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Maurice Gray and other stories

Material Information

Title:
Maurice Gray and other stories : a book for boys
Added title page title:
Maurice Gray
Added title page title:
Clarence Hartley
Added title page title:
Widow's son
Added title page title:
Carl Adler
Creator:
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London
Edinburgh
Publisher:
T. Nelson and Sons
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
356, 16 p., [5]leaves of plates : ill. ; 18 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Boys -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1852 ( rbgenr )
Children's stories -- 1852 ( lcsh )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1852 ( rbbin )
Baldwin -- 1852
Genre:
Publishers' catalogues ( rbgenr )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) ( rbbin )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

Content Advice:
Maurice Gray -- Clarence Hartley -- The Widow's son -- Carl Adler -- Herbert Morgan, or, Work to do.
General Note:
Added engraved t.p.
General Note:
Publisher's catalogue follows text.
Funding:
Brittle Books Program

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Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026869900 ( ALEPH )
45839719 ( OCLC )
ALH4451 ( NOTIS )

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Full Text




Of biltes... U Mark

MAURICE GRAY.

fa OF

ra





CAKL ADLER.

Now they are trying to bury the Newfoundland doy in new hay, from which
he rises like an animated haycock. Now they are repeating tne experiment
with Bob Bolton, the biggest and best humoured of the set.—Page 132.

Lie,

oe

\

cA

A
we







Turning the head of the boat towards Sunnyside Cove, they made directly
for laud. Two boys aged about sixteen and fourteen leaped ashore, and made

fast the Little vessel.—Page 199.



‘’. NELSON AND SONS, LONDON AND EDINBURGH.



MAURICE GRAY

OTHER STORIES.

@ Book for Boys,

Of tng holiday sports, dividing the rule

U1 the duties of home and the studies of school ;

Till che sunshine of boyhood has ended, and brought
Tho cares and the shadows of manhood and thought.

London:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
AND EDINBURGH.

MDCCCLII..

rR



CONTENTS.

MAURICE GRaY, or
CLARENCE HARTLEY, vee oe
THE WIDOW'S SON, we oe
CARL ADLER, wee on oe

HERBERT MORGAN, ae tee

a

123

131

307



MAURICE GRAY.

CHAPTER I.

“ News, boys! I have some news to tell you,”
cried Frank Henley, running towards the play-
ground, where a number of boys were assembled.
He was soon surrounded by a group of them.

‘* What is it, Frank? what is it?” asked many
voices,

**We are to have a new scholar, and he is
coming to-morrow,” answered Frank. “Not a
half scholar, as I call the day-scholars, but a
whole one—a boarder.

“How do you know?” “ What is his name?”
« How old is he?” Where is he from?” were
questions rapidly asked.

“TI can answer but one of these questions,” said
Frank. “I heard Mr. Harding say so himself to
Mr. Neville, the assistant; so it is true, you see.”

“Did you not even hear his name, Frank?”
asked one.



8 MAURICE GRAY.

“No! I have told you all I know,” said
Frank, “and you will have to wait until to-mor-
row to find out the rest.”

**O dear! that is a great while to wait,” said
Bob Newton. ‘“‘ But one thing we know, he can-~
not be younger than eleven years, for none are
admitted here younger; and it is not likely he is
more than sixteen, for boys generally leave school
at that age. I hope he is a real good-natured
fellow.”

‘Come now,” said Dick Wells, “suppose one
of us should go and ask Mr. Harding about him.
There! he is just walking down the garden to-
wards the summer-house, with a book in his hand.
He is going there to read, I suppose; a capital
chance to ask him.”

“1 will not ask him this time,” said Harry
Blake, “ for it fell to my lot last time, and Mr.
Harding will think all the curiosity of the school
is centred in me.”

* How can you be so foolish?” said Philip
Graham, a tall, slender boy, fourteen years of age,
with an uncommonly sedate countenance, small
light blue eyes, and rather a precise air. “ To-
morrow is time enough to know. What difference
can oue day make?”

*O! Phil would not condescend to be curi-



MAURICE GRAY. 9

ous,” said Bob Newton; “it is too undignified
for him.” oo

“Come now,” said Frank Henley, “all who
wish to find out about the new scholar stand
round me, and we will cast lots who shall go and
ask Mr. Harding, and then there will be no
trouble about it.”

The lot fell upon little Joseph Green, one of the
smallest boys. Joseph was very timid, and it was
a hard task for him, but he felt ashamed to own
it, or complain of his lot.

“ Now,” said Frank, “it will not answer tu
ask too many questions of Mr. Harding, for he
would think that rude, and perhaps not tell us
anything.”

“‘Well,” said one, “ask his name of course.
There is a great deal in a name; it seems to tell
one how a boy looks.”.

“‘ Ask his age,” said another. “Ask where he
is from,” said another. “ Where he will sit,”
said a third. “Where he will sleep,” said a
fourth. “What kind of a boy he is,” said a
fifth,

“ boys. “It would never do to ask so many. I
think three questions are as many as it will do tu
ask.”



10 MAURICE GRAY.

“T think so too! I think so too!’ said several
voices. “ Three are enough; what.shall they be?
Three will tell very little.”

After some discussion, it was decided the three
most important items were his name, his age, and
whether he was from the city or the country, and
little Joe Green was despatched to acquire the
important information. He scon reached the
-summer-house where Mr. Harding was sitting,
who raised his eyes from his book as he heard the
approach of footsteps.

* Well, Joseph,” he said, kindly, “ what do you
wish?” ,

“ Please, sir,” said Joe, hesitatingly, “ the boys
sent me to ask you if you would tell us the name
of the new scholar who is coming to-morrow.”

« How did you know there was one coming?”
asked Mr. Harding, smiling.

“ Frank Henley heard you tell Mr. Neville so,
sir,” replied Joe.

“Well, his name is Maurice Gray,” said Mr.
Ifarding.

“ Please, sir, tell me how old he is?” asked
Toe.

“He is several years older than yourself, Joe,”
answered Mr. Harding. “He is fourteen, I
believe.” .



MAURICE GRAY. iM

« The boys told me to ask you, sir,” continued
Joe,” “whether he was from the city or the
country?”

“He is from a small country village a hundred
miles from here,” replied Mr. Harding.

“ Thank you, sir,” said Joe, bowing, and pre-
paring to run away.

“ Would you not like to know something more
of him?” asked Mr. Harding, good-naturedly.

“ Yes, sir, very much,” answered Joe, “ but
the boys told me I must not ask you but three
questions, or you would think we were very rude;”
and, without waiting for further information, Joe
left Mr. Harding, and hasteued back to the play-
ground.

“Maurice Gray—fourteen years old—from a
country village”—he said, as soon as he could, and
as fast as he could speak, and in a very loud voice,
as if he was anxious to complete all the duties of
his mission as soon as possible.

“Maurice Gray—a pretty name, is it not?”
said Frank Henley.

“Fourteen years old—that is just our age,
Dick,” said Tom Bailey; “he will be one of the
oldest scholars. I hope he has not an old seber
head like Philip Graham, who thinks it such a
condescension to play with us now and then, and



12 MAURICE GRAY.

seems to think it is wicked to laugh, or have any
fun at all. Mr. Harding thinks him a model of
good conduct, and a pattern for us all. I think
he is a very disagreeable fellow. He is proud, and
never notices the younger boys at all, and seems to
think boys are made for nothing but to study and
go to church! I hope Maurice Gray is a real
hearty fellow, Dick, like you and I.”

“ Yes, indeed I do,” answered Dick. ‘I hate
‘pattern boys,’ like Phil Graham. One never
feels at ease with them. If the fellow that is
coming is to my mind, I shall be quite polite to
him, for I like a new friend once in a while. As
he is from the country, I suppose we shall have to
teach him a thing or two. I suppose he is not
much of a scholar. This is probably his first
coming out into the world. Well, we shall see
what he is like to-morrow. I wonder if he will
come in the coach at eleven o'clock, or whether
his father will bring him. To-morrow is not a
great way off.”

To-morrow came in its proper place, and a
bright lovely summer day it was; and, at eleven
o'clock, every ear was opened as the old stage-
coach came rumbling leisurely along, and great
was the satisfaction that beamed from divers faces
as it was heard distinctly to stop at the front door.



MADBICE GRAY. 13

Mr. Harding left the room to receive his new
pupil, and after being absent half an hour, re-
turned without him, to the evident dissatisfaction
of the many eyes that were fixed upon the door,
for they all knew they must now wait until after
school to be introduced to the new scholar.

They had not been long assembled on the play-
ground after school, before Mr. Harding and.
Maurice Gray were seen coming from the house
together.

“‘Here he comes! Here he comes!” said seve-
ral voices; but no—they walked down the neat
gravel-walk, and then into the garden. Mr.
Harding was talking very busily to Maurice, who
was listening with great attention.

“He is not so tall as J am by an inch or two,”

said Philip Graham, drawing up his thin figure to
its full height, “though he is fourteen years of
age.”
**O, he cannot equal Phil Graham in anything,
of course,” said Tom Bailey, aside. ‘‘No one
pretends to equal the model scholar—the ‘ pattern
of propriety’—even in outward appearance. I am
sure I hope Maurice is not such a stiff conceited
fellow, looking down upon everybody else.”

“Why,” said Dick Wells, “how should we
know how straight we ought to walk, or how sober



ld MAURICE GRAY.

we ought to lovk, how perfectly we ought to recite,
hew still we ought to be in school-hours, how obe-
dient to the rules of the school, if we had not some
such perfect pattern before us as Phil Graham!”

“Mr. Harding says,” said Louis Tarleton, a
lame, sickly-looking boy, leaning on a crutch,
“that if we all kept a Bible on our desks as
Philip Graham does, and studied it each day, we
should all know how to do right.”

This was a long and a bold speech for Louis
Tarleton to make, and he coloured deeply, for all
eyes turned upon him.

“Tt is one thing to keep a Bible there, and
another thing to read it,” said Dick, whistling,
and walking off.

“OQ, here they come!” said Frank Henley,
“certainly, straight towards the play-ground,” as
Mr. Harding and Maurice approached. Mr.
Harding introduced Maurice to his new friends,
and all were agreeably impressed by his kind
gentlemanly manners, his fine open countenance,
and his pleasant smile; there was also a dignity
and self-command about him above his years,
which inspired a feeling of respect.

* Well, Maurice,” said Mr. Harding, upon
leaving him, “I see you will soon make friends
here, and I hope we shall make you happy.”



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MAURICE GRAY

Maurice Gray joined eagerly in the games proposed, and showed himselx
expertinthemall, . . . . . He lefe his game of ball to disentangle little
doe Green’s kite from a high tree, &c.—Page 15.



MAURICE GRAY. 15

“T will try to deserve friends, sir,” said Mau-
rice, bowing respectfully; “and then F do not fear
but I shall make them.”

“T love hins afready,” said Mr. Harding to him-
self, as le walked towards the house. ‘ He will be
a friend to me, and an ornament to the school; I see
it in the very expression of his face. He is a seri-
ous-minded, conscientious boy, or I am much mis-
taken, though his eye and lip have a merry sinile.”

Maurice Gray joined eagerly in the games pro-
posed, and showed himself expert in them all, and
seemed as much interested in the plays of the
youngest boys as those of his own age. He left
his game of -ball to disentangle little Joe Green’s
kite from a high tree, and gave his arm most
kindly to lame Louis, as they walked towards the
house, at the ringing of the dinner-bell.

“ Nothing of a scholar, of: course, or he would
not be so fond of play,” muttered Philip Graham
to himself, louking very wise, as he put a book in,
his pocket.

“A right merry, pleasant fellow,” said Dick
Wells and Tum Bailey.

“ How obliging and good-natured he is,” said
Jue Green.

“*A new broom sweeps clean,” said Frank
Henley. .



16 MAURICE GRAY.

“It is not often I have anything but my crutch
to lean on,” said lame Louis, looking up gratefully
into Maurice’s face with his sad eyes, as the other
boys all passed quickly by, and left the two far
behind.

“‘ My arm shall always be at your service,” said
Maurice, “if it suits you.”

“T can get along much faster with it,” said
Louis; “and then I do not feel so lonely either to
zo with some one, for the boys always reach the
house and get seated at table long befure I can
get there.”

A smile of satisfaction might have been seen on
Mr. Harding’s expressive face, as Maurice Gray
entered the dining-room with lame Louis leaning
on his arm, and a look as if he would have said,
“T am not deceived, I am sure, in my first im-
pressions of this boy.”

CHAPTER II.

Mr. Harpine's residence was about two miles
from the beautiful village of N——. There was a
fine garden in front, a large play-ground at one
side, and behind the house were a farm-yard and



MAURICE GRAY. 3

vegetable garden. Beyond were thick woods,
pleasant fields, and shady roads. He built the
house expressly for his school, and all was well
arranged according to a plan of his own. The
chambers were large and airy, each containing four
beds, one in each corner of the room. A door
opened near each bed into a light, good-sized
dressing-room. One of these was appropriated to
each scholar, to contain his clothes, &e. Each was
fitted with a neat writing-desk and chair, so that
it was a pleasant and quiet place for a boy to retire
for study—or solitude, if he felt so disposed.

In addition to his boarders, Mr. Harding received
at his school day-scholars from the neighbouring
village. One wing of the house was occupied by
Mr. Harding and hjs family, which consisted of a
wife and twin daughters, Minna and Rose, eight
years of age. They attended the school each day
regularly, occupying small seats by their father’s
desk. They were allowed occasionally to visit the
. boys’ play-ground as spectators of their games, and
considered it a great treat so to do, But they
were always attended by one of their parents, or
placed under the especial care of one of the most
trusty boys. Philip Graham had this honour con-
ferred upon him oftener than any other boy, and
he was quite proud of the trust reposed in him.

B



18 MAURICE GEAY.

Once in three months Mr. Harding had what
he called a public day, when gentlemen from the
village and the neighbouring country-seats were
invited to attend the school, and hear the recita-
tions, or examine the boys as they pleased. Mr.
Harding would allow no special preparation for
this day. He wished the boys to show exactly
what they were, and this was a great incitement
to them to be diligent students. He allowed the
boys free access at all times to his fine garden,
under certain restrictions, and it was seldom his
laws in this respect were broken.

