"Seeltkey engage! They have got into the game.' 1 ' 
 
 Pag : 
 
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 /£ 
 
 HOLIDAY HOURS 
 
 IMPROVED. 
 
 PREPARED FOR THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 
 
 No. 146 Chestnut Street. 
 
 New York, No. 147 Nassau Street Boston, No. 9 CornMU. 
 
 Louisville, No. 103 Fourth Street. 
 
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1850, by the 
 
 AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District o 
 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 j&g=* No books are published by the American Sunday-school Union 
 without the sanction of the Committee of Publication, consisting of 
 fourteen members, from the following denominations of Christians, viz. 
 Baptist, Methodist, Congregationalist, Episcopal, Presbyterian, and Re- 
 formed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can be of the 
 same denomination, and no book can be published to which any mem- 
 ber of the Committee shall object. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Didn't Think 7 
 
 A Hymn for the New Year 87 
 
 The Two Builders 91 
 
 The House on the Sand 104 
 
 Poll Pegg 108 
 
 Psalm LXXI 125 
 
 Barnaby Biggles, the Man of Many Sorrows 127 
 
 A Summer Evening 142 
 
 The Hurricane At Sea 146 
 
 A Contented Mind 165 
 
 The Infant Prayer 167 
 
 Time and Eternity 170 
 
 l* 5 
 
a 
 
 is 
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 • PAGE 
 
 The Sting of Death is Sin 171 
 
 Hymn in Sickness 177 
 
 The Persecuted Astronomer 179 
 
 The Kingdom of God 195 
 
 The Cripple 199 
 
 The Mystery of Nature, the Type of a Glorious 
 
 Resurrection 220 
 
«^pU LJL| 
 
 DIDN'T THINK. 
 
 Esther came into the sitting-room, swept up 
 the hearth, fixed the books upon the table, then 
 looked out at the window both up and down the 
 street. She saw nobody, and walked back to the 
 fire. Presently a loud knock was heard at the 
 door. Esther ran into the entry, and hastened 
 to open it. 
 
 "Mother is expecting you," said she, to a 
 kind, pleasant looking gentleman who stepped in. 
 
 "Come directly up, doctor," said a voice 
 from the top of the stairs. The doctor went 
 up. Esther looked wistfully after him, but she 
 did not follow. She turned and went back into 
 the sitting-room. 
 
 "Oh!" sighed Esther, "oh, if dear little 
 sister should die!" and the tears rushed to her 
 
 7 
 
8 didn't think. 
 
 eyes at the thought of it. She drew her ker- 
 chief from her pocket and wiped the tears 
 away : but others quickly followed. 
 
 Nancy came from the kitchen to bring some 
 plates from the closet. 
 
 " Why, Esther, what is the matter ?" she cried 
 at seeing her tears. " Has any thing happened ?" 
 
 " It is enough to happen that the baby is so 
 •sick: the doctor has just come in, and I feel 
 as if she was certainly going to die, and I can't 
 bear the thought of it," said Esther, — crying 
 and wiping her eyes afresh. 
 
 "We must hope for the best," answered 
 Nancy. "I have seen a great many sick 
 children in my day, and it does not seem to 
 me that this one is near dying to-day, though we 
 cannot tell how it will turn up in the end." 
 
 "You don't know, perhaps, Nancy. I am 
 certain mother is frightened. She told me to go 
 down stairs when the doctor came. I dare 
 say she does not want me to know the worst, 
 for she knows how dearly I love little Ellen, 
 and I shall feel so badly." 
 P 
 
n pp U 
 
 B 
 
 didn't think. 9 
 
 "I would not feel so bad till I knew what 
 the doctor says," said Nancy. " There's no use 
 to worry yourself upon uncertainties." 
 
 " I suppose you cannot feel as I do," answered 
 Esther, turning her back to Nancy; " she's my 
 sister, and my only sister, and I always wanted 
 one. I love her dearly. I am sure I shall die 
 if she does;" and there was also something in 
 Esther's tone which seemed to say, "you've no 
 feeling for me, Nancy : you cannot sympathize 
 with me." 
 
 Nancy took her plates and went out. 
 
 "She has no feeling!" muttered Esther to 
 herself. " Nancy does not think much of dear 
 Ellen's sickness; but J do — I cannot help it." 
 
 Esther looked sorrowfully into the fire, then 
 wiped her eyes and sat down: but she could 
 not sit still. She went to the book-case, and 
 looking over the titles of the books, took down 
 one which was a great favourite of her's, full 
 of stories. She was soon deeply interested — 
 so much so that she did not mind her Aunt 
 Jane when she came into the room. 
 
 m i 
 
^a^== =^n 
 
 10 didn't think. 
 
 "Put on jour bonnet, Esther," said Aunt 
 Jane. " I want you to go on an errand." 
 
 "In one minute,"— cried Esther, her eyes 
 fixed on the page. 
 
 "No, my dear, not a minute is to be lost: 
 I want you to go directly to the apothecary's 
 to get some medicine." 
 
 "Yes, oh yes!" cried Esther, starting up, 
 tossing down her book and running into the 
 entry for her bonnet and shawl. "What did 
 the doctor say, aunt? Nancy does not think 
 much of Ellen's sickness, but I do — I have 
 been feeling dreadfully about it. What did 
 the doctor say, aunt?" 
 
 "I can hardly tell," answered Aunt Jane, 
 who was looking for a vial in the closet. "He 
 did not say a great deal. He told what ought 
 to be immediately done. Here is the vial, and 
 here is the prescription, and here is your mo- 
 ther's purse to pay for the medicine. Go to 
 Foster's at the corner, and be as quick as you 
 can." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. Dear little Nelly! I 
 
 SI 
 
didn't think. 11 
 
 wonder if she will know me when I get back. 
 Why, aunt, do you believe me, she did not know 
 me this morning when I went into the chamber. 
 She stared at me and cried ! Was it not dread- 
 ful, aunt? I liked to have cried too." 
 
 "Go, my dear," — said Aunt Jane, "and 
 make haste." 
 
 Esther took the vial, prescription and purse, 
 and set off. 
 
 Of course, if Esther took her little sister's 
 sickness so much to heart, she will do this 
 errand with all the speed possible. 
 
 Her mother gave her about twenty minutes 
 to be gone. "Possibly sooner than that," said 
 Aunt Jane, "for Esther seems to feel Ellen's 
 sickness a great deal. Nancy found her in the 
 sitting-room crying sadly about it." 
 
 Mrs. Clark looked at the watch, then at little 
 Ellen, who was lying in the crib, and she began 
 to bathe her head in cold water. The child's 
 face was red, her forehead was hot, and her 
 half-opened eyes were dull and heavy. Mrs. 
 Clark kept doing what she could for the sick 
 
 .D: 
 
n — a 
 
 12 didn't think. 
 
 baby. Every now and then, she listened for 
 Esther's returning footsteps, and cast her eyes 
 anxiously towards the watch. 
 
 Twenty minutes went by. 
 
 "Esther has not come yet," said her mother; 
 "may be she could not be waited upon as soon 
 as she got there." 
 
 Five minutes more, and no Esther. 
 
 Another five minutes are gone. "It is 
 now half an hour," said Mrs. Clark. "Where 
 can Esther be ?" 
 
 She went to the window, and looked out 
 with a troubled air. 
 
 Another five minutes. " The medicine ought 
 to be here," said Aunt Jane. "I sent Esther 
 because I thought she would do the errand 
 quicker than Nancy, — she seemed to feel so 
 much. Something special must have hindered 
 her, I am sure." 
 
 Five minutes more, and no Esther. "She 
 has had full time to go and come twice," said 
 Mrs. Clark. 
 
 "Foster perhaps did not have the medicine," 
 
 ° = ZZQ 
 
didn't think. 13 
 
 said Aunt Jane. " I dare say Esther had to go 
 farther." 
 
 Every step before the house they thought 
 must be Esther's, but every step disappointed 
 them. At last, Mrs. Clark went down into the 
 kitchen to despatch Nancy after her. 
 
 "I want you to put by your work, Nancy, 
 and go and find Esther. The medicine ought 
 to have been here' at least twenty minutes ago. 
 I told her to buy it at Foster's on the corner. 
 Do not wait for your shawl, but go as fast as 
 you can. Ellen ought to have taken it before 
 this. Be as quick as you can, Nancy." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," answered the obliging Nancy, 
 wiping the suds from her hands: "yes, ma'am. 
 When folks are sick every thing depends upon 
 doing things in season. It is a wonder where 
 she is, for she took on mortally this morning 
 because Ellen was sick." 
 
 Nancy hurried on her bonnet at once, and 
 set off at a quick rate. She reached the store, 
 without meeting Esther. She peeped through 
 the glass door, but no Esther was within. 
 
EP Cera 
 
 14 didn't think. 
 
 " I can but just ask if she's been here, that 
 will satisfy me," thought she, going in and in- 
 quiring of the clerk, "if Miss Esther Clark had 
 been there for some doctor's stuff." 
 
 "A while ago," answered he, — "half an 
 hour may be." 
 
 "Dear me!" cried Nancy, "where in the 
 world can she be ? She must needs have hurt 
 herself, or broken the vial, or something dread- 
 ful has happened to her to stay away so when 
 the baby is so sick and all that." 
 
 Poor Nancy shut the door, and looked up and 
 down the street with strained eyes. She was 
 sure she did not know which way to go to find 
 Esther. The clerk then stepped out, and said, 
 "As soon as she got out of the shop, some girls 
 joined her, and I guess they followed the dancing 
 monkeys round this corner." 
 
 "Following dancing monkeys !" cried Nancy. 
 "Esther would not do that, with that physic 
 in her hands, I know." 
 
 However she darted around the corner, 
 and saw some way down a great collection 
 
n 
 
 didn't think. 15 
 
 of people on the side-walk before a house, 
 evidently very much taken up with something, 
 though she could not see what. 
 
 "Esther cannot be straying off there ! But I'll 
 just go and take a look," and Nancy made her 
 way towards the crowd as fast as possible. As 
 she came nearer, sure enough there were four 
 monkeys, cutting up all sorts of capers to the 
 music of a hand-organ. At any other time 
 Nancy would have been overcome with delight 
 and laughter ; but, as it was, the faithful girl 
 was intent only on finding Esther. At last 
 she spied her, with two or three of her com- 
 panions, the vial in her hand, her eyes on 
 the monkeys and all her thoughts too, for the 
 thoughts are very apt to be led away by the 
 eyes. Nancy elbowed her way through the 
 crowd, and at last caught Esther by the shoulder. 
 " Oh," she cried, "is this bringing home the 
 physic as quick as they told you, Esther ? Is 
 ^iis caring much for the sick baby? Who 
 would have thought of this, after the ado you 
 made this morning?" 
 
 m m 
 
16 didn't think. 
 
 Such words ! and from Nancy too, with whom 
 she felt half angry but a little while before, on 
 account of her not feeling as much for the baby 
 as she did ! 
 
 How Esther started ! how pale she turned ! 
 
 "I did not think," cried Esther; "oh, I 
 did not think." 
 
 " It is a pretty poor excuse, I'm thinking," 
 said Nancy,, "and one that would not comfort 
 you much, if the baby should die for not 
 having the medicine in season." 
 
 " Why, I have not been here but a minute," 
 cried Esther, — almost out of breath in trying 
 to follow Nancy, who had seized the vial, 
 and was marching home at a very quick step. 
 
 "It's almost an hour, I guess* since your 
 mother sent you." 
 
 " I am sure I did not think it was so long," 
 said Esther, hanging down her head in shame 
 and dismay. 
 
 On reaching home, Nancy ran up-stairs 
 with the medicine, while Esther was glad 
 enough to turn into the sitting-room, not de- 
 
didn't think. 17 
 
 siring and scarcely daring to meet her mother, 
 or her Aunt Jane. But, as it happened, Aunt 
 Jane was down-stairs. 
 
 "My child!" she exclaimed, on seeing 
 Esther, " where is the medicine ? What has 
 hindered you?" 
 
 "Nancy took it up-stairs. I bought it in 
 season, but I stopped a minute — I stopped 
 just to see some dancing monkeys." Esther 
 looked much mortified at this confession. 
 
 "Not only one minute, but thirty! and 
 that too when it was so important you should 
 be back." 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Jane, i" did not think!" cried 
 Esther. 
 
 " Didn't think /" repeated Aunt Jane in 
 a grave and severe tone. " Didn't think ! 
 To be in such circumstances, and not think!" 
 
 Aunt Jane had heard Esther give this rea- 
 son before now, and she went on. " God has 
 made you capable of thinking, Esther. He 
 expects you to think. He has given you du- 
 ties to do, to your father, to your mother, to 
 
18 didn't think. 
 
 your brothers and your sisters, — duties -which 
 you must think about in order to do. You 
 cannot be depended upon — you cannot be 
 trusted, unless you think.'" 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Jane, do not say any more," 
 exclaimed Esther, bursting into tears. "I 
 know it all. I know it is no excuse at all. 
 I know that it is weak and silly. People with- 
 out any wit can make such an excuse, but I 
 know I cannot." 
 
 Esther left the room and crept up-stairs. 
 She passed by her mother's door, but was 
 afraid to go in. She wanted to inquire after 
 little Ellen. She wanted to know exactly what 
 her danger was. She wished she could tell 
 her how sorry and ashamed she was to forget 
 her for the monkeys ; but she dared not go in. 
 She passed by and went to her own room. 
 
 This was, in fact, Esther Clark's besetting 
 fault. Her mother had often spoken of it, 
 and it had often proved a source of shame 
 and mortification to her. Hei mother had 
 taken many opportunities, such as a quiet 
 
 D — D 
 
didn't think. 19 
 
 Sabbath evening, or when they were sitting 
 alone and sewing, or when they were walking 
 together at sunset and her mind was teachable 
 and subdued, to point out its true nature; 
 how it grew out of a selfish heart; how it 
 led to disobedience and a careless disre- 
 gard of the comfort of others; how unfaith- 
 ful and untrusty it made her. Indeed, Es- 
 ther often had occasion to see in how many 
 evils she had got entangled, and into how 
 many weaknesses and how much remissness 
 she had been led, just by that one little fault, 
 "I did not think." I mean it looks little on 
 paper, it appears like a very small sentence, 
 " I did not think;" but when we stop and look 
 at the consequences of not thinking, we find 
 it a very grave and serious thing. 
 
 As Esther had grown older, she had at 
 times seriously set about improving herself. 
 She treasured up in her memory all her mo- 
 ther's instructions, and thought them over 
 and over. An improvement for a time had 
 been visible in her conduct. She was not so 
 
20 didn't think. 
 
 often remiss, nor did she so often palliate her 
 negligence and forgetfulness by the old excuse. 
 Esther for a time did seem to be really trying 
 to amend; but, of late, old habits had been 
 gradually regaining power over her. On seve- 
 ral little occasions, she had done things which 
 she ought not to have done, and left undone 
 things which she ought to have done : and all 
 the excuse she could plead was, "I did not 
 think." 
 
 In the incident just described, how very, 
 very insufficient did this excuse appear to her 
 aunt, to herself, and even to Nancy ! and then 
 what results might flow from her not think- 
 ing! As Esther went into her chamber and 
 shut the door, throwing herself on the bed, she 
 sobbed out, 
 
 " Oh, if the medicine has come too late ! and 
 oh, if Ellen should die because it did not come 
 in time, should not I be the means of her 
 death !" And Esther hid her face in the 
 pillow, with feelings that nobody could envy. 
 
 Poor Esther was learning a bitter lesson. 
 
 g 
 
qPI3^= CT 
 
 m 
 
 didn't think. 21 
 
 " This is indeed a lesson that I shall not 
 soon forget," thought she. " I shall never 
 get over it, if Ellen dies !" She tossed about 
 on the bed a long while, with severe self- 
 reproaches and without a raj of comfort. 
 
 After some time, she got up and opened the 
 door, and listened if she could hear any sound 
 from the sick chamber. Every thing was still. 
 Esther thought it was dreadfully still. She 
 could not even hear Nancy moving about in 
 any part of the house. 
 
 She was not able to bear it any longer, and 
 she crept down into a closet next her mother's 
 chamber, and held her ear closely against the 
 wall to listen for some sound; but she heard 
 not so much as a whisper. It was still as 
 death. Her heart was full of violent emo- 
 tions. 
 
 " The baby must be dead ! Yes, my dear 
 Ellen must be dead, and they will not tell me 
 of it ! They will say I caused her death, and 
 I shall die too !" 
 
 In agony, Esther ran back to her room. 
 
 m 
 
a 
 
 22 didn't think. 
 
 "I cannot stay here!" she cried aloud, "I 
 am sure I can bear it no longer ! What shall 
 I do? Where shall I go ?" 
 
 She ran down into the kitchen. 
 
 "Nancy," she cried, with streaming eyes, 
 "is the baby dead !" 
 
 " Dead ! Why, no, indeed ! she's better, 
 but they want to keep every thing as still as 
 can be. So move about as still as a mouse, 
 and cry some other time." 
 
 Nancy said this in a kind tone, but it could 
 not stay Esther's tears. She sat down by the 
 stove, and sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 Alfred and John did not come home from 
 school at noon. Aunt Allen invited them to 
 take dinner with her. Mr. Clark was also away. 
 Very pressing business called him to a neigh- 
 bouring town that day. Esther was thankful for 
 it, for she thought she could not bear to have 
 her father told of her negligence, then at least ; 
 not until she could know how it would turn 
 out with the baby. Her mother did not come 
 down, but took a cup of tea in the sick chamber ; 
 
 m 
 
n- -PH^ 
 
 didn't think. 23 
 
 so that nobody was at the dinner table but 
 herself and Aunt Jane. Esther had dried 
 her eyes, washed her face, and combed her 
 hair; but she had very little heart to eat. 
 Several times she tried to ask about Ellen, 
 and every time the words seemed to refuse 
 to come out. At last she asked, "What do 
 you think of the baby, Aunt Jane ?" 
 
 " We must hope for the best, my dear ; but 
 the crisis is not passed yet." 
 
 "Crisis not passed yet!" repeated Esther 
 to herself: "Crisis!" She knew in general 
 what the word was, but yet she was puzzled 
 a little about Ellen's crisis. What did it 
 exactly mean ? Esther would have given any 
 thing to know. She wished Aunt Jane would 
 explain. She wanted to ask, but was afraid: 
 and so she kept still. 
 
 In the afternoon, some of her companions 
 came in ; but, though they stayed some time 
 and seemed to try to divert her, her head 
 ached, and she was not sorry when they took 
 leave. 
 
 m 
 
24 didn't think. 
 
 At night Esther retired earlier than usual. 
 She had no lessons to learn, because it was 
 vacation. She had no heart to play checkers 
 with Alfred. She could not read, because her 
 eyes were weak. Aunt Jane and her mother 
 were in the sick-room, from which the children 
 were for the present excluded. 
 
 Esther took her lamp and went up-stairs. 
 Her reflections were certainly by no means 
 pleasant, but they were as pleasant as any 
 thing that could be had that night. 
 
 " Oh," she sighed, after shutting her door; 
 " I hoped sometimes that I was improving, but 
 I have gone back again, just where I used to 
 be. Mother and Aunt Jane will never think 
 of trusting me again after this. Nobody will 
 trust me ! I shall never, never improve. I 
 shall only be a piece of lumber in the house, 
 useful to nobody — only in the way ! Just think 
 of those monkeys making me forget Ellen and 
 my errand ! 'Tis not as though I had never 
 seen monkeys before. I have seen them 
 often, but ' I did not think,' 
 

 for me to neglect what I have to do, and 
 
 3 
 
 J IS 
 
 didn't think. 25 
 
 " There it is again ! saying it to myself, 
 as if it were an excuse. ' Did not think !' but 
 I ought to think. I am in duty bound to 
 think. It is reasonable to think. It is part 
 of my nature to think. If I had not a soul, it 
 would be excuse enough that I did not think. 
 Suppose father should not get us any thing to 
 eat, no flour, no meal, no potatoes, and then 
 say, ' He did not think.' Suppose mother 
 should neglect us, and then excuse herself by 
 saying, ' She did not think.' Suppose Nancy, 
 every now and then, should fail to get my 
 breakfast, and say, ' She did not think.' I am 
 sure the family would be turned upside down. 
 What a strange plight we should be in ! Some- 
 times nothing in the house to eat — sometimes 
 nothing cooked — sometimes nothing for us 
 children to put on. Would it not be shame- 
 ful ? Who would think any thing of such an 
 excuse for such neglect ? How wrong, how 
 unfaithful would they be ! That is plain 
 enough. Well now, is it not just as bad 
 
 in nr 
 
□_pn 
 
 26 didn't think. 
 
 say, ' I did not think' ? I am sure it may lead 
 to consequences bad enough." 
 
 Thus did Esther reason, as she sat leaning 
 her head upon her hand ; and everybody will 
 say it is pretty good reasoning. 
 
 " Suppose I had been the means of taking 
 away Ellen's life?" The idea was dreadful, 
 and Esther shuddered. 
 
 "I wish I was grown up!" she at last 
 cried aloud, in an angry tone, " then I should 
 get rid of such troubles." 
 
 Young people, I know, are sometimes apt, 
 when they are smarting under the consequences 
 of their faults, to wish they were anybody or 
 any thing but themselves. I once heard a 
 young lady wish she were a toad, because she 
 would not then have to think and to repent. 
 Such wishes are not only fruitless, but they 
 are sinful, — extremely sinful. God has made 
 you what you are, and all the wishing in the 
 world cannot unmake you. God has placed 
 you where you are, and it is setting yourself 
 against his authority to desire to be otherwise 
 
1 u ===== 
 
 W 
 
 didn't think. 27 
 
 than what his will determines for you. Be- 
 sides, is any one quite sure of escaping her 
 troubles by getting older ? It is very certain 
 that, unless you try to forsake sin and amend 
 your ways while you are young, which is the 
 easiest time for improvement, you will find 
 it very difficult to do so when you grow up ; 
 and if you grow up with bad habits and a 
 bad heart, you will find abundant pain and 
 trouble. 
 
 In wishing she was grown up, Esther would 
 not have mended her condition much, unless 
 she meant at the same time to take vigorous 
 measures towards self-improvement while a 
 child. If thoughtlessness was no excuse for 
 a neglect of duty in a child, how much worse 
 does it appear in a grown-up person ! This 
 conclusion Esther herself had reasoned out 
 pretty clearly. 
 
 It was a great while before she began to un- 
 dress herself, or think of going to bed. Before 
 doing so, she opened a beautiful Bible, which 
 her father had given her on her last birthday, 
 
 m 
 
28 didn't think. 
 
 and began to turn over the leaves, as if she 
 was searching for some particular passages. 
 To do Esther justice, we must say that she 
 seldom retired without reading the Scriptures 
 and prayer. She had been in this good habit 
 from the time when she was a very little girl, 
 although it is to be feared her heart was not 
 always in the exercises. But it is a most ex- 
 cellent and important habit, and a habit which 
 God will bless for good. 
 
 She found that verse, " Come unto me, all 
 ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I 
 will give you rest." They are the blessed Sa- 
 viour's words, and Esther read them over and 
 over again. How kind and gracious the in- 
 vitation appeared to her ! As she pondered 
 upon the expression, the bitterness of her spirit 
 seemed to give way, and her heart grew mellow 
 and humble. 
 
 "I am sure I am heavy laden," thought 
 she ; " why am I not just such a one as 
 the Saviour meant ? He certainly meant 
 children as well as those who are grown up, 
 
didn't think. 29 
 
 and he will hear them full as quickly. This 
 verse seems to fit my case. It never seemed so 
 before, but it does now. I feel just as it says." 
 
 Esther then kneeled down to pray, and the 
 tears flowed fast. 
 
 How wonderful and gracious is it, that we 
 have an Almighty Friend, who can help us in 
 our infirmities, who can forgive our sins, who 
 can speak peace to our troubled hearts, and 
 who can help us — really and truly help us — 
 to amend our ways. No earthly father or mo- 
 ther can do this for us, much and dearly as 
 they may love us ; but Jesus Christ, our Al- 
 mighty Friend, can do it. 
 
 Oh ! that every child would really and truly 
 go to that Friend. I am sure they are often 
 troubled. They often smart under the conse- 
 quences of doing wrong ; they are often heavy- 
 laden with sin, and hardly know which way to 
 turn. They really wish to do better, but 
 somehow sin gets the upper hand. Ah, my 
 dear children, it is Jesus Christ, and only 
 Jesus Christ, who can help you out of diffi- 
 
 3* 
 
 n 
 
n cm n 
 
 30 didn't think. 
 
 culties like these. He alone can wipe the 
 stains of sin from your heart. He alone can 
 clear off your clouds by the light of his coun- 
 tenance, and he can help your heart, your 
 hands, your feet, your eyes and your mouth 
 to do right. 
 
 Will you not seek him ? 
 
 The next morning, when Esther came down 
 and tapped at her mother's door, it was evi- 
 dent that she had been suffering, although she 
 then looked calm and subdued. 
 
