worker, rose, step by step, with 
Mr, Bolckow. On a very small scale, Messrs. 
Bolckow and Vanish an commenced, in 1841, the 
manufacture of iron, purchasing the raw material 
at a distance, and making it into bars, rails, 
castings, and the like. 

It was not till 1850 that Mr. Vaughan, 
when taking a walk, struck his foot against a 
piece of stone, which, on examination, proved to 
be the very thing for which he and his partner 
had long been searching. The Cleveland iron- 
stone was discovered ! Such was the small begin- 
ning from which has sprung the gigantic firm 
which have had in their employment, at one 
time, over 8,000 men ; which annually raise 
about 750,000 tons of ore, and make nearly 
300,000 tons of pig and manufactured iron ! 

From this period the town and district ex- 
tended, in population and wealth, with unparal- 
leled rapidity. The works and the workmen 

multiplied. In a comparatively few years 
population of Middlesbrough rose to nearly 
15,000, and the expansive district of Cleveland 
is now densely peopled by busy workers, The 
number of blast furnaces in the district now — 
of the largest dimensions, and constructed on the 

-tt approved principles — is 120, The "make" 

of Cleveland iron in 1870 was 1,095,377 tons. 
To give some definite conception of what this 
I trodttction means, it may be stated that the entire 
•'make "of Scotland in 1870 was, 1,200,000 tons, 
and that of the whole of England, about 
5,700,000 tons. 

Throughout his life, Mr. Bolckow has shown 
that he practically recognised the responsibilities 
involved in success. Long before councils of 
conciliation in trade disputes had assumed their 
present definite form, he proposed that represen- 
tative hoards, consisting of masters and men, 
should be appointed. He has occupied almost 
every post of honour in the town and district. 
He was first Mayor of Middlesbrough ; and when 
the borough was enfranchised by the Reform Act 
of 1867, he was elected first Member of Parlia- 
ment — a post the arduous duties of which ho 
-nil faithfully discharges. 

Nor has Mr. Bolckow deferred his acts of 
munificence. He has done much to improve the 
town of Iris adoption. His most princely gift to 
the people is that of the fine Albert Park, which 
is said to have coBt £30,000. This park was 
opened by His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, 
in 1808, when Mi-. Bolckow's loyal hospitality 
called forth the .special thanks of Her Majesty the 
Queen. He has also presented to Middlesbrough 
excellent schools, which cost £7,000, and accom- 
modate nearly one thousand children. Mr. 
Bolckow'a life, by God's blessing, has been a 
singularly successful one, and has happily been 
distinguished not only by remarkable enterprise, 
but by prudence, and wisely-directed munifi- 
cence, May his useful life long be spared. 


Issued by Messrs. Partridge & Co., " British Workman Office," 9, Paternoster Row, London. 


British Workman. With Illustrations and Matter, 

ily Friend- Oa« Penny Monthly, Fonrpence 

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i -..\ i-m; (,, 1-.70. Clulti S« . kUi i--.ig«, 6*. each. 
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Birds and their Nests. By Maiy Howitt. With full- 
Our Feathered Companions, Neighbours, and Visitors. 

Bj i 

loth, 6 

Dogs and their Doings. By Rev. F. 0. Morris, B.A. 

Our Dumb Neighbours; or, Conversations of a Father 

with hi* Children on I><.r„ t .tlc .i.-l ,. the r Animals. By Rer. 
T. Jackson, MA. Clotn, Medallion on aide, Ea. ; gilt; >•. M. 
Our Children's Pets. By Josephine. Seventy Engrav- 

Animal Sagacity; a Selection of Remarkable Incidents 
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5 " He stands Fire 1" 
G Fisherman and the Porter 

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9 John Maynard 

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1 1 The Donkey 

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Moud your Buckle 
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■i.n.l ..( I 
■,fl ;ir„l hi, II,. 
ho Singing 

Lodj and the 

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40 The Weekly Daj of Ru 

The Tract Distributor's Handbook, containing . 

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" Messrs. Partridge & Co. have issued a number of the best engravings, originally given 
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Devon County Lunatic Asylum, Exminster, 1U July, 1871.— Mj Dear Sir, — I have duly 
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: C*&S-*tf* 


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P, I* rim 



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Good Servant*, Good Wives, and Happy Homes. By 
Nancy Wimble, the Village Gossip, and How she was 
Waste Not, Want Not A Book for Servants. By Mrs 
Bible Pattern of a good Woman. By Mrs Balfour 
Homely Hints on Household Management. By Mrs. 
How Families are rendered Happy or Miserable. 
Tiil end Trust; or, a Life-Story of Patty, the Work- 
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Address to Young Servauts, Especially to tUso just 
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'"J* i.?" 1 *'" V ' ,U l ° 8 NeW Manied Wife ' and tn ° 
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Aunt Mary's Preserving Kettle. By T, 8, Arthur. Two 


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Jack the Conqueror ; or, Difficulties Overoome. By the 

Ellorslie House; a Book for Boyi. By Emma Leslie. 
Golden Year; and its Lessons of Labour. Six 
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Little Wooriii an uud hisDog Caesar, By Mrs. Sherwood. 

Cliff Hut; or, the Penis of a Fisherman's Family, By 

Frank Spencers Rule of Life. By J. W. Kirton, Author 

Herbert's Firs i Year at Bramford By the Author of 

How Paul's Pt nny bocarae a Pound. By the Author of 
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Mo Gains with -.out Pains; a True Story. By H. C, 
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