* Look here, Dick. Quick, or I shall be dis-
covered,” said Tom Bailey one day, about a week
after Maurice Gray had entered the school, as he
was creeping stealthily from Maurice’s closet.
“Come quickly, Tom.” Tom obeyed. “ Here;”
said Dick, “is your good, merry fellow, we have
been calculating upon. Why, he is worse than
Philip Graham, See here! Phil has only a Bible
on his desk, which I do nut think he opens very
often, though he would have Mr. Harding think he
does; but Maurice Gray has a Bible, and a book
of sermons, and some tracts. They are all for |
show, of course. No boy would ever read such
books, I am certain, unless he was compelled, |
and I would not believe Maurice ever reads them '



MAURICE GRAY. 19

if he told me so. He is worse than Phil Graham,
is he not?” ,

“ He may be,” answered Tom, “ in some respects,
but he is a much pleasanter fellow than Philip,
and does not think half so much of himself. He
loves a good game so well, that I guess we can
make something of him. I suppose he has been
living in the country with some old grandmother,
who has made him a parting present of her whole
library for a keepsake; but whether he reads such
dry books or not, he is nothing like Phil Graham.
He has none of that sanctified, long-faced, stiff
look, that Phil has.”

* Well, time will show,” said Dick, “ what we
can make of Maurice Gray. Though he is sociable
and talkative, he manages somehow to keep one at
an awfal distance. I cannot understand it, for he
is anything but proud or haughty. I saw him
to-day helping Peter to lift a large box into the
house, which was too heavy fur him. Iam sure
Phil Graham would have let Peter break his back
before he would raise a finger to assist any servant
boy.”

“There is one thing very certain,” said Tom,
“and that is, that Mr. Harding takes a great
liking to Maurice. Never since I have been here
has he invited a boy to take tea with him during



20 MAURICE GRAY.

the first week of his being here, and Maurice last
evening not only took tea with him, but took a
walk of an hour after tea with Mr. and Mrs.
Harding, and Minna and Rose. I saw them
returning. Minna had his hand, and Rose was
skipping by his side, and they were both talking
to him as if they had known each other for a long
time.”

“Well, to-day is Saturday, and our afternoon
for the woods,” said Dick. “I fancy we shall find
out a little more about Maurice on our walk.
Bob Newton is coming out to go with us. I gave
him a little commission to execute for me in the
village. Some half-dozen of us older boys will
separate from the rest, and go along together, and
Maurice shall be one. I wish Bob Newton was a
boarder; don’t you? He is such a clever fellow.”

“He would not be so useful to us if he was,”
said Tom Bailey, smiling significantly. ‘I had
rather trust him with my errands in the village
than any other day-scholar we have, or even Peter.
He knows so well how to manage things, and keep
an innocent face on all the while. It requires
some talent to do that. Do you think we can
trust Maurice Gray ?”

“No knowing until we have tried him,” said
Dick. ‘Iam not sure but it is too soon to begin;





MAURICE GRAY.

After wandering about till they were weary, amusing themselves with chasing
squirrels, searching tor wild flowers, &c, They seated themselves to rest near
the outskirts of the wood.—Page 21,



MAURICE GRAY. 21

but he is such a pleasant fellow, he is worth try-
ing for; if he has a few rusty notions, I think
we can wear them away, and make a friend of
him.”

It was a glorious summer afternoon, and as soon
as dinner was over, the whole school set off to
enjoy their half holiday in a long ramble througk
woods and fields. Soon after entering the woods,
six or eight of the older boys separated themselves
from the others, Dick Wells so managing that
Maurice Gray should be one of the number. They
were shortly after joined by Bob Newton from the
village, who carried on his arm a basket, which he
delivered to Dick. After wandering about until
they were weary, amusing themselves with chasing
squirrels, searching for wild-flowers, &c., they
seated themselves to rest near the outskirts of the
wood, in a lovely spot, commanding a view of fresh
and flower-bespangled meadows, and thriving fields
of corn and grain.

“ Here is a nice place to take our lunch,” said
Dick, throwing himself on the grass, and opening
his basket. The others gladly seated themselves
round him. Dick removed slyly part of the con-
tents of his basket, and passed the basket contain- .
ing the remainder to the boys as they sat. It
contained a generous supply of cakes and dried



22 MAURICE GRAY.

fruits, which were soon consumed with great relish
by the little party.

He then produced a couple of bottles, and pro-
ceeded to uncork them. ‘“ You got them from the
right place, Bob,” he said, “so we may be sure it
is good, for poor champagne is bad enough.”

He poured out a glass, and presented it first,
from courtesy, to Maurice Gray, as he was a
stranger. To his surprise and mortification, Mau-
rice politely, but decidedly, declined it.

“Do you not drink champagne, Maurice?” said
Dick. “If not, just try this, It is very nice, and
quite refreshing after a walk.”

“No, I thank you,” said Maurice, “ you must
excuse me, Dick, I had rather not take any.”

* Why, you are not very polite,” said Dick,
“to decline taking it, when I got it on purpose to
treat you with, thinking to give you pleasure.”

“Tam sorry you should consider me impolite,”
said Maurice. “Ido not intend to be so, but I
would rather be thought impolite than do what I
feel to be wrong.

* Wrong!” said Dick: “why, what can there
be wrong in a simple glass of champagne? Do
not be so queer. A young man, fourteen years of
age, is certainly at liberty to take a glass of wine
if he pleases. We no longer consider ourselves



MAURICE GRAY. 23

children. I am sure J, for one, feel capable of
judging what is right and fitting for me to do;
but there are plenty to drink it if you will not,
Maurice;” and the bottles were speedily emptied
by the other boys.

You lost a most excellent glass of champagne,
Maurice,” said Bob Newton. ‘“ What is there
wrong in taking it? I should like to know.”

‘Would you have done the same, if Mr.
Harding had been here?” said Maurice, gently.
* Would you, Dick, have done the same as you
have done, if Mr. Harding had been of our
party?”

“ Well,” said Dick, hesitatingly, “to speak the
truth, Maurice, I should not; but we are not
obliged to be all the time under his eye. He will
know nothing of it.”

“‘ My father placed me here,” said Maurice, “to
be under Mr. Harding’s care, in his absence from
home. He told me to regard him as a friend,
master, and protector, and expects me in all things
to consult Mr. Harding’s wishes and opinions; and
I should feel as if I was acting very wrong to do
anything contrary to them. I would not do, when
absent from him, what I would not do in his pre-
sence; and besides that, I know my father would
disapprove of it. He is far away at sea, thousands



24 MAURICE GRAY.

of miles from here, and would never know it; but
I love him too well to do what I know he would
condemn.”

“O, you are too particular, altogether,” said
Tom Bailey. ‘ You will lose some of these ideas
after you have been here a while, and see what
capital times we have. A boy of fourteen must
begin to act a little independently, and to think a
little for himself, or he will be a baby all his life.”

*T have begun to think for myself, and to act
independently,” answered Maurice, “and that is
one reason why I declined taking wine. I scorn
the character of a hypocrite. To think one way
and appear to act one way, and in reality be doing
things directly contrary to the principles and
appearance, is what of all things I despise. I
am afraid to begin at fourteen years of age to
drink a glass of wine, for in a short time I might
want 2 bottle, and then, losing my relish for wine,
I might be induced to take something more stimu-
lating and powerful, and who can tell what the
end might be? I might become an indolent, use-
less man, or an habitual drunkard, and perhaps
lose soul and body both. Ido not say this would
certainly be the case, but it has been the case of
very many, and I might add another to the
number. It is best to be on the safe side,



MAURICE GRAY. 26

depend upon it; and I am determined to do what
I think is right in this case, even though I should
lose your good opinion by so doing. I should be
glad to join you any time in an innocent frolic,
when my conscience does not interfere; but when
that speaks to me, I must obey its voice. My
father allows me plenty of pocket-money; and a
treat of cakes and fruit on our walks, if Mr.
Harding does not disapprove of it, I shall always
be ready to give in my turn; but you must never
expect wine from me, nor invite me to join with
you in drinking it. And now, suppose you all”
make up your minds to give it up, before it be-
comes necessary to your pleasure to have it. It
will cost you now but little self-denial, and by-
and-by it may cost you much, or you may have
imbibed so strong a relish for it, that you will
think you cannot give it up at all.”

“Tam not ready to agree to any such proposi-
tion,” said Dick; ‘‘ but you will not inform on us,
Maurice?”

“T shall never do anything to bring you into
difficulty.” replied Maurice; “be assured of that:
but you must not invite me to join your parties as
long as you use champagne, or wine of any kind.
I shall ba quite content to join the younger boys
on a walk or in a play.”



26 MAURICE GRAY.

Maurice stood up as he speke, and though at
first some of the beys were inclined to ridicule
him, he spoke with so much dignity and inde-
pendence, and commanded so much respect by his
manly bearing, that no laugh was raised, an‘ all
seemed desirous of conciliating his good-will.

“He is a fine independent fellow,” said Frank
Henley. ‘If his notions are strict, J am not sure
but they are correct. I like a boy,” continued he,
rising, “ who is nut afraid to express an opinion,
though he knows every one is against him. Give
me your hand, Maurice—I stand by you—and
though I drank the wine, I think it would be
better not to do it, and fur the very reasons you
have given.”

Maurice gave his hand cordially. “If you
would all reflect a little upon the subject,” he
said, kindly looking around, “I do believe you
would all be of my mind. By doing when absent
from Mr. Harding what you would not do in his
presence, you show more respect to him than you
do tu your Maker, in whose presence we always
are,”

The last words Maurice uttered with solemnity,
and a pause followed, which was presently inter-
rupted by the sound of some one approaching from
the meadow which out-skirted the wood. The



MAURICE GRAY. 27
boys started, and looked eagerly in that direction,
to ascertain who was coming to interrupt their
retirement.

One figure only appeared. Bob Newton, who
was nearest the meadow, said, “It is Philip
Graham, but he sees nothing but the book he is
reading. He does not know we are here—but
look! Dick, Tom, Frank—stand here just where
Iam. He is now leaning against a tree. See,
he has a cigar in his mouth; and do you not re-
cognize by the cover of that volume, that it is no
book from Mr. Harding’s library, J am sure?
We know where it came from, do we not? Mr.
Shaw’s circulating library—plain as the sun. I
can tell the cover of his books as far off as I can
see them.

“So can I,” said Dick; “Iam quite sure it is
from Shaw’s. There is your ‘ pattern, model boy,’
stealing off alone to break two of Mr. Harding’s
rules. He little suspects his ‘model’ of such
deceit. That is the way your stiff, long-faced
fellows often turn out.”

“Why,” said Bob Newton, * do you remember,
Dick, what a time Mr. Harding had, when I
brought that cigar to school to give you, and set
you a few lessons.in smoking—what a long speech
he made to us about boys at fourteen getting into



28 MAURICE GRAY.

such habits, and how he strictly forbade any one
ever to bring a cigar to school?”

“I remember it well,” said Dick. Mr. Hard-
ing would hardly believe that his best boy would
stealthily break two of his rules. The circulating
library is forbidden, as we all know, decidedly and
entirely.”

“Well, that is a foolish rule, I think,” said
Tom; “and whenever IJ get a chance, I must say
I get a book now and then, but I do not set up to
be a pattern like Philip.”

The boys had unawares raised their voices, and
Philip started, and looking in the direction from
whence they proceeded, discerned, through the
trees, the group that was watching him. He
hastily pulled the cigar from his mouth, and con-
cealed it, and pocketing the book, he approached
the woods with a grave aspect.

“That must be a very interesting book, Philip,”
said Bob Newton, “as we have been looking at
you certainly for ten minutes, without you being
aware we were so near you.”

“ And a fine cigar, I should imagine also,” said
Dick. “Pray, where do you buy your cigars,
Mr. Graham? Does Mr. Harding furnish you?
We need not inquire whose cjgculating library
you encourage, as the cover of the book speaks



MAURICE GRAY. 29

plainly enough for itself. There is no mistaking
that.”

Philip looked exceedingly embarrassed. The
colour flew to his face, he made an attempt to
speak, but turned and walked away, without a
word.

“ Well,” said Bob, “the next time Mr. Hard-
ing tells us to imitate Philip Graham, I shall think
of this.”

Mark the difference between Philip Graham
and Maurice Gray: Philip served in the letter,
Maurice served in the spirit. Philip loved best
the praise of men: but Maurice the praise of
God.”

CHAPTER III.

Two or three weeks after the last-mentioned in-
cident, a group of boys were assembled on the
play-ground, when there appeared at the gate an
aged woman of quiet and quaint aspect. Her
dress was old-fashioned and peculiar, and her
manner and appearance were those of one who
seldom crept from her own homely fireside, to
mingle in the great world. Her face, though
bearing deeply the stern mark of time, wore such



30. MAURICE GRAY.

an expression of peace, and sweet, holy serenity,
that none could look at it without loving it, and
feeling that they were in the presence of one who
walked with God. She opened the large gate
timidly, and looked rather dismayed to find her-
self suddenly in the midst of a large party of boys,
ali curiously looking at her.

*‘Ts Maurice Gray here?” she asked.

“No, he is not. ma’am, he is in the house,”
was the answer. ‘“ Have you brought any
thing to sell? You seem to have a nice large
basket.”

“ No, I have not,” she replied. “TI called to see
Maurice Gray. Will you tell me where I shall
find him?”

“Tf you will tell us what you have in your nice
large basket,” said Bob, Newton, looking around
him very mischievously, “I will promise to find
him for you.”

“How can you be so rude?” said lame Louis,
who stood near. “I will go and find Maurice for
you, ma’am; but I cannot go so quick as the other
boys, because I am lame;” and Louis walked to-
wards the house.

‘* Now, please, old lady,” said Dick, “just tell
us if you are Maurice’s grandmother, who taught
him to be such a good boy.”





MAURICE GRAY.

** My yood kind 1urse, how glad I am to see you!” and giving her his arm, and
reiivviuig her of her basket, he led her towards the house,—Page 31.



MAURICE GRAY. 31.

“Tam sorry,” said the old lady, “that Maurice
has such rude companions.”

“We all know he had a good old grandmother,”
said Dick, ‘‘or he would not have such a pile of
good books, and so many stupid notions about
some things. It is a thousand pities it is so, for
he is such a pleasant, good-tempered, merry fellow,
and such a favourite with us all, in spite of his
odd ideas.”

* Please give us a peep,” said Bob Newton,
“into your nice basket, and we will praise Mau-
rice up to the skies.”