 "How is Ellen, mother?" were her first 
 words, going on tip-toe towards the bed. 
 
 "A little more comfortable, I hope," an- 
 swered her mother, — " only a very little !" 
 
 "But, mother, is the danger past?" 
 
 "We cannot tell yet; she must be kept as 
 quiet as possible ; but, Esther, my daughter, you 
 are not well. You look pale this morning," 
 said Mrs. Clark, looking into Esther's face. 
 
 "Pretty well, mother," answered she, in a 
 
Q 
 
 didn't think. 31 
 
 low tone. " If I am sick, mother, it is more 
 in here, than any outside sickness," pointing 
 to her bosom. 
 
 Mrs. Clark understood the case. 
 
 "Well, my dear," said she, tenderly parting 
 her hair, " I am afraid you cannot cure your- 
 self, neither can your father or mother cure 
 you, but there is one who can. He is the 
 Friend and the Saviour of just such frail, 
 backsliding creatures as we are." 
 
 "And that is just what I am, mother," 
 answered Esther, — " sliding back continually. 
 I just go a little ways, thinking I am get- 
 ting along very well, when back I go again, 
 and am worse than ever ! I am just like the 
 Pilgrim." 
 
 " There is Jesus, putting out his hand to 
 help you up again. You remember the hymn, 
 Esther, 
 
 Oh, help us, Lord ! each hour of need 
 
 Thy heavenly succour give ; 
 Keep us in thought, and word, and deed, 
 
 Each hour on earth we live." 
 
 :□ 
 
q-p-n g 
 
 d 
 
 32 didn't think. 
 
 This little talk, carried on in a whisper, was 
 now broken in upon by Nancy, who came to 
 say that breakfast was ready. 
 
 What the effect of Esther's sufferings would 
 be, remained to be seen. Would they be for 
 her lasting good ? Or would they pass away 
 like the morning cloud and the early dew, 
 making her neither wiser nor better ? 
 
 Esther was quite thoughtful for the next few 
 days ; and as soon as the baby was pronounced 
 to be essentially better, her mother wanted 
 her to go to Marysville to spend the re- 
 mainder of the vacation. She was at first 
 loath to leave little Ellen, who, as she grew 
 better, was fonder than ever of her sister ; but 
 Mrs. Clark decided that, on some accounts, it 
 was better for her to go, and she set out with 
 her father the next pleasant day. 
 
 Ten days passed off. The vacation was 
 over, and so was Esther's visit. How delighted 
 
1" 
 
 didn't think. 33 
 
 was she to get back again ! And what a shout- 
 ing from John and Alfred when she was fairly 
 in the house ! How little Ellen, who had 
 already begun to recover the roses on her 
 cheeks, clapped her hands and jumped into 
 her sister's arms ! 
 
 "I have had a delightful time, mother," 
 cried Esther; "but it is still delightful to get 
 home again. There is no place like home. I 
 am really glad to come back;" and from want 
 of some other way of giving vent to her feel- 
 ings, she began to kiss them all over again. 
 
 Esther soon fell into her usual round of. 
 duty. School began. Old schoolmates ga- 
 thered around her. New books were to be 
 bought, and new lessons were to be studied, 
 and she soon had enough to do, both at school 
 and at home. 
 
 It was the fourth day of school. Esther 
 arose bright and early, and as she drew back 
 the curtain of her chamber window, she thought 
 it was the fairest sky that she ever saw. 
 
 "I am glad I woke up in such good season," 
 
34 didn't think. 
 
 ^3 
 
 thought she; "I do believe I am up before 
 Nancy ; because I have begun school with the 
 resolution to do the best I can this term. I 
 mean to try and recite every lesson perfectly, 
 and keep all the rules. I have been very 
 strict with myself so far — only three days, to 
 be sure — and a good many girls begin well, 
 who do not hold out. If I can only be thought- 
 ful. There's where the shoe pinches. If I 
 can only be thoughtful, mindful, — then, there 
 would be hope that things might go right." 
 
 With that Esther sat down, opened her 
 Bible, and spent a little time in seeking the 
 favour and help of her heavenly Friend. She 
 then opened the window, and went down-stairs 
 to study a little before breakfast. 
 
 Household duties went on regularly and 
 busily until nearly half-past eight. Esther 
 always made her own bed, and put her cham- 
 ber in order, before she went to school. Her 
 mother taught her to keep it very tidy, and 
 the only hindrance she ever found in doing 
 it was her thoughtlessness; and a sad hin- 
 
w 
 
 didn't think. 35 
 
 drance it used to be. Her mother sometimes 
 had been afraid she would never be worth 
 any thing, not even so much as to keep her 
 chamber neat, and all because — she " didn't 
 think." One shoe would be behind a trunk, 
 another on the table ; her cap might be under 
 the bed, while her brush and comb were left 
 lying across the open drawer of her dressing- 
 table. 
 
 "My child, how came this here, and that 
 there? Esther, why did you not put your 
 things away?" her mother was apt often to 
 ask with a distressed tone ; and what was 
 Esther's excuse but " Oh, I didn't think!" 
 This is the way, I say, it used to be : but on 
 the morning of which we now speak, every 
 thing was put in place as if some thinking 
 body had fixed them, and it was now nearly 
 half-past eight. Esther was in her mother's 
 chamber. " Time wanes : run and get me a 
 pitcher of water, and then get ready for 
 school," said her mother, who was at the 
 wash-stand. 
 
 
i 
 
 36 didn't think. 
 
 "Yes, mother," cried she briskly, seizing 
 the pitcher and skipping off. 
 
 "Here you are!" shouted Alfred, as she 
 came racing into the kitchen. "If mother 
 thinks my cold is too bad to go out, I will have 
 some fun in the house, I guess." So he rushed 
 by Nancy's tub, turning it bottom upwards, 
 got the checker-board, set the men in order, 
 and begged Nancy to stop a minute, just to 
 see in what " a General Washington style he 
 could beat Esther." 
 
 "Beat me!" cried Esther, coming back with 
 her pitcher. "Beat me! I have only to say 
 as Julius Caesar did, 'I came, I saw, I con- 
 quered!' but I cannot stop now." 
 
 "Yes. That is the way Esther wants to 
 get off ! and hear her ! She is afraid to meet 
 •me. Come, Esther, Nancy wants to see us. 
 You are afraid to try. The men are all set. 
 Come ! come ! It will not take me long to 
 sweep your men off the board. I am a Gene- 
 ral Washington at this game." 
 
 Esther was teased and vexed by her bro- 
 
 ct-tin 
 
□ crr-p 
 
 didn't think. 37 
 
 ther's words. Will she stop ? Her mother is 
 waiting for the water, and school-time is ap- 
 proaching as fast as the clock can tick. Two 
 claims are urged as loud as can be. Will she 
 think ? 
 
 But there is the checker-board, and Alfred 
 has challenged her. 
 
 Esther stops : the pitcher is placed on the 
 floor. 
 
 See ! they engage ! They have got into 
 the game. Can it be that Esther is sliding 
 back again ? 
 
 " Oh," cried Esther, suddenly starting up, 
 "I did not think!" 
 
 "No ! I cannot take you !" shouted Alfred. 
 
 "It was not that !" cried Esther. " Mother 
 is waiting for the water, and it is high time to 
 make ready for school. I cannot stop ! indeed 
 I cannot. I did not think ! But now that I 
 do think, I must be off." 
 
 "Ho ! ho !" cried Alfred. " A pretty thing 
 for Julius Caesar to take to his heels in that 
 way ! You shall not go ! It is a downright 
 
 m 
 
or-iEl 
 
 38 didn't think. 
 
 coward that runs away. You saw my plan. 
 Come ! we are just in the cream of the 
 game." 
 
 " Cream or no cream, coward or no coward, 
 I must go," answered Esther, resolutely. "I 
 am so glad I thought in time," taking up her 
 pitcher and marching off. 
 
 "Nancy, that is just Esther's way; it is 
 only because I am going to beat her. In three 
 moves she would be done up. Julius Csesar 
 cannot stand General Washington's fire." 
 
 Esther was a little provoked with Alfred, 
 but she was gone. Esther was only sorry that 
 she stopped at all ; for she really had no time 
 for play; "but I am so thankful I thought in 
 time," she said aloud, — "so thankful!" 
 
 No matter what Alfred accused her of, no 
 matter what Nancy thought, as long as Esther 
 was trying to do right. They could not look 
 into her heart. They did not witness her 
 struggles. Esther was panting for breath as 
 she set the pitcher of water by her mother's 
 wash-stand. 
 
 m 
 
□ = n 
 
 E3± 
 
 ma 
 
 didn't think. 39 
 
 " Esther," — began her mother, who looked 
 as if she had been waiting, — 
 
 "Please do not say a word, mother," cried 
 she; "I am in fault. I almost did not think. 
 I stopped in the kitchen with Alfred, when I 
 had no right to do it ; but, mother, I did think 
 in time, and the moment I thought, I ran as 
 fast as I could. Oh! I am so glad." 
 
 Mrs. Clark was also glad. There is nothing 
 which delights the heart of any mother so 
 much as seeing her children in earnest to im- 
 prove ; making improvement a real business ; 
 not something to be done at odd times ; but 
 something to be daily and constantly sought 
 after. 
 
 Perhaps some may think this a very little 
 thing. What harm could there be in Esther's 
 stopping to play a minute ? But such persons 
 forget that the great work of life is made up of 
 a great number of little things. It is through 
 the influence of little things that we are daily 
 improving or going backward. Little things, in 
 fact, become great things, when we consider 
 
 m 
 
 p i n 
 
t^po 
 
 ii 
 
 40 didn't think. 
 
 their relations to our character, because they 
 help so much to form it. 
 
 Most of your duties are what you might call 
 little duties, but they are vastly important to 
 you and to those around you. They may even 
 be no more than rocking the cradle, or teach- 
 ing your sister her letters, or hemming some 
 towels for your mother, or a pocket handker- 
 chief for your father, or washing up the cups 
 in the morning ; and yet do you not see how 
 fidelity and thoughtfulness in each of these 
 would tend to make you a useful and happy 
 child? 
 
 The spring gradually advanced ; the skies 
 became bluer, the winds softer, and every- 
 where the voice of the grass was heard singing 
 its curious song, 
 
 "Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere, 
 By the dusty road-side, 
 On the sunny hill-side, 
 Close by the noisy brook, 
 In every shady nook, 
 I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 
 
 h c§J3 
 
 J3 - n i b 
 
didn't think. 41 
 
 Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere, 
 
 All round the open door 
 
 Where sit the aged poor, 
 
 Here where the children play 
 
 In the bright and merry May, 
 I come creeping, creeping everywhere." 
 
 Esther and her brothers were glad for the 
 creeping, smiling, new grass, and for all the 
 pleasant and beautiful things which the spring 
 brought with it. They watched the swelling 
 buds ; and the heart's-ease and crocusses as 
 they put forth their beautiful flowers. The 
 garden was partly made, and the seeds were 
 assorted for planting; and then, as the roads 
 became dry, they began to take their old walks 
 into the country. 
 
 It was towards the last of May, when Esther 
 and her brothers were going to pay a long 
 promised visit to Miss Molly, a kind old lady, 
 who lived two miles from their house, and who 
 was always pleased when the children came to 
 see her. Esther had been many times to carry 
 her tracts and good books, which her mother 
 
 4* 
 
 i — - a. 
 
42 didn't think. 
 
 obtained for her. Sometimes she took her a 
 warm new loaf of gingerbread or other cake, 
 and sometimes some yarn to knit stockings for 
 her mother. Esther knew Miss Molly very well, 
 and as she thought a good deal of Esther, 
 Esther liked to go there. The boys had never 
 been but once, but Esther had been promising 
 to take them, and one pleasant Wednesday 
 afternoon their mother gave them leave to go. 
 
 " Esther," said she, "I put Alfred and John 
 under your care. See that they do no mis- 
 chief, and do not let them be troublesome to 
 Miss Molly. Here is a basket of apples for 
 her : they will be a great rarity at this season. 
 See to the boys." 
 
 Esther said she would, and the boys added, 
 "Why, mother, we will behave well enough. 
 We know how, I am sure." 
 
 "I dare say," answered Mrs. Clark, "but I 
 am afraid you will not always think." 
 
 "Oh," said Ellen to herself, "they never 
 were so bad as I have been about that. They 
 must think." 
 
q^TJ U -\p 
 
 didn't think. 43 
 
 Away they went, — Esther, Alfred and John, 
 each taking turns to carry the basket of ap- 
 ples. When they reached what Esther called 
 "the half-way house," (a flat broad stone by 
 the brook,) they all sat down, and while 
 resting, she told them a story about that 
 brook, which her mother once told her. After 
 it was done, Alfred spoke for another; but 
 John wanted to go on, and as their mother 
 charged them to be back in good season, they 
 concluded to follow John. 
 
 At length Miss Molly's house came in sight. 
 It was a small one-story house, which she had 
 earned and kept in good repair by her needle. 
 In one half of it lived a man and his wife, in 
 the other were Miss Molly and Miss Dolly. 
 They were sisters: and had lived together 
 happily for nearly sixty years, when Miss 
 Dolly died, to the great affliction of her sister. 
 
 "But the Lord is my helper," Molly used 
 to say. "Dolly has only gone home first. 
 She will be there to bid me welcome." 
 
 For a time, people thought Miss Molly 
 
 □: 
 
44 didn't think. 
 
 would soon follow, so great was her grief; but 
 at last it became less violent, and she began 
 to look cheerful again. Lately she had lost 
 some of her earnings, from the failure of a 
 gentleman who kept them for her: but the 
 news did not disturb her much: "The greater 
 part of my treasures are laid up, I trust," 
 said she, "where neither moth nor rust cor- 
 rupts, and where thieves do not break through 
 nor steal. My wants here are few, and will 
 not last long. I shall not worry. If I lack, 
 the Lord will provide." 
 
 Esther somehow or other always liked to 
 hear Miss Molly talk. She used to sit by her 
 side, and with great interest hear the old lady 
 tell what happened when she was a girl. 
 "Why, mother, it is as good as reading a Sun- 
 day-school book," she often said. 
 
 They soon reached the door. Esther opened 
 it and went in. There sat Miss Molly in her 
 low rocking-chair, with a clean mob-cap on, 
 and a white muslin kerchief plaited over her 
 shoulders, knitting, with a large book opened 
 
q~pg n 
 
 didn't think. 45 
 
 LID 
 
 on a little stand before her, every now and 
 then reading, — every now and then knitting. 
 It was "Fox's Book of the Martyrs," a book 
 of which Miss Molly was never tired. 
 
 "Here we are ! We have come to see you 
 a little while !" exclaimed John, bursting some- 
 what noisily into the room, which Esther did 
 not think very becoming. 
 
 "I want to see your hen!" cried Alfred, 
 planting himself before her. 
 
 "We have brought you a few apples," said 
 Esther, modestly. "How do you do, Miss 
 Molly?" 
 
 "God bless you, my dears," said the old 
 woman, eying each by turns through her 
 spectacles — "a little rheumatic. I thank you. 
 There's his father right out," said she, taking 
 Alfred by the hand, "and what is your name? 
 — you are your father's own child." 
 
 " Alfred Clark — but I want to see your hen." 
 
 "My hen!" answered the old lady; "how 
 came you to suppose that an old woman that 
 can hardly hobble about, kept a hen?" 
 
 m m 
 
 J3 - — — □_] h 
 
m 
 
 46 didn't think. 
 
 " Esther told us. She said it was a beauty. 
 She said somebody sent it to comfort you after 
 you lost some of your money. Does she ? 
 Does the hen comfort you?" 
 
 "I do not know but she does. She is a 
 good hen. She comes every morning under 
 this window to get her breakfast. Sometimes 
 she perches on the window. Sometimes she 
 strays off with neighbour Jones's hens, but 
 always comes back at night. She is setting 
 now. I shall have some little chickens by 
 and by." 
 
 The children sat down and rested them- 
 selves, and ate their oranges, which uncle 
 Joseph had left for them in the morning — 
 giving one to Miss Molly, and hearing her 
 talk. Then the boys wanted to go and look 
 about. 
 
 "Take them about," said Miss Molly to 
 Esther; "they would like to go out in the 
 barn, maybe." Then she whispered to Esther, 
 "You know where Biddy is setting. See 
 that the boys are careful, that's a good girl." 
 
 a — = ^Q 
 
didn't think. 47 
 
 Esther answered, "Oh, yes," and the three 
 went out. She kept a very watchful eye over 
 her brothers, lest they might do what they 
 ought not to do. On going into the barn, 
 she showed them where Biddy's nest was, and 
 how Biddy loved her nest, how many eggs she 
 had, and how they must not on any account 
 go near her or disturb her. 
 
 "There, I have showed it to you," said Es- 
 ther, " now do not touch it ;" and she went on se- 
 riously to impress upon their minds not to go 
 near it again, lest they should disturb the old hen. 
 
 "We won't! We won't! We won't!" shouted 
 the boys. 
 
 After looking all around, Esther proposed 
 going in, but the boys did not want to go just 
 then. "You go," said Alfred; "we will play 
 out here a little while." 
 
 "If you will promise not to do any thing 
 that you ought not to do, nor go near Biddy's 
 nest, nor any thing of that sort," — said Es- 
 ther. 
 
 "We certainly will not," promised Alfred. 
 
 Pi 
 
□ z. -tz t 
 
 HI 
 
 48 didn't think. 
 
 "Then I will go and sit with Miss Molly 
 awhile" — and she went back into the house. 
 
 I do not know how long she sat, but they 
 were talking as pleasantly as could be, and 
 Esther was glad that the boys were having a 
 good time by themselves, when John lifted the 
 latch as softly as could be and whispered to 
 Esther. She started up and ran to the door. 
 He beckoned her out, looking much frightened. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she asked anxiously. 
 "Has Alfred hurt himself?" 
 
 "Worse than that," said John, still in a 
 whisper; "come and see." 
 
 Esther followed him into the barn. 
 
 Lo ! there sat Alfred on the round of a 
 ladder, his shoes besmeared with the whites 
 and yolks of eggs. 
 
 "What has happened? What does it mean?" 
 cried Esther, turning pale. 
 
 "Oh, I did not think!" exclaimed Alfred, 
 beginning to cry. 
 
 "Where did the eggs come from?" cried 
 Esther. 
 
 q 
 
m 
 
 didn't think. 49 
 
 "It's Biddy's eggs," said John. "Alfred 
 jumped into the nest without thinking." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Esther, "can it be poor 
 Biddy's nest ! What shall we do ? what will 
 Miss Molly say? Oh, did I not caution you 
 again and again?" 
 
 "I did not think," said Alfred, sobbing. 
 
 " Killed Miss Molly's whole brood of chick- 
 ens!" exclaimed Esther. 
 
 "I did not think," replied Alfred. 
 
 " Did not think !" cried Esther. " Well, Al- 
 fred, you have robbed Miss Molly of a fortune. 
 She meant to sell her chickens." 
 
 "What shall I do? I did not think," again 
 blubbered Alfred. 
 
 "Did not think!" repeated Esther; "but 
 have you any excuse for not thinking? Did 
 I not say, over and over again, how careful 
 you must be ? Did I not particularly tell you ?" 
 
 "You did, I am sure, Esther," answered 
 John. 
 
 " Yes, you did ; but I did not think." 
 
 "It is no excuse at all," said Esther. 
 
 ip 
 
 bn _ — . _. _^ = a 
 
— EJ-p 
 
 50 didn't think. 
 
 " You see that it is not. You know you could 
 have thought, and that you ought to have 
 thought. You were told to think. Oh, dear ! 
 how can I tell Miss Molly? And what will 
 poor Biddy think when she comes home ? how 
 she will feel !" And as Esther looked over the 
 crib into her nest, she felt ready to cry. " It 
 is very bad," sighed she, " very bad, indeed." 
 
 "You have spoiled our fun, Alfred," said 
 John. 
 
 " Our visit is certainly spoiled," said Esther, 
 " and I am sure I do not know what to do. We 
 ought to pay Miss Molly for the eggs; but 
 what will poor Biddy do ?" 
 
 They all stood greatly perplexed. 
 
 At last they heard footsteps coming that 
 way, and on turning around, Miss Molly was 
 seen approaching the barn. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Molly!" cried Esther, "some- 
 thing very bad has happened." 
 
 Alfred in the mean while ran off and hid 
 himself behind an old cart-wheel; and Esther 
 began to tell about it. 
 
 _=S 
 
didn't think. 51 
 
 Miss Molly could not help looking very 
 sorry, though she tried also to comfort the 
 children. 
 
 " I did not mean to," — cried Alfred from his 
 hiding-place, — " I did not mean to, I did not 
 think." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Molly, "we cannot ex- 
 pect much from boys that do not think." 
 
 Alfred twinged, and so did Esther, for she 
 knew there never was a truer saying. 
 
 Miss Molly climbed over to the nest, and 
 carefully took up the broken shells. Out of 
 eleven eggs only three were left whole. 
 
 Esther felt just like crying over it, and so 
 did John. " How bad it is to be thoughtless," 
 she said again and again. " What evils it 
 brings !" 
 
 Miss Molly cleared the nest as well as she 
 could for poor Biddy ; but it was a very sorry- 
 looking nest for her to come back to. 
 
 After that, they all came into the house. 
 Alfred washed his shoes, and then they put on 
 their things to go home. 
 
tr 
 
 -P 
 
 52 didn't think. 
 
 "lam very sorry for what has happened," 
 said Esther as they took leave. " I shall tell 
 mother of it. I am afraid you will not want 
 us to come again." 
 
 "I know you are sorry, Esther," said Miss 
 Molly, kindly, "and I am sorry your visit has 
 been broken up in this way. You must come 
 and see Biddy and me again. I want John 
 to come also ; and as soon as Alfred has 
 learned to think, I shall be glad to see him 
 again. It does not do for thoughtless boys 
 to come to visit a poor, old woman like me." 
 
 Alfred looked very much ashamed. 
 
 When they got home, it was all related to 
 their parents, who felt very sorry for poor 
 Miss Molly's loss, and for the careless con- 
 duct of their son. 
 
 " Alfred must pay for the mischief he has 
 done," said his father. 
 
 " Out of my own money, father ?" asked 
 Alfred, looking as if that would not suit him 
 at all. 
 
 "Certainly, my son." 
 
 a 
 
a: 
 
 didn't think. 53 
 
 " It will take all I have, maybe, and I am 
 saving it all for the Fourth of July. You 
 know the Temperance celebration, father." 
 
 " That cannot be helped. You have in- 
 jured Miss Molly's property, and in justice 
 you must pay her for it." 
 
 "Must he pay her for the eggs, or for the 
 chickens that would have come from them?" 
 said John ; " for chickens are worth more than 
 eggs." 
 
 " I did not kill any chickens, — I only broke 
 some eggs, I am sure !" exclaimed Alfred. 
 " Do not make it worse than it is." 
 
 "But they would have been chickens," said 
 John. 
 
 " Oh, father, that would take all I have got, 
 and more too," cried Alfred. "Must I pay 
 for eggs, or chickens ?" 
 
 Ui Nbt thinking' costs something," thought 
 Esther. 
 
 " Father, I shall not have any thing for the 
 Fourth!" cried Alfred again. "Must I take 
 myall?" 
 
f^P 
 
 m 
 
 54 didn't think. 
 
 " Eggs in the market are only a cent a 
 piece," said Mrs. Clark; "but it is clear, that 
 Biddy's eggs are worth more to Miss Molly, 
 because in a few days they would have been 
 chickens, and a chicken is worth more than an 
 egg. On the other hand, Alfred should not 
 pay the worth of chickens two or three or 
 four weeks old, because he has nothing to do 
 with the cost of keeping them. That is Miss 
 Molly's business." 
 
 " Then I shall have only to pay for chickens 
 just hatched!" exclaimed Alfred, brightening 
 up. " Pooh ! who would give much for a lit- 
 tle chicken ? Father, would the market price 
 be much?" 
 
 "Three cents, perhaps," answered Mr. 
 Clark. 
 
 " Twenty-four cents !" shouted Alfred. 
 " Well, I can pay that, I suppose, for I have 
 got as many as eighty-one or two cents, and 
 so I shall have something left even after pay- 
 ing the damage. It is too bad to lose that, 
 
 c"Ed: 
 
didn't think. 55 
 
 though, and all for nothing ! I might have 
 thought." 
 
 Twenty-four cents was agreed upon as the 
 damage, which Alfred took from his money 
 saved and earned, and carried it up to Miss 
 Molly. Alfred grudged that, though he was 
 thankful to get off so well. He could not, 
 however, help muttering every now and then 
 as he jogged along, " If I only had thought a 
 little!" 
 
 Ah, yes! Not thinking costs something. 
 Indeed, sometimes it costs a great deal. 
 
 The affair, which, under some circumstances, 
 might have passed by without making any 
 moral impression, taught another serious les- 
 son to Esther, for her mind was open now, 
 and she thought a great deal of events as they 
 happened. She sought out the lessons to be 
 learned from them, and pondered them in her 
 heart and remembered them. 
 
 " How my mother must have borne with 
 me!" she said to herself. " I was angry with 
 Alfred for 'not thinking' this once, and yet 
 
 m 
 
56 didn't think. 
 
 how many, many times have I been just so 
 thoughtless, when my mother has charged me 
 to think, or bade me be careful ! How long 
 she has borne with me ! How unfaithful and 
 how untrustworthy I must have seemed to her ! 
 I wonder my mother depended upon me at 
 all. How many times must I have grieved 
 her, just as Alfred did me!" 
 
 Esther sighed as she saw herself reflected 
 in her brother's conduct. She saw, too, how 
 mean and pitiful an excuse "not thinking" 
 is, — that, in truth, it was no excuse at all. 
 
 Esther laid up all these experiences, and 
 by the light of them tried to improve more 
 and more, and she went the right way to 
 work. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, 
 she sought God's grace to guide her and keep 
 her from all folly and all sin. 
 
 Three years passed away, and Esther Clark 
 was fourteen years old. She has grown tall. 
 Her hair, which used to curl on her neck when 
 
□ cr 
 
 didn't think. 57 
 
 she was younger, is now plainly parted on her 
 forehead and twisted up in a comb behind. 
 There is a bright, cheerful expression upon 
 her face, and much meaning in her clear blue 
 eye, as if she thought and observed far more 
 than she used to do. Has her improvement 
 kept pace with her years? She is called a 
 pretty good scholar, and writes very interest- 
 ing compositions, as the girls say. But how 
 is it with her character ? Has that improved ? 
 Does her mother take comfort in her ? Do 
 her brothers and sisters look up to her, as 
 their eldest sister, with respect and love ? And 
 do they take her advice, and is her example 
 safe to follow ? All this depends, I suppose, 
 upon whether she still thinks or not. She 
 cannot be useful, influential, rational, or rea- 
 sonable, unless she thinks. I hope she does. 
 
 One afternoon, when Esther came home 
 from school, she found a carriage at the door ; 
 and upon going in, the family were all astir in 
 an unusual manner. 
 
 "Your grandmother is very ill, and your 
 
 m 
 
58 didn't think. 
 
 mother is sent for in haste," said Mr. Clark. 
 " Perhaps you had better go up-stairs and 
 help her to get ready." 
 
 Esther ran up-stairs, and found her mother 
 much agitated by the unexpected summons. 
 
 "lam glad you have come, Esther," said 
 she. " I want to give you some directions, for 
 I must leave the care of every thing to you. 
 I wish Aunt Jane was here, but she is not. I 
 wish Nancy was here. I do not know how you 
 can get along with Hannah. She cannot 
 cook." 
 
 " Never mind, mother. Do not think about 
 us," answered Esther, cheerfully. "We will 
 do the best we can." 
 
 " You have never been left with any care, 
 my dear," said her mother, anxiously; "and 
 your father is so unwell too, you must see to 
 his wants, Esther. The ironing comes to-mor- 
 row. I wonder if the boys" 
 
 "Dear mother," interrupted Esther, "please 
 do not be troubled. We can get along. I 
 know we can. I will try my best. Trust us 
 
 n — — =z,o_Jtj 
 
:q 
 
 didn't think. 59 
 
 for once, and when you are gone, do not worry 
 about us. Give all your time to poor grand- 
 mother." And she began to help her mother 
 pack away a few articles in the portmanteau. 
 
 "I am sure I have a great deal to say," 
 said Mrs. Clark, " for I cannot tell how long 
 it may be before I shall come back. There is 
 some jelly for poor Mrs. Hyde : can you think 
 to carry it down to her, Esther ? And Jessie 
 Lynn was coming day after to-morrow to cut 
 out the boys' clothes : can you stop in and ask 
 her to put it off? And" 
 
 " I think you had better set out as soon as 
 you can," said Mr. Clark, coming into the 
 chamber; a you have a long ride before you, 
 and it will be a dark night. Better get over 
 as much of the ground as possible before 
 dark." 
 
 " I suppose so, but it seems to me I have a 
 great many things to say to Esther. She has 
 never been left with such a charge before, with 
 neither aunt Jane or Nancy here. But it 
 often happens just so." 
 
fa 
 
 60 didn't think. 
 
 "Nevermind," said her husband ; "it will 
 give us an opportunity to see what Esther is 
 worth," — looking at her with a confiding ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Esther felt afraid in her heart that she was 
 not worth much. 
 
 Presently the boys and Ellen came with a 
 great noise into the house. 
 
 " Who is going away ?" shouted John. 
 
 " It is grandfather's horse ! Who's come ?" 
 cried Alfred. 
 
 " Oh, may I go ?" asked Ellen. 
 
 They saw a stranger in the sitting-room, so 
 they all ran up into their mother's chamber, 
 and soon learned what was going on. 
 
 The sad news sobered them ; for they loved 
 their grandmother dearly. 
 
 Mrs. Clark was soon ready. The children 
 sent many kind messages to her, and repeated 
 over and over again how they hoped she would 
 get well. 
 
 "You must be good children," said Mrs. 
 Clark ; " and when your father is away, mind 
 
if 
 
 didn't think. 61 
 
 what Esther says. I have put all household 
 matters in Esther's charge. Do not give her 
 any trouble." 
 
 The boys promised well. Ellen stood up in 
 a chair, looking at the horse and carriage. 
 "Mother, I want to go too," at last she said; 
 " I do not want to be left." 
 
 Esther whispered something in her ear, and 
 then led her down-stairs to see their mother 
 off. 
 
 Mrs. Clark had taken a cup of tea. The 
 table was now set, and Esther began to busy 
 herself in several little matters. The evening 
 she had promised to spend with Louisa Emery, 
 her intimate friend and companion. They 
 often prepared their French lessons together, 
 sometimes Louisa coming to Esther, sometimes 
 Esther going to Louisa. The lesson was un- 
 usually difficult, and they had determined to 
 study it together. Both loved their books, and 
 both wished above all things to have perfect 
 recitations. 
 
 After supper, when the lamps were brought 
 
 m 
 

 62 didn't think. 
 
 in, and while the boys were parching corn in 
 the kitchen, Esther thought she would take 
 her book and go to the Emery's. Coming 
 into the parlour, she found her father alone, 
 leaning back in a rocking-chair, looking, as 
 she thought, quite dismally. 
 
 "Here is the paper, father," said she. 
 
 "You forget, my dear, that I cannot read 
 by candle-light. The doctor will not allow it. 
 Your mother served me for eyes." 
 
 " Why, father, I did not know they were so 
 bad." 
 
 a Yery likely, my dear. I do not speak of 
 them often, except to your mother." 
 
 " But, father, do you not ever read at all in 
 the evenings ? You always used to." 
 
 "It is, I think, six weeks or more." 
 
 And Esther now remembered that every 
 evening, when she went down to her mother's 
 chamber, where she usually studied when the 
 weather was cool, her mother was reading 
 aloud in the parlour. 
 
 Esther went out. As she reached out her 
 
§1 
 
 didn't think. 63 
 
 hand to take down her bonnet, she stopped. 
 She stopped and thought. "Father is sick. 
 Father is alone. He feels anxious, I dare say, 
 about mother's riding so in the night, and 
 about grandmother's sickness." Esther was 
 really thinking. "Now cannot I go in and 
 read to him and keep him company ? I can 
 get my French lesson to-morrow morning. It 
 would be easier and pleasanter to learn it with 
 Louisa, — but here is poor father. It is not 
 often I have such a chance to comfort him — to 
 be really useful to him. I am sure I ought to 
 be glad of such a chance, and improve it. I 
 will run over and tell Louisa, and then come 
 home and stay." 
 
 Esther went back into the parlour, and, 
 stepping up behind his chair, she said, "Fa- 
 ther, I will read the paper to you in a few 
 minutes. I will be back, and read to you all 
 the evening, if you wish it. I love to read 
 aloud, and mother says she thinks I read quite 
 understanding^ . ' ' 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," answered her fa- 
 
 rf 
 
64 didn't think. 
 
 ther, "it would certainly gratify me. But 
 how is it about your lessons?" 
 
 " I have only one to learn, and that I can 
 learn to-morrow morning. I will be back in a 
 few moments." 
 
 Esther again went out. She skipped out at 
 the side door, and went to excuse herself to 
 Louisa, and then skipped back again in a very 
 short time. 
 
 She quickly re-appeared in the parlour, sat 
 down by her father's side, determined to de- 
 vote the evening to making him happy. 
 
 He wrote to his wife, many days afterwards, 
 " Our dear daughter's thoughtful kindness re- 
 lieves the tediousness of my evenings. She 
 sits and and reads to me, and talks to me 
 every evening, when nobody is in. She reads 
 well. I begin to value her more than ever. 
 She certainly does well. She thinks of every 
 thing to be done." 
 
 This was high praise, and it was deserved. 
 How many, many children do not think of try- 
 ing to do any thing, especially for the comfort 
 
 m 
 

 didn't think. 65 
 
 or enjoyment of their parents ! Yet they ex- 
 pect their fathers and mothers to be always 
 striving to please them. Think, children, how 
 much you owe your parents for all their care 
 and kindness towards you. It is a debt of 
 gratitude which you can really never pay, but 
 which you can, in some measure, requite by an 
 ever-thoughtful attention to their comfort and 
 happiness. 
 
 The next morning after her mother's depart- 
 ure Esther arose earlier than usual, because 
 there were more duties to engage her time, and 
 she would not on any account cut short, or 
 give up, her daily communion with her God 
 and Saviour. Esther began to see more mean- 
 ing in the Bible than she used to see. She 
 began to feel that much of it was written for 
 her, because it seemed to meet her case. She 
 loved to read about the Saviour, and her mo- 
 ther bade her observe how his whole life was 
 spent for the good of others, — how thoughtful 
 and earnest he was to do good wherever he 
 went. Esther wept, and wished she could go 
 
 nr-h fa 
 
66 didn't think. 
 
 and do likewise ; and, as she thought about it, 
 and desired it, and prayed for it, her young 
 heart gradually became moulded into his image. 
 
 After Esther had finished her prayer for 
 heavenly grace, she sat down and tried to 
 think of all the special things her mother de- 
 sired her to do. There was the jelly to be 
 carried to the sick woman, the tailoress to be 
 put off, her mother's subscription to the Sun- 
 day-school society to be taken to Miss Green, 
 and two dollars to be paid for some sewing 
 done. " These must all be borne in mind," 
 said Esther. " This is Wednesday, and instead 
 of going to Sacker Brook with Louisa and the 
 girls, I will do these very things." 
 
 After studying her lesson, she went down 
 into the kitchen to see if Hannah needed any 
 help about getting breakfast ready ; then she 
 went up to wash and dress Ellen, and help her 
 learn the little spelling lesson w T hich her mo- 
 ther was in the habit of teaching her while 
 Ellen was dressing, and then she went to her 
 own lessons. 
 
didn't think. 67 
 
 It happened that as Esther was on her way to 
 school that morning, Emily Shaw joined her, 
 exclaiming in a hurried whisper, " Oh, Esther 
 Clark, I am as wretched as can be ! I have 
 not slept a wink all night ! Some dreadful 
 thing has happened to me." 
 
 Esther was frightened. " What is the mat- 
 ter ? Tell me ! Quick, Emily ! Is anybody 
 sick at your house, or dead?" 
 
 " Dear me ! worse than that : but do not 
 look so frightened. You are actually pale. 
 Any thing but what it is." 
 
 At that moment a shouting was heard be- 
 hind them, and Louisa's voice called, " Girls ! 
 Esther! Emily!" 
 
 " There ! I cannot tell you now: but I want 
 to tell you — just for you to give me a clue 
 how to get out — I am in a web of difficulties. 
 I will tell you this afternoon." 
 
 Louisa joined them, and they all went into 
 the school-room together. Esther could not 
 help wondering what it could be. She saw it 
 was something quite serious, for Emily could 
 
 P 
 
 er f n n 
 
68 didn't think. 
 
 hardly keep still in school ; her desk was only 
 two or three yards from Esther's, and her rest- 
 lessness could not but have been remarked by 
 all around. Besides, her lessons were badly pre- 
 pared. In her recitations she seemed absent. 
 
 Esther thought of it several times, but at 
 recess there was no opportunity to explain, 
 and she went home before the school closed. 
 Esther told Louisa she could not go with the 
 party to the brook, so that all opportunity of 
 finding out poor Emily's difficulty seemed cut off. 
 
 When afternoon came, Esther found some 
 new books on the table, which she was sorely 
 tempted to read. 
 
 "Here !" exclaimed Alfred, " Joe lent them 
 to me. You must read them quick, for he 
 says he always promised you the first reading, 
 and several of the boys are waiting for them. 
 This is Wednesday. Take them right up." 
 
 "Ah, no!" Esther thought;- so she could 
 not follow Alfred's advice. 
 
 "I have some errands to do first," said she; 
 "then I will do what I can." 
 
didn't think. 69 
 
 "Errands! No matter about the errands. 
 Mother has gone, and what I heard her tell 
 you to do can just as well be done one time 
 as another," said Alfred. 
 
 "I do not know how you can say that," 
 replied Esther. 
 
 "Why, just to carry an old woman some jelly 
 and pay a bill ! The old woman will be just as 
 glad of the jelly to-morrow, or a day or two 
 hence; and as for paying the bill, I did not 
 know there was any fixed time for paying 
 bills." 
 
 "Bills must be paid when they are due; 
 Alfred, do you not know that?" asked Esther, 
 with some appearance of authority. 
 
 "Well, I say, as you cannot have these 
 books but ever so short a time, you had better 
 take this afternoon for reading them; else I 
 shall have to carry them off before you have 
 looked at them." Alfred was provoked with 
 his sister that she made no answer, and he 
 went off. 
 
 Esther now began to dress Ellen. She then 
 
n 
 
 :cni 
 
 70 didn't think. 
 
 took her mother's purse, put the jar of jelly in 
 a napkin, and the two sisters set out together. 
 
 They first called on the tailoress. Esther 
 did her errand. "I am very glad to know 
 it in season," said she, "because there is 
 somebody else who wants to engage me for 
 the day on which I promised to help your 
 mother, and now I will send word I can come 
 before she engages anybody else. I am glad 
 to know it in season." 
 
 "And I am glad I did not put it off," 
 thought Esther; "the tailoress would have 
 lost that day, perhaps." 
 
 "Where next?" asked Ellen. 
 
 "To poor sick Mrs. Hyde," answered Es- 
 ther. They now turned off from the Main 
 street, and proceeded along the lanes, until 
 they came to a large old house inhabited by 
 three or four families. " This is where Mrs. 
 Hyde lives," said Esther, going in without 
 knocking, and ascending the stairs. She 
 tapped gently at the left-hand door. 
 
 "Come in," said a feeble voice. 
 
gf-g - Q 
 
 m 
 
 didn't think. 71 
 
 "Dear children!" cried poor Mrs. Hyde, 
 reaching her thin, pale hand towards them, 
 from the chair in which she sat, — "I am thank- 
 ful to see your fresh faces." 
 
 Esther took her hand, and told her that her 
 mother sent her some more calves-foot jelly, 
 which she then unwrapped and put into the 
 sick woman's lap. 
 
 "That is beautiful!" she said in a whisper. 
 "I have not had any for many a day: and my 
 appetite is so poor, I have eaten nothing for 
 two clays or more. I can relish this, I know I 
 can, and maybe it will restore my appetite." 
 
 Esther told her about her mother's going, 
 and how she took her mother's place. " Well, 
 dear, now please hand me that spoon on the 
 table. I want to taste my jelly. The very 
 smell of it is nourishing." 
 
 Certainly it was worth coming there to see 
 how the sick woman relished her jelly. "Just 
 what I was longing for," said she, taking a 
 spoonful or two, and looking gratefully into 
 Esther's face. 
 
 m 
 
72 didn't think. 
 
 "I am thankful I did not put this off," 
 thought Esther, with gladness of heart. 
 
 After a little while they went away. 
 
 "Did she not like it?" said Ellen. "How 
 pleased she looked!" 
 
 " There are not many things that sick people 
 can eat, mother says; and when they do get 
 any thing that they relish, it tastes very 
 good." 
 
 "I am glad we brought it to her," said 
 Ellen ; "how she thanked us ! She kept thank- 
 ing us and thanking us." 
 
 "After all, it shows what little things please 
 sick people," said Esther. "Mother says, a 
 little, just at the right time, goes for a great 
 deal to them." 
 
 "Where next?" asked Ellen. 
 
 "Mother's subscription to the Sunday-school 
 Society, at Miss Green's." 
 
 They then came back to the Main street, 
 went down and crossed over to a large yellow 
 house. 
 
 "Is Miss Green at home?" asked she. 
 
didn't think. 73 
 
 The lady soon made her appearance." 
 
 "I have come to pay mother's subscription," 
 said Esther, handing out a dollar. - 
 
 "It is paid very opportunely," cried Miss 
 Green. "I am desirous to make up the account 
 immediately, and send on the money. It 
 could not have come at a better time." 
 
 "I am glad I brought it," said Esther, turn- 
 ing to go down the steps. 
 
 " One errand more," said she ; " and I hardly 
 know where Miss Lucy Leary lives, who made 
 those shirts for mother, but perhaps we can 
 find it," — and they hastened off in another 
 direction. 
 
 Esther went to one or two houses, before 
 she found the right one; but at last Lucy 
 Leary herself came to the door, and that 
 settled the place where she lived. 
 
 "I have come to pay you for the rest of 
 those shirts," said Esther. "Mother said it 
 was two dollars." 
 
 "It is," answered Miss Lucy Leary. " Step 
 in, while I change the bill. I wish to my 
 
 m 
 
74 didn't think. 
 
 heart everybody that I work for would pay 
 me as seasonably," said she, as they followed 
 her into -her small back kitchen. She left 
 them standing, and was gone some time to 
 make change. 
 
 "I had to make up my quarter's rent to- 
 night," said she, on returning, "and I did not 
 know where the money was all coming from, 
 when I awoke this morning. I knew your 
 mother owed me; but I only took the work 
 home yesterday, and did not like to send to 
 her for it. Other people have owed me ten 
 times as long, but I can't get my due : these 
 two dollars are just in the nick of time.' 
 
 tk I am sure I am glad I thought of this," 
 said Esther. " This rent is a pretty important 
 business. People are liable to get turned out 
 of comfortable quarters if they do not pay it 
 in season." 
 
 They had again entered Main street, when 
 Esther's name was called. She turned around, 
 and saw Emily Shaw hastening after her. 
 
 "I am so glad it is you!" cried Emily. 
 
a - - a 
 
 didn't think. 75 
 
 "Is your trouble over?" asked Esther 
 eagerly, looking into her face. 
 
 "Dear! No! nor ever will be ! I am the 
 most miserable creature on earth ! What shall 
 I, can I do, Esther?" 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Esther. 
 
 "Let us go up and leave Ellen; or may be 
 I will go into your house and tell you," and 
 Emily hastened them along at a rapid pace. 
 
 "Let me go up into your chamber," said 
 Emily on reaching Mr. Clark's. "I could 
 not go with the girls this afternoon. I have 
 been trying to walk away from myself and 
 from everybody else. Esther, I am in real 
 trouble !" 
 
 It was evident that something did distress 
 Emily very seriously, although she made some 
 attempts at a laugh. 
 
 Esther disposed of her little sister, and led 
 Emily up into her chamber. 
 
 "Now, what is it?" cried she, as soon as they 
 had shut the door. 
 
 "You know that lady who is visiting mo- 
 
 D _ Q 
 
±E5 
 
 76 didn't think. 
 
 ther. Mother thinks a great deal of her. 
 She is very rich and all that. Well, when 
 she and mother were out yesterday morning 
 making calls, I went into her room; and when 
 I was there, I peeped into her drawer, and 
 there I saw a little box full of rings. What 
 should I do, but put one of the handsomest on 
 my finger ! I wore it to school, and — shocking 
 to tell! — I have lost it! Now, Esther, what 
 shall I, what can I do ?" 
 
 " How came you in her chamber ?" asked 
 Esther. 
 
 " Oh, I did not think — I just went in." 
 
 " How came you to open the drawer V 
 
 " Why, I did not think of any thing. I just 
 did it," answered Emily. 
 
 "How dared you take the ring?" asked 
 Esther; "and especially wear it away?" 
 
 " Why, I did not think of any thing. I did 
 not, in fact, think much what I was about, — and 
 it is lost !" 
 
 Neither of the girls spoke for several min- 
 utes. 
 
 a = — — ol 
 
didn't think. 77 
 
 "I knew you would think it was dreadful !" 
 cried Emily. " It is so bad, you do not know 
 wdiat to advise. Dear me ! What shal^I do ?" 
 
 "No," said Esther, with a tear in her eye, 
 " I was only thinking what a sad thing it is 
 not to think." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Emily with 
 surprise. " I do not understand you." 
 
 " I mean to what trials and perplexities we 
 subject ourselves, just because of thoughtless- 
 ness, or want of consideration," answered Es- 
 ther. "All your present troubles are owing 
 to your not stopping to think. Do you not 
 see that they are, Emily?" 
 
 Emily still looked as if she did not more 
 than half comprehend, and so Esther went on 
 and explained still farther. 
 
 " Oh, dear !" cried Emily, "it is even more 
 serious than I expected — you talk so very so- 
 berly, Esther. It seems to me you are making 
 a mighty serious matter of not thinking," cried 
 Emily. 
 
 "But is it not a serious matter?" asked 
 
ffi 
 
 ia 
 
 78 didn't think. 
 
 Esther, earnestly. " Have you not confessed 
 and do you not feel that the loss of the ring is 
 a very bad affair?" 
 
 " Yes, the loss of the ring certainly is." 
 " The loss of the ring is in consequence of 
 your taking it, which you certainly had no 
 right to do ; but you did not consider when 
 you put the ring on your finger, neither did 
 you consider when you had it on, and so it 
 slipped off when and where you do not 
 know." 
 
 " Yes, it was just so, I suppose." 
 
 " That is, you did not think, Emily. You 
 
 did not mean to do wrong, you say, and" 
 
 "No, I am sure I did not," interrupted 
 Emily. "I had no such idea." 
 
 " You did not mean to do wrong, perhaps ; 
 but the truth is, you ought to mean to do 
 right, Emily. It is so easy, so natural to go 
 wrong — I mean it is so for me — that in order 
 to do right, we must stop and think. Thought- 
 lessness and carelessness lead us into so many 
 evils, that they deserve to be considered very 
 
if 
 
 didn't think. 79 
 
 great faults. They really grow out of our 
 being so selfish — so very selfish." 
 
 "This is really a lecture!" cried Emily, 
 reddening. "I expected more sympathy from 
 you, Esther." 
 
 " Dear Emily," said Esther, putting her arm 
 affectionately around her, " I do feel for you ! 
 I do feel very much for you, for I have had 
 just such troubles ; but I wanted to explain it. 
 I wanted to show you what all this trouble of 
 yours comes from, so that you might know how 
 to avoid any more in future. I thought, I am 
 sure you want to improve ; that is what we 
 ought to try to do." 
 
 The feeling tone with which Esther said this 
 made Emily quite ashamed of her words ; and 
 she now asked, somewhat humbled, "What 
 would you advise me to do, seeing I am fairly 
 in the difficulty ? As soon as this ring is 
 missed, there will be trouble, I am certain. 
 Perhaps the servants will be blamed. I can- 
 not certainly stand that." 
 
 Esther did not speak immediately, but after 
 
 m 
 
 a. 
 
80 didn't think. 
 
 a few moments, she answered, " There is only 
 one way that I know of, Emily." 
 
 " To tell of it ?" exclaimed Emily. " I can- 
 not do that ! — Indeed, I cannot ! Eor though 
 they will not make so much of not thinking as 
 you do, mother will say she is ashamed of my 
 meddling, and will be very angry with me. 
 Then the lady thinks a good deal of me now. 
 I cannot bear to sink in her estimation, as I am 
 sure I shall. Oh me ! what a web of diffi- 
 culties !" sighed poor Emily. 
 
 "I know of nothing else you can do hon- 
 estly," said Esther. " You will feel very much 
 better after the burden is off your mind ; and 
 then you must let it be a lesson to you, dear 
 Emily." 
 
 " I am sure I shall not be likely to forget 
 it very soon," replied Emily. 
 
 "Yes, one is very likely to forget such 
 things, unless one. makes it a point to think of 
 them and determines to profit by them." 
 