The old woman made no answer. Her eyes
were fixed on the distance, for she saw Maurice
approaching, and hastened forward to meet him.
Maurice looked grieved and vexed when he saw
her surrounded by the boys, all rudely looking
at her; but running hastily towards her, ex-
claimed, “ My good kind nurse, how glad I am
to see you !” and giving her his arm, and relieving
her of her basket, he led her towards the house.

“Nurse! He called her nurse!” said Dick;
“then she is not his grandmother. I did not sup-
pose she was.”

“T fear she will think us but a rude wild set of
boys,” said Frank Henley. “I could not treat an
old person so rudely.”



32 MAURICE GRAY.

“ Why, it was all in fun,” said Dick and Bob,
looking rather ashamed. “It was only fun. I
would not harm the good old lady for anything.”

About half an hour after this, Maurice, with his
old nurse and Mr. Harding, were seen leaving
the house together, and quitting the grounds, pro-
ceeded down the road towards the village.

In less than an hour, Maurice and Mr. Harding
returned together. Mz. Harding went into the
house, and Maurice approached the play-ground.

“* Now Bob,” said Frank Henley, “if Maurice
was a quarrelsome, cross fellow, you and Dick
would have a battle with him for your treatment
of his old nurse; for he looked much vexed
when he saw how she was situated.” But Mau-
rice came towards them with his usual pleasant
smile.

““What is the name of your good old nurse,
Maurice?” said Louis Tarleton.

“ Burton,” answered Maurice, “and I am sorry
she was not better received by my friends on her
first visit to me; but probably none of you feel
towards an old person as I do, or have had the
same cause. But I must persuade you to Jove
and respect her, for she is coming to live in the
little green cottage, half a mile from the school,
and Mrs. Harding has promised to employ her



MAURICE GRAY. 33

when sickness or any extra occasion shall require
her services. J am sure, when you‘know her, you
will never treat her disrespectfully again; let me
tell you something of her.”

The boys gathered round Maurice.

“I suppose all of you have mothers who watched
over your childhood, wiped your tears, and gave
you every pleasure; but I have no remembrance of
my mother. She died when I was hardly a year
old. My father, who is an officer in the navy,
was absent on a long cruise at the time, and I was
left entirely to the care of good Nurse Burton.
She has often described to me my mother’s fare-
well of me. She was very young—scarcely twenty
~—when she died. My nurse took me to her, and
laid me on the bed by her side. She placed her
feeble hand on my head, and prayed silently a few
moments, and then said, ‘I have put up once
more, and for the last time, the one only prayer
I have offered for my little Maurice since the first
hour of his birth. It is that he might be in spirit
and in truth a follower of the blessed: Redeemer.’
‘O nurse!’ she said, ‘you watched over my
motherless childhood—be the guide of this dear
Httle boy—I commit him in confidence to you;
and I give you but one injunction in regard to
him, and that is, that you will teach him as you

c



Su MAURICE GRAY}

did ine, from the earliest opeitirig-of his reason, to
have the singlé eye that discern$ clearly God's
will, and the single purpose that fulfils it. As it
regards this world’s wealth, honours, or pleasures,
I have no wish. God’s willis mine. ‘So long as
my Saviour is his Saviour, through life and through
etérnity, I ask nothing more.’

~-“ My dear mother died; and strictly and faith-
fully ‘did my good nurse perform my mother's
dying request. Her time, her strength, her mind,
and soul, were devoted wholly to taking care of
me. In health and sickness, by night and by day,
she watched over me, studied my happiness and
improvement in all things, and thought nothing a
sacrifice on her part that might contribute to my
welfare and pleasure. My father returned home
about a year after my mother’s death; but his
home was so desulate, that after committing me
again to-the tender care of Nurse Burton, he left
us. My nurse is a woman of excellent sense.
Her mind is elevated by religious truths. She
has a good common education, and she was the’
only instructor I had, or required, in my earliest
childhood. She patiently toiled with me through
the first elements of education; but the chief and
most delightful study to us both was the Bible.
Before'I could read, she told me pleasant stories



MAURICE GRAY: 38

from its pages, and instilled into my mind its
sacred truths; and if there is now within me
any desire of right, or any proper notions of duty,
I owe them all, under God’s blessing, to her pious
and early instructions, As soon as I could speak,
she taught me to pray, and endeavoured above all
things to impress upon my mind that I was ever
in the presence of the all-seeing God, and that
outward forms, without the spirit of religion, were
abomination in his sight. O how happily and
quietly we lived together,—my father’s visits to
us alone interrupting and giving variety and
delight to our humble home.
“My first grief was when at the age of tei
years, after having been a year under my father’s
instruction, he was ordered to sea, and I was sent
to a schoo} about six miles from our home; but I
was to return every Saturday and stay until Mon-
day, and my nurse would visit me during the
week; and so we became reconciled. school I remained until I was thirteen years of
age, when it was broken up, and for a year I was
again under the instruction of my father; but on
his again being ordered to sea the other day, he
placed me here. under the care of Mr. Harding,
having, at the earnest request of my kind nurse,
obtained a home for her in this neighbourhood,



86 MAURICE GRAY.

where she could often see me. She gladly left
her native village, and many friends who valued
her, to come here among strangers to be near me.
Only think what a desolate childhood mine would
have been without her Jove and care, and how
ignorant I might have been of the best knowledge,
that of right and duty, without her faithful teach-
ings. When you think of the love you bear your
mothers, and remember this was the only mother
I ever knew, you will not be surprised at the
attachment and respect J feel towards her. I hope
I shall have the pleasure of taking some of you to
see her at her little green cottage, and when you
know her you will Jearn to love her too.”

The bell soon summoned the boys to their rooms
to prepare for afternoon school. Several entered
their chamber together. They observed the large
basket which Nurse Burton had carried on her
arm, on a table near Maurice’s bed; and the
cover being off, they saw it contained some plum
cake, most temptingly iced, and a quantity of fine
ripe peaches and plums. Maurice and Philip
Graham first entered the room together.

* Maurice,” said Philip, in a low voice, on
observing the basket, “you had Letter put those
things out of the way, if you wish to keep them.
Conceal them among your clothes, or you will get



MAURICE GRAY. 3T

into trouble, if Mr. Harding discovers that you
have them,”

Several other boys, entering at the same time,
said the same thing, telling him it was against
the rules of the school for any presents of that
kind to be accepted.

“Indeed,” said Maurice, “I did not know it
was against the rules of the school, or I would on
no account have accepted them from my kind
nurse, though it would have disappointed her
much had I refused them.”

“Well,” said Dick, “you have done it now,
and so nothing remains but to hide them. You
must do it quickly too, for there is the second
bell.”

The boys hastily descended to the school-room,
and they had all taken their seats befure Maurice
entered; and to their surprise he held in his hand
the basket, and walked directly up to Mr. Hard-
ing’s desk, and addressing him, said—

“TI did not know, sir, it was against your rules
for us to receive presents of this kind, or I should
not have accepted this that my good nurse brought
me to-day; though it would have grieved her
much if I had refused it, as she made the cake for
ine herself, and brought the fruit all the way from
our own garden, thinking I would like it better if



38 MAURICE GRAY,

it came from home. Be so kind, sir, as to pardon
me for accepting it, and not oblige me to return it
to my nurse, as it would disappoint her much. . I
am. willing you should do what you think best
with it.” ;

Mr. Harding’s eyes beamed with pleasure, as he
looked upon the open, ingenuous countenance of
Maurice.

“Maurice,” he said, “your honesty merits my
warmest praise. I give you permission to accept
the present from your good nurse, and to do with
jt.as you please.”

Satisfaction beamed from the faces of many of
the boys at this eulogium from Mr. Harding, and
one only expressed envy and discontent. Philip
Graham had always merited, by his outward con-
duct and good scholarship, the esteem of his teach-
er, who could only judge of his character by what
he saw; but Philip had done nothing to win the
affection of his teacher. The friendly confidence
with which Maurice regarded Mr. Harding had
evidently won his love. Philip saw a rival in the
new scholar, who would take hig place in Mr,
Harding’s esteem; and his cold heart, instead of
feeling that there was room enough in the world
for all, looked upon him with envy and dislike.
But Maurice was wholly unaware of it, and equally



MAURIGE GRAY. 8?

unaware -that he had ‘done anything to: excite
praise or.surprise in any one. He was habitually
honest and upright. The Bible taught him that
as God knows all things, it is of little importance
to hide anything from the knowledge of man, and
that deceit. and hypocrisy were hateful in God’s
sight, and would sooner or later be unveiled.

“Come, boys,” said Maurice after school,.-as
they entered the play-grounds, “one and all take
seats on the grass here, and -help me to dispose of
the contents of Nurse Burton's basket, and you
will see what excellent cake she makes, and what
fine fruit grows in our old garden. Come, Philip,”
he said, as Philip Graham seemed turning away,
as if he thought it too childish to join the group,
“I know that boys as big as you like a good: slice
of cake as well as we; so come, take a seat with
us. his is a generous loaf, and quite enough for
all, and I have borrowed a plate and knife, that I
may serve it up handsomely.”

Such a pleasant, good-natured smile accompanied
Maurice's words, that Philip could not resist them,
and he joined the pamty.

“‘ No,-I thank you, Maurice,” said Bob Newton,
as Maurice handed him a slice in his turn, “J
was so rude to your good nurse to-day, that I do
really believe it would choke me if I should attempt



40 MAURICE GRAY.

to eat it. The truth is, Maurice, I never did any-
thing Y was more ashamed of, and I am willing to
own it.”

“ Nor I either,” said Dick. ‘ Bob and I both
feel alike about it, and wish to go with you to see
your good nurse, to apologize to her, and ask her
pardon for our rude, ungentlemanly conduct. We
were much excited, and in a high frolic, when she
appeared at the gate, and you know her dress and
appearance are peculiar, and we were very thought-
less, and did wrong, and must certainly apologize
for our misconduct.”

“ Well,” said Maurice, “Iam glad you feel so
ubout it, boys. I krew if I told you all about her
you would respect her, and when you know her,
you cannot fail to love her; but she is so good, she
will never remember it azainst you. I will forgive
you in her name, and we will go together, and
explain all to her, and all will be forgiven and
forgotten; so now, do oblige me by helping to eat
up the cake and fruit, or I shall not enjoy my slice
at all.”

“ Well, Maurice,” said Bob, “you always make
us do whatever you please; so we will accept our
share, though we do not at ail deserve it.”

“ You were a bold fellow,-Maurice,” said Tom
Bailey, “to take this basket to Mr. Harding.” ”





MAURICE GRAY.

I will forgive youin her name. . . . . . So now do oblige me by helping
tu eat up the cake and fruit, or I shall not enjoy my slice at all.—Page 4.



MAURICE GRAY. 41

“Why, what else could I have done with it?”

said Maurice. “I had accepted it, unconscious
that I was doing what was forbidden. You do not
suppose I would hide it, and deceive Mr. Harding?
That would, indeed, have been hard for me to do;
but there was nothing hard in telling him that £
had unintentionally broken his rules. I am gure,
had I concealed it, I could never have eaten any
of it. Besides, I should have done wrong, and
offended God and my own conscience.”
" “Youarea strange fellow, Maurice,” said Frank
Henley; ‘but I like your way of dealing. I do
not believe another boy in school would have done
so; but you have proved that it is the best way.”

“ The right way is always the best way,” said
Maurice, “and the only way in which we ought
to act.”

CHAPTER IV.

“ Do not look so sad, Louis,” said Maurice one day,
as lie joined the lame Louis, who was sitting alone
under a tree in the play-ground, and, with dejected
face, watching the boys at play. His crutch lay
beside him on the ground, and his dominos and
jack-straws on his knee showed that he had been



42 MAURICE GRAY,

trying to amuse. himself with a solitary game.
Come, let me help you at a game of dominos. I
should like it much.”

Tears filled the eyes of the lame boy. “ o no,
indeed,” he said, “ you must not sit moping here
with me. You are such a good hand at play, and
enjoy it so much, the boys will all be after you.
You sat here a long time with me yesterday, and
through all the play-hour to-day. Indeed, I cannot
permit you to do it now.”
' “QO, Ihave had play enough, and want to rest
now,” answered Maurice. ‘I want to be with you
awhile. There are plenty to play without me.”

* I shall never forget your kindness to me, even
if I live to be an old man; but if you insist upon
sitting here with a poor lame boy like me, let us
talk a little, instead of taking a game of dominos.
I should like to tell you a thought that was in my
mind just as you came up.”

“ Well, what was it?” asked Maurice, kindly.

“IT was wondering why it is, that of all the boys
here, Iam the only one that is deformed and lame.
I should be so happy if I could run about and play
with the others.”

“Ah, Louis,” replied Maurice, “there is but
one answer to that question. It is your heavenly
Father's will. God is your Maker and mine, He



MAURICE GRA YÂ¥x ey

is the Maker of all mankind: “He.makes seme
sound. jn mind and body, -and others weak and
deformed. He makes some righ, and others poor,
As we are all the'work of his Almighty hand, he
certainly has a right to create us as he pleases.
All he does is for some wise purpose, and it ig not
for us to question his ways. You must hear my
good nurse speak on these subjects. She can teach
you far better than Ican. You have been promis
ing me you would call and see her for a long while.
We shall have plenty of time; let us go there now.
Take my arm, and we will walk alowly, 80 as not
to tire you.”

Louis, leaning with one arm on his crutch, and
the other on his friend, walked slowly down the
shady road, and reached the little green cottage,
Under the porch, covered with creepers and honey=
suckles, quite shaded from sight, on a low bench,
sat Nurse Burton with a Bible on her lap,

“Ah, my dear child,” she said, as she. saw
Maurice, “I thought you would come to-day,
You are just in time for us to read our evening
lesson together, as we used to do at home, And
who is this young gentleman?” she asked, looking
tenderly at lame Louis, “I recollect I saw him
the day I first called on you at the school.” =.

“It is Louis Tarleton—one of my best friends,



44 MAURICE GRAY.

nurse,” answered Maurice, “and I know you will
love him. But first we will read together, and
then we will talk a while.”

Maurice seated himself by his old nurse, and
they read through a chapter alternately, Nurse
Burton often stopping to explain and comment on
different verses as they read. There was, indeed,
a striking contrast between the stooping, worn-out
form, the wrinkled face, and the trembling voice
of the old nurse, and the youthful figure, glowing
countenance, and musical tones of Maurice, as they
sat there together pondering the blessed Word of
Life—the help and strength of the aged, the guide
and counsellor of the young. The descending sun
gleamed through the fresh creeper and honey-
suckle, and fell with its golden light across their
faces—an emblem of the blessed Sun of Righteous-
ness, which inwardly shed its sanctifying rays over
their spirits.