 " I wish I could drive it from my mind!" 
 cried Emily, petulantly ; " it is really a burden ! ' ' 
 
c^pn . — □ 
 
 didn't think. 81 
 
 Esther tried to say every thing that a real 
 friend would or could say under such circum- 
 stances. She did not say, " Never mind, Emily, 
 I would not care any thing about it." "It is 
 not much, Emily, — I would not worry about it." 
 Esther wanted to effect a real cure ; she de- 
 sired to show its cause, to make Emily see it 
 and feel it, and to feel that want of thought 
 was a sin against God as well as against her 
 fellow-beings, and to be willing to use such 
 methods as would effect a radical cure. She 
 well knew a real cure could not be accom- 
 plished in a minute, nor without strong and 
 willing effort on Emily's part. Poor Esther 
 knew what the disorder was, and how difficult 
 to cure, — how much time, and patience, and 
 thoughtfulness, and pains-taking, and prayer, 
 and divine aid were necessary. She knew all 
 this, and she knew also the relief of being 
 cured. Esther, however, did not seem to make 
 much impression upon Emily. She grew 
 angry with the ring, with her mother, her 
 mother's visitor and everybody else ; and 
 
r^r-n 
 
 m 
 
 82 didn't think. 
 
 her friend found it would be useless to say 
 any thing more to her while in this state of 
 mind. 
 
 In a little while after, she arose to go. 
 Esther followed her to the door, and took her 
 hand affectionately at parting ; but a sullen 
 and angry expression was upon her face, which 
 it grieved Esther to see, because she well knew 
 no one could improve or hope to do right 
 while harbouring a proud and angry spirit. 
 It left a mournful shade on Esther's counte- 
 nance, which her father at tea, observing, said, 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear ? You look 
 perplexed and sad. The boys have not been 
 mis-behaving themselves, I hope, — have they?" 
 glancing at Alfred and John. 
 
 " No, sir ! we have not been troubling Es- 
 ther, or thought of such a thing !" they both 
 cried in the same breath. 
 
 And Esther hastened to add, " Oh, no ! 
 sir, — I am sure I have no fault to find with 
 them." 
 
 She then tried to banish the subject from 
 
 m 
 
a — n 
 
 didn't think. 83 
 
 her mind, and enter cheerfully into her tea- 
 table duties. 
 
 Perhaps some of our readers, with curiosity 
 alive, may like to know how Emily's affair 
 ended. Esther afterwards learned that the 
 ring was accidentally found somewhere among 
 her things ; that she was accused of stealing it, 
 and that it created quite an unhappy state of 
 things in the family, which led to great distress. 
 
 How much better would it have been for 
 Emily to have confessed just how it happened, 
 and to confess it also before the missing ring 
 was found ! It would have saved a great deal 
 of anxiety, and relieved her of the double bur- 
 den which she afterwards bore. 
 
 " But Emily could have been saved all this, 
 had she only thought, and thought right!" 
 said Esther, sadly. "May God always help 
 me to consider my ways, and cleanse the 
 thoughts of my heart by the inspiration of his 
 Holy Spirit." 
 
 Whether Emily profited by her trouble, or 
 by the excellent and faithful advice given her 
 
 m 
 
84 didn't think. 
 
 by Esther, I do not know. Perhaps, like a 
 great many other young people, she let it slip 
 from her mind, and remembered it no more, 
 taking no heed of the lesson it taught her, but 
 going on careless and thoughtless from day to 
 day, from month to month, and from year to 
 year, like an unsightly weed, neither beautiful 
 in itself nor useful to others. 
 
 As for Esther, the more she thought, the 
 more was she benefited by thinking. Scarcely 
 a day passed without showing her the duty and 
 the propriety of consideration, thereby lead- 
 ing her to discern the claims of others upon 
 her time, and the necessity of exercising 
 watchfulness and practising self-denial in order 
 to meet those claims and fulfil her duties in 
 the little sphere in which God had placed her. 
 She often thought of the Scripture words, 
 " Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy 
 ways be established." 
 
 Her mother's visit, which was prolonged a 
 fortnight, made trial of her strength, and ena- 
 bled her father to see how great an improve- 
 
 Eli 
 
 JD 
 
i 
 
 didn't think. 85 
 
 ment had taken place in the character of his 
 eldest daughter. It scarcely need be said how 
 pleased and gratified he was. Esther con- 
 tinued to do as well every day and all the 
 days of her mother's absence as she did on 
 the first day, the incidents of which have been 
 recorded. She did not merely begin well, but 
 she held out to the end ; which was a good 
 evidence not only of a sincere and honest de- 
 sire of amendment, but of the thorough change 
 which was taking place in her character. 
 
 In one of Mr. Clark's letters to his wife, he 
 wrote, " Do not be over anxious, nor hasten 
 home on our account. Our dear daughter Es- 
 ther is as thoughtful and considerate as need 
 be. She seems to have corrected her careless 
 habits wonderfully, and bids fair to be a real 
 treasure to us all." 
 
 Mrs. Clark stayed until her mother was 
 nearly recovered again, when she came back 
 to her family ; finding not only a place for 
 every thing, which Mrs. Clark was always care- 
 ful to have, but every thing in its place, which 
 
 8 
 
i 
 
 86 didn't think. 
 
 Mr. Clark said was owing to Esther's thought- 
 ful management. 
 
 I have now given you a glimpse of Esther 
 Clark's experience, and the wise use she made 
 of it, in the hope that it may profit a multitude 
 of young persons, who are now much like what 
 Esther was, and whose daily life sadly proves 
 them to be of that unhappy and useless class 
 who do not stop to think. Should you be dis- 
 posed to improve by her example, and desire 
 to learn more of her after history, for Esther 
 has now grown up, I will perhaps at some future 
 time tell you more of her useful life and beau- 
 tiful example. One thing only will I add now : 
 If want of thought involves us in so many and 
 such sad troubles as it respects our happiness 
 and usefulness in this world, how dreadful are 
 its consequences upon our eternal welfare ! 
 
 It was not till the king of Israel " thought 
 upon his ways that he turned his feet unto 
 God's testimonies."* 
 
 * Ps. cxix. 5. 
 
 P 
 
c^rrn 
 
 A HYMN FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 "For who is this that engaged his heart to approach 
 unto me? saith the Lord." — Jer. xxx. 21. 
 
 A year, another year is fled ; 
 
 Its issues who can tell ? 
 Millions of voices of the dead 
 
 Reply from heaven or hell. 
 
 All these were living at the birth 
 
 Of the departed year ; 
 They all have vanished from the earth ; 
 
 We fill their places here. 
 
 Though to the eye, the ear, the mind 
 Of man, their speech is sealed, 
 
 The eternal meaning each may find 
 In two plain words revealed. 
 
 b7 
 
 £1 
 
m 
 
 88 A HYMN FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Lost spirits, from the dark abyss, 
 Cry mournfully, " Beware I" 
 
 Spirits in glory and in bliss 
 Sing joyfully, " Prepare !' 
 
 Thus timely warned, and moved with fear, 
 
 Of wrath, let us beware ; 
 For life or death, in this new year, 
 
 For earth and heaven prepare ! 
 
 Who then of those with us, this day, 
 
 In childhood, youth, or age, 
 " To love the Lord our God" can say 
 
 " We all our hearts engage ?" 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 ^Ln3 a 
 
1 
 
 THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 Two men once lived in the same town. Each 
 had inherited a large fortune, which he was at 
 liberty to spend as he pleased, without any re- 
 striction. They planned for themselves various 
 schemes of enjoyment, and at length each re- 
 solved to make choice of a suitable spot where 
 he would erect a house to dwell in. They sur- 
 veyed the neighbouring country, visited all the 
 beautiful sites which attracted attention, and 
 consulted those most capable of giving them 
 advice ; and after having hesitated for some 
 time between various spots, each of which pos- 
 sessed strong recommendations, Securus at 
 length found one which satisfied his wishes,* 
 and he resolved to set about his building with- 
 out delay. "Why," said he, "should I look 
 
 * Matt. vii. 26, 27 ; Luke vi. 49. 
 
 □ 
 
g 
 
 €f 
 
 92 THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 about any farther ? This place seems to unite 
 every thing in itself. Before me will be that 
 broad and flowing river ; behind will rise those 
 mountains covered with trees adorned with 
 the richest foliage. On the right, my view 
 will open into the lovely valley that is formed 
 by the windings of the stream ; and on the left 
 I shall have a distant view of the city, with its 
 lofty towers and steeples. I shall not be re- 
 stricted either in the size of my dwelling, or in 
 the grounds which will surround it ; for the 
 whole land shall be mine as far as the eye can 
 reach, and my ample fortune will secure to me 
 every comfort and enjoyment. I will take my 
 ease, eat, drink, and be merry.* I will lay 
 out my pleasure-grounds with the most exqui- 
 site taste ; trees of every kind shall adorn 
 them, from the flowering shrub to the stately 
 fir and forest tree; and the sweet melody of the 
 birds, mingled with the sounds of the waters, 
 shall constantly regale my ears. The gardens 
 shall be filled with the choicest flowers, and I 
 
 * Luke xii. 19. 
 
 Oi 
 
THE TWO BUILDERS. 93 
 
 will never feel their loss, even in winter ; for 
 every exotic which can be brought from dis- 
 tant lands shall ornament my conservatories.* 
 So, with all speed, Securus fixed on his plans. 
 
 He had a skilful architect to design his house, 
 which was very extensive, and occupied a wide 
 space of ground. It had wings on each side, 
 with corridors and lofty porticoes. It afforded 
 every convenience that heart of man could de- 
 sire, and seemed more like a palace than a pri- 
 vate dwelling. 
 
 Securus exulted with joy as his mansion 
 rapidly arose. The soil of the plain was so 
 light, that it cost the workmen but little labour 
 to lay the foundation. Nay, there was much 
 sand mixed with it, so that it yielded at once 
 to their tools ; and as no effort was lost to ob- 
 tain as many hands as possible, the fabric rose 
 as if by magic. The most luxuriant apartments 
 were fitted up, the most ample rooms provided 
 for entertainments : but in the whole of this 
 edifice there was no place set apart for the 
 
 * Eccl. ii. 10. 
 
 chbn: 
 
94 THE TWO BUILDEKS. 
 
 worship of God : no consecrated chamber de- 
 voted to him. 
 
 Ere long the work was completed, and the 
 happy Securus took possession of his dwelling. 
 His heart bounded with exultation ; he thought 
 no one in the world was so happy as himself. His 
 fields began to yield such abundant crops of 
 corn, that he was obliged to pull down his 
 barns and build greater, that he might have 
 some place in which to bestow his fruits and 
 his goods. "Here," said he, "I shall dwell 
 for many years. I will not think of death, for 
 it is yet very far off; and when it approaches 
 it will be time enough to prepare for it. Life 
 is given us to enjoy, and I shall doubtless see 
 my children rising up around me, and prosper- 
 ing in the world ; and when I am old, they will 
 be ready to inherit my riches, and to share my 
 honours."* 
 
 Securus was not, however, entirely wrapped 
 up in these thoughts ; for he determined that 
 when he should have obtained for himself 
 
cr 
 
 THE TWO BUILDERS. 95 
 
 every thing that he wanted, he would then as- 
 sist his poorer neighbours, and give them part 
 of his abundance. "They shall be welcome," 
 he said, " to some of the produce which I do 
 not require, provided that they never infringe 
 on my territories, or interrupt my enjoy- 
 ments."* The beauty of his grounds, the love- 
 liness of the prospect which his house com- 
 manded, and the splendour of the paintings 
 which adorned its walls, attracted multitudes 
 of admiring guests, who vied with each other 
 in flattering the happy Securus, and in envy- 
 ing his prosperity, f 
 
 One of the favourite topics of conversation at 
 his table was the strange conduct of his neigh- 
 bour Providus. " We began life together," Se- 
 curus would say ; " we were both amply pro- 
 vided for, and we both determined at the same 
 time to build ourselves houses to dwell in ; but 
 while I have long ago reared and completed 
 mine, and am enjoying the fruits of my estate, 
 
 d-blT 
 
 * Prov. xxviii. 27. 
 
 ■j- Prov. iii. 31 ; xiv. 20 ; xxiii. 17. 
 
 nZR 
 
D- — CT 
 
 in 
 
 96 THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 he has hardly jet built half his house, though 
 a very much smaller one than mine." 
 
 " No wonder," said one of the guests. " The 
 marvel is, that he has ever made any progress 
 at all. Indeed, we thought he would never 
 have decided on a site, for instead of looking 
 around and choosing, as you have so wisely 
 done, the most beautiful spot in the whole 
 country, which has been by your excellent 
 taste made into a complete paradise, he 
 seemed to think nothing of the scenery around 
 him ; all he cared for was the ground beneath 
 him, as if he was going to construct a dungeon 
 rather than a dwelling."* 
 
 "Yes," said another, "and this is not all; 
 for at length he chose an elevated spot, which 
 really affords none of the comforts of life ; and 
 the labour and expense he is at are incredible, 
 though, after all, his will be but a paltry affair 
 when finished." 
 
 "What advantage did he propose to himself 
 in making such a selection?" said Securus. 
 
 * Matt. vii. 24 ; Luke vi. 48 ; 1 Cor. iii. 11. 
 
 a n. 
 
THti TWO BUILDERS. 97 
 
 " I knew he was always a strange fellow, but 
 yet he seemed to have plenty of forethought 
 and wisdom ; but his present conduct shows 
 extreme folly. I suppose that the place he 
 selected has been obtained at small cost, and 
 perhaps he is determined to hoard up his for- 
 tune instead of living to enjoy himself." 
 
 "Not so," replied the other, "for he paid a 
 large sum for the spot on which he is building, 
 and many much more pleasant positions could 
 have been had for less money. And indeed, if 
 this was his aim, he is going the wrong way to 
 attain it, for they say he is daily giving away 
 so much of his fortune among the poor, that 
 the fear is, he will hardly leave enough to enjoy 
 himself with, when his house is completed."* 
 
 " But what can be his motive for such folly ?" 
 said Securus. " ' Let a man look well to his 
 own interests, and then let him be generous if 
 he likes,' is my motto ; but charity begins at 
 home," added he with a laugh, which was 
 echoed by the company. f 
 
 *Prov.xi.24,xix.l7; Matt. xxv. 31-46. fProv.xviii.il, 12. 
 
 dLXI 
 

 y» THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 "But you have not heard all yet," said 
 the guest who spoke first. "Not only has 
 Providus chosen a strange position, but the 
 soil is such, that the tools of the workmen 
 have been constantly broken in the effort to 
 dig a foundation ; nevertheless Providus would 
 not give up his plan. ' It is true it is a rock,' 
 he would say, ' and your labour will be slow, 
 but I will reward you accordingly, — only per- 
 severe, and in the end you will find it was well 
 worth the toil.' So by his great gifts and 
 promises he induced them to go on with the 
 work, and I hope he will satisfy himself in the 
 end. He has certainly a right to do as he 
 pleases." This discourse was interrupted by 
 sounds of the sweetest music, which appeared 
 to come from an adjoining chamber. The 
 doors were presently thrown open, and the 
 most exquisite harmony of men-singers and 
 women-singers was heard, mingled with all 
 instruments of music ;* and those who listened 
 were entranced with delight. " Happy Secu- 
 
 * Eccl. ii. 1—11. 
 
 iaa 
 
 — - nJh 
 
: crq_£ 
 
 THE TWO BUILDERS. 99 
 
 rus ! nothing that heart can desire is withheld 
 from him," said his guests. At another time 
 gay companies, dancing and revelling, filled 
 his saloons, and exotics from every quarter of 
 the globe perfumed and adorned them. 
 
 Thus passed away his life ; and, if we were 
 to judge only by appearances, Securus was 
 indeed a happy man ; but there were moments 
 when he asked himself whether these things 
 would last for ever. Sometimes, in the midst 
 of his mirth, he felt that it was like "the crack- 
 ling of thorns under a pot,"* and often in the 
 night-season, after he had been making merry 
 with his friends, and he was left quite alone, a 
 strange sad thought would come over him, 
 " But thou must die.f What shall be the end 
 of these things ? Art thou ready ? Wh<jpe 
 shall all these things be which thou hast pro- 
 vided ? J Thou broughtest nothing into this 
 world, and it is sure that thou canst carry no- 
 
 * Prov. xxvii. 20, 24 ; Eccl. vii. 6. 
 f Eccl. ii. 23, ix. 12, xi. 8, 9. 
 X Eccl. ii. 18, 19, viii. 6—8. 
 9 
 
 JD =C1 
 
m 
 
 100 THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 thing out.* What if God should soon call 
 thee hence ?" Then he would try to put away 
 these disagreeable thoughts from him, and to 
 do all that he could to get to sleep : but his 
 sleep would go from him, and he often lay 
 tossing about on his downy couch till the 
 morning, wishing that the night was over,f 
 and that he could go forth and join his friends 
 again, at their wonted amusements. 
 
 Meanwhile Providus went on with his house, 
 and when it was completed he determined to 
 invite all his poor neighbours together, and to 
 give them a hospitable entertainment, J and he 
 invited also all those who had taken part in 
 the building, and who had persevered, in spite 
 of all difficulties, in rearing his now comfort- 
 able dwelling, the walls of which were so thick 
 and rested on such a sure foundation, that it 
 seemed as if it could stand for ages. It so 
 happened, that the same day was the anniver- 
 
 * 1 Tim. vi. 7. 
 
 f Deut. xxviii. 67 ; Job vii. 4. 
 
 X Nell. viii. 10 ; Luke xiv. 13, 14. 
 
n — ~g 
 
 THE TWO BUILDERS. 101 
 
 sary of that on which Securus had completed 
 his house, and he too had appointed it to be a 
 day of rejoicing. And he had called together 
 all his wealthy neighbours and friends, to 
 share with him in the festivities which he had 
 planned for the occasion. Both houses were 
 filled with the invited guests. It was a bril- 
 liant summer's day. Not a cloud to be seen in 
 the sky. The air was so still that nothing 
 seemed to move, and only the sweet sounds of 
 music were heard floating through the air, 
 mingled with those of merriment. The cooling 
 fountains played in the gardens of Securus, 
 and the river flowed silently through his mea- 
 dows. Nothing could exceed the exquisite 
 beauty of the scene ; and those on the rock, 
 who overlooked the party on the plain, seemed 
 to share their enjoyments. Suddenly dark 
 clouds began to gather together, the rolling of 
 distant thunder was heard, and betokened that 
 an awful tempest was approaching. Securus 
 and Providus both hastened with their guests 
 into their respective dwellings, and closing 
 
 m [fia 
 
TJ . , ZTCT 
 
 102 THE TWO BUILDERS. 
 
 their doors awaited the coming storm. The 
 thunder grew more and more appalling ; it 
 seemed to burst directly over their heads ; 
 while the lightning flashed incessantly, illu- 
 minating the whole sky and making the inter- 
 vening darkness the more terrible.* Suddenly 
 those on the rock saw, by the glare of the 
 lightning, that the river was rapidly rising. 
 Soon it swelled over its banks and rushed all 
 over the plain ; while the rain and hail fell 
 with such terrible violence, and the wind blew 
 in such fearful gusts, that it seemed as if no- 
 thing could stand against them. Those on the 
 rock felt no fear, for they knew the strong 
 foundation on which their house stood, f and 
 that it could not be shaken by the wildest 
 storm. But, alas ! for those in the plain, the 
 widely-spread house of Securus was built on 
 the sand ; the waters of the river soon rose 
 against its walls, and the awful tempest above 
 
 * Matt. xxiv. 37—44 ; Mark iii. 33—37. 
 f Dent, xxxii. 31 ; Isa. xxviii. 16 ; Matt. vii. 25 ; Luke 
 vi. 48; 1 Cor. iii. 11. 
 
 m- — -i l 
 
n-pc r — n 
 
 THE TWO BUILDERS. 103 
 
 came down upon it. The terrified inhabitants 
 rushed out, but there was no escape. Screams 
 filled the house ; destruction on every side threat- 
 ened them, and after rocking to and fro, one 
 gleam of lightning showed that the house had 
 fallen ; and all the miserable inmates were 
 overwhelmed in its ruins, or drowned in the 
 stream.* Gladly would Providus and his 
 friends have succoured them, but it was im- 
 possible ; and when the morning dawned and 
 the tempest had spent its rage, nothing was to 
 be seen of all the splendid mansion which had 
 but the day before adorned the plain, f while 
 the house which was founded on the rock was 
 secure, and no harm had come nigh that dwell- 
 
 * Matt. vii. 27 ; Luke vi. 49. 
 
 f Prov. xiv. 11, xv. 25, xxiv. 20. 
 
 + Ps. xci. 1, 2, 9, 10; Prov. xii. 21, xix. 23. 
 
 9* 
 
 in n 
 
-pq-p 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE SAND. 
 
 A traveller came, with axe in hand, 
 To the beautiful Western prairie-land ; 
 He journeyed many a weary day, 
 Till a noble river crossed the way ; 
 On its banks he paused, with glistening eye 
 Upraised to an almost cloudless sky, 
 And gazed on the giant forest-trees 
 Swayed to and fro in the summer breeze. 
 Gorgeous wild flowerets grew around — 
 Such brilliant hues are rarely found 
 Mid haunts of men, save on prairie ground. 
 
 " Here," he exclaimed, " where the wild deer 
 roam 
 And free birds warble, I'll build my home : 
 
 104 
 
 trt^DZZZ _ rfir-i -ta 
 
n 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE SAND. 105 
 
 A cabin of logs with its thatched roof for me, 
 Near this broad, clear stream, my dwelling 
 shall be !" 
 
 " Nay, friend," said a voice, " if thou'lt listen 
 
 to me, 
 Who have felled from these woodlands many a 
 
 tree, 
 Choose firmer foundation ; thou knowest not 
 
 the land ; 
 Build high on yon rock, and not on the sand ; 
 Perchance through the winter securely thou'lt 
 
 dwell, 
 But spring-tides will rush over valley and 
 
 dell." 
 
 The stranger heard,— but the rock looked 
 bare. 
 And the river banks were lovely and fair. 
 A hut soon rose ; and the yellow grain 
 Promised many a loaded harvest wain: 
 The wheat was garnered — a bounteous store 
 Of Heaven's rich gifts the prairie farm bore. 
 
 
106 THE HOUSE ON THE SAND. 
 
 Oft the lonely man blessed the guiding hand 
 Which had led his steps to that fertile land. 
 
 The summer was ended, the winter past, 
 The ice-king had bound earth and ocean fast. 
 With the first breath of spring a warning was 
 
 heard, 
 Passing away as the song of the bird : 
 "Beware, beware of the rising tide !" 
 He heeded not ; "I shall safely abide : 
 My roof-tree is strong and the river is wide." 
 
 At midnight it came ! He awoke with the roar 
 Of the swelling waters entering his door. 
 He climbed the roof in his agony : 
 The waves seemed to mock at his misery. 
 Higher, still higher ! Away they bore 
 The hut ; and its inmate was seen no more. 
 As he sank mid the darkness, one look he 
 
 gave, 
 From the foaming billows, his fearful grave, 
 To the barren rock, standing firm and secure, 
 Untouched by the tide, its foundation sure. 
 
T3 □ 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE SAND. 107 
 
 There are settlers of earth, who, despite warn- 
 ings given, 
 By death from their homes are as suddenly 
 
 driven. 
 Why build they on sand, which must surely 
 
 decay ? 
 For other foundation can no man lay 
 Than that which is safe through eternity — 
 The Rock of Ages,— cleft, sinner ! for thee. 
 
POLL PEG. 
 
 "There are in this loud stormy tide 
 
 Of human care and crime, 
 With whom the melodies abide 
 
 Of the everlasting chime ; 
 Who carry music in their hearts." 
 
 Distant something more than a mile from 
 the village of Desford, in Leicestershire, Eng- 
 land, at the lower extremity of a steep and 
 rugged lane, was seen an obscure and melan- 
 choly hovel. The door stood not wide to invite 
 observation ; the cheerful fire gleamed not 
 through the casement to excite attention from 
 the passenger. The low roof and outer wall 
 were but just perceived among the branches of 
 the hedge-row, uncultured and untrimmed, that 
 
 m 
 
 £3 
 
Sitting with her back towards the door, she perceived not 
 the intrusion." p. 112. 
 
POLL PEG. Ill 
 
 ran between it and the road. As if there were 
 nothing there that any one might seek, no way 
 of access presented itself, and the step of curi- 
 osity that would persist in finding entrance 
 must pass over mud and brier to obtain it. 
 Having reached the door with difficulty, a 
 sight presented itself such as the eye of deli- 
 cacy is not used to look upon. It was not the 
 gay contentedness of peasant life, that poets 
 tell of, and prosperity sometimes stoops to envy. 
 It was not the labourer resting from his toil, 
 the ruddy child exulting in its hard, scant meal, 
 the housewife singing blithely at her wheel, the 
 repose of health and fearlessness, — pictures 
 that so often persuade us happiness has her 
 dwelling in the cabins of the poor. The room 
 was dark and dirty ; there was nothing on the 
 walls but the bare beams, too ill joined to exclude 
 the weather, with crevices but imperfectly 
 stopped by torn and moulded paper. A few 
 broken utensils hung about the room. A table 
 and some broken chairs were all the furniture, 
 except what seemed intended for a bed, yet 
 
 m 
 
IE 
 
 112 POLL PEG. 
 
 promised little repose. The close and smoky 
 atmosphere of the apartment gave to it the 
 last colouring of discomfort and disease. 
 Within there sat a figure such as the pencil 
 well might choose for the portrait of wretched- 
 ness. Quite gray, and very old, and scarcely 
 clothed, a woman was seen sitting by the fire- 
 place, seemingly unconscious of all that passed 
 around her. Her features were remarkably 
 large, and their expression harsh ; her white hair, 
 turned back from the forehead, hung uncombed 
 upon her shoulders ; her withered arm, stretched 
 without motion on her knee, in form and colour- 
 ing seemed nothing that had lived ; her eye 
 was fixed on the wall before her ; an expression 
 of suffering and a faint movement of the lip 
 alone giving token of existence. 
 
 Sitting with her back towards the door, she 
 perceived not the intrusion ; and while I paused 
 to listen and to gaze, I might have determined 
 that here at least was a spot where happiness 
 could not dwell ; one being, at least, to whom 
 enjoyment upon earth must be forbidden by 
 
POLL PEG. 113 
 
 external circumstance, — with whom to live was 
 of necessity to be wretched. Well might the 
 listener in such a scene as this be startled by 
 expressions of delight, strangely contrasted with 
 the murmurs we are used to hear amid the 
 world's abundance. But it was even so. From 
 the pale shrivelled lips of this poor woman we 
 heard a whispering expression of enjoyment, 
 scarcely articulate, yet not so low but that we 
 could distinguish the words, "Delightful!" 
 " Happy !" 
 
 As we advanced with the hesitation of disgust 
 into the unsightly hovel, the old woman looked 
 at us with kindness, but without emotion ; bade 
 us be seated ; and, till questioned, showed very 
 little inclination to speak. Being asked how 
 she did, she at first replied, " Very ill," then 
 hastily added, " My carcass is ill, — but I am 
 well, very well." And then she laid her head 
 upon a cold, black stone, projecting from the 
 wall beside the fire-place, as if unable to sup- 
 port it longer. We remarked that it was bad 
 weather. 
 
 d Ln: 
 
 I 
 
114 POLL PEG. 
 
 "Yes," she answered — then hastily cor- 
 recting herself — "No, not bad — it is God 
 Almighty's weather, and cannot be bad." 
 
 "Are you in pain?" we asked — a question 
 scarcely necessary, so plainly did her move- 
 ments betray it. 
 
 "Yes, always in pain — but not such pain 
 as my Saviour suffered for me — his pain was 
 worse than mine — mine does not signify." 
 
 Some remark being made on the wretched- 
 ness of her dwelling, her stern features almost 
 relaxed into a smile, and she said she did not 
 think it so; and wished us all as happy as her- 
 self. As she showed little disposition to talk, 
 and never made any remark till asked for one, 
 and then in words as few and simple as might 
 express her meaning, it was slowly and by re- 
 iterated questions that we could draw from her 
 a simple tale. Being asked if that was all the 
 bed she had on which to sleep, she said she 
 seldom slept, and it was long that she had not 
 been able to undress herself — but it was on 
 
njrrp 
 
 POLL PEG. 115 
 
 that straw she passed the night. We asked 
 her if the night did not seem very long. 
 
 "No — not long," she answered — "never 
 long — I think of God all night, and when the 
 cock crows, am surprised it comes so soon." 
 
 "And the days — you sit here all day, in 
 pain and unable to move — are the days not 
 long?" 
 
 " How can they be long ? Is not He with 
 me? Is it not all up — up?" an expression she 
 frequently made use of to describe the joyful 
 elevation of her mind. 
 
 On saying she passed much time in prayer, 
 she was asked for what she prayed. To this 
 she always answered, "Oh! to go, you know 
 — to go — when He pleases — not till He pleases. 
 
 To express the facility she found in prayer, 
 she once said, it seemed as if her prayers were 
 all laid out ready for her in her bed. But 
 time would fail us to repeat the words, brief 
 as they were, in which this aged saint ex- 
 pressed her gratitude to the Saviour who died 
 for her — her enjoyment of the God who abode 
 
m 
 
 116 POLL PEG. 
 
 with her — her expectation of the heaven to 
 which she was hastening — and perfect content- 
 edness with her earthly portion. It proved on 
 inquiry to be worse than it appeared. The 
 outline of her history, as gathered at different 
 times from her own lips, was this: — 
 
 Her husband's name was Peg ; her own 
 being Mary, she was usually known by the 
 appellation of Poll Peg, and had been long re- 
 membered in the village, as living in extreme 
 poverty, and going about to beg bacon at 
 Christmas time. Her youth had been passed 
 in service of various kinds; and though she 
 did not know her age, it appeared from public 
 events, which she remembered to have passed 
 when she was a girl, that she could not be less 
 than eighty. Later in life she had kept sheep 
 upon the forest hills, and in the simplicity of 
 her heart, would speak of her days of pros- 
 perity when she had two sheep of her own. 
 She could not read ; but from attending divine 
 service had become familiar with the language 
 of Scripture, and knew, though hitherto she 
 
POLL PEG. 117 
 
 did not regard, the promises and threatenings 
 it contains. We know nothing of her previous 
 character ; that of her husband and family was 
 very bad — but we are not informed that hers 
 was so. The first earnest religious feeling, she 
 related of herself, was felt some short time 
 previous ; when walking alone in the fields, 
 she bethought herself of her hard fate — a 
 youth of toil, an old age of want and misery ; 
 and if she must go to hell at last, how dreadful 
 was her portion! Struck with the appalling 
 thought, she knelt down beneath the hedge to 
 pray — the first time, perhaps, that heartfelt 
 and earnest prayer had gone up to heaven 
 from her lips. 
 
 Not very long after this, as we understand, 
 the old woman was taken ill, and unable to 
 move from the straw, at that time her only 
 bed, in a loft over the apartment we have de- 
 scribed — where, little sheltered by the broken 
 roof and less by the rags that scarcely covered 
 her, she lay exposed to the inclemencies of the 
 
 weather, without money to support or friend 
 
 10* 
 
 fl d 
 
118 POLL PEG. 
 
 to comfort her. It was in this situation that 
 her mind, dwelling probably on the things that 
 in health passed by her unregarded, received 
 the strong and lasting impression of a vision 
 she thought she beheld, probably in a dream, 
 though she herself believed that she was 
 waking. In idea she saw the broad road and 
 the narrow way, described in Scripture. In the 
 broad road, to use her own expressions, there 
 were many walking ; it was smooth and pleasant 
 and they got on fast — but the end of it was 
 dark. In the narrow way she herself was 
 treading, and some few others — but the way 
 was rugged — some turned back, and others 
 sat down, unable to proceed. She herself ad- 
 vanced till she reached a place more beautiful, 
 she said, than any thing to which she could 
 compare it. When asked what it was like, she 
 could not say, but that it was very bright, and 
 that there were many sitting there. Being 
 questioned who these were — she said they were 
 like men, but larger and more beautiful, and 
 "all dressed in glitterings" — such was her ex- 
 
 □ D 
 
1 
 
 POLL PEG. 119 
 
 pression — and one was more beautiful than 
 the rest, whom she knew to be the Saviour, 
 because of his readiness and kindness in re- 
 ceiving her. But the most pleasing impression 
 seemed to be left by the hallelujahs this com- 
 pany were singing. 
 
 Thus ended her vision ; but not so the im- 
 pression it made. The recollection of the 
 scene she had witnessed, and of the bliss that 
 had been promised her, was the source of all 
 her happiness. Turning her eye from earth 
 to heaven, and fixing all her thoughts on that 
 eternity to which she was hastening, it left 
 her, — not what she before had been, wretched 
 on earth and unmindful of any thing beyond — 
 but with a heart deeply impressed with the 
 love and mercy of God, fully and undoubtedly 
 relying on her Saviour's promise, and proving 
 the reality of those feelings by earnest devo- 
 tion and most cheerful acquiescence in her 
 Maker's will. It was not the fervour of a 
 first impression — the enthusiasm of an excited 
 imagination. 
 
120 POLL PEG. 
 
 She survived six or seven years, but time 
 made no change in her feelings. She passed 
 those years in the extreme of poverty, depend- 
 ent on the alms of some few persons who knew 
 and visited her : she passed them in pain and 
 helplessness; mocked and ill-treated by her 
 husband and her sons, and insulted often by 
 her unfeeling neighbours, who came to laugh 
 at her devotion, and ridicule her hopes. For 
 these, as well as for some who visited her for 
 kinder purposes, she had but one answer — she 
 wished that none of them might ever suffer as 
 she did, but prayed that they might all be 
 as happy as herself. When told that what 
 she had seen was a mere dream and a delu- 
 sion, she said it did not signify to tell her that : 
 she had seen it, and it was the recollection of 
 it that made her nights so short, and her days 
 so happy. "And what does it signify," she 
 added, " that they swear at me, and tell me I 
 am a foolish old woman ? Don't I know how 
 happy I am ?" 
 
 During the few years that she survived, 
 
 m 
 
Qq-p 
 
 POLL PEG. 121 
 
 the minister of the parish saw her constantly, 
 and found little variation in her feelings — none 
 in her firm adherence to the tale she at first 
 had told, and the persuasion that what she had 
 seen was a blessed reality, sufficient to make 
 her happy in every extreme of earthly wretch- 
 edness. And he saw her die as she had lived, 
 in holy, calm and confident reliance on her 
 Saviour's promises. 
 
 I have testified only to what I saw, and re- 
 peated only what my ear has listened to. And 
 I have repeated it but to prove, that the hap- 
 piness which all men seek, and most complain 
 they find not, has sometimes an abode where 
 we should least expect to find it. This is an 
 extreme case — extreme in mental enjoyment as 
 in external misery. But it is true. And if it 
 be so, that a being debarred the commonest 
 comforts of life, almost of the light and air of 
 heaven, suffering, and incapable even of clothing 
 herself, or of cleansing her unsightly dwelling, 
 could yet pass years of so much happiness, that 
 her warmest expression of gratitude to her bene- 
 
 4 -, 
 
 n- 
 
d-lf 
 
 122 POLL PEG. 
 
 factors, was to wish, them a portion as happy 
 as her own, what are we to say to those who, 
 amid the overflow of sublunary good, make the 
 wide world resound with their complainings ? 
 
 I once made a visit to an aged saint, up three 
 pair of stairs, in the neighbourhood of * * * *. 
 She was sick and past work, and lived upon an 
 allowance from the Aged Pilgrim's Society, and 
 other doles of charity. 
 
 I found her at dinner on a mess of turnip- 
 greens. There was no snow-white damask on 
 the table, but it was well scoured ; the greens 
 had not had time to cool between the fire and 
 the clean white plate to which, without rising, 
 she neatly and carefully transferred them, as- 
 suring me she understood cooking very well. 
 She told me turnip-tops were very dear : they 
 used to be cheap in the country, where she 
 lived when she was young, and she had been 
 very fond of them ; so having money that day, 
 she thought she would treat herself to a good 
 dinner. 
 
 " And very fine they are," she added, with a 
 
 q n 
 
btP 
 
 POLL PEG. 123 
 
 look of exultation as she proceeded with her 
 feast. "Nobody need have a better dinner; 
 they only want a little pepper ; but then," she 
 added, with a complacent smile, " we cannot 
 have every thing !" 
 
 " We cannot have every thing !" I repeated 
 to myself, as I returned to an abundant home. 
 Where is there another dinner eaten this day 
 in the wide world with a relish so true, a taste 
 so gratified, a heart so contented and well suf- 
 ficed ? 
 
 Amid the discontentments and complainings 
 of a luxurious world, which nothing can silence, 
 and nothing put to shame, how often have I 
 thought since of the turnip-tops and pepper, 
 the saintly pilgrim's "Every thing !" 
 
 I think of it often at tables plentifully fur- 
 nished, and arranged with care and niceness 
 — no comfort wanting, no reasonable desire 
 unsupplied — some social feast perhaps, or full 
 domestic board ; when I remark that one looks 
 sad, another seems dissatisfied, some speak 
 complainingly, the most seem ill at ease, as if 
 
 m 
 
tH" TZ = — ~ = = TI: 
 
 124 POLL PEG. 
 
 they were there against their will, were disap- 
 pointed about something that they came for, 
 or had brought something with them that im- 
 bitters all. 
 
 Perhaps they have good cause, perhaps they 
 have not; but who, then, may measure by ex- 
 ternals the enjoyment even of external things 
 — of a single hour, a single meal, to say nothing 
 of those deep interior pains and pleasures, in- 
 tenser joys and sorrows of the mind, which 
 make external things pass unregarded ? 
 
PSALM LXXL 
 
 With years oppressed, with sorrows worn, 
 Dejected, harassed, sick, forlorn, 
 
 To Thee, God, I pray : 
 To Thee my withered hands arise, 
 To Thee I lift these failing eyes, — ■ 
 
 cast me not away ! 
 
 Thy mercy heard my infant prayer, 
 Thy love, with all a mother's care, 
 
 Sustained my childish days : 
 Thy goodness watched my ripening youth, 
 And formed my heart to love thy truth, 
 
 And filled my lips with praise. 
 
 11 125 
 
 a ._ -^ q 
 
126 PSALM LXXI. 
 
 Saviour ! has thy grace declined ? 
 Can years affect the Eternal mind ? 
 
 Or time its love decay ? — 
 A thousand ages pass thy sight, 
 And all their long and weary flight 
 
 Is gone like yesterday. 
 
 Then, even in age and grief, thy name 
 Shall still my languid heart inflame, 
 
 And bow my faltering knee : 
 Oh, yet this bosom feels the fire, 
 This trembling hand and drooping lyre 
 
 Have yet a strain for Thee. 
 
 Yes ! broken, tuneless, still, Lord, 
 
 This voice transported shall record 
 
 Thy goodness tried so long ; 
 
 Till sinking slow, with calm decay, 
 
 Its feeble murmurs melt away 
 
 Into a seraph's song. 
 
 Sir R. Grant. 
 
□ znr 
 
 BARNABY BIGGLES, 
 
 THE MAN OF MANY SORROWS. 
 
 Barnaby was not rich in paternal acres, but 
 
 he was more than " well to do" in the world. He 
 
 had thirty thousand dollars in stocks, a nice 
 
 little country-house and garden, in Clapham, a 
 
 good-natured wife, and five promising children. 
 
 What more could he wish for ? The lines had 
 
 fallen to him in pleasant places, but Barnaby was 
 
 slow to perceive them. He might have looked 
 
 with an independent spirit on the world — he only 
 
 cringed to it. He might have thanked Heaven 
 
 for its manna in the pilgrimage — he murmured 
 
 for the quails. He might have built up the 
 
 fountain of his happiness — he only bored holes 
 
 127 
 
 g i n n 
 
128 BARNABY BIGGLES. 
 
 in it, and the waters ever escaped. He might 
 have carried quietude and peace in his bo- 
 som — he made it the temple of anxiety. 
 He had no pleasant hermitage within, to which, 
 even for a season, his spirit could resort. 
 He looked at the gall on the surface of 
 his cup, never saw the honey at the bottom. 
 He saw no sunshine without clouds, and no 
 cold coming without fogs. 
 
 " Patty's godfather died yesterday — old Jef- 
 ferson," said Barnaby to his wife. 
 
 "Poor man — so suddenly!" remarked she. 
 " I am sure I greatly loved him: he was so kind 
 to us all." 
 
 " And Snap, my attorney, hinted this morn- 
 ing to me — Snap made his will, you know — 
 that Patty has a legacy of two thousand." 
 
 " That is so like him, poor dear creature ! 
 Our little Patty did not need it to remember 
 him. I'm sure she'll never forget him." 
 
 " Do you not think it is shabby enough, 
 though ? Died worth a hundred thousand — no 
 relations — and only a paltry mite to his god- 
 
ET 
 
 BABNABY BIGGLES. 129 
 
 daughter. Why, it would not buy a fashionable 
 outfit for her on her wedding-day. Somebody 
 will find full pockets now." 
 
 " I hope it will do good to whoever it falls 
 to," said Mrs. Biggies. 
 
 " I hope so, but never saw such a thing come 
 about yet. Fortune favours fools and rogues 
 in such matters, while those who need the bless- 
 ing are sure to remain needing it. Catch such 
 a windfall coming my way." 
 
 " Let us be thankful, Barnaby, for what we 
 have," suggested the better philosophy of his 
 wife. 
 
 " Could I see ye, zur, for one minute ?" said 
 a shaggy head, popped in at the door. 
 
 " What do you want now, Jacob ?" said Bar- 
 naby to the head; "pray, come in." 
 
 " Simpson has sent to say we must stop a- 
 building the wall, zur. He says he won't have 
 his light shut up." 
 
 Simpson was proprietor of the adjacent lot 
 
 to Barnaby's. Unfortunately, that gentle- 
 11* 
 

 130 BAKNABY BIGGLES. 
 
 man's windows overlooked the latter's ground, 
 and the latter felt aggravated to think that Mr. 
 S., Mrs. S. and the Misses S. should have and 
 hold such a privilege as that of extracting plea- 
 sure from his possessions. It was not to be tole- 
 rated that any neighbour should overlook the 
 very household operations of another, spy into 
 every plant, flower and shrub vegetating in the 
 other's garden, extract all manner of know- 
 ledge, without difficulty, regarding the cultiva- 
 tion of them ; yea, even that his servants should 
 know whether the Biggleses dined on cauli- 
 flower, cabbage, or peas. Like self-ill-used 
 people generally, Barnaby resolved that his own 
 should be his own ; and with kindred tactics he 
 erected a high brick wall, avowedly whereon to 
 propagate the peach, but, actually, wherewith 
 to shut out his neighbour. Unfortunately, 
 Simpson's house was close by the boundary of 
 Biggles's ground. The wall was allowed to 
 proceed till it had reached an ordinary height ; 
 it arrived at an extraordinary one, and was 
 evidently about to proceed to an unwarranted 
 
 irkn=z elB±. 
 
3£ 
 
 L 
 
 d 
 
 BAENABY BIGGLES. 131 
 
 one, having shut out the second-floor windows 
 of Simpson from light, when the command 
 which Jacob delivered his master, as above, was 
 uttered. 
 
 " But I insist that you go on with the build- 
 ing, sir. You are my servant, and to me you 
 are responsible. Go on with the wall." 
 
 The servant, uttering one of those untrans- 
 lateable mumblings which servants are used 
 and wont to do when at a loss for an answer, 
 departed. 
 
 " Everybody seems bent on annoying us," 
 observed Barnaby, at Jacob's exit. " There 
 really is, I believe, no such thing as enjoyment 
 in this world, without a thousand grievances 
 swallowing it up. I am determined, however, 
 Simpson shall not have his way. I am not 
 going to be put upon by every fellow who 
 chooses to try his experiments in insult. There, 
 love, will you see whether that window is quite 
 close ? I am sure I feel a draught about my 
 ears." 
 
132 BARNABY BIGGLES. 
 
 Mrs. B. declared she was sure they were all 
 quite close. 
 
 " Then the hall-door is open — it must be 
 open." 
 
 Mrs. B. looked down-stairs and denied the 
 assertion. 
 
 " Well, this house is getting positively un- 
 comfortable. Sit where one will, there are 
 always draughts. We've tried the parlour, and 
 two bed-rooms, and nursery, and given them 
 up ; and now the dining-room is quite as bad 
 as the others. I wish I had my own money out 
 of the place again." 
 
 At this instant a blubbering, choky utter- 
 ance was heard outside the door, and straight- 
 way, as it opened, came rolling in, with a loud 
 bellow, Master Billy Biggies. " Ow — ou — oh, 
 papa ! ow — oh ! the dog — oh !" 
 
 " Bowles's dog, as I am a living man, has 
 bit him !" shouted Biggies, jumping up. 
 
 The proprietor Bowles was an old maid, 
 dwelling on the Biggies 's left. Her dog was a 
 quiet animal of the poodle variety; but Master 
 
BARNABY BIGGLES. 133 
 
 Billy had been (in pursuit of excitement) tres- 
 passing on the bounds of its good-nature. It 
 tore his clothes, and tumbled him down, and, in 
 the pride of the achievement, was now yelping 
 on the lawn. 
 
 "It shall not live another hour!" roared 
 Barnaby, rushing to his fowling-piece, and 
 loading it with buck-shot. A crack was heard, 
 a howl, and the doomed poodle weltered among 
 the daisies. 
 
 " Fine morning, Mr. Biggies," said a passen- 
 ger, meeting him next day on his way to town. 
 " Does one's heart good to see such a morning — 
 so fresh and bracing." 
 
 "Very fine, but awful cold — is it not?" 
 And Barnaby passed on his way office-wards, 
 discontented in heart and visage, because the 
 sun did not shed its warmth on an autumn morn- 
 ing. Had it been beautiful expanding summer 
 heat, the answer would have been, " Very fine, 
 but out of time for summer weather now." 
 
134 BARNABY BIGGLES. 
 
 Barnaby entered his office. 
 
 A little lad perched on a high stool, with an 
 immense ledger before him, bobbed his head 
 against the folio by way of doing homage. 
 
 " Moses, why are not these packages placed 
 with the labels all fronting ? There is no regu- 
 larity or order there. Take them down 
 again." 
 
 Moses sulkily proceeded to obey. 
 
 " Did Simon call this morning with an an- 
 swer to the letter sent by him ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " That's a little surprising. I wonder what is 
 the reason. I hope he has not forgot to deliver 
 it, — forgot to bring an answer, or perhaps lost 
 it. No advices from ***** yet," mur- 
 mured Barnaby, laying down the last letter of 
 a lot he had opened. " Two days since, word 
 should have been here. These mails ! I de- 
 clare no dependence can be placed on them ; 
 but I will take care the public shall not be 
 treated thus." 
 
 Forthwith Barnaby sat down and penned a 
 
 q 
 
 b 
 
cr 
 
 BARNABY BIGGLES. 135 
 
 letter of inquiry to the editor of the " Evening 
 Reformer," upon the subject of post-office 
 delays, which duly appeared in the columns of 
 that highly efficient and useful journal. 
 
 Having finished this laudable undertaking, 
 his eye alighted on the unfortunate Moses 
 fastening up a parcel. " Moses !" shouted he, 
 " bring that parcel here. You do not mean to 
 despatch it in that shape, surely ? See ! untie 
 it. You are a downright fool, I declare." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Moses, (either in relation to 
 the assertion or command,) and proceeded, in 
 any thing but wreathed smiles, to repack and 
 retie the article. 
 
 There was an old woman who inhabited the 
 porter-lodge at the gate to Barnaby's cottage. 
 There had she dwelt for some ten years with 
 a little girl, a grandchild, her own sons and 
 daughters being dead or gone abroad, and alto- 
 gether alike forgetful of her. She was often 
 ill, and much in bed with rheumatism and other 
 ailments peculiar to decaying humanity. To 
 
136 BARNABY BIGGLES. 
 
 Barnaby she paid no rent, and was thus so far 
 indebted to him ; while to his wife she was 
 indebted for occasional additional comfort, in 
 the way of a bottle of cordial or lot of coals. 
 The grand-daughter did needlework, and eked 
 out a few shillings weekly thereby, cheerfully 
 toiling generally, and when not cheerfully at 
 least quietly, knowing that an honest living 
 could not otherwise be obtained. Barnaby 
 had often seen the girl with her busy needle 
 working at the window as he passed, and on 
 warm days the old woman in an arm-chair, 
 basking in the sunshine, with a half-knit stock- 
 ing on her knee, but thought not at all about 
 them, till, coming home one day, a heavy 
 shower met him at the gateway, and he stepped 
 into the lodge till it should pass over. 
 
 "Pray, come in, sir, and take a chair till 
 the rain ceases," said the old woman, seeing 
 Barnaby in the porch. " Lilly, lass, do thee 
 dust that seat for the gentleman." 
 
 " Oh, pray, give yourself no trouble, good 
 woman. I can stand here," replied Barnaby, 
 
FT3 = T- =□ 
 
 ffi 
 
 BARNABY BIGGLES. 137 
 
 doubtful about the propriety of sitting in his 
 own lodge. " I hope you are well, and your 
 grand-daughter here." 
 
 "Not well to boast of, sir: far from that. 
 This damp weather is very sore on me." 
 
 " I suppose it must be : you suffer a good 
 ded, I believe, at times ?" 
 
 " At times, sir ; but I have little reason to 
 complain for all that. The trouble is not of 
 my making. I cannot remove it. I believe 
 that the hand which wields the rod does 
 wisely, and will in good time send a joyful 
 deliverance." 
 
 " It is a pleasant thing to feel so comforted 
 in affliction," said Barnaby, finding it neces- 
 sary to say something. 
 
 "Yes, I thank God that while he wounds 
 he also heals ; and though he should cause his 
 children to pass through the furnace, its flames 
 will but purify them for his glory." 
 