“ Do you not love the Bible, young gentleman?”
said Nurse Burton, addressing Louis, as she closed
the book. °

“ ‘but you and Maurice seem to enjoy it so much,
and it appears to make you both so happy, that I
wish I could love to read it. You see I am lame,
and I cannot play like the other boys; so I read a



MAURICE GRAY. 45°

great deal, and am often at a loss fur something to
interest me, and Mr. Harding says no one ever
tires of reading the Bible. Ido not know why,
but it has always seemed a dull book to me. Do
you not think it is hard fur me to be Jame, nurse,
and unable to run or jump with the other boys?
I have to sit moping alune, or craw] around on
crutches.”

“ Ah, speak reverently, my child,” said Nurse
Burton, “ of your affliction; it is God’s hand upon
you. You see not its purpose yet, but be assured
there is a wise purpose init. Let the language of
your soul be,

*T cannot, Lord, thy purpose see,
Bat all is well, since ruled by thee.”

And,

‘My Father’s hand will never cause
His child a needless tear.’

Have you learned, dear child, te love God as
a father and friend? If not, your lot is indeed a
hard one, and your cross a heavy one; but only
learn that, and you will have but the single desire
that his will may be done in you and by you.
You will prefer to keep your affliction if he wills
it, and it will be to you a visible token of his care
over you.”



46 MAURICE GRAY.

* Q how I wish I could feel so!” said Louis,
with emotion, tears filling his eyes. ‘ How can I,
good nurse? Will you teach me?”

* The blessed Spirit will teach you, dear child,”
replied the good nurse, “and you can obtain all
you need, and that freely, by asking of Him who
giveth liberally. Begin now to pray for it, and
you will receive in abundance. Study the blessed
Bible; and if my poor assistance can help you to
understand its wondrous truths, come to me with
dear Maurice, and we will read it together.”

“T have long felt,” replied Louis, “that I
might be happier if I could feel reconciled to my
lot. Perhaps, if I learned to love God, I should
think less of my own troubles, and more of Him,
and then I might be happier.”

“Tt surely would be so, my dear,” replied the
nurse. ‘“ Have you no parents, Louis?”

‘«My parents both died when I was an infant,”
answered Louis, “and I have neither brother nor
sister.”

“Then you must feel the more need of a
heavenly Friend, my dear child,” answered the
nurse, ‘ He can supply the place of all others in
your heart, and by His presence life will become
to you so full of sweet flowers, lovely music, and
pleasant pictures, that you will be as happy as



MAURICE GRAY! at

you can desire. What relatives have you, my
dear?” oO '
~ “T have an uncle,” replied Louis, “who is
always generous and kind to me; but he is him-
self a lonely man, having neither home, wife, nor
children; and though he sometimes takes me to
the hotel where he boards in K——, on a visit, it
is not pleasant to me, and I generally pass my
vacations at school; and then, good nurse, I am
often very sick. Last spring I was so ill that mv
life was despaired of. I have never felt so strong
since, and I heard the physician tell my uncle that
I could never bear so severe an illness again.
That has often made me think a great deal about
dying, and I have concluded that it would be quite
as well to die as to live here in pain, weakness,
. and mortification through a long life. For of what
use can J ever be in the world, or what pleasure
ean I take in living?”

“O, my dear child,” answered the nurse, “ speak
not so of the lot God ordains for you. Light from
above must and will be shed upon your path, and
then all will be bright and happy to you. O,
Father of mercies,” continued the godly wi man;
raising her eyes and hands to heaven, “ send down
thy blessed light and truth into the soul of this
child of thine. Give him the oil of joy fur mourn-



48 MAURICE GRAY.

ing, and the garment of praise for the spirit of
heaviness, for Jesus Christ’s sake.”

The boys sat a few minutes longer conversing
with the good nurse, and as they walked home-
ward, Maurice saw that a calmer and more chas-~
tened spirit expressed itself in the sad and dejected
face of his companion; and his heart rejoiced, fur
he hoped the poor lad would now find the com-
forter he so much needed.

It was a public day at the school. There was a
class arranged fur recitation, and many visiters
were present. Frank Henley was at the head of
the class, Maurice second, and Philip Graham
third. A question was given to Maurice, whe
hesitated. He was quickly prompted by Frank;
but instead of availing himself of his assistance, he
replied, “I do not recollect the answer to that
question.” The question was passed to Philip,
who replied correctly, and took Maurice’s place.

Frank Henley seemed quite puzzled at this,
and as several boys stood together on the play-
ground after school, he said, “ Maurice, did you
not hear me prompt you this morning? You must
have heard, for I spoke right into your ear.”

“Yes,” answered Maurice, “I heard you,
Frank, and am much obliged to you for wishing
to assist me.”



MAURICE GRAY. 49

“ Then if you heard me, why did you not answer
the question?” asked Frank.

“« Because,” replied Maurice, “it was my memory,
and not yours, that ought to have been ready. It
would have been you answering, and not me, and
that would not have been right.”

‘‘And so you preferred the mortification of
missing the question,” said Frank, “ before all the
visiters, and losing your place in the class, to using
my memory! Besides, allowing Philip Graham,
who would not have hesitated (had he not known
the answer) to have made use of the prompting I
intended for you, to take your place.”

“Philip would not have been so simple,” said
Bob Newton, ‘as to have lost his place, if he
could have kept it by any means. He knows well
enough how to get along, and save himself from
disgrace. When he has not properly prepared his
lessons, I have many a time seen him with a scrap
of paper in his hand, which he adroitly concealed,
and adroitly read, too, if occasion required. If
Mr. Harding knew that, what would he think of
his model? You are too particular, Maurice, you
may depend upon it, to get along here; and you
will find it so by-and-by.”

“I must do what my conscience tells me is

right,” answered Maurice, “ whether I get along
D



50 MAURICE GRAY.

well or not. If I do not, I should be very un-
happy.”

“Which would cause you to feel most unplea-
santly,” asked Frank, “to miss a question on
exhibition day, lose your place in the class, and
cause the visiters to think you were an indolent,
careless scholar, or to auswer one single question
by my prompting?”

“TI should prefer missing several questions,”
answered Maurice, ‘and have the character of an
indolent scholar, than do what I theught was dis-
honest: but I have only missed one to-day, and I
have answered many in various classes correctly,
and I do not think that either Mr. Harding or the
visiters will be so unreasonable as to think I am
usually indolent or careless about my lessons.”

“Well, you are a strange fellow,” said Bob
Newton, “ and all I can say is, there is not another
boy in school that has such notions.”

CHAPTER V.

“O, wHat have I done? What have I done?”
cried Maurice Gray. ‘What shall I do? What
will Mr, Harding think of me? My unlucky ball.
I was so engaged in my game, that I did not



MAURICE GRAY. 51

notice how near I was to the conservatory, and
thus have disobeyed my teacher, and now I am
punished for it.”

“What is it? What is it, Maurice?” cried
several voices, and the boys quickly gathered
round to ascertain what had happened.

“Alas!” answered Maurice, “my ball has
broken a square of glass in the conservatory.
I threw it with such foree that I fear it has
thrown down some plants, fur I heard a loud
crash. Let us go and see.”

The boys hastened to the conservatory. They
were allowed to view the flowers from the outside,
but were strictly forbidden to enter it without
permission from their teacher.

‘Yes, it is too true,” said Maurice. “ Oh, I
am so sorry. I have thrown down that beautiful
scarlet cactus in full bloom, which Mr. Harding
showed us yesterday, and have probably injured
it very much. What will Mr. Harding think
of me?” .

“O say nothing about it—say nothing about
it,” said Dick Wells. Such things have often
happened here before, and no one could ever tell
who did the mischief. Mr. Harding has tried in
vain, every way, and offered rewards to have the
offender made known. But we have a way of



h2 MAURICE GRAY.

managing such things. So do not trouble your-
self about it, Maurice. You are too good a fellow
to get punished. None of us will allow it; de-
pend upon that.”

“T guess he will be glad enough to hide that
from Mr. Harding,” said Philip Graham, aside, to
Bob Newton, “though he was so bold in acknow-
ledging his fault about the present from the old
nurse. This is quite a different and a more
serious affair.”

“Broken glass and broken flowers are two
things which very seriously try Mr. Harding’s
temper,” said Bob Newton aloud. “He thinks
such things are always the result of carelessness or
wilfulness, and he has preached more upon them
than upon almost anything else.”

“O never mind, Maurice,” said Frank Henley.
“TI can easily get you out of the scrape, and I will
do it.”

Maurice stood thoughtfully looking at the mis-
chief he had done, and hardly heeding the various
remarks made by his companions; and did not
observe that Frank Henley had instantly left the
group, after saying that he could and would get
him out of his difficulty.

“ How fortunate,” said Tum Bailey, “ that Mr.
Harding is absent this afternoon! I saw him ride



MAURICE GRAY. 53

away with his family immediately after dinner,
and he will not probably return until dark, and
he will not find this out until to-morrow. So we
have time to arrange all about the matter, and to
prepare ourselves for the cross-questioning we shall
all get on the subject.”

At this moment Frank Henley re-appeared
with Maurice’s ball in his hand, and presented it
to him. Maurice looked at him with surprise.
“ Here, Maurice,” said Frank, “here is your ball.
You are now safe from discovery. It is not every
boy in school I would have broken one of its rules
to serve. But I cannot see you punished.”

“O Frank,” said Maurice, “you have not
entered the conservatory against Mr. Harding’s
commands! How could you?”

“‘How could I! Why,” said Frank, “ to make
you safe. There will now be no ball found there,
and Mr. Harding will not know how the glass was
broken. We-will all agree that we know nothing
about it, and he will think it was the gardener, or
Peter, or one of the other servants, and you will
get off. I really thought you would be grateful
for my services, but your looks express anything
but gratitude. I should think I had injured
you.”

“O Frank,” said Maurice, “you intended to



54 NAURICE GRAY.

do me a service, and have acted from feelings of
friendship and kindness to me. I do feel truly,
grateful for your intentions, but you have injured
yourself, without at all assisting me.”

«How do you mean, Maurice, that I have not
assisted you?” said Frank. “ The ball cannot now
testify against you. It is easy enough for all of
us to keep quiet, and you will never be dis-
covered.”

“©, but I have done wrong,” said Maurice,
“and I cannot conceal it from my teacher. I shall
go to him directly when we assemble in the hall
fur prayers to-night, if I cannot see him before. I
could not rest to-night without confessing all, and
receiving his forgiveness for my disobedience and
carelessness. I am sure he will not be unreason-
able or unkind, and I prefer receiving the punish-
ment I deserve to deceiving him.”

“You will not be such a simpleton as that,
surely,” said Bob Newton, ‘when Frank has done
so much to get you out of the difficulty. It would
be treating him very unhandsomely, and expos-
ing yourself unnecessarily to Mr. Harding’s cen-
sure.”

“IT am not ungrateful to you, Frank, for the
kindness you intended me,” said Maurice, “ but
there is only one path for me, and that is the right



MAURICE GRAY. 55

one. It is ever plain and open to us all, if we will
but see it. There are many winding and crooked
ways, but they are always full of perplexity and
trouble. Suppose I follow your advice, and con-
ceal what I have done from our teacher, I shall
cause you all to practise deceit, the blame of the
accident will rest on the wrong person, and feeling
that he has been injured and deceived, it will be
a long time before Mr. Harding forgets the affair.
But if I do right and confess my fault, and sub-
mit myself to my just punishment, no one will be
involved but myself, and no one but the real
offender will be suspected.”

«And Frank—what will he do in that case?”
asked little Joe Green, who stood intently gazing
at Maurice, and apparently quite confounded at
the new doctrines he was uttering.

“O!” said Frank, “I can manage it easy enough
for myself. If Maurice does not choose to accept
my assistance, I can easily replace his ball where
I found it; that is clear enough. I have not the
fancy for being punished that he has—and am
willing to be obliged to a friend once in a
while,”

«And so am I, Frank,” said Maurice, “ and to
no one sooner than yourself; but suppose I deceived
my teacher, I cannot deceive God, who knoweth



56 MAURICE GRAY,

all things. I feel that his all-seeing eye is upon
me, and I must act as in his sight.”

* You area proud fellow, Maurice,” said Frank,
in an angry tone, and seizing the ball roughly from
his hand, he walked towards the conservatory.

The bell rang for evening prayers.

‘*T guess Maurice will change his mind to-night
about confessing this accident,” said Phil Graham
to Frank Henley, as they walked together
towards the hall. “Depend upon it, with all
his bragging and preaching about right and con-
science, he has repented fifty times of not accept-
ing your offer to get him out of his scrape with-
out exposure.” ‘

“I do not agree with you there, Phil,” said
Frank. “He would not accept it now, if it was
made to him this moment; but he is a character
you cannot well understand, Phil. Your motto
has always been plain enough to us all, ‘Make
clean the outside of the cup and the platter,’ but
Maurice's seems to be, Make clean the inside. I
must own he is a noble fellow. Though I was
provoked with him this afternoon for spurning my
assistance, I have got over it now, and I like him
all the better for it—and I wish I was like him.”

“ Well, we shall see how he'll manage it,” an-
swered Philip. “Depend upon it, his heart will



MAURICE GRAY. 57

fail to-night, and he will be glad to keep clean
the outside, and let the inside go.”

It was quite a large assembly that gathered at
morning and evening prayer at Mr. Harding’s
school. It included his own family, his pupils, and
the numerous servants of his household. Mr.
Harding was in his accustomed place when the
boys entered, and was thoughtfully turning over
the leaves of the sacred volume that lay before
him, The silence in the room was interrupted by
Maurice, who, leaving his seat, approached Mr.
Harding, and asked permission to speak a few
words to him before the evening exercises com-
menced, adding, “I have done something unin-
tentionally, but carelessly, sir, which will displease
you, and I cannot retire for the night happily,
until I have confessed it to you.”

He then related the occurrences of the after-
noon, and blamed himself very much for becoming
so absorbed in his game as to approach so close to
the forbidden side of the play-ground near the
conservatory, and concluded by saying, “I am ex-
ceedingly sorry, sir. I submit myself cheerfully
to the punishment I deserve; only let me know
that you will not think I would wilfully do any-
thing to injure you, or deliberately disobey your
commands.”