 " We have all our trials," observed Barnaby, 
 " and should all strive to think so, and to re- 
 flect on the end of them." 
 
138 BARNABY BIGGLEg. 
 
 " True, sir ; but it is worth while consider- 
 ing whether these trials are such, or are not, 
 but are made such by us. When I was a bit of 
 a girl, I recollect having to milk an ill-tem- 
 pered cow that had a practice of kicking with 
 her heels. Now, to cure her, I used to place a 
 big stone behind her. Still the animal kicked, 
 hurting herself, however, against the stone, 
 which became a vexation and annoyance not 
 in her way, but which she, nevertheless, sought 
 to get rid of. Now, I have often thought that 
 many people's trials and troubles were like the 
 stone I used to place behind our cow — not at 
 all in their way, but made troubles because they 
 were kicked at, and only then." 
 
 " The shower is over — I must go now," mut- 
 tered Barnaby, retreating towards the door. 
 
 Barnaby's heart was moved. He dropped a 
 tear, and, looking upwards, clasped his hands. 
 
 "I wonder, my dear," said Mrs. Biggies, on 
 the entrance of her spouse, a you did not think 
 of coming home in the omnibus. These wet 
 
BARNABY BIGGLES. 139 
 
 days, I am sure, it would be much better to 
 take advantage of it. See how damp you are 
 all over." 
 
 " The omnibus is a downright imposture, my 
 love. I will never enter it till the fares are 
 reduced to the same rate as on other roads. 
 I have written the ' Reformer' twice on the 
 subject, and directed public attention to the 
 scandalous extortion. Besides, that fellow 
 Hopkins is said to be in it on a wet day, 
 always insisting upon opening windows, and 
 you know what a dread I have of draughts, 
 and how certain I am to catch cold in them. 
 People are obliged, I actually think, to lead a 
 life of vexation and annoyance on account of 
 other people ; and no matter what good one 
 strives to do for the public or our neighbours, 
 it meets a thankless return." 
 
 "But still the omnibus, love, is " 
 
 " Is an imposition and a fraud, and I will 
 not countenance either till it is remedied." 
 
 Neither did Barnaby countenance it. He 
 would not do himself such a wrong, nor society 
 
 aZTb 
 
I lj crq-P 
 
 1i m 
 
 140 BARNABY BIGGLES. 
 
 such an injury. With a brave martyr-spirit 
 he scowled down upon the perpetrators and 
 encouragers of the evil, and, for himself, he 
 strode home through the wet and cold. 
 
 What next ? Why, he shivered one morning 
 when he awoke, — felt sick and queer — so shaky 
 he could not get his clothes on. The doctor 
 came, said it was a fever coming, and pre- 
 scribed blistering and baths. Another man 
 in black appeared, with pen and ink, at the 
 bedside, and wrote something, which the suf- 
 ferer, with feeble shaking fingers, sub- 
 scribed ; and, as he left, another took his 
 place, speaking in low earnest tones words of 
 hope, while many faces, wet with tears, crowded 
 around. 
 
 It was morning — a subdued ray of golden 
 sunlight streamed in through the half-closed 
 window, resting on the bed, and making doubly 
 ghastly the pallid countenance of the sufferer, 
 who seemed listening to the voice of the clergy- 
 man. Something crossed his mind ; he looked 
 troubled, and made a motion with his finger. 
 
 m 
 
BARNABY BIGGLES. 141 
 
 "Do you wish any thing, dear?" said his 
 wife, placing her ear to his mouth. 
 
 He raised himself, with an effort, on his 
 elbow, and, in broken, half-articulate words, 
 said, " That light is an annoyance — too 
 strong." He fell back with a deep moan — 
 his countenance changed, and he breathed not 
 again. 
 
 How large a share of all the troubles which 
 afflict men must be ascribed to their own folly 
 and sin ! The stone would not hurt them if 
 they did not kick against it. He that looks 
 upon all the gifts of God as undeserved, and as 
 bestowed through the merits and intercession 
 of another, receives them with humble gratitude ; 
 while to a sour, discontented, churlish mind 
 the brightest days are cloudy, and the richest 
 gifts of Providence excite not a grateful emo- 
 tion. Happy he who can see a heavenly Fa- 
 ther's hand in all the dispensations of provi- 
 dence ! 
 
 12* 
 
A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 Another day, with mute adieu, 
 
 Has gone down yon untrodden sky; 
 And still it looks as clear and blue 
 
 As when it first was hung on high : 
 The sinking sun, the darkening cloud, 
 
 That drew the lightning in its rear, 
 The thunder, trumping deep and loud, 
 
 Have left no footmark there. 
 
 The village bells, with silver chime, • 
 Come softened o'er the distant shore ; 
 
 Though I have heard them many a time. 
 They never rang so sweet before : 
 
 142 
 
A SUMMER EVENING. 143 
 
 A silence rests upon the hill, 
 
 A listening awe pervades the air ; 
 
 The very flowers are shut, and still, 
 And bowed as if in prayer. 
 
 And in this hushed and breathless close, 
 
 O'er earth, and air, and sky, and sea, 
 A still low voice in silence goes, 
 
 Which speaks alone, great God, of Thee : 
 The whispering leaves, the far-off brook, 
 
 The linnet's warble fainter grown, 
 The hive-bound bee, the homeward rook, 
 
 All these their Maker own. 
 
 Now shine the starry hosts of light, 
 
 Gazing on earth with golden eyes : 
 Bright sentinels that guard the night, 
 
 What are ye in your native skies ? 
 I know not ! neither can I know, 
 
 Nor on what leader ye attend, 
 Nor whence ye came, nor whither go, 
 
 Nor what your aim or end. 
 
 D 
 
"T3 ~ 
 
 144 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 I know they must be holy things 
 
 That from a roof so sacred shine, 
 Where sound the beat of angel wings, 
 
 And footsteps echo all divine. 
 Their mysteries I never sought, 
 
 Nor hearkened to what science tells, 
 For, oh ! in childhood I was taught 
 
 That God amidst them dwells. 
 
 The deepening woods, the fading trees, 
 
 The grasshopper's last feeble sound, 
 The flowers just wakened by the breeze, 
 
 All leave the stillness more profound. 
 The twilight takes a deeper shade, 
 
 The dusky pathways darker grow, 
 And silence reigns in glen and glade, 
 
 While all is mute below. 
 
 And other eves as sweet as this 
 Will close upon as calm a day, — 
 
 Then, sinking down the deep abyss, 
 Will, like the last, be swept away, 
 
 
A SUMMER EVENING. 145 
 
 Until eternity is gained, — 
 
 The boundless sea without a shore, 
 
 That without time for ever reigned, 
 And will when time's no more. 
 
 Now nature sinks in soft repose, 
 
 A living semblance of the grave ; 
 The dew steals noiseless on the rose, 
 
 The boughs have almost ceased to wave : 
 The silent sky, the sleeping earth, 
 
 Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod, — 
 All tell from whom they had their birth, 
 
 And cry, "Behold a God!" 
 
 m m 
 
 J3: 
 
n = -p 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 " Hide me till thy wrath be passed, 
 Thou who canst slay or save! 
 Hide me, where hope may anchor fast, 
 In my Redeemer's grave." 
 
 The morning of the eventful 25th November 
 (says the author of "The Sailor's Hope") was 
 ushered in by a dark and lowering sky, and 
 all that day the heavens were overcast, and the 
 wind was high, though not more so than might 
 naturally have been expected at the change 
 of the monsoon. Nothing, I am sure, was 
 further from the thoughts of any one on board, 
 than the occurrence that day of such a hurri- 
 cane as cast our fine and beautiful ship a wreck 
 upon the shores of Australia. I was, at the 
 time, dangerously ill in my cot. A screen of 
 
 en. I46 
 
'.' She had been thrown up between two rocks by one mighty 
 rush of water." p. 151. 
 
THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 149 
 
 tarpaulin had been drawn across the break 
 of the poop, to protect me from the wind 
 and rain, which, towards evening, was split 
 into ribbons, and I was removed for security 
 into the captain's cabin. Here I remained 
 for some hours in fancied security, wholly un- 
 conscious of even the approach of danger, till 
 the gun-room steward made his appearance in 
 the cabin with the startling intelligence that 
 we had parted both anchors I The hurricane 
 had commenced, and we were now completely 
 at the mercy of the winds and waves; not a 
 sail was bent in the ship, nor (had they been 
 on the yards) could a stitch of canvas have 
 stood before the fury of the blast. I imme- 
 diately begged the young man to go on deck 
 and look out for his own safety, assuring him 
 he could be of no service to me in my then 
 weakly state. "No, sir," he nobly replied, 
 "I will never leave you, so long as the ship 
 holds together;" and, notwithstanding all my 
 entreaties, he could not be persuaded to leave 
 my bed-side. 
 
§§- 
 
 150 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 From the continual shifting of the wind, 
 two hours must have elapsed before the ship 
 touched the ground, during which time we 
 were being driven about the harbour, whither 
 we knew not. On being hurried rapidly along, 
 we passed close by, though providentially just 
 clear of, a ten-gun brig, which was then being 
 dragged by the gale, with three anchors at her 
 bows ! Blue lights were burned, and signal guns 
 and rockets fired, to warn and call back a 
 warning from her ; but so completely helpless 
 were we, that had not the Lord interposed his 
 most gracious and merciful aid, a collision 
 must have taken place, which would have 
 swallowed up both vessels, and sent every 
 soul on board to his final account. 
 
 At last she struck. It was on mud, and we 
 hoped that she had thus made a bed for herself 
 during the night ; but the now raging hurricane 
 would not allow her to rest quietly even here. 
 The lurid flashes that occasionally illuminated 
 the horizon, and, for an instant, gave those on 
 deck a faint outline of the little brig and the 
 
 m 
 
 ^t^Jl Q_J±l 
 
n-nrn: 
 
 W 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 151 
 
 shores of the harbour, were unseen by us 
 below ; but the fury of the wind, the distant 
 rumbling of the thunder — the thunder crashing 
 over our very heads in a way only known to 
 the traveller in tropical climates — were sounds 
 that could not escape the ear. As wave suc- 
 ceeded wave, and each broke over our vessel, 
 the ship trembled while she shook off the foam- 
 ing sea. At this time, all the sick were 
 assembled together in the cabin, under the sur- 
 geon's personal care, who was one of the kind- 
 est, most attentive, and withal most talented 
 officers, of whom the service could boast. 
 
 But, as I have already said, the raging of 
 the wind would not allow the vessel to rest in 
 her bed. Suddenly she gave a heavy lurch 
 to port, and almost instantaneously fell over 
 on her starboard side ! She had been, it would 
 seem, thrown up between two rocks by one 
 mighty rush of water, when the violence of 
 the succeeding wave wrenched off her fore-foot, 
 false keel, and part of keel, and forced her 
 over into deep water — to fill and sink! It 
 
 13 
 
i--pg zz zz ~ cr ~P 
 
 IIP W 
 
 152 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 was not my lot to be on deck at this fearfully 
 critical period, but the sufferings of those who 
 were at this moment plunged into the boiling 
 surf — the life-clinging grasp of the survivors 
 to the rigging and spars — the agonizing but 
 unavailing struggles of the drowning — could 
 well be conceived by us, who at this time en- 
 vied even the lot of those who were on deck, so 
 utterly hopeless seemed our chance of escape. 
 The rush of water through the fore-scuttle 
 and several hatchways, battened down though 
 they were, was now truly terrific. The cabin 
 was being rapidly filled. Not an instant was 
 lost in attempting to escape into the gun-room 
 passage, through the door, which was now over 
 our heads ! A lantern had, but a few minutes 
 previously, been hung by the surgeon to a cot- 
 hook, on what providentially proved to be the 
 weather-side of the ship, and by its light all 
 had reached the passage, save a private marine 
 and myself. This man, on my pressing him 
 to hasten to the door, refused till he had seen 
 me there first — a noble proof, that in the midst 
 
 ===== mitt 
 
1 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 153 
 
 of danger, it is not the part of a true sailor, 
 or a brave soldier, to forget or neglect a 
 friend in distress. At last I succeeded in 
 reaching the passage, but from my extreme 
 weakness at the time, I dropped back again 
 into the middle of the cabin, which was now 
 filled with drawers, crockery, &c, thrown from 
 their proper places. The marine, to his hon- 
 our be it said, again descended, and brought me 
 in safety to the door. 
 
 As the water was rapidly rising, despair 
 prompted two of the stoutest of our party to 
 use every effort to force open the companion- 
 hatch. The pressure from without was, how- 
 ever, an irresistible barrier, and their want of 
 success was mercifully made the means of our 
 ultimate escape. Had the hatch at that mo- 
 ment been removed, the immediate rush of 
 water must have forced us back with fury into 
 the vessel, and, so far from the object contem- 
 plated being effected, the ship must have been 
 completely filled before she was driven into 
 shoaler water, and thus all would have inevi- 
 
154 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 tably perished. The attempt was, at length, 
 given over, and all seemed hopeless. It was, 
 indeed, a moment of peril. Destruction stared 
 us in the face, and a watery grave seemed be- 
 fore us, without a hope of relief. There was 
 nothing to encourage us in the least to expect 
 that the water would cease to rush in, till the 
 vessel was completely full; and nothing but 
 the most gracious interposition of Providence 
 could have prevented it. The water on the out- 
 side, as we afterwards ascertained, was up to 
 the weather-hammock nettings, at which height, 
 within the vessel, we must, of course, have all 
 been drowned. But, ere this could take place, 
 the continuing and furious gale had thrown 
 the ship into shoaler water, scraping, as she 
 went, a mass of cement, which was subse- 
 quently found on her side, and which was so 
 hard that nothing but a pickaxe could pene- 
 trate it. 
 
 All hope was now shut out, and escape 
 seemed impossible. The water being over the 
 hatchways, we no longer heard the long, con- 
 
 Hi 
 
-M 
 
 31 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 155 
 
 tinuous, soul-racking splash, and we betook 
 ourselves, without exception, to call upon Him 
 who alone could hear us, striving — some of us, 
 I fear, in the agonies of despair — to make our 
 peace with God. Agonizing calls for mercy 
 from hearts bleeding for the sins of a whole 
 life, were heard on all sides ; for what ivas the 
 world to us then f Not a moment of time would 
 we have given for all its riches — time which we 
 had so long wasted, and of which, up to this 
 fearful moment, we had not known the exceed- 
 ing preciousness. Had it, in times past, been 
 properly redeemed by us — had it then been 
 Christ to live, it would have noiu been gain to 
 die ; had the Lord been our hope from our 
 youth, he would now have been our portion, 
 and we should have been laying hold upon him, 
 as a sure possession. The prayers of all be- 
 came fainter and fainter, and, at last, gradually 
 died away. Still the water rose, and still 
 we awaited our fate with fear and trembling. 
 The lantern at last went out, buried in the 
 
 13* 
 
 a . — q 
 
— . cnp 
 
 mi 
 
 156 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 water — an emblem, thought I, of the change 
 which was so soon to pass upon us. 
 
 The water had, by this time, risen to our 
 shoulders, and I found myself still struggling 
 between fear and hope ; all the many warnings 
 I had received flashing across my mind ; flash- 
 ing, too, with a force which each one seemed, 
 at times, separately and distinctly to possess. 
 Events of a whole life crowded into it in a mo- 
 ment. Events of yesterday, and events long 
 since past and forgotten — scenes of youth, and 
 scenes of manhood — scenes at hand, and scenes 
 dearer and more distant — all were distinctly and 
 powerfully brought to mind. 
 
 Struggling, as I have said, between fear and 
 hope, I sometimes found the latter to prevail, 
 and I well recollect sinking once in trust upon 
 my Saviour's merits. Instantly, however, I 
 raised my head in fear, for, to such a height 
 had the water now risen, that it was only by 
 pressing our lips between the bars of the cabin 
 above us, that we were enabled to draw a single 
 breath. The rush of water then undulated 
 
 jo- 
 
— " ■- =zz= n=- 
 
 m 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 157 
 
 over our heads, burying the whole body, — 
 another breath, and the wave returned ! 
 
 I know not how long we were thus suspended 
 between life and death ; but, at length, the 
 water began to retire, and we were enabled to 
 breathe more freely. It continued for some 
 time to rise and fall, keeping us in the most 
 awful state of suspense, till at length our whole 
 bodies were dry. A death-like stillness now 
 reigned around, contrasting fearfully with the 
 wild wind and the remorseless dash of the bil- 
 lows outside, accompanied by the crash of the 
 thunder above. I now ventured to put forth 
 my hand in search of my companions. It fell 
 on the cold, damp body of what I supposed to 
 be a corpse. I was, however, agreeably de- 
 ceived in my fear ; I found that he was still 
 living. We then joined, as with one consent, 
 in grateful thanks to God, that there was a 
 hope of escape for our souls from death. Few, 
 I think, among us, did not on that night re- 
 solve with the sacred writer, to " receive the 
 cup of salvation, and call upon the name of the 
 
158 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 Lord." " The work is the Lord's !" cried we ; 
 " to him be ascribed all thanksgiving and 
 praise !" But, alas ! as soon as his chastening 
 hand was removed from us, we again began to 
 go astray ; and, when once more we put foot 
 upon the firm ground of Australia, we " re- 
 membered not his marvellous works that he 
 had done ; his wonders, and the judgments of 
 his mouth;" thus proving, that our late con- 
 fession of sins and pleadings for mercy arose 
 simply from a dread and fear of judgment, and 
 not from any real longing to be released from 
 the burden of our great and crying sins, or any 
 desire to " depart from all iniquity, and to 
 serve the living God." 
 
 At length the dismal scene drew near its 
 close. I heard a voice from the main hatchway, 
 which I recognised as that of the boatswain's 
 mate, calling me loudly by name. Without 
 making a reply, I dived instantly down where 
 I caught a glimpse of light, through the gun- 
 room hatch, and came out on the other side ! 
 My companion soon followed, and we found that 
 
§ 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 159 
 
 the rest of the party had already escaped by 
 the main hatchway. The surgeon was the 
 first person I met with at this most happy mo- 
 ment, and, through his kindness and attention, 
 I was soon carefully enveloped in blankets. 
 
 Our actual position at this time could not be 
 ascertained. The hours of darkness, during 
 which nothing could be done, must have ap- 
 peared an age of anxiety and deep suspense to 
 those who had passed all the night on the cold 
 side or rigging of the ship ; but to us, who had 
 but just been admitted to any hope at all, it was 
 far otherwise. Day at length dawned upon 
 that night of terrors, and the appearance of 
 land within a few hundred yards of us was a 
 most cheering sight. The brig had been driven 
 into a small bay, with a reef of rocks lying out- 
 side of her, and with a heavy surf then washing 
 the beach. Property, public and private, was 
 floating out of the hatchways with every draw- 
 back of the surge — casks of flour, and empty 
 casks that once held spirits and other stores, 
 dressing cases, boxes, pieces of furniture, books, 
 
 m 
 
160 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 instrument cases, and writing-desks — all floated 
 about in a confused mass. 
 
 Several of our men swam to the shore 
 during the morning, and we now discovered 
 the marines of the settlement, that had re- 
 cently been established on shore, ready to lend 
 us a helping hand. No time was lost in making 
 a raft, which conveyed on shore the surgeon 
 and the sick ; but, as soon as we got to land, 
 the spars broke adrift, and the raft, perhaps 
 too hurriedly put together in the first instance, 
 afforded no further assistance. The men were, 
 however, in comparative safety, the strength 
 of the gale having abated ; and, although not 
 a boat of ours survived the gale, yet one soon 
 arrived from the more fortunate brig. The 
 cold at this time was intense. I think I never 
 felt so bitter a blast. 
 
 Not content with waiting for the boat, which 
 was now coming to take our people off the 
 wreck, several of the crew persisted in swim- 
 ming on shore, one of whom, the ship's cook, 
 a stout and corpulent man, thus recklessly lost 
 
w 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 161 
 
 his life. His strength having failed him as he 
 neared the shore, one of the natives swam out 
 to his assistance, and brought him, but only 
 after life was extinct, to the beach. On mus- 
 tering the ship's company, we discovered that 
 one officer, six men and a boy were lost, and 
 natives were despatched to look into the ad- 
 joining bays and creeks for the bodies of our 
 missing shipmates. Four corpses were thus 
 brought in, besides that of the cook ; Wo were 
 subsequently found below in the ship, and one 
 was never recovered. The missing body was 
 that of one who had frequently followed Wel- 
 lington to victory, and was now on his way to 
 reap the reward of his labours in the Royal 
 Hospital of Greenwich. A few hours before he 
 was in health, and I was all but given over by 
 the surgeon ; yet, in the wisdom of Providence, 
 he was taken and I was left ! That night con- 
 signed his body to corruption, and restored 
 mine, strange as it may seem, to the blessings 
 of comparative health. 
 
 On looking around us, the effects of the hur- 
 
 d t_n 
 
162 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 ricane were everywhere apparent. The whole 
 scene was changed by one night's howling blast. 
 The prospect was really desolate. Noble 
 trees, that had reared their heads but the 
 previous day, lay felled to the ground, in all 
 the splendour of their rich foliage. Branches, 
 large and small, lopped from them, lay broken 
 around, and tons of stone were attached to 
 others that had been torn up by the roots. 
 Birds of the richest colours, carnation, crimson, 
 purple, green, that formerly had sported near 
 us, were now gone, literally swept from the 
 forest. 
 
 The bodies of our seven shipmates were laid 
 side by side in one little enclosure, which we 
 afterwards railed round. Those that had sailed 
 together slept together, and there we left them 
 some months afterwards, their grave overgrown 
 with shrubs and grass, and themselves con- 
 verted, with the very monuments raised to 
 commemorate them, into ashes, dust and ruin ! 
 When I look back upon that eventful night, 
 with all its horrors, and yet with all its bless- 
 
D " LJ- f p 
 
 m 
 
 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 163 
 
 ings, — when I reflect upon the wonderful good- 
 ness of the Lord, in having thus snatched us 
 from the very brink of destruction, — when I 
 consider that the snares of death had com- 
 passed us about, and the pains of hell, as it 
 were, gat hold upon us, — I am constrained to 
 magnify the riches of God's distinguishing 
 grace, that I should be permitted at this time 
 to be recording his much-abused mercies ! 
 
 Dear reader! providences may solemnize, 
 but they cannot save the soul. They may awe 
 you into seriousness ; they may, perhaps, drive 
 you to your knees; but they cannot change 
 your heart. That is the work of God's Holy 
 Spirit, and he alone can do it. Has it been 
 done in you f Is your peace made with God 
 through the blood of his dear Son ? Is the 
 deep, calm peace, which the gospel gives when 
 believed, shed abroad in your heart ? Or are 
 you deferring till some startling providence — 
 some bereavement it may be — shall cast over 
 you its solemnizing influence, in the belief that 
 then you will be more disposed to attend to 
 
 '** " #■ 
 
m 
 
 164 THE HURRICANE AT SEA. 
 
 these matters ? If you are laying this flattering 
 unction to your soul, beware ! Millions have 
 done as you are doing, and thereby have pur- 
 chased for themselves a hardened heart, and, 
 at last, an eternal hell ! u Now" saith God, 
 "is my time — not to-morrow." 
 
 "0 hearken to the healing voice, 
 That speaks from heaven in tones so mild ! 
 To-day are life and death our choice ; 
 To-day, through mercy reconciled, 
 Our all to God we yet may give ; 
 Now let us hear his voice and live." 
 
 n 1 u 
 
P w 
 
 A CONTENTED MIND. 
 
 Some murmur, when their sky is clear 
 
 And wholly bright to view, 
 If one small speck of dark appear 
 
 In their great heaven of blue : 
 And some with thankful love are filled 
 
 If but one streak of light, 
 One ray of God's good mercy gild 
 
 The darkness of their night. 
 
 II. 
 
 In palaces are hearts that ask, 
 
 In discontent and pride, 
 Why life is such a dreary task, 
 
 And all good things denied : 
 
 165 
 
 § 
 
in; 
 
 166 A CONTENTED MIND. 
 
 And hearts in poorest huts admire 
 How Love has in their aid 
 
 (Love that not ever seems to tire) 
 Such rich provision made. 
 
 
 
u~ 
 
 i 
 
 THE INFANT PRAYER. 
 
 What a blessed office is that of the Chris- 
 tian mother, when teaching her infant child to 
 pray ! With its first waking moments, she 
 would have him associate the kind care and 
 watchful oversight of our heavenly Father ! 
 She hastens to his little crib, and gently helps 
 him to fold his chubby hands, and while he can 
 yet scarcely speak the words intelligibly, she 
 whispers to him that simple but sublime appeal, 
 " Our Father which art in heaven." 
 
 Our Father! What tender thoughts of 
 love, pity, protection and guidance does the 
 expression awaken ! Like as a father pitieth 
 his children, so the Lord pitieth them that 
 fear him.* Who feeds the fowls of the air ? 
 "Your Heavenly Father feedeth them."f 
 
 * Ps. ciii. 13. f Matt. vi. 26. 
 
 14* 167 
 
 cR^U — DlJtJ 
 
168 THE INFANT PRAYER. 
 
 Shall we not be concerned lest our food or 
 clothing should fail us, and we should be ex- 
 posed to cold, and famine, and nakedness ? 
 Be not anxious about the future. Trust in 
 God, and your wants will be supplied. " For 
 your Heavenly Father knoweth that ye have 
 need of these things."* 
 
 Which art in heaven ! The supreme, un- 
 changeable, eternal Ruler and Overseer of all 
 the universe — the King of kings and the Lord 
 of lords ! What a Father ! What a throne ! 
 
 Though the meaning and object of the words 
 may be but imperfectly comprehended, there is 
 impressed upon his infant mind the idea of 
 weakness — of dependence — of a superior and 
 supreme Being as an object of love and reve- 
 rence — and of His willingness to hear and 
 answer the requests even of little children — 
 though it be but 
 
 The simplest form of speech 
 That infant lips can try, — 
 
 the very habit of recognising the unseen but 
 
m 
 
 THE INFANT PRAYER. 169 
 
 powerful arm of the Almighty, as our depend- 
 ence and support — formed in infancy and 
 carefully cherished through the period of child- 
 hood and youth, — is of inestimable importance. 
 And, perhaps, there is no Christian duty or 
 privilege that a little child can more readily 
 comprehend than this. For there is scarcely 
 an emotion of its soul that is not intimately 
 connected with two of the chief elements of 
 prayer — dependence and love. It is the 
 mother's heavenly office gently to raise the 
 affections — which would fain fasten themselves 
 supremely upon her — to the Being on whom 
 they are both dependent for life, and breath, 
 and all things. She would persuade her in- 
 fant offspring, that the gentlest accents of a 
 mother's love are not so gentle as those of 
 divine compassion — "I love them that love me," 
 and that the most faithful offices of a mother's 
 devotion are not to be compared with the care 
 and patience of the kind Shepherd, 
 
 Who takes young children in his arras, 
 And calls them Heirs of Heaven ! 
 
TIME AND ETEENITY. 
 
 WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH, THE NIGHT BEFORE 
 HIS EXECUTION. 
 
 Even such is time ; that takes on trust 
 Our youth, our joys, our all we have. 
 And pays us but with age and dust ; 
 Who in the dark and silent grave 
 (When we have wandered all our ways) 
 Shuts up the story of our days. — 
 But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 
 My God shall raise me up, I trust. 
 
 170 
 
THE STING OF DEATH IS SIN. 
 
 How many times has this awful truth been 
 uttered to wake the slumbering soul ; to rouse 
 up man's better energies in time for him to 
 save his soul alive ; to warn him of that terri- 
 ble moment when the end of his life shall be at 
 hand, when he shall feel that the time for 
 working in his Father's vineyard is ended, 
 and that he must now present himself before 
 the judgment-seat to receive his sentence. In 
 that hour he shall see each man rewarded ac- 
 cording to the deeds done in the body, — those 
 that have done well being blest with a resur- 
 rection to eternal life ; but those that have done 
 evil being cursed with the resurrection of con- 
 demnation. It is an awful thing to die — to feel 
 that the time is come for fixing the seal upon 
 one's life, and giving it the stamp which marks 
 
 171 
 

 172 THE STING OF DEATH IS SIN. 
 
 its character for good or ill — that now the night 
 is come wherein we can no longer work, can do 
 nothing more to work the will of Him who gave 
 us our being, and can no longer prove that 
 the repentance which we profess for past sins is 
 true and heartfelt, and does not need, itself, to 
 be repented of. It is an awful thing to feel, 
 that we have arrived at that period when our 
 heavenly Father sees that a longer continu- 
 ance in this scene of trial will do us no further 
 good, and that we must be removed hence. 
 If we can then think of the condition of our 
 souls, of the many imperfections that have at- 
 tended our best services, and the many grievous 
 faults that still remain uncorrected, how bitter 
 must be the thought that our Father, in his 
 infinite wisdom and goodness, judges that our 
 life must now end, for he knows that we shall 
 do no more to improve the trust committed to 
 us. We may perhaps at such a time, when 
 this world is rapidly fading away, and the 
 future is opening vividly before us, feel with 
 terrible force how utterly we have neglected 
 
 JD 
 
f 
 
 THE STING OF DEATH IS SIN. 173 
 
 the talent intrusted to our care. We shall in- 
 deed then feel that sin is the sting of death ; 
 and we shall feel too that it is then too late — 
 we are not worthy to enjoy any further time of 
 probation — but must pass on into the presence 
 of God, conscience-smitten with a deep sense of 
 our dreadful guilt. The sins which have most 
 easily and constantly beset us will still be with 
 us — accusing us to our own consciences — and 
 bitter will be the feeling that the time has past 
 by for working out our repentance. How shall 
 we then lament over our mis-spent time, and 
 think with unavailing sorrow of our neglect of 
 the lessons which have been given us from our 
 Father's chastening love ! In what bitter an- 
 guish shall we then call upon him to have com- 
 passion upon us, and to send his pardoning 
 mercy to our souls ! 
 
 We sit by the bedside of a friend whom God 
 is taking from us. He has been the joy and 
 solace of our life — our souls have been knit 
 together. We think, with fearful trembling, 
 how dark and blank our life on earth will be 
 
 -J 
 
6fe 
 
 PT3 = — = on p 
 
 174 THE STING OF DEATH IS SIN. 
 
 without his company and friendly sympathy. 
 His work is done, and he is going hence. We 
 are left behind to travel the rest of our pil- 
 grimage alone. Weary and desolate does the 
 road seem, now that he is gone whose presence 
 had brightened our path. We feel that he is 
 gone to his Father in heaven — for we know 
 that he had always lived here, as in his sight, 
 and had striven to do his work. We look for- 
 ward with eager longings to the time when 
 we shall meet again in that happy world. 
 
 But gradually our hopes are overcast with 
 doubt — our own past life rises up before us — we 
 compare it with that which we have just seen 
 close — and then we feel ourselves, while still 
 in life, that the sting of death is sin. The 
 sting of our great grief at parting with those 
 who are taken from us, is poisoned by the 
 thought that our own past life may have 
 rendered us unfit for admission to that society 
 of the blessed into which we fully believe that 
 our dear friend has entered. How grievously 
 does this thought aggravate our sorrow! 
 
tej: 
 
 THE STING OF DEATH IS SIN. 175 
 
 In a little while, when the first fresh anguish 
 of the parting has passed away, we learn to thank 
 our heavenly Father for the remainder of that 
 road which he has left us to travel over, and 
 the prospect of which had at first cast down 
 our soul : for along it we now see work to be 
 done, and temptations to be resisted, which 
 may prove the truth and strength of our re- 
 pentance, and. in God's infinite mercy, through 
 grace that is in Christ Jesus, may lead us 
 too into his presence. We praise his name 
 for his great goodness in giving us these ad- 
 ditional helps to enable us to do those things 
 which are well pleasing in his sight. We 
 resolve to do all things to his glory, and to 
 show by our lives, that these lessons of his 
 love have not been lost upon us ; and we thank 
 him with a fervent heart for that repentance 
 which begins by the bedside of a dying friend. 
 
 This repentance may not be too late, for it has 
 life in it, and will bear fruit, if we watch over 
 it with unwearied care, and pray earnestly for 
 God's blessing upon it. Then the sting which 
 
XT 
 
 176 
 
 THE STING OF DEATH IS SIN. 
 
 we felt so keenly at the death of our friend, 
 may, in God's mercy, have saved us from the 
 far more terrible one which we shall feel, if 
 our own death-bed should be imbittered by 
 the memory of sins unrepented of and unfor- 
 given, and of a whole life wasted in the neglect 
 of its great end — the salvation oe the soul. 
 
1 3 LMP 
 
 HYMN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Fathek, thy gentle chastisement 
 Falls kindly on my burdened soul : 
 
 I see its merciful intent 
 
 To warn me back to thy control, 
 
 And pray, that, while I kiss the rod, 
 
 I may find perfect peace with God. 
 
 , II. 
 The errors of my heart I know ; 
 
 I feel my deep infirmities; 
 For often virtuous feelings glow, 
 
 And holy purposes arise, 
 But like the morning clouds decay, 
 As empty, though as fair, as they. 
 
 177 
 
 ' ci_ 
 
cr-vp 
 
 178 HYMN IN SICKNESS; 
 
 III. 
 
 Forgive the weakness I deplore; 
 
 And let thy grace abound in me, 
 That I may trust my heart no more, 
 
 But wholly cast myself on thee ; 
 Oh, let .my Father's strength be mine, 
 And my devoted life be thine. 
 
THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 It was a still, clear night in the month of 
 May, 1543: the stars shone brightly in the 
 heavens, and all the world slept in the little 
 town of Wernica, a canonry of Prussian Po- 
 land — all save one man, who watched alone in 
 a solitary chamber, at the summit of a lofty 
 tower. The only furniture of this apartment 
 consisted of a .table, a few books, and an iron 
 lamp. Its occupant was an old man of about 
 seventy, bowed down by years and toil, and 
 his brow furrowed by anxious thought ; but in 
 his eye glowed the fire of genius, and his 
 noble countenance was expressive of gentle 
 kindliness, and of a calm, contemplative dispo- 
 
 15* . 179 
 
si : 
 
 180 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 sition. His white hair, parted on his forehead, 
 fell in waving locks upon his shoulders. He 
 wore the ecclesiastical costume of the age and 
 country in which he lived: the long straight 
 robe, with a fur. collar and double sleeves, 
 which were also lined with fur as far as the 
 elbow. 
 
 This old man was the great astronomer, 
 Nicholas Copernicus, doctor of philosophy, 
 divinity and medicine; titular canon of Wer- 
 nica; and honorary professor of Bologna, 
 Rome, &c. Copernicus had just completed 
 his great work "On the Revolutions of the 
 Heavenly Bodies." In the midst of poverty, 
 ridicule and persecution, without any other 
 support than that of his own modest genius, 
 or any instrument save a triangle of wood, he 
 had unveiled heaven to earth, and was now 
 approaching the end of his career just as he 
 had established on. a firm basis those dis- 
 coveries, which were destined to change the 
 whole face of astronomical science. On' that 
 very day the canon of Wernica had received 
 
15 
 
 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 181 
 
 the last proof-sheets of his book, which his 
 disciple Rheticus was getting printed at Nu- 
 remberg ; and, before sending back .these final 
 proofs, he wished to verify for the last time 
 the results of- his discoveries. Heaven seemed. 
 ' to have sent him a night expressly fitted for 
 his purpose, and he passed the whole of it in 
 his observatory. When the astronomer saw 
 the stars beginning to grow pale in the eastern 
 sky, he took the triangular instrument which 
 he had constructed with his own hands out of 
 three pieces* of wood, and directed.it suc- 
 cessively towards the four cardinal points of 
 the horizon. No shadow of a doubt remained ; 
 and, overpowered, by the conviction that, he 
 
 * Tycho Brahe has preserved to us a drawing of this 
 instrument, which was the means of accomplishing such 
 wonderful discoveries, and which was sent to hirn after 
 the death of Copernicus by John Hanbvrius, .bishop of 
 Wernica. It is difficult for us to conceive how a triangle- 
 so rude in its formation, and so irregular in its move- 
 ments, could have supplied, in the hands of this great man, 
 the place of those infallible telescopes which have since 
 served to confirm his discoveries. 
 
182 THE , PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 had indeed, destroyed an error of five thousand 
 years' duration, and was about to reveal to the 
 world an imperishable truth, Copernicus kneeled 
 in the presence of that glorious volume whose 
 starry characters he had at first learned to 
 decipher, and folding his attenuated hands- 
 across his bosom, thanked his Creator for 
 having opened his eyes to understand and 
 read aright these His glorious ' works. He 
 then returned to the table, and seizing a pen, 
 he wrote on the title-page of his book- — "Be- 
 hold the work of the greatest and the most 
 .perfect Artisan: the work of God himself," 
 And now, the first excitement having passed 
 away, : he proceeded, with a collected mind, to 
 write the dedication of his book : — • 
 
 " To the Most Holy Father, Fope. Paul III. : 
 I dedicate my work to your holiness, in order 
 that all the world, whether learned or igno- 
 rant, may see that I do not seek to shun ex- 
 amination and the judgment of my superiors. 
 Your authority, and your love for science, in 
 
 D-Ljn ■ . • ' ■ — etic 
 
THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. . 183 
 
 general, and for mathematics in particular, 
 will serve to shield me against wicked and. ma- 
 licious slanderers, notwithstanding the proverb 
 which says. that there is no remedy against the 
 wounds inflicted by the tongue. of calumny, &p. 
 "Nicholas Copernicus— Of Thorn." 
 
 Soon the first dawn of day caused the lamp 
 of the astronomer to burn more dimly; he 
 leaned his forehead upon the table, and, over- 
 come with fatigue, sank into a peaceful slum- 
 ber. After sixty years of labour, he in truth 
 needed repose. But his present repose, at all 
 events, was not destined to be of long dura-, 
 tion: it was abridged by the entrance of an 
 aged servant, who, with slow and heavy step, 
 ascended the tower stairs. 
 
 "Master," said he to the canon, as he gently 
 touched him upon the shoulder, "the messenger 
 who. arrived yesterday from Rheticus is ready 
 to set out on his return, and is only waiting 
 for your proof-sheets and letters." 
 
 The astronomer rose, made: up the packet, 
 
§ 
 
 £E3: 
 
 184 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. ' 
 
 which he duly sealed, and then sank back upon 
 his chair, as if wearied by the effort. 
 
 "But that- is not all," continued the servant; 
 "there are ten poor sick people in the house 
 waiting for you ; and besides, you are wanted 
 at Frauenberg, "to. look after the water-ma- 
 chine, which has stopped working; and also 
 to see the three workmen who have broken 
 their legs in trying to set it going -again." 
 
 " Poor creatures !"• exclaimed Copernicus. 
 "Let my horse be saddled directly." And 
 with a resolute effort, shaking off the sleep 
 which weighed down his eyelids, 'the good man 
 hastily descended the stairs of the tower. 
 
 The house of Copernicus was, in outward 
 appearance, one of the most, unpretending in 
 Wernica : it was composed of a laboratory, in 
 which he prepared medicine for the poor;, a 
 little studio, in which this man of genius, 
 skilled in art as well as in science, painted his 
 own likeness or those of his friends, or traced 
 his recollections of Rome and Bologna ; and 
 lastly, of a. small parlour on the ground-floor, 
 
nl -LJ -— ■ -=cr 
 
 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. ' 185 
 
 which was ever open to all who came to him 
 for remedies, for money, or for food. Over 
 the door an oval aperture had been cut, 
 through which a ray. of- the mid-day sun daily 
 penetrated, and resting upon a certain point 
 in the adjoining room, marked the hour of 
 noon. . This was the astronomical gnomon, or 
 dial-hand, of Copernicus; and the only orna- 
 ment the room contained were some verses 
 written by his own hand, and pasted up over 
 the chimney-piece. 
 
 It was in this parlour that the good canon 
 found the ten invalids who had come to claim 
 his assistance ; he dressed the wounds of some, 
 administered remedies to others, and on all he 
 bestowed alms and words of kindness and con- 
 solation. Having completed his labours, he 
 hastily swallowed a draught of milk, and was 
 about to set out for Frauenberg, when a horse- 
 man, galloping up to the door, handed him a 
 letter. He trembled as he recognised the 
 hand-writing of his friend Gysius, bishop of 
 Culm. "May God. have pity on us," wrote 
 
a 
 
 186 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 this latter, " and avert the blow which now 
 threatens thee. Thy enemies and thy rivals 
 combined — those who accuse thee of folly, and 
 those who treat thee as a heretic- — have been 
 so successful in exciting against thee- the minds 
 of the .people of Nuremberg, that men .curse 
 thy name in the streets'; the priests excom- 
 municate thee from their pulpits ; and the uni- 
 versity, hearing that thy book was about to 
 appear, has declared its .intention to break the 
 • printing presses of the publisher, and to de- 
 stroy the work to which thy life has been de- 
 voted. Come and lay the storm ; but come 
 quickly, or thou wilt be too late !" 
 
 Before Copernicus had finished the perusal 
 of this letter, he fell back voiceless and power- 
 less into the arms of his faithful servant, and. 
 it was some moments before he rallied. When 
 he again looked up, the horseman, who had 
 been charged to escort him back, asked him 
 how soon he would wish to set. out. 
 
 " I must set out directly," replied the old 
 man in a resigned tone ; " but not for Nurem- 
 
d 
 
 11 
 
 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 187 
 
 berg or for Culm: the suffering workmen at 
 Frauenberg are expecting me ; they may per- 
 haps die if I go not to their assistance. My 
 enemies may perhaps destroy my work — they 
 cannot stop the stars in their courses !" 
 
 An hour later, Copernicus was at Frauen- 
 berg. The machine which he had bestowed 
 upon this town, which was built on the summit 
 of a hill, conveyed thither the waters of the 
 river Bouda, situated at the distance of half a 
 league in the valley below. The inhabitants, 
 instead of suffering, like their fathers, from 
 continued drought, had now only to turn a 
 valve, and the plenteous stream flowed into 
 their houses in rich abundance. 
 
 This machine had got out of order the preced- 
 ing day, and the accident had happened very 
 inopportunely, because, according to the super- 
 stitions of the age, this was the festival of 
 the "patron saint" of Frauenberg." But at the 
 first glance the canon saw where the evil lay, 
 and in a few hours the water again flowed 
 freely into the town. His first cares, we need 
 
 m 
 
 16 
 
188 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 not say, had been directed to the unhappy 
 men who had received injuries while working 
 in the sluices : he set their fractured limbs, 
 and bound them up with his own hands, then 
 commending them to the care of an attendant, he 
 promised to return and visit them on the morrow. 
 But a blow was about to descend upon himself 
 which was destined to crush him to the dust. 
 
 As he crossed the square, while passing 
 through the town on his return home, he per- 
 ceived amidst the crowd a company of strolling 
 players acting upon a temporary stage. The 
 theatre represented an astronomical observa- 
 tory, filled with all sorts of ridiculous instru- 
 ments ; in the midst stood an old man, whose 
 dress and bearing were in exact imitation of 
 those of Copernicus. The resemblance was so 
 striking, that he directly recognised himself, 
 and paused, stupefied with astonishment. Be- 
 hind the Merry- Andrew, whose business it was 
 thus to hold up the great man to public deri- 
 sion, there stood a personage whose horns and 
 cloven foot designated him as a representation 
 
 m 
 
q-pm 
 
 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 189 
 
 of Satan, and who caused the pretended Co- 
 pernicus to act and speak, as though he had 
 been an automaton, by means of two strings 
 fastened to his ears — which were no other 
 than asses' ears, of considerable dimensions. 
 The parody was composed of several scenes. 
 In the first, the astronomer gave himself to 
 Satan, burnt a copy of the Bible, and trampled 
 a crucifix under foot : in the second, he ex- 
 plained his system, by juggling with apples in 
 guise of planets, while his head was trans- 
 formed into a likeness of the sun by means of 
 torches of resin: in the third, he became a 
 charlatan, a vender of pomatum and quack 
 medicines — he spoke dog-Latin to the passers- 
 by ; sold them water, which he had drawn from 
 his own well, at an exorbitant price ; and be- 
 came intoxicated himself with excellent wine, 
 in such copious draughts of which did he in- 
 dulge, that he finally disappeared under the 
 table : in the fourth and closing act he was 
 again dragged forth to view as one accursed 
 of God and man ; and the devil, dragging him 
 
 m 
 
190 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 down to the infernal regions amidst a cloud of 
 sulphurous smoke, declared his intention of 
 punishing him for having caused the earth to 
 turn on its axis, by condemning him to remain 
 with his head downwards throughout eternity. 
 When Copernicus thus beheld the treasured 
 discoveries of his whole life held up to the de- 
 rision of an ignorant multitude, his enlightened 
 faith branded as impiety, and his self-denying 
 benevolence ridiculed as the quackery of a 
 charlatan, his noble spirit was at first utterly 
 overwhelmed, and the most fearful doubts of 
 himself, of mankind, and even of Providence 
 itself, rushed upon his mind. At first he hoped 
 that the Frauenbergians, the children of his 
 adoption, to whose comfort and happiness he 
 had devoted himself for fifty years, would cut 
 short the disgraceful scene. But, alas ! he saw 
 his defamers welcomed with applause by those 
 on whom he had conferred so many benefits. 
 The trial was too much for his failing strength ; 
 and worn out by the emotions and fatigue of 
 the preceding night, and by the labours of the 
 
IE 
 
 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 191 
 
 morning, he sunk exhausted to the ground. 
 Then, for the first time, did the ungrateful 
 multitude recognise their benefactor ; the name 
 of Copernicus flew from lip to lip — they heard 
 that he had come that very morning to the 
 town in order to relieve their distress. In a 
 moment the current of popular feeling was 
 turned, — their ingratitude was quickly changed 
 to remorse — the crowd dispersed the actors, 
 and pressed anxiously round the astronomer. 
 He had only strength left to call for a litter, 
 and was conveyed back to Wernica in a dying 
 state. He lingered, however, still for five 
 days — days of trial and anxiety — during which 
 the lamp of genius and of faith still shed its 
 halo around the dying man. On the day suc- 
 ceeding his visit to Frauenberg, a letter from 
 Rheticus confirmed the sinister predictions of 
 the bishop of Culm. Thrice had the students of 
 the university made an attempt to invade the 
 printing-office whence the truth was about to 
 issue forth. " Even this very morning," wrote 
 his friend, " a set of madmen tried to set fire 
 
 16* 
 
 a — - i 
 
192 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 to it. I have assembled all our friends within 
 the building, and we never quit our posts either 
 day or night, guarding the entrance, and keep- 
 ing watch over the workmen. The printers 
 perform their work with one hand, while they 
 hold a pistol in the other. If we can stand 
 our ground for two days, thy book is saved ; 
 for let only ten copies be struck off, and 
 nothing will any longer be able to destroy it. 
 .... But if either to-day or to-morrow, our 
 enemies should succeed in gaining the upper 
 hand" .... Rheticus left the sentence un- 
 finished, but Copernicus supplied the want — 
 he knew how much depended upon this moment. 
 On the third day another messenger made his 
 appearance, and he, too, was the bearer of evil 
 tidings: "A compositor, gained over by our 
 enemies, has delivered into their hands the 
 manuscript of the book, and it has been burned 
 in the public square. Happily the impression 
 was complete, and we are now putting it into 
 press. . . . But a popular tumult might yet 
 ruin all I" 
 
 n - m-q 
 
rjq-p 
 
 1 
 
 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 193 
 
 Such was the state of suspense in which the 
 great Copernicus passed the closing days of 
 his existence ! Life was ebbing fast, and the 
 torpor of death had already begun to steal 
 over his faculties, when a horseman galloped 
 up to the door in breathless haste, and springing 
 from his horse, hastened into the house of the 
 dying astronomer. A volume, whose leaves 
 were still damp, was treasured in his bosom ; 
 it was the great work of Copernicus ; this 
 messenger brought tidings of victory. 
 
 The spark of life, so nearly extinguished, 
 seemed to be rekindled for a moment in the 
 breast of the dying man : he raised himself in 
 his bed, grasped the book with his feeble hand, 
 and glanced at its contents with his dim, ex- 
 piring eye. A smile lighted up his features ; 
 the book fell from his grasp ; and, clasping his 
 hands together, he exclaimed, " Lord, let thy 
 servant now depart in peace !" Hardly had he 
 uttered these words, before his spirit fled from 
 earth to return to the God who gave it. It 
 was the morning of the 23d May — day had 
 
 d-bJ3z ~ 
 
~n 
 
 194 THE PERSECUTED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 not yet dawned — heaven was still lighted up 
 with stars — the earth was fragrant with flowers 
 — all nature seemed to sympathize with the 
 great revealer of her laws ; and soon the sun, 
 rising above the horizon, shed his earliest and 
 purest ray upon the still, cold brow of the de- 
 vout astronomer. 
 
 Persecution followed Copernicus even in the 
 grave. The court of Rome replied to his dedi- 
 cation by condemning his book ; but the book 
 was the instrument of its own revenge by en- 
 lightening the court of Rome herself, which at 
 last recognised, although too late, the faith and 
 the genius of the astronomer of Wernica. 
 Prussia, with the ingratitude of a conqueror, 
 has converted the observatory of Copernicus 
 into a prison, and is now allowing his dwelling- 
 house to crumble into ruins. But Poland, his 
 native land, has collected some of her last 
 oboles* to raise a monument to his memory at 
 Cracow, and to erect a statue of him in War- 
 saw. 
 