68 MAURICE GRAY.

There was a profound silence in the room while
Maurice spoke, and his words were heard distinctly
by all.

The silence continued a moment after he had
ceased to speak, when, to the surprise of all, Frank
Henley left his seat, and, approaching his teacher,
said—-

“I too have done wrong to-day, sir, and have
disobeyed you; and though in times past I have
always endeavoured to conceal from you the acci-
dents and disobediences of which I have been
guilty, I so admire the bold and honest conduct of
Maurice, that I am induced to follow his example.
Unknown to Maurice, and wishing to save him
from exposure, I entered the conservatory, con-
trary to your orders, and took away his ball. I
presented it to him, telling him, as that could not |
now witness against him, it would be easy for him
to get out of the difficulty; that you would never
suspect him, but would impute the blame to some
other person, who I could answer for it would never
be discovered. I was angry with him for de-
cidedly, but kindly, refusing to accept my pro-
posal, and conceal it from you; and seized the ball
roughly from his hand, saying, I was not then
going to get myself into trouble, and that I should
return it to the conservatory. I left him intend-



MAURICE GRAY. 59

ing so to do; but as I walked along, my own mean
conduct, contrasted with the brave and honest
course of Maurice, presented itself vividly to my
mind, He was so different from any boy I had
ever met with before, that I could not help ad-
miring him, and desiring to imitate him. seemed sounding in my ear, ‘ Truth, brave Frank,
—he honest, Frank.’ It was a new idea for me to
act upon, and I did not know that I should have
courage to do it; but Iam glad I have, sir, for I
feel much happier than if I had concealed my
disobedience, and I am willing to be punished as
I deserve.”

Frank ceased to speak. Mr. Harding looked
much agitated, and seemed struggling to command
his feelings. There was a breathless silence in
the room. All eyes were turned first on the
teacher, and then on the two manly youths who
stood before him. At length Mr. Harding said—.

“‘Maurice, you have done me more service to-
day than you could have done me injury, had you
breken all the glass in my conservatory, and de-
stroyed every plant that it contains. I would be
willing that such an accident should occur very
often, for the sake of your good example, and
feel grateful to you for its effect upon Frank. 1
trust it will be of lasting benefit to his character.



60 MAURICE GRAY.

I freely forgive you your carelessness, and to show
my esteem for your character and influence, will
reward you by forgiving Frank the fault he has
committed in his effort to serve you. Frank,” he
continued, turning towards him, “you deserve
commendation for the effort you have made to con-
fess your fault. The struggle must have been
hard for you, if you have hitherto been in the
habit of deceiving and concealing. I trust you
will henceforth follow the good example of Mau-
rice, and I hope ere long you will be uniformly
actuated by the same high notions of duty which
influence him. For that which alone gives per-
manency to any good intentions or resolutions,
is to act in the fear and love of our heavenly
Father.”

Mr. Harding then extended his hand kindly,
first to Maurice, and then to Frank. They bowed
and retired to their seats, and the exercises of tle
evening proceeded.

CHAPTER VI.

Ir was the holy Sabbath-day. The services of
the sanctuary were over. It wasa rule of Mr.



MAURICE GRAY. 61

Harding’s that each boy should pass the interven-
ing time, from the close of the afternoon service
until tea-time, in his own closet. Books appro-
priate for the day were provided for all, and a
lesson in the Bible was to be learned for the even-
ing, that part of the Sabbath being devoted en-
tirely by Mr. Harding to the religious instruction
of his pupils. Let us glance for a moment into
the closets of some of the boys most conspicuous
in our story, and see how they are passing the
precious hours of God’s holy day, when none but
the all-seeing eye is upon them.

Frank Henley sat at his desk; his Bible and Ques-
tion-book lay open before him. He had evidently
been studying his lesson, but his head was now
leaning on his hand, and an expression of thought
:was upon his features quite foreign to his usual
light-hearted, gay look. He seemed pondering in
his mind some important subject. Yes !—new
thoughts had lately sprung up in his heart. He
had felt the nobleness of confessing a fault even
to his fellow-creature, and that led him to reflect
how often he had deceived him. The words of
Maurice, “We cannot deceive God, who knoweth
all things,” had led him to think how often, by
deceit and falsehood, and neglect of duty, he must
have offended his great Creator. The Bible lesson



62 MAURICE GRAY.

of the afternoon had drawn his thoughts into a
serious train; the Spirit of the Holy One was
near, hovering around his retirement with most
precious and blessed boons and benedictions, all
ready to pour into his youthful soul. God grant
he may open his heart to receive them, and not
grieve him away by thoughtlessness or love of
ease !

Dick Wells had stolen into the closet of Tom
Bailey, unknown to any one; they were sitting
close together, talking very earnestly in low whis-
pers, lest it should be discovered that they had
transgressed a rule of the school, and were pass-
ing the hours together. They appeared to be
laying a plan for something which was difficult to
settle, as they often paused thoughtfully, and then
resumed their conversation, as if undecided what
course to take. Had one been near, he might
have heard such phrases as these, “ Splendid
horses,” ‘‘ Best circus in the country,” ‘‘ Fine
music,” “Iam determined I will go.” “ Some-
how or other, Iam quite decided about that; I
had rather be punished for going than not go at
all—but we can manage so as not to be discovered,
I know.”

“Bob Newton is going,” said Dick, “and Frank
Henley will go, and Harry Blake, and Will Fos-



MAURICE GRAY. 63

ter—we are sure of those. Will it do to ask
Maurice Gray?”

“T should like much to have him, if we could
persuade him to join us,” said Tom; “but he is
so very strict Ido not think there is any use in
asking him, for we do not of course wish any
one to know of it, who will not heartily join
us.”

“ Maurice is so fond of a frolic, and delights so
much in horses,” said Dick, ‘“ that we might per-
haps persuade him to go.”

“Don’t you believe it,’ answered Tom. “ He
leves fun and horses too, I know, as well as any
of us; and could he go with Mr. Harding’s per-
mission, he would enjoy it much; but Maurice
would never run away and go. I am certain of
that.”

“ He is bold enough to do it, if he choose,” said
Dick. There is no cowardice in him. J am no
coward, but I dare not act as he does in some
things. I have not the same kind of courage.
There is something I cannot understand about
him, but I do like him exceedingly for all that.”

“There will be no harm in sounding him some
time,” said Tom. “ We are sure of one thing, he
will not betray us, or get us into any trouble.

“Our best plan,” said Dick, “I think, will be



64 MAURICE GRAY.

to ask permission to go to the woods on Wednes-
day afternoon, when the circus is in the village;
and then the older boys can separate themselves
from the rest. That will not excite suspicion, for
we often do that; and then make the best of our
way as fast as possible to the village, and if we
have good luck, and do not meet the honourable
Mr. Harding, nor his honourable assistant, Mr.
Neville, we shall get along well; perhaps we may
think of some other way before the time.”

“ Well,” said Tom, “ we will consider this plan
settled unless we can think of a better.”

Philip Graham sat at his desk with his Bible
and question-book before him, studying his lesson
most attentively for a short time—for he was
quick to learn—and it was not many minutes be-
fore he had it prepared. He then slyly drew a
book from his desk, and looked around the room.
But why? No person could possibly be concealed
there. He then looked from his window, and then
drew his chair back a little, that he might not be
seen from the outside, and then opened the book
he had taken from his desk, and was soon absorbed
in its pages. Dick and Tom would have recog-
nised it at a glance as belonging to Mr. Shaw’s
circulating library.

Lame Louis begged permission of Maurice



MAURICE GRAY. 65

Gray to pass the hours with him; but Maurice
firmly refused his request unless he could obtain
the consent of Mr. Harding; and to oblige Louis,
Maurice went with him to their teacher to request
the favour, which was kindly granted.

The sad and dejected expression of Louis's pale
face’ was softened into a look of more gentleness
and submission, which was quite touching. They
appeared deeply interested in the evening lesson,
and Louis often paused and with much earnestness
asked his young teacher the explanation of various
passages as they proceeded. After they had com-
pleted their lesson, Maurice turned to another part
of the Bible, and they read and conversed with
great interest on the subjects of various chapters.

The hours passed rapidly away, and the ringing
of the bell to summon them to tea still found them
studying with pleasure that Holy Book, which can
alone make us ‘‘ wise unto salvation,” and afford
us consolation under all the difficulties and trials
of life.

* Maurice,” said Philip Graham—entering his
closet one day, where Maurice sat preparing his
lessons for school—‘‘ I have a word to say to you
alone.”

“ Well, what is it, Philip?” said Maurice, laying
down his book. ‘‘ Can I do anything to assist you?”

E



66 MAURICE GRAY.

**O no,” said Philip, “quite the contrary. I
want to do you a favour.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Maurice,
“* What may it be?”

‘I observe you are very fond of reading,” said
Philip. “Ts it not so?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Maurice, “it is ome of my
chief pleasures. The having lived all my life in
the country, and being greatly dependent upon
myself for amusement, has given me, I suppose, a
taste for reading.”

“* And how do you like the books of Mr. Hard-
ing’s library,” asked Philip, ‘such as we are
permitted to use?” —

“Very much indeed,” replied Maurice. “I have
not been at a loss since I have been here for inter-
esting reading, and it must be a long time before
I have exhausted the library, especially as Mr.
Harding is so kind as to be constantly adding to
it.”

“ But would you not sometimes like a change,”
asked Philip, “in your reading? I have a plan I
think you would like, which will make a pleasant
variety in your reading, give you much pleasure,
and I will take all the trouble of it. Iam a sub-
scriber to Mr. Shaw’s circulating library, and I
thought if you would like to pay half the subscrip-



MAURICE GRAY. 67

tion, you can pay the money to me. I will obtain
and return all the books, and so no one will know
that you have anything to do with it.”

‘I daresay, Philip,” said Maurice, “ you intend
me a favour, and therefore I am obliged to you;
but in the first place, I will never wilfully break
any of Mr. Harding’s rules, and you know one of
them is, that we shall never take books from the
circulating libraries. In the second place, my
father has expressed a wish to me that I should
never read frivolous books, as he says it gives one
a disrelish for useful reading; and as Mr. Harding
provides us with works of history, biography, and
travels, I therefore can have no use for Mr. Shaw’s
books. And in the third place, I have no taste
now for works of fiction, and do not wish to acquire
one, as I fear it might injure me and cause me to
waste my time.”

“O,” answered Philip, “as for that, I like his-
tory, biography, and travels also; but I must have
a variety. Novels are delightful, and will never
injure you. I have been reading as many as I
chose fur several years, and I do not see that I
am any the worse for it.”

“ But the love you have acquired for them,”
said Maurice, “leads you deliberately to disobey
your teacher to obtain them. I should think that



68 MAURICE GRAY.

was evil enough, and you know not to what else
they may lead you.”

“O, such rules I always think are made for the
younger boys,” said Philip. “Iam no longer a
child, and will not submit like a child to every
such regulation. If I set a good example and
keep my own counsel, that is enough, I am sure.
When have I ever failed in a lesson, or been re-
proved by my teacher? There is not a boy in |
school so exemplary as J am. But come! do not
be a child any longer, Maurice,” he continued,
drawing a book from his pocket, “just take this
and examine it. It shall cost you nothing. It is
a most thrilling story. If you read this, I know
you will thankfully accept my proposal.”

Maurice drew back, and refused the book.

“No, Philip,” he said, “you cannot, by any .
means, tempt or persuade me to have anything to
do with that book, or any other that is forbidden us.
It is wrong, and I am afraid to do what is wrong.”

At this moment the bell rang for dinner. Foot-
steps were heard inthe hall. Philip, unperceived
by Maurice, hastily concealed the book under
some pamphlets and papers on his desk, and left
him. Maurice thought no more of the book, and
Philip was that day summoned home to visit his
father, who was very ill.



MAURICE GRAY. 69

A fortnight passed away, when one morning
Mr. Harding was called out of school, and after
being absent a few minutes, he returned looking
unusually grave, and addressing his school, said,
“that Mr. Shaw from the village, had just called
to look upa book that had for several weeks been
missing from his library, and which was taken out
by one of the pupils of the school. He refuses to
give the name of the boy, as he is under a solemn
promise of secrecy, unless the book cannot be
otherwise obtained. The book, he said, was a new
one, and the only copy he had; and as one volume
was missing, he could not use the other, or he
would not have made known the circumstances to
me. But as the young gentleman who had it had
not called for some time, he must excuse him for
using the most prompt method for obtaining his
property, and he should make known his name
unless he received his book without needless delay.
Tam exceedingly grieved,” continued Mr. Hard-
ing, “that any one should have violated what I
consider one of the most important rules of my
school, as you all know how strongly I have often
expressed my abhorrence of the kind of books
usually found in circulating libraries such as Mr.
Shaw’s. It seems to me also an act of ingrati-
tude, as I have been at the personal expense of



70 MAURICE GRAY.

purchasing a library for your use, of such books as
T approve. I advise whoever has the book Mr.
Shaw is in search of, to confess it immediately,
otherwise Mr. Shaw will himself make it known.”

No one spoke or moved.

Mr. Harding looked carefully around the room,
and then added, “There is no one absent from the
school now but Philip Graham, and his conduct
has been such as to exonerate him from the suspi-
cion of so gross a violation of duty, and of course
it must be one of those now present.”

Mr. Shaw returned home, and Mr. Harding
then directed the boys to remain in their places
while he visited their rooms in search of the miss-
ing book. He was absent but a few moments,
when he re-appeared in the school-room, bringing
a book which they all knew came from the for-
bidden circulating library. His countenance was
very grave, and he said with unusual emotion,—

“I have found this book where I least expected
to find it, and where, before searching, I should
have felt certain it would not be found. It was
concealed under papers and pamphlets on the desk
of Maurice Gray.”

Maurice involuntarily started at the sound of
his name, but soon recovered himself, and looked
steadily at his teacher.



MAURICE GRAY. 71

“QO Maurice!” said Mr. Harding, with much
feeling, “have I indeed been deceived in you?
Why did you not, as on former occasions, come
forward and confess your fault?”

Maurice arose in his seat and said respectfully,
“I have nothing to confess, sir. I did not know
the book was there.”

“Then you accuse some one,” said Mr. Hard-
ing, ‘‘of secreting the book under papers upon
your desk, do you?”

“It must have been done by some one else, sir,”
answered Maurice, “ for I have never read, nor
even taken in my hand, a book from the circulating
library since I entered your school.”