 * A small coin. 
 
 p — en 
 
cr 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 
 
 I SAY to thee — do thou repeat 
 To the first man thou mayest meet 
 In lane, highway, or open street, — 
 
 That he and we and all men move 
 
 Under a canopy of love, 
 
 As broad as the blue sky above ; 
 
 That doubt and trouble, fear and pain 
 And anguish, all are shadows vain, 
 That death itself shall not remain ; 
 
 That weary deserts we may tread, 
 A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
 Through dark ways underground be led ; 
 
 195 
 
 m 
 
 J3 CL 
 
a-piX 
 
 196 THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 
 
 Yet, if we will one Guide obey, 
 The dreariest path, the darkest way 
 Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 
 
 And we, on divers shores now cast, 
 Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, 
 All in our Father's house at last. 
 
 And ere thou leave him, say thou this, 
 Yet one word more, — They only miss 
 The winning of that final bliss, 
 
 Who will not count it true, that Love, 
 Blessing, not cursing, rules above, 
 And that in it we live and move. 
 
 And one thing further make him know, — 
 That to believe these things are so, 
 This firm faith never to forego, 
 
 Despite of all that seems at strife 
 With blessing, all with curses rife, 
 That this is blessing, this is life. 
 
He set his inquiring eyes on me, and I tried to explain 
 what I meant." p. '200. 
 
:cr 
 
 i£ 
 
 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 " what a garden will be seen 
 When all the flowers of grace 
 Appear in everlasting green 
 Before the Planter's face." 
 
 On a sunny day in autumn I passed a 
 wheeled chair standing before a cottage door, 
 in which a young man sat. It occurred to me, 
 that this must be the cripple who, by the kind- 
 ness of a worthy neighbour, had, for several 
 months, procured books from our Sunday- 
 school Library. He had come into the town 
 only last winter, and I had not seen him be- 
 fore; but I turned back, and began to talk 
 with him. I spoke of his privations, both as 
 to the means of earning his bread, and enjoy- 
 ing the freedom and health common to his age. 
 He said it was trying, but he did not wish to 
 murmur, for he knew who sent him his trouble. 
 
 199 
 
P- PI?, 
 m 
 
 200 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 I replied, "that that was the best knowledge, 
 for, if he knew God and himself, he would be 
 sure that God did all things well, and that he 
 deserved and needed chastening." 
 
 He shook his head and sighed. I spoke to 
 him with earnestness, (which I since have 
 known was given me of God,) of the happiness 
 of divine communion, and the joy he might 
 possess in his solitude and confinement, by 
 feeling that he had a Father and a Friend in 
 heaven, who knew his wants, pitied his suffer- 
 ings, and had provided for him a Redeemer. 
 He lifted up his drooping head, and said, "I 
 do not understand you." There was something 
 touching in the candour of this confession, quite 
 unlike the senseless assent which so often chills 
 the hearts of those who endeavour to convey 
 spiritual instruction. He set his inquiring 
 eyes on me, and I tried to explain what I 
 meant. He sighed often, and replied once or 
 twice, "We should do so," when I urged on 
 him the importance of the care of his soul. 
 I remember speaking with energy on the de- 
 
 m S3 
 
0= = CT 
 
 THE CRIPPLE. 201 
 
 ceitful word "should," which many pacify 
 themselves with, as if assenting to a duty were 
 doing it. 
 
 But I cannot pretend to give the words of 
 the conversation, though I now wish I had 
 taken notes of it at the time. In the course 
 of it his mother came and stood within the 
 door, and I observed her weep, but she did 
 not advance, and I think I did not speak to 
 her. I that day sent him a new book, and 
 did not see him again till about the last day 
 of October, when I went, accompanied by a 
 young friend. We found him sitting up in 
 bed, with a blanket pinned round him, and 
 learned that he had been ill of a cold for two 
 days, which made respiration so difficult that 
 he could not recline in the least. I asked him 
 if ever he had thought of our former conversa- 
 tion. His eyes instantly were filled with tears, 
 and he said, " Yes, but not so much as I ought." 
 
 I asked, "Do you now understand what 
 communion with God is?" 
 
 "No," said he, "not by experience." 
 
 dhn ____ = _____ ,__ _ ____a 
 
202 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 "Do you wish to know it, Adam?" 
 
 "I should do it," replied he. 
 
 "What, have you gone no farther yet than to 
 I should do it ! Oh, have done with that, and 
 begin to do; many have died thinking they 
 should begin to care for their souls." 
 
 "I believe that," said he, shaking his head, 
 and all his face working with emotion. 
 
 "But, if you sit at the foot of a hill all day 
 wishing to get to the top, you will be no nearer 
 at night ; yet if you get up and begin to walk, 
 though you may find it steep, though you may 
 often stop to rest, yet you will get on by de- 
 grees, and, at last, reach the top." 
 
 "What must I do then?" asked the poor 
 youth, with a look of intense anxiety. I lifted 
 up my soul to God, for I saw that his Spirit 
 was piercing the heart of this amiable sufferer ; 
 and then, taking a Bible from the table, I 
 asked him if he remembered the conversation 
 of Christ with Nicodemus. After speaking 
 of the anxiety of mind which the ruler of the 
 Jews must have suffered, when he went in the 
 
 □uJ 
 
a =n 
 
 THE CRIPPLE. 203 
 
 night to seek instruction, sacrificing his rest, 
 because he could not obtain courage to go du- 
 ring the day, — of the kindness with which he 
 was received and taught, — Adam said, " You 
 need not read the chapter, for my mother has 
 been reading it to me; but we cannot think 
 what is the meaning of being born again." 
 
 I began to explain, and words and ideas 
 and illustrations came so fast upon me, that 
 it seemed amazing to myself. There was both 
 heart and life in me, and in my auditors. The 
 mother stood by a chair, on which her tears 
 fell like rain. I showed him how a new heart, 
 a clean heart, a heart of flesh, repentance, 
 being renewed in the spirit of the mind, &c, 
 all mean the same thing, as Christ told Nico- 
 demus ; and that it was no new doctrine first 
 promulgated at the coming of Christ. David 
 had prayed for it, in the 51st Psalm ; and God 
 had promised it, in the 36th chapter of Ezekiel. 
 I spoke of the evil nature which made such a 
 change needful, and heard him say, he thought 
 he understood me. 
 
 a ; i 
 
■si 
 
 204 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 When we arose to take leave, he said, " The 
 first day you spoke to me, I did not know who 
 you were ; no one had ever spoken to me so 
 before; I might say like David, 'no man cared 
 for my soul.' I wondered, and could not get 
 the things you said out of my mind." 
 
 I said I would come back soon, at which he 
 expressed a lively satisfaction. Then I told 
 him, if he had ever expressed such a wish, I 
 would have returned sooner ; for I only wanted 
 to be made welcome, to encourage me to revisit 
 him. 
 
 He said he feared he had not been anxious 
 enough to induce him to make free to trouble 
 me. This day was Thursday. 
 
 On Saturday I returned, and found him 
 looking worse, and sitting on the spot where 
 I saw him before; never having lain down, 
 and never having slept longer than till his 
 head nodded, which always roused him again. 
 But he spoke little of his body, and imme- 
 diately reverted to our last conversation. He 
 said he had been trying to pray, but his heart 
 
53 -P 
 
 THE CRIPPLE. 205 
 
 was backward, lie was not earnest enough. 
 And then he said, (what I found he also said 
 to the friend who had first got him books from 
 the library,) "that he never till now saw the 
 depravity of his heart, for he always fancied 
 that he was as free from sin as his neighbours. 
 Indeed, his heart was not so evil as theirs." 
 He remarked also, that "we are poor crea- 
 tures, and can do nothing of ourselves." 
 
 I warned him against taking up the notion 
 that lulls many people into a false security. 
 I said, " You cannot sanctify your heart, 
 but you can ask of God to sanctify it by his 
 Holy Spirit. You cannot wash out your sins, 
 but you can beg of Christ to do it. If you 
 were floating down a river and could not get 
 out, you could yet call to those on the bank to 
 throw you a rope." I then repeated some 
 Scripture invitations to pray, and promises to 
 answer prayer, and some such injunctions as, 
 " Put off the old man with his deeds, and put 
 on the new man." — u Strive to enter in." — 
 " Run with patience;" — all which argue acti- 
 
206 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 vity in the person to whom salvation is given. 
 He said, " I see all that now ; it has been my 
 laziness." I then referred to the Prodigal Son, 
 and explained the parable to him. He seemed 
 deeply interested, and wept when I described 
 the father seeing him when yet a great way 
 off and running to meet him. This day I of- 
 fered to pray with him, for which both he and 
 his mother thanked me repeatedly. 
 
 I did not see him again till Monday, but 
 learned, in the interval, that the friend who 
 had accompanied me on my first visit had 
 called, and he had asked her which chapter in 
 Ezekiel has the promise of taking away the 
 stony heart ; and which Psalm has the prayer 
 for cleansing the heart, for he had been search- 
 ing, and could not find them. She read the 
 passages, in which he was much interested. 
 
 On Monday he asked me what was meant by 
 the prayer of the wicked being an abomination 
 to the Lord ? He looked troubled. I explained 
 it as well as I could, and then besought him 
 not to keep from prayer because of his wicked- 
 
 m 
 
THE CRIPPLE. 207 
 
 ness, using the homely illustration of Dr. Malan, 
 " If you want your linen washed, will you take 
 a great deal of trouble to make it a little 
 cleaner before you give it to the wash-wo- 
 man ?" I told him, if he did not come to Christ 
 till he was good and fit, he would never come. 
 I also told him, that the late Rev. Andrew 
 Gray, of Glasgow, in one of his sermons, re- 
 marks, that the " Intercessor who pleads at the 
 right hand of God, makes our petitions fit as 
 he presents them, and that we very likely would 
 not know our own prayers again if we heard 
 them, when offered by the Mediator." 
 
 I did not see him again till Wednesday, after 
 it was dark, when I was kindly accompanied 
 by a clergyman. While he was asking the mo- 
 ther if she could not fall on some method to 
 relieve the weary body, (and, indeed, he was 
 then a touching spectacle, worn out by want 
 of sleep, bathed in perspiration, and panting 
 for breath,) I drew near the bed, and he in- 
 stantly said, " Oh, how impatient I was for you 
 to come : I think this is death, and I am not 
 
 o a 
 
208 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 ready." There was an expression of alarm 
 and anguish in his fine countenance. 
 
 I replied, " I hope it is but the effect of a 
 bad cold, and may go off; but it is good to be 
 ready, for we know not the day nor the hour." 
 I inquired what he felt. He said he was con- 
 vinced of sin ; that he had now given up all 
 other hopes of mercy, and had been trying 
 all day to lay hold on Christ ; for he saw there 
 was no other Saviour ; but, though he cried, he 
 could feel no comfort, as if his prayers were 
 heard. I told him that the Bible does not fix the 
 time when prayers shall be answered, and that he 
 need not wonder, if he had neglected God four- 
 and-twenty years, that he did not find comfort 
 in the first hour in which he wished for it. God 
 had waited to be gracious when he did not re- 
 gard ; now he must wait ; but if he sowed in 
 tears, he should surely reap in joy. 
 
 He said, " Oh, if I had my time again, when I 
 used to read vain books and neglect the Bible !" 
 
 I answered him, " I hope it is God who 
 has put this concern into your heart, and he 
 
s 
 
 THE CRIPPLE. 209 
 
 never gave a praying spirit without designing 
 to give the blessing." 
 
 "I wish it may be so," sighed the poor suf- 
 ferer ; " pray for me." 
 
 The clergyman conversed with him of the 
 reason why God afflicts, and prayed with him. 
 
 Next morning I went up, and found him 
 much worse. I talked with him of the purposes 
 of mercy which the Father has toward his 
 children, and of the methods of chastening by 
 which he fits them to receive his blessing, — of 
 the unchangeableness of his favour, and the 
 un-upbraiding generosity with which he gives 
 liberally even to rebels ; and of the sin of un- 
 belief, as making God a liar ; a fearful expres- 
 sion, which the apostle uses in all its strength. 
 I asked him if a man were often to assure him 
 of his kindness, and tell what he would do for 
 him, if it would not be very provoking that he 
 should receive his assurances with cold incre- 
 dulity ; and then spoke of the parable where, 
 when the creditor saw that the debtors had 
 nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. 
 
 (-1 LJO — 
 
210 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 Poor Adam always looked a great deal more 
 than he spoke, and that day his tearful eye 
 followed mine, as if he would have taken in all 
 the meaning with it. I said — 
 
 " They who once his kindness prove, 
 Find it everlasting love." 
 
 "But," inquired he, "how does it say in 
 Genesis that it repented God that he had made 
 man ?" 
 
 I tried to explain, that some expressions 
 in Scripture are used to suit our narrow com- 
 prehensions ; and spoke of it never being said 
 that it repented God that he had redeemed 
 man. 
 
 He complained of weakness and wandering 
 of mind during the last night ; and his mother 
 said he had been tried in the course of it in 
 various ways ; at times his head wandering ; at 
 times engaged in prayer with great fear ; and 
 at times in severe bodily pain. 
 
 He was very low, so that I spoke less to 
 him than usual. He again lamented his love 
 of vain books ; repeated his conviction that 
 
THE CRIPPLE. 211 
 
 Christ is the only means of our entering the 
 kingdom of heaven, and said with feebleness, 
 " I desire to trust in Him." The doctor 
 came in ; and, after hearing his opinion, I left 
 him. 
 
 Next day, a worthy neighbour, who was 
 there, said, " Oh, I am glad you are come to 
 see the last ;" and we beheld poor Adam try- 
 ing to lean on his weeping mother, who was 
 behind him, bending as he bent, and stretching 
 her willing arms, and knees, and breast, in 
 her fruitless endeavours to give him rest. But 
 it is only in the grave that such weariness 
 can find repose. His handsome countenance 
 was all altered; his lips parched, and black, 
 and never closed ; his eyes often turned up in 
 anguish, till the pupils were hid, but, when 
 they returned to their place, as full of intelli- 
 gence as ever. He only shook his head when 
 I said he was very ill. I offered a short 
 prayer to the God who can deliver in all ex- 
 tremities ; put a cordial to his mouth, which 
 afforded no relief, and sat down for half an 
 
212 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 hour to watch the approach of the king of ter- 
 rors. 
 
 It was painful to hear the faint cough, which 
 was succeeded by a rattle in the throat. It 
 was lamentable to see the teeth clenched toge- 
 ther at every respiration, for several breaths 
 in succession ; to see the anxious eye, the occa- 
 sional knitting of the brow, the ceaseless mo- 
 tion of the w T eary head. Surely to such as 
 these Jesus addressed his " Come unto me, all 
 ye that labour and are heavy laden." I re- 
 peated that, and several other scriptures. At 
 "I am the resurrection and the life," he looked 
 with lively intelligence for a while; his tongue 
 moved, but in vain, to give utterance to his 
 thought. At last, after watching his tongue, 
 for his lips could not move, I thought I caught 
 his meaning, and asked if he said, " Lord 
 Jesus, receive my spirit. ' ' He bowed, with a gen- 
 tle smile, (it was in a pause of his anguish,) and 
 looked with a calm, satisfied air on me for a 
 moment. The time compelled us to leave him. 
 At parting, I said, " Farewell, Adam, lean on 
 
THE CRIPPLE. 213 
 
 Jesus, the Redeemer of your soul ; lie will wipe 
 all tears from your eyes." And again, "The 
 Lord bless thee, and keep thee ; the Lord lift 
 up the light of His countenance upon thee ; 
 the Lord give thee peace." He looked earn- 
 estly, bowed his head, and looked again wist- 
 fully. In an hour after, his warfare was ac- 
 complished, and his iniquity, I trust, pardoned. 
 I called on his mother after the funeral, and 
 learned the following story of Adam's brief 
 life : — His father died when he was sixteen 
 months old. When six years old, he was 
 seized by a fever. After it was gone, it was 
 found that his spine was injured. By degrees 
 he lost the use of his limbs, but he was able to 
 teach himself to read and write with very little 
 assistance. He could, for some years, move 
 out of bed to a table which was placed close to 
 it, and put on his own clothes. At that period 
 his mother was used to leave him with a day's 
 provision on the table, while she went to wash 
 at a neighbour's a few miles off, so that much 
 of his life was solitary. He used to read all 
 
m 
 
 214 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 sorts of books, but the Bible was what he 
 always read first in the morning. His mother 
 often remonstrated against his fondness for 
 novels, to which he was passionately devoted. 
 She told me her motive for asking books from 
 our library was, that she might induce him to 
 relinquish these works of fiction. He was used 
 to knit stockings ; but this employment became 
 too heavy for his hands, and he felt pain, 
 which obliged him to relinquish it. 
 
 Five years ago he removed, with his mother, 
 to this neighbourhood. He had but once in 
 his life, before coming to this place, been 
 visited by a clergyman ; and this visit had 
 been a great gratification to him. Twice, after 
 his removal hither, his mother had him con- 
 veyed to the place of worship at which she 
 attended, to hear and see the services of a 
 sacramental Sabbath, and these were the only 
 opportunities the poor young man had of ex- 
 ternal instruction during twenty-four years. 
 Surely in his ignorance he was of that num- 
 ber for whom it shall be more tolerable in 
 
 ^i-q a. 
 
m 
 
 THE CRIPPLE. 215 
 
 the day of judgment than for those who use 
 and abuse many sacred privileges. His mo- 
 ther mentioned a Sabbath evening, within 
 the last year, when two men, who lodged 
 in the house, entered into some idle con- 
 versation about the formation of the globe. 
 Adam listened for some time in silence, but at 
 length he broke out with indignation, and de- 
 sired them either to discuss their worldly sub- 
 jects no farther, or to go elsewhere. He was 
 used to observe the Sabbath, but his mother 
 never saw him offended by the breach of it 
 before. 
 
 After the day I spoke to him in his wheeled 
 chair, his mother described him as sitting very 
 much dejected ; and when she bade him cheer 
 up, and not lay to heart what that stranger 
 had said to him, he replied, that it was all 
 true, at least he feared it was, and he was all 
 in the wrong. He particularly repeated many 
 times, " She said, if I were to promise you a 
 nice sofa, with plenty of pillows, where you 
 could lie down and rest when you would, how 
 
216 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 much you would think of it, and how you 
 would long for its being ready. Or if some 
 nobleman were to promise you a carriage, by 
 means of which you could procure air and ex- 
 ercise, and be delivered in part from your con- 
 finement, what good spirits you would be in — 
 how you would rejoice when it drove up, and 
 you rode away to enjoy yourself. Now the 
 King of kings has offered you heaven and 
 happiness and holiness, and to free you from 
 pain and infirmity, and to make you complete 
 in Christ. Have these offers ever affected 
 you ? Does your mind dwell with pleasure on 
 them?" And after thus repeating my words, 
 he used to accuse himself of neglecting the 
 care of his soul, and regret that he did not 
 understand more of these things. But both 
 mother and son said the impression had worn 
 off in some degree, till it returned with deeper 
 effect on my revisiting him. After the first 
 of my visits since his sickness began, he often 
 spent twenty minutes at a time in prayer, and 
 often deplored his former vain reading, and 
 
 PlB 
 
THE CRIPPLE. 217 
 
 his ignorance of the will of God. He thought 
 from the beginning of his trouble that he was 
 dying ; often repeated passages of Scripture, 
 which he remembered from his former reading, 
 and spoke of the humble narrator as the per- 
 son who had been sent to warn him of his dan- 
 ger. His poor mother said, that after I took 
 my final leave of him, a few minutes before he 
 expired, he made signs to her to come near, and 
 said, so far as she could make out his meaning, 
 "Now, mother, fear God; for if you do you 
 will love him, and then you will serve him ; 
 and I have the comfort to tell you, that all 
 my fears are removed!" 
 
 I learned afterwards that the cold which 
 terminated poor Adam's short but lingering 
 life, was contracted the week before he died. 
 The tediousness of his monotonous days, and 
 the hankering of his mind after such varieties 
 and amusements as came within his reach, had 
 induced him to expose himself for several hours 
 on a cold damp day, when he was drawn in his 
 chair, to witness a street-pageant. He never 
 
 18* 
 
 ifeia 
 
ES 3 
 
 218 THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 removed, after that day, from his sad seat in 
 the bed where he expired. 
 
 How striking the revolution of sentiment and 
 feeling which was, to all human appearance, 
 wrought by the Divine Spirit in the momentous 
 fortnight, — a revolution which elevated his taste 
 and desires far above carnal things, and made 
 him long to drink of that fountain of living 
 water which has its source in the love of God, 
 and is communicated to us through Christ 
 Jesus our Lord. 
 
 Of the same character with his curiosity 
 to witness public shows, was the insatiable de- 
 sire of this poor youth for works of fiction. 
 And for a heart gentle and tender as his, 
 which had scarcely any object to expand itself 
 upon but his mother, there must have been an 
 attractive charm in the fine-spun fancies and 
 highly-wrought scenes of the tales in which 
 he so much delighted. Not any such apology, 
 however, would he make, or allow to be made 
 for him. When his mind was truly awake to 
 the incalculable importance of eternity, and to 
 
 is 
 

 THE CRIPPLE. 219 
 
 the claim our Father in heaven lays on all our 
 heart, and all our mind, and all our soul, and 
 all our strength, he could not refrain from ex- 
 claiming, " Oh, if I had in y time again !" And, 
 doubtless, had his days been prolonged till he 
 had felt more the difficulty of regulating his 
 own heart on the one hand, and tasted more 
 of the pure consolations which are to be found 
 in seeking the Lord, and in studying his word 
 on the other, he would have discovered more 
 fully the value of what he had wasted. 
 
 Will not our young friends profit by the ex- 
 perience of the poor cripple, and make the 
 most of every day and every hour as they 
 pass ? Time spent in vain amusements or un- 
 profitable reading, is worse than wasted. It 
 is perverted ; and when we come to the end of 
 life, the recollection of our folly will be as a 
 thorn in our dying pillow. 
 
 iron: 
 
m 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF NATURE, 
 
 THE TYPE OF A GLORIOUS RESURRECTION. 
 
 Why roam'st thou, sad and downward-eyed, 
 
 Pale pilgrim, sable clad ? 
 While earth bedecks her like a bride, 
 
 In vernal sunshine glad. 
 
 " The snowdrop's reign is almost gone, 
 And gayer flowers unfold, 
 Narcissus with its clusters fair, 
 And crocus gleaming gold. 
 
 " But thou the while dost paler grow, 
 
 More sadness hangs o'er thee, 
 
 As if this pomp of loveliness 
 
 It sickened thee to see." 
 220 
 
 J33 — _ _ _Q; 
 
THE MYSTERY OF NATURE. 221 
 
 " There was a time when I drank in 
 The sunshine of the spring, 
 Which now upon my faded brow 
 Doth baneful shadows fling. 
 
 " But nature's face is changed to me, 
 
 In funeral trappings clad ; 
 
 The more all other hearts are gay, 
 
 The more my heart is sad. 
 
 " Earth, in her winter dress of gloom, 
 Is welcome to my eye, 
 But spare me all her pomp and glare 
 Of vernal pageantry." 
 
 " say not so, thou pilgrim pale, 
 But muse and pray a while ; 
 And so shall nature's darkened face 
 Resume its morning smile. 
 
 " Look on her with the eye of faith, 
 And so thy heart shall learn, 
 
 o L-D 
 
 aJ b 
 
222 THE MYSTERY OF NATURE. 
 
 Of her mysterious loveliness 
 The meaning to discern. 
 
 " We may not turn in gloom away, 
 For One her ground hath trod, 
 And left a glory round her path, 
 Our Master and our God ; 
 
 "And since that hour, this wondrous world 
 Is but the outer shell, 
 Which wraps a world more wondrous still, 
 Wherein his chosen dwell. 
 
 " And he who framed that inner world 
 With his creative breath, 
 Has rent in twain the barrier stern 
 That parted life from death. 
 
 " Alike on either side the tomb 
 
 That unseen realm is spread, 
 It knows no severing line between 
 The living and the dead. 
 
 i_jb 
 
TI- 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF NATURE. 223 
 
 " The saints we see not, gathered there, 
 Blend with the saints we see ; 
 One hidden life pervading all 
 In mystic unity. 
 
 " And in the fulness of the time, 
 This outer world of sin 
 Shall burst and shrivel, and disclose 
 The glorious world within. 
 
 " Then shall the sons of God no more 
 
 Seem like to sons of clay, 
 
 Their hidden, holy, heavenly life 
 
 Made manifest that day. 
 
 " And all the beauty that we see 
 Clothing this outer earth, 
 Is but the type, perchance the germ, 
 Of her immortal birth. 
 
 " Then shrink not from the gorgeous spring, 
 For all her flowers are born. 
 
 L_n: 
 
cr 
 
 224 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF NATURE. 
 
 Blest harbingers ! to herald forth 
 The resurrection morn. 
 
 ; And dream of dreariness no more, 
 But rouse thee — toil and praj : 
 So thou in thine own lot may'st stand, 
 Safe on that awful day." 
 
 m 
 
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 3477 7 
 
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