“ The missing book is found secreted upon your
desk, Maurice,” said Mr. Harding. “ Everything
looks against you, but I am persuaded you have
never yet deceived me.”

“ Circumstances are certainly against me, sir,”
said Maurice, looking calmly at his teacher with
his full, honest eye, “ but I do not dare to lie or
deceive. I believe I have never given you cause
to doubt my integrity, and I hope you will believe
me, when I say I did not know the book was
there. As it has been found there, and has been
missing for a fortnight, I know of but one way in
which it could have been put there. But I beg



972 MAURICE GRAY.

of you to take some other method of ascertaining
the truth, I may implicate one who is innocent,
and nothing but your express commands can cause
me to make known my suspicions. If you will
please to wait a day or two longer, perhaps all will
be cleared up.”

*‘T have such confidence in you, Maurice,” said
Mr. Harding, “and feel such a respect for your
wishes, that I will let the matter rest until to-
morrow, when Mr. Neville returns, and I will
consult with him as to the best course to pursue.”

Philip Graham returned that evening to school.
He looked very sad and much softened. He
had come from the death-bed and funeral of his
father, and was received with much kindness and
sympathy by Mr. Harding.

Mr. Neville returned the next day, but not until
the boys had been assembled in school for an hour,
and of course Mr. Harding had no opportunity to
consult with him on the discovery of the offender.

After the lessons were over, Mr. Harding
related to Mr. Neville, in presence of the whole
school, the circumstances of the missing book, and
concluded by asking him if he could conceive who
would have taken the book from the library, or
how it could have been concealed on Maurice’s
desk without his knowledge. ‘I have had this



MAURICE GRAY. 73

in my possession,” he added, producing the book,
“and have examined its contents, and it has made
me the more determined to discover who among
my pupils could have such a low and depraved
taste as to feel inclined to read it. I fcel ashamed
to think that I have a boy in my school who has
a taste for such reading.”

Mr. Neville looked much disturbed while Mr.
Harding was speaking, and after a few moments
he said—

“Tt iz most painful to me to be obliged to bring
disgrace and reproach upon one who has hitherto
occupied a high position in the school, in every
way; but it is my duty to state what I know of
this affair, that suspicion may not rest where it is
undeserved. I intended to have made known to
you, sir,” he continued, addressing Mr. Harding,
“the circumstances which occurred a fortnight
since; but as I was very much occupied at the
time in preparations for my journey, it escaped my
mind, and I had quite forgotten the affair, until
you mentioned what occurred here yesterday.

“Tt was about a fortnight since, I was on my
way to the closet of Maurice Gray. I wished to
speak with him alone. As I approached the
closet, I heard some one conversing with him
within, and not wishing to interrupt them, I



74 MAURICE GRAY.

retired to a window in the room to wait until his
visiter departed, and unintentionally overheard the
conversation within. Some one was urging Mau-
rice to become a subscriber to the circulating
library, telling him he should have no trouble about
it, that he would procure and return all the books,
&c., and he seemed at the same time to be urging
upon him a volume to read. Maurice Gray firmly
and positively refused to have anything to do with
it, giving the best of reasons for so doing, that he
would never wilfully break a rule of the school—
that his father entirely disapproved of such read-
ing—that he did not wish to cultivate a taste for
it himself—that he was perfectly satisfied with,
and much interested in, the books which were
provided for him to read. His companion was
still urging Maurice to do as he desired, when the
bell interrupted them, the other boys entered the
room, and he was obliged to leave. I saw no book
in his hand when he left the closet. I think it
must then have been left there. The boy who
was conversing with Maurice, and whom I-saw
leave the closet, was Philip Graham.”

Mr. Harding started with surprise. He was
well aware that among his older pupils there were
some he could not trust, as they preferred their
own will to his; but Philip Graham, from outward



MAURICE GRAY, 75

conduct, had always been exemplary—what the
boys called “Mr. Harding’s model.” He was a
brilliant scholar-—punctual and studions, and was
supposed by his teachers to be a boy of strict
moral principles. His comrades knew him better,
but it was a great disappointment to Mr, H. to
find he had been so deceived. He sat silent at
his desk for some minutes, and then called Philip
Graham, who arose in his seat.

“There can be no doubt,” said Mr. Harding,
“of the entire correctness of Mr. Neville’s state-
ment. Ifyou have any excuse to make, or any
explanation to give, you have an opportunity.”

Philip stood erect. His eyes were cast down,
but his countenance was unmoved, and he made
no reply.

“Tt grieves me more than I can express,” con-
tinued Mr. Harding, “to be compelled to look
not only with suspicion and distrust, but with deep
disapprobation, on one whom I have always re-
garded with confidence and esteem. I must hence-
forth regard you as opposed to my plans and my
interests. This is the first offence of yours that
has come to my knowledge, but it is one of great
aggravation. You have deliberately disobeyed me,
and as you are a subscriber to the library, your
offence is probably one of Jong standing. Nor is



76 MAURICE GRAY.

that all. You have used your influence to induce
another to break my rules, and to pervert his mind
with such vile trash as this book contains. I can-
not suppose that this is your only attempt. It may
be that you have induced others whose minds,
unlike that of Maurice, are not fortified by good
principles, to follow your example. I need not
say that you have lost the high place in my regard
which you formerly held, and nothing but a long
course of correct conduct can restore you to my
confidence. My sympathy with your great afflic-
tion leads me to suspend for the present the inflic-
tion of merited punishment. One word of advice
I must give you. Of all the severe judgments
which our blessed Redeemer denounced, none were
more severe than those which respect hypocrites—
those who appeared outwardly righteous, but were
within full of deceit and wickedness. Go to your
private room, Philip, and let the rest of the day
be passed in meditation on your past conduct, and
may God give you a penitent spirit, and a desire
for the future to live 4 penitent life! May he
give you a clean heart, and renew a right spirit
within you!”
Philip obeyed, and silently left the room.



MAURICE GRAY. 77

CHAPTER VII.

“Uniucky! unlucky! unlucky!” cried Dick
Wells, joining a group of the older boys on the
play-ground. “Is it not, Tom, the most unlucky
thing in the world, that the birth-day feée and the
circus come on the same day; I never heard of
anything more provoking? How can we manage
it?”

“It is, indeed, bad enough,

a»

answered Tom,
“but we must do the best we can, and that is, to
leave home as early as possible, and come out of
the circus before it is over, and try to be at home
again by four o'clock, which is the hour we are
invited to the fete.”

“Yes, that is all we can do,” answered Dick,
“unless we give it up altogether, and that is what
I will not do, happen what may. There never
was such a tempting hand-bill, and I must go, and
think of the consequences afterwards,”

“We must obtain permission,” said Tom, “to
go to the woods immediately after dinner, and as
soon as we are out of sight, make the best of our
way to the village. One of us must try to keep
an eye to the time, and just before four we must



78 MAURICE GRAY.

leave; and if we are fifteen minutes too late, Mr.
Harding will think we did not know the hour, or
that we wandered farther than we intended.”

‘“‘ Well, that is what we will conclude upon,”
said Dick. “How many of us are there? Bob
Newton joins us at the tent. He is to buy our
tickets and have all ready, so that there will be no
delay. Why, Maurice, I did not observe you were
here! I did not mean you should know our secret,
as I thought there would be no use in inviting
you; you are so fearful of disobeying Mr. Harding.
Come, now, do be somebody for once! Join our
party, and see the most delightful circus in the
world.”

“You must, Maurice,” said Bob Newton, “as
you have overheard the whole plan, you cannot
help it. You are so fond of horses, and ride sa
well yourself, you will enjoy it; and you may learn
something useful too in the way of managing a
horse—eh !”

**O, say nothing more to me about it,” answered
Maurice. ‘ You all know very well that I will
not join you; but I fear you will all get into
trouble, so you had better give itup. Iam sure
the pleasant entertainment Mr. Harding gives us |
on Wednesday ought to be sufficient amusement
for us; and suppose you were detained, or did not



MAURICE GRAY. 79

know the hour, how mortified you would all feel
to be discovered at such a time—to say nothing of
the disobedience, and the meanness of skulking
away in such a manner to attend a circus. Better
give it up.”

“We have thought it all over, Maurice,” said
Dick, ‘and we are quite resolved to run all risks
and go, and nothing you can say will induce us to
change our minds. So, if we cannot induce you
to join us, we will drop the subject.”

Maurice made no answer, but, putting his arm
within Frank’s, he coaxingly led him away.

“ Now, Frank,” he said, as they walked along,
“it is but a short time since you determined to be
more conscientious, and that you would not again
violate Mr. Harding’s rules. Why will you allow
the first temptation to draw you away from your
duty?”

“O, Maurice!” said Frank, “I cannot withstand
such a temptation as this. It is too much for me.
Of all things in the world the circus is my delight.
After this I do intend to try to do right.”

“Until the next temptation comes, Frank,”
said Maurice. “Where is the virtue of doing
right, when there is no temptation to do wrong?”

«That is true,” said Frank; but this once,
Maurice, I must follow my inclination. I am



80 MAURICE GRAY.

quite as determined as the others. Happen what
will, I attend the circus this time.”

“T fear you will repent of it,” answered Mau-
rice. ‘It seems to me to be quite impossible for
you to leave the village after the circus, and be
here in time for the sete. If you are late, Mr.
Harding will think you very ungentlemanly, and
feel as if you treated him with great rudeness.”

“O, trust us, Maurice,” said Frank, for slipping
in unobserved! We have done such things before
now. Mr. Harding will never know but that we
came in with the rest, there will be so many there.
Depend upon it, we will not be discovered.”

“Tam sorry to see you so determined, Frank.
I hoped I might persuade you to abandon the
plan, though I had but little hope of influencing
the other boys. But you are more guilty than the
others, because you are breaking a resolution to do
right, and had already taken one step, and are now
going backwards, and will find it harder than ever
to commence again.”

“T wish I was thoroughly good like you, Mau-
rice,” said Frank; “then I could do right easily
enough. But I never can be. I never thought I
should like to be good until I knew you. Almost
all the boys I ever knew before who pretended to
be good, were like Philip Graham,—good enough



MAURICE GRAY. §1

before their teacher, but elsewhere, just like all
the other boys. And though I never pretended to
be good myself, I always despised hypocrisy more
than anything else. But it seems to make no
difference with you, where you are or who you are
with, and that is a character I would like to imi-
tate. /

“Do not talk to me so,” said Maurice. “No
one knows my heart save myself, and Him who
knoweth all things; so no one can know how often
I fail in all my endeavours to be and to do what I
desire. But my heavenly Father, through his
mercy in Christ Jesus, has compassion on my
weakness, and gives me the earnest, constant de-
sire to serve and to please him. He pardons my
manifold transgressions, and comforts me with

assurances of his love and care towards all those
who sincerely wait upon him.”

“Well, Maurice,” said Frank, “I would like
to be as good as you, and after the circus I am
going to try again, but I cannot give up that now,
so good-bye. And off ran Frank to join the circus
party.

The birth-day fete mentioned just now, was a
little festival which Mr. Harding held every year
on the birth-day of his little twin daughters,
Minna and Rose.

F



82 MAURICE GRAY.

Many of the children, with their parents, and
other friends of Mr. Harding from the village and
neighbouring country-seats, with all the pupils,
were invited to attend. A table was spread on
the lawn under the shade of the lefty elms. Vari-
ous games were played in which old and young
participated, and everything was done by Mr. and
Mrs. Harding to make the jubilee pleasant to the
guests,

Minna and Rose, queens of the day, were
crowned with wreaths of flowers, and presided at
the feast. They also received from their parents
and many of the visiters, useful and beautiful
gifts.

The day was always anticipated by the pupils
of the school with great pleasure, but those who
were at this time determined to attend the circus
were so engrossed in that, that they did not re-
gard it with their usual interest. Good Nurse
Burton had been several days at the school assist~
ing and directing in the preparations for the fete.

The long-expected Wednesday at last arrived.
The day was fine. The grass on the lawn had
been recently mowed, and was soft as velvet be-
neath the feet. The air was fragrant with flowers
and new hay; and the table, most tastefully deco-
rated with flowers, was profusely covered with



MAURICE GRAY. 83

ices, confectionary, and fine fruit. The boys readily
obtained permission from Mr. Harding to pass an
hour or two in the woods before the time ap-
pointed for the fete; and, according to their pre-
vious plan, as soon as they were out of sight of the
house, they turned into the road leading to the
village, and rapidly pursued their way thither.

Now, it happened that some indispensable article
fur the entertainment was forgotten, and none of
the attendants being at leisure to ride to the vil-
lage, Mr. Harding mounted his horse in haste, and
proceeded thither to execute the commission. He
was detained longer than he expected, and it was
but a moment or two before four o’clock, when he
turned his face homeward. He happened to be
passing the circus-ground just as the people were
Waving it, and reined up his horse and let the
crowd pass. To his great surprise, among the first
who came from the tent were several boys of his
own school, who, casting an anxious look at the
old church-clock, set off in rapid steps for home.
He had hardly recovered from his surprise before
the crowd had dispersed, and he was again moving
onward, when he saw a solitary figure emerge from
the tent, and strike into a circuitous road leading
towards his house. It was Philip Graham!

Mr. Harding rode slowly homeward, pondering



84 MAURICE GRAY.

on the deceitfulness and ingratitude of those he so
earnestly and constantly endeavoured to Lenefit
and make happy, and did not reach the scene of
festivity until many of his guests had assembled.

The boys who had attended the circus made
great haste to get home, and arrived before their
teacher; and they congratulated themselves much
on his not being present on their arrival, and felt
quite sure they would not be detected. They were
consequently in high spirits, and entered with
great enthusiasm into the games and pastimes of
the day.

The festival was highly enjoyed by all, and the
moon shone brightly on the pleasant party ere they
dispersed for the night.

“ Did we not do well, Maurice?” said Frank,
as they retired together, on the breaking up of the
party. “Was it not a lucky thing that Mr. Hard-
ing was absent when we returned?”

“OQ, lucky! Jucky! lucky!” said Dick and Tom,
upon joining them. “ Two frolics in one day is a
rare thing. Now, Maurice, do you not wish you
had gone? Who is the wiser for it? I would not
have missed it for anything.”

The school was assembled next morning when
Mr. Harding entered. He stood in his desk, and
addressing his pupils, said—“ Before commencing



MAURICE GRAY. 85

the lessons of the morning, I have a few words to
say. The chief design I have in celebrating the
little festivals on the birth-day of my children, is
to give a pleasant holiday to my school. You
must perceive it is attended with much trouble
and expense, and did I not think it gave much
pleasure to you all, and that it would be among
the pleasant remembrances of your school-days in
after-life, and cause you to feel that your teacher
loved you, and was desirous of promoting your
pleasure in every innocent way, as well as your
improvement, be assured the celebration of yester-
day would be the last.

There are many among you who understand my
plans, and appreciate my indulgence, and I am
sure they look upon me as a friend as well as a
teacher; but there are others among you of a very
different disposition. I do not doubt that you all
enjoyed yesterday's pastimes, and you doubtless
thought I did also; but you are mistaken, I
hoped to have enjoyed the day as I usually have
done; but there was one circumstance which
brought a chill over my heart and spirits, and made
the joyous scene to me one of darkness and sad-
ness. It is hard to meet with deceit and ingrati-
tude, and to receive it, too, in return for kind
sympathy and affection.”



86 MAURICE GRAY.

There was a pause. The older boys looked
askance at each other. Mr. Harding resumed—

“T rode to the village in haste yesterday after-
noon to execute a forgotten commission connected
with our little festival, and was on my return
home, when the spectators of the circus were just
leaving the tent. I stopped to let the crowd pass,
and imagine my surprise and sorrow when I saw
among the crowd a number of my own pupils
hastily moving towards their home, as if fearful of
being late at my festival. Isaw them distinctly,
and recognized each, or I could hardly have be-
lieved them capable of such bold disobedience, and
that, too, on the very afternoon when I was doing
all in my power to promote their happiness. Now,
I wish every boy present who attended the circus
yesterday afternoon to arise in ‘his seat.”

One after another, with countenances expressive
of great mortification, the boys reluctantly arose
in their seats, until the six who had gone in the
party together were all standing.

Mr. Harding looked around. ‘ This is not all,”
he said. Still no one moved.

“This is all who were of our party, sir,” said
Dick Wells. ‘‘ There were but six.”

“ There is another present,” said Mr. Harding,
“who did not join your party, but who attended



MAURICE GRAY. 87

the circus, whom I saw slyly leave the tent after
all the spectators had gone, and make his way
home by a circuitous route. Philip Graham! why
do you not rise in your seat with the rest? Do
not think because you went more slyly and
stealthily than the others, and wished not only to
keep a fair face before me, but also befure your
schoolmates, that you were unseen.

“It is hardly a year since some of you requested
permission to attend the circus, and then, in deny-
ing your request, I stated to you that as long as
you were under my charge, I would never consent
to your frequenting a place where you would pro-
bably hear vulgar and profane language, and where
you might imbibe a taste for mountebank exhibi-
bitions, and the lowest grade of dramatic perform-
ances. As there are some present who have en-
tered school since that time, I again express my
opinion, and repeat my commands, on the subject.
The punishment I shall inflict on those who dis-
obeyed me: yesterday, will be to suspend them
from the school for one month at the end of this
term. Philip Graham will be suspended two
months, I shall also write to your parents the
particulars of your conduct, that they may deal
with you as they think proper.

“As for you, Frank,” continued Mr, Harding,



88 MAURICE GRAY.

“you had boldly taken the first step in the paths
of honesty and rectitude, and are capable of be-
coming an honourable and high-minded youth.
I feel greatly disappointed that the first tempta-
tion has caused you to fall. I fear you are tov
much governed by your associates. If you were
always to choose good ones, you might do well;
but there is no security for a person who cannot
stand alone,—who does not possess in his own
heart those principles and that strength which will
lead him to act rightly, independently of all out-
ward circumstances, and to resist in the hour of
temptation. Each of us must bear his own bur-
den, and give his own account to the Judge of all.
Strive and pray, I entreat you, for that grace and
light from above—that firm religious conscientious-
ness and love to your Creator—which can alone
give you the victory over sudden temptation.”

Frank Henley seemed deeply impressed by Mr.
Harding’s advice, and much distressed at his own
misconduct; but Philip Graham exhibited no
emotion !

And here we must take leave of Mr. Harding’s
little community. The diversity of character
which we have seen in it may be found in larger
and older communities all the world over—and
each of them answers to some representation or



MAURICE GRAY. 69

image, which we find in the Sacred Scriptures.
There are those who fear God and desire to please
and obey him. Their habitual thought is, “ Thou
God seest me;” and so convinced are they that to
love God and keep his commandments is their
reasonable duty, that they would suffer any re-
proach or ridicule rather than disobey them; no
matter what numbers may be found in the way of
evil, nor what flattering promises of enjoyment
may be held out, the right or wrong of the thing
is first in their thoughts. Concealment or detec-
tion they have nothing to do with, for there is
nothing they wish to conceal or fear to expose.
They are sincere and guileless people. Maurice
Gray evidently belongs to this group.

And then we have another class, and the world
is full of them. The chief motive which leads
them to do right is that it is more creditable.
They oblige themselves to maintain two opposite
characters ; and while they vainly suppose them-
selves to be in favour with the wicked companions
whom they despise, and with the good whom they
cannot but respect, they seldom fail to lose the
confidence of both, and to be exposed and detested
as deceivers and hypocrites. Pattie Granam is
a striking example of this class of persons. The
history of both not only illustrates the worldly



90 MAURICE GRAY.

proverb, that “honesty is the best policy,” but the
higher and far more comprehensive truth, that
“the fear of the Lord is the BEGINNING OF
KNOWLEDGE.”*

* Prov. L 7.



CLARENCE HARTLEY.






CLARENCE HARTLEY.

“CnarENcE has warm and tender feelings,” said
Mrs. Hartley to her husband, one evening they
were conversing about their children, “but I fear
that his passionate temper and selfishness will, like
evil weeds, completely check their growth.”

« The case is bad enough, Anna, but no so bad,
I hope, as you fear. These good affections are
sever active in vain. They leave upon the mind
an indelible impression. In after years, the re-
membrance of them will give strength to good
desires and intentions. In after life, the thoughts
of his mother will restore the feelings he had to-
day, and draw him back from evil with cords of
love that cannot be broken. In most instances
where men abandon themselves finally to evil
courses, it will be found that the impressions made
in childhood were not of the right kind—that the
mother's influence was not what it should have



94 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

been. For myself, I am sure that a different
mother would have made me a different man.
When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but
the tenderness with which my mother always
treated me, and the unimpassioned but earnest
manuer in which she reproved and corrected my
faults, subdued my unruly temper. When I be-
came restless or impatient, she always had a book
to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some de-
vice to save me from myself. My father was
neither harsh nor indulgent towards me: I cherish
his memory with respect and love. But I have
different feelings when I think of my mother. I
often feel even now as if she were near me, as if
her cheek were laid to mine. My father would
place his hand upon my head, caressingly, but my
mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did
not expect my father to do more—I do not know
that I should have loved him had he done more;
for him it was a natural expression of affection.
But no act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss
upon my cheek, her warm embrace, are all felt
now; and the older I grow, the more holy seem
the influences that surrounded me in childhood.
To-day I cut from @ newspaper some verses that
pleased and affected me. I have brought them
home. Let me read them to you.



CLARENCE HARTLEY. 95

I DREAMED OF MY MOTHER.*

I dreamed of my mother, and sweet to my soul
Was the brief-given spell of that vision’s control ;
I thought she stood by me, all cheerful and mild,
As when to her bosom I clung as a child.

Wier features were bright with the smiles that she wore,
When heeding my idle-tongued prattle of yore;

And her voice had that kindly and silvery strain

That from childhood had dwelt in the depths of my brain.

She spoke of the days of her girlhood and youth,
Of life and its cares, and of hope and its truth;
And she seemed as an angel winged from above,
To bring me a message of duty and love.

She told of her thoughts at the old village school,

Of her walks with her playmates when loosed from its rule,
Of her rambles for berries, and, when they were oer,

Of the mirth-making groups at the white cottage door.

She painted the garden, so sweet to the view,

Where the wren made its nest, and the pet flowers grew;
Of the trees that she loved for their scent and their shade,
Where the robin, and wild-bee, and humming-bird, played.

And she spoke of the greenwood which bordered the farm,
Where her glad moments glided unmixed with alarm ;

Of the well by the wicket, whose waters were free,

And the lake, with its white margin traversed in glee.

* By Thomas G Spear.



96 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

And she pondered, delighted, the joys to retrace
Of the family scenes of that ruralized place—

Of its parties and bridals, its loves and its spells,
Its heart-clinging ties and its saddened farewells,

She pictured the meeting-house, where, with the throng,
She heard the good pastor and sang the sweet song—
Of the call from the pulpit, the feast at the shrine,

And the hallowed communings with feelings divine.

‘* And listen, my son,” she did smilingly say,
‘Tf ‘tis pleasant to sing, it is sweeter to pray—
If the future is bright in the day of thy prime,
That brightness may grow with the fading of time.
* * ® *
“ Look up to thy Maker, my son, and rejoice!”
Was the last gentle whisper that came from her voice,
While its soft, soothing tones, on my dreaming ear fell,
As she glided away with a smiling farewell.

There are dreams of the heavens, and dreams of the earth,
And dreams of disease that to phantoms give birth,

But the hearer of angels, awake or asleep,

Has a vision of love to remember and keep.

I awoke from the spell of that vision of night,

And inly communed with a quiet delight,

and the past, and the present, and future surveyed,
In the darkness presented by fancy, arrayed.

I thought of the scenes when that mother was nigh,

In a soft sunny land, and beneath a mild sky,

When at matins we walked to the health-giving spring,
With the dew on the grass and the birds on the wing—



Full Text



Of biltes... U Mark

MAURICE GRAY.

fa OF

ra


CAKL ADLER.

Now they are trying to bury the Newfoundland doy in new hay, from which
he rises like an animated haycock. Now they are repeating tne experiment
with Bob Bolton, the biggest and best humoured of the set.—Page 132.

Lie,

oe

\

cA

A
we




Turning the head of the boat towards Sunnyside Cove, they made directly
for laud. Two boys aged about sixteen and fourteen leaped ashore, and made

fast the Little vessel.—Page 199.



‘’. NELSON AND SONS, LONDON AND EDINBURGH.
MAURICE GRAY

OTHER STORIES.

@ Book for Boys,

Of tng holiday sports, dividing the rule

U1 the duties of home and the studies of school ;

Till che sunshine of boyhood has ended, and brought
Tho cares and the shadows of manhood and thought.

London:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
AND EDINBURGH.

MDCCCLII..

rR
CONTENTS.

MAURICE GRaY, or
CLARENCE HARTLEY, vee oe
THE WIDOW'S SON, we oe
CARL ADLER, wee on oe

HERBERT MORGAN, ae tee

a

123

131

307
MAURICE GRAY.

CHAPTER I.

“ News, boys! I have some news to tell you,”
cried Frank Henley, running towards the play-
ground, where a number of boys were assembled.
He was soon surrounded by a group of them.

‘* What is it, Frank? what is it?” asked many
voices,

**We are to have a new scholar, and he is
coming to-morrow,” answered Frank. “Not a
half scholar, as I call the day-scholars, but a
whole one—a boarder.

“How do you know?” “ What is his name?”
« How old is he?” Where is he from?” were
questions rapidly asked.

“TI can answer but one of these questions,” said
Frank. “I heard Mr. Harding say so himself to
Mr. Neville, the assistant; so it is true, you see.”

“Did you not even hear his name, Frank?”
asked one.
8 MAURICE GRAY.

“No! I have told you all I know,” said
Frank, “and you will have to wait until to-mor-
row to find out the rest.”

**O dear! that is a great while to wait,” said
Bob Newton. ‘“‘ But one thing we know, he can-~
not be younger than eleven years, for none are
admitted here younger; and it is not likely he is
more than sixteen, for boys generally leave school
at that age. I hope he is a real good-natured
fellow.”

‘Come now,” said Dick Wells, “suppose one
of us should go and ask Mr. Harding about him.
There! he is just walking down the garden to-
wards the summer-house, with a book in his hand.
He is going there to read, I suppose; a capital
chance to ask him.”

“1 will not ask him this time,” said Harry
Blake, “ for it fell to my lot last time, and Mr.
Harding will think all the curiosity of the school
is centred in me.”

* How can you be so foolish?” said Philip
Graham, a tall, slender boy, fourteen years of age,
with an uncommonly sedate countenance, small
light blue eyes, and rather a precise air. “ To-
morrow is time enough to know. What difference
can oue day make?”

*O! Phil would not condescend to be curi-
MAURICE GRAY. 9

ous,” said Bob Newton; “it is too undignified
for him.” oo

“Come now,” said Frank Henley, “all who
wish to find out about the new scholar stand
round me, and we will cast lots who shall go and
ask Mr. Harding, and then there will be no
trouble about it.”

The lot fell upon little Joseph Green, one of the
smallest boys. Joseph was very timid, and it was
a hard task for him, but he felt ashamed to own
it, or complain of his lot.

“ Now,” said Frank, “it will not answer tu
ask too many questions of Mr. Harding, for he
would think that rude, and perhaps not tell us
anything.”

“‘Well,” said one, “ask his name of course.
There is a great deal in a name; it seems to tell
one how a boy looks.”.

“‘ Ask his age,” said another. “Ask where he
is from,” said another. “ Where he will sit,”
said a third. “Where he will sleep,” said a
fourth. “What kind of a boy he is,” said a
fifth,

“ boys. “It would never do to ask so many. I
think three questions are as many as it will do tu
ask.”
10 MAURICE GRAY.

“T think so too! I think so too!’ said several
voices. “ Three are enough; what.shall they be?
Three will tell very little.”

After some discussion, it was decided the three
most important items were his name, his age, and
whether he was from the city or the country, and
little Joe Green was despatched to acquire the
important information. He scon reached the
-summer-house where Mr. Harding was sitting,
who raised his eyes from his book as he heard the
approach of footsteps.

* Well, Joseph,” he said, kindly, “ what do you
wish?” ,

“ Please, sir,” said Joe, hesitatingly, “ the boys
sent me to ask you if you would tell us the name
of the new scholar who is coming to-morrow.”

« How did you know there was one coming?”
asked Mr. Harding, smiling.

“ Frank Henley heard you tell Mr. Neville so,
sir,” replied Joe.

“Well, his name is Maurice Gray,” said Mr.
Ifarding.

“ Please, sir, tell me how old he is?” asked
Toe.

“He is several years older than yourself, Joe,”
answered Mr. Harding. “He is fourteen, I
believe.” .
MAURICE GRAY. iM

« The boys told me to ask you, sir,” continued
Joe,” “whether he was from the city or the
country?”

“He is from a small country village a hundred
miles from here,” replied Mr. Harding.

“ Thank you, sir,” said Joe, bowing, and pre-
paring to run away.

“ Would you not like to know something more
of him?” asked Mr. Harding, good-naturedly.

“ Yes, sir, very much,” answered Joe, “ but
the boys told me I must not ask you but three
questions, or you would think we were very rude;”
and, without waiting for further information, Joe
left Mr. Harding, and hasteued back to the play-
ground.

“Maurice Gray—fourteen years old—from a
country village”—he said, as soon as he could, and
as fast as he could speak, and in a very loud voice,
as if he was anxious to complete all the duties of
his mission as soon as possible.

“Maurice Gray—a pretty name, is it not?”
said Frank Henley.

“Fourteen years old—that is just our age,
Dick,” said Tom Bailey; “he will be one of the
oldest scholars. I hope he has not an old seber
head like Philip Graham, who thinks it such a
condescension to play with us now and then, and
12 MAURICE GRAY.

seems to think it is wicked to laugh, or have any
fun at all. Mr. Harding thinks him a model of
good conduct, and a pattern for us all. I think
he is a very disagreeable fellow. He is proud, and
never notices the younger boys at all, and seems to
think boys are made for nothing but to study and
go to church! I hope Maurice Gray is a real
hearty fellow, Dick, like you and I.”

“ Yes, indeed I do,” answered Dick. ‘I hate
‘pattern boys,’ like Phil Graham. One never
feels at ease with them. If the fellow that is
coming is to my mind, I shall be quite polite to
him, for I like a new friend once in a while. As
he is from the country, I suppose we shall have to
teach him a thing or two. I suppose he is not
much of a scholar. This is probably his first
coming out into the world. Well, we shall see
what he is like to-morrow. I wonder if he will
come in the coach at eleven o'clock, or whether
his father will bring him. To-morrow is not a
great way off.”

To-morrow came in its proper place, and a
bright lovely summer day it was; and, at eleven
o'clock, every ear was opened as the old stage-
coach came rumbling leisurely along, and great
was the satisfaction that beamed from divers faces
as it was heard distinctly to stop at the front door.
MADBICE GRAY. 13

Mr. Harding left the room to receive his new
pupil, and after being absent half an hour, re-
turned without him, to the evident dissatisfaction
of the many eyes that were fixed upon the door,
for they all knew they must now wait until after
school to be introduced to the new scholar.

They had not been long assembled on the play-
ground after school, before Mr. Harding and.
Maurice Gray were seen coming from the house
together.

“‘Here he comes! Here he comes!” said seve-
ral voices; but no—they walked down the neat
gravel-walk, and then into the garden. Mr.
Harding was talking very busily to Maurice, who
was listening with great attention.

“He is not so tall as J am by an inch or two,”

said Philip Graham, drawing up his thin figure to
its full height, “though he is fourteen years of
age.”
**O, he cannot equal Phil Graham in anything,
of course,” said Tom Bailey, aside. ‘‘No one
pretends to equal the model scholar—the ‘ pattern
of propriety’—even in outward appearance. I am
sure I hope Maurice is not such a stiff conceited
fellow, looking down upon everybody else.”

“Why,” said Dick Wells, “how should we
know how straight we ought to walk, or how sober
ld MAURICE GRAY.

we ought to lovk, how perfectly we ought to recite,
hew still we ought to be in school-hours, how obe-
dient to the rules of the school, if we had not some
such perfect pattern before us as Phil Graham!”

“Mr. Harding says,” said Louis Tarleton, a
lame, sickly-looking boy, leaning on a crutch,
“that if we all kept a Bible on our desks as
Philip Graham does, and studied it each day, we
should all know how to do right.”

This was a long and a bold speech for Louis
Tarleton to make, and he coloured deeply, for all
eyes turned upon him.

“Tt is one thing to keep a Bible there, and
another thing to read it,” said Dick, whistling,
and walking off.

“OQ, here they come!” said Frank Henley,
“certainly, straight towards the play-ground,” as
Mr. Harding and Maurice approached. Mr.
Harding introduced Maurice to his new friends,
and all were agreeably impressed by his kind
gentlemanly manners, his fine open countenance,
and his pleasant smile; there was also a dignity
and self-command about him above his years,
which inspired a feeling of respect.

* Well, Maurice,” said Mr. Harding, upon
leaving him, “I see you will soon make friends
here, and I hope we shall make you happy.”
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MAURICE GRAY

Maurice Gray joined eagerly in the games proposed, and showed himselx
expertinthemall, . . . . . He lefe his game of ball to disentangle little
doe Green’s kite from a high tree, &c.—Page 15.
MAURICE GRAY. 15

“T will try to deserve friends, sir,” said Mau-
rice, bowing respectfully; “and then F do not fear
but I shall make them.”

“T love hins afready,” said Mr. Harding to him-
self, as le walked towards the house. ‘ He will be
a friend to me, and an ornament to the school; I see
it in the very expression of his face. He is a seri-
ous-minded, conscientious boy, or I am much mis-
taken, though his eye and lip have a merry sinile.”

Maurice Gray joined eagerly in the games pro-
posed, and showed himself expert in them all, and
seemed as much interested in the plays of the
youngest boys as those of his own age. He left
his game of -ball to disentangle little Joe Green’s
kite from a high tree, and gave his arm most
kindly to lame Louis, as they walked towards the
house, at the ringing of the dinner-bell.

“ Nothing of a scholar, of: course, or he would
not be so fond of play,” muttered Philip Graham
to himself, louking very wise, as he put a book in,
his pocket.

“A right merry, pleasant fellow,” said Dick
Wells and Tum Bailey.

“ How obliging and good-natured he is,” said
Jue Green.

“*A new broom sweeps clean,” said Frank
Henley. .
16 MAURICE GRAY.

“It is not often I have anything but my crutch
to lean on,” said lame Louis, looking up gratefully
into Maurice’s face with his sad eyes, as the other
boys all passed quickly by, and left the two far
behind.

“‘ My arm shall always be at your service,” said
Maurice, “if it suits you.”

“T can get along much faster with it,” said
Louis; “and then I do not feel so lonely either to
zo with some one, for the boys always reach the
house and get seated at table long befure I can
get there.”

A smile of satisfaction might have been seen on
Mr. Harding’s expressive face, as Maurice Gray
entered the dining-room with lame Louis leaning
on his arm, and a look as if he would have said,
“T am not deceived, I am sure, in my first im-
pressions of this boy.”

CHAPTER II.

Mr. Harpine's residence was about two miles
from the beautiful village of N——. There was a
fine garden in front, a large play-ground at one
side, and behind the house were a farm-yard and
MAURICE GRAY. 3

vegetable garden. Beyond were thick woods,
pleasant fields, and shady roads. He built the
house expressly for his school, and all was well
arranged according to a plan of his own. The
chambers were large and airy, each containing four
beds, one in each corner of the room. A door
opened near each bed into a light, good-sized
dressing-room. One of these was appropriated to
each scholar, to contain his clothes, &e. Each was
fitted with a neat writing-desk and chair, so that
it was a pleasant and quiet place for a boy to retire
for study—or solitude, if he felt so disposed.

In addition to his boarders, Mr. Harding received
at his school day-scholars from the neighbouring
village. One wing of the house was occupied by
Mr. Harding and hjs family, which consisted of a
wife and twin daughters, Minna and Rose, eight
years of age. They attended the school each day
regularly, occupying small seats by their father’s
desk. They were allowed occasionally to visit the
. boys’ play-ground as spectators of their games, and
considered it a great treat so to do, But they
were always attended by one of their parents, or
placed under the especial care of one of the most
trusty boys. Philip Graham had this honour con-
ferred upon him oftener than any other boy, and
he was quite proud of the trust reposed in him.

B
18 MAURICE GEAY.

Once in three months Mr. Harding had what
he called a public day, when gentlemen from the
village and the neighbouring country-seats were
invited to attend the school, and hear the recita-
tions, or examine the boys as they pleased. Mr.
Harding would allow no special preparation for
this day. He wished the boys to show exactly
what they were, and this was a great incitement
to them to be diligent students. He allowed the
boys free access at all times to his fine garden,
under certain restrictions, and it was seldom his
laws in this respect were broken.

* Look here, Dick. Quick, or I shall be dis-
covered,” said Tom Bailey one day, about a week
after Maurice Gray had entered the school, as he
was creeping stealthily from Maurice’s closet.
“Come quickly, Tom.” Tom obeyed. “ Here;”
said Dick, “is your good, merry fellow, we have
been calculating upon. Why, he is worse than
Philip Graham, See here! Phil has only a Bible
on his desk, which I do nut think he opens very
often, though he would have Mr. Harding think he
does; but Maurice Gray has a Bible, and a book
of sermons, and some tracts. They are all for |
show, of course. No boy would ever read such
books, I am certain, unless he was compelled, |
and I would not believe Maurice ever reads them '
MAURICE GRAY. 19

if he told me so. He is worse than Phil Graham,
is he not?” ,

“ He may be,” answered Tom, “ in some respects,
but he is a much pleasanter fellow than Philip,
and does not think half so much of himself. He
loves a good game so well, that I guess we can
make something of him. I suppose he has been
living in the country with some old grandmother,
who has made him a parting present of her whole
library for a keepsake; but whether he reads such
dry books or not, he is nothing like Phil Graham.
He has none of that sanctified, long-faced, stiff
look, that Phil has.”

* Well, time will show,” said Dick, “ what we
can make of Maurice Gray. Though he is sociable
and talkative, he manages somehow to keep one at
an awfal distance. I cannot understand it, for he
is anything but proud or haughty. I saw him
to-day helping Peter to lift a large box into the
house, which was too heavy fur him. Iam sure
Phil Graham would have let Peter break his back
before he would raise a finger to assist any servant
boy.”

“There is one thing very certain,” said Tom,
“and that is, that Mr. Harding takes a great
liking to Maurice. Never since I have been here
has he invited a boy to take tea with him during
20 MAURICE GRAY.

the first week of his being here, and Maurice last
evening not only took tea with him, but took a
walk of an hour after tea with Mr. and Mrs.
Harding, and Minna and Rose. I saw them
returning. Minna had his hand, and Rose was
skipping by his side, and they were both talking
to him as if they had known each other for a long
time.”

“Well, to-day is Saturday, and our afternoon
for the woods,” said Dick. “I fancy we shall find
out a little more about Maurice on our walk.
Bob Newton is coming out to go with us. I gave
him a little commission to execute for me in the
village. Some half-dozen of us older boys will
separate from the rest, and go along together, and
Maurice shall be one. I wish Bob Newton was a
boarder; don’t you? He is such a clever fellow.”

“He would not be so useful to us if he was,”
said Tom Bailey, smiling significantly. ‘I had
rather trust him with my errands in the village
than any other day-scholar we have, or even Peter.
He knows so well how to manage things, and keep
an innocent face on all the while. It requires
some talent to do that. Do you think we can
trust Maurice Gray ?”

“No knowing until we have tried him,” said
Dick. ‘Iam not sure but it is too soon to begin;


MAURICE GRAY.

After wandering about till they were weary, amusing themselves with chasing
squirrels, searching tor wild flowers, &c, They seated themselves to rest near
the outskirts of the wood.—Page 21,
MAURICE GRAY. 21

but he is such a pleasant fellow, he is worth try-
ing for; if he has a few rusty notions, I think
we can wear them away, and make a friend of
him.”

It was a glorious summer afternoon, and as soon
as dinner was over, the whole school set off to
enjoy their half holiday in a long ramble througk
woods and fields. Soon after entering the woods,
six or eight of the older boys separated themselves
from the others, Dick Wells so managing that
Maurice Gray should be one of the number. They
were shortly after joined by Bob Newton from the
village, who carried on his arm a basket, which he
delivered to Dick. After wandering about until
they were weary, amusing themselves with chasing
squirrels, searching for wild-flowers, &c., they
seated themselves to rest near the outskirts of the
wood, in a lovely spot, commanding a view of fresh
and flower-bespangled meadows, and thriving fields
of corn and grain.

“ Here is a nice place to take our lunch,” said
Dick, throwing himself on the grass, and opening
his basket. The others gladly seated themselves
round him. Dick removed slyly part of the con-
tents of his basket, and passed the basket contain- .
ing the remainder to the boys as they sat. It
contained a generous supply of cakes and dried
22 MAURICE GRAY.

fruits, which were soon consumed with great relish
by the little party.

He then produced a couple of bottles, and pro-
ceeded to uncork them. ‘“ You got them from the
right place, Bob,” he said, “so we may be sure it
is good, for poor champagne is bad enough.”

He poured out a glass, and presented it first,
from courtesy, to Maurice Gray, as he was a
stranger. To his surprise and mortification, Mau-
rice politely, but decidedly, declined it.

“Do you not drink champagne, Maurice?” said
Dick. “If not, just try this, It is very nice, and
quite refreshing after a walk.”

“No, I thank you,” said Maurice, “ you must
excuse me, Dick, I had rather not take any.”

* Why, you are not very polite,” said Dick,
“to decline taking it, when I got it on purpose to
treat you with, thinking to give you pleasure.”

“Tam sorry you should consider me impolite,”
said Maurice. “Ido not intend to be so, but I
would rather be thought impolite than do what I
feel to be wrong.

* Wrong!” said Dick: “why, what can there
be wrong in a simple glass of champagne? Do
not be so queer. A young man, fourteen years of
age, is certainly at liberty to take a glass of wine
if he pleases. We no longer consider ourselves
MAURICE GRAY. 23

children. I am sure J, for one, feel capable of
judging what is right and fitting for me to do;
but there are plenty to drink it if you will not,
Maurice;” and the bottles were speedily emptied
by the other boys.

You lost a most excellent glass of champagne,
Maurice,” said Bob Newton. ‘“ What is there
wrong in taking it? I should like to know.”

‘Would you have done the same, if Mr.
Harding had been here?” said Maurice, gently.
* Would you, Dick, have done the same as you
have done, if Mr. Harding had been of our
party?”

“ Well,” said Dick, hesitatingly, “to speak the
truth, Maurice, I should not; but we are not
obliged to be all the time under his eye. He will
know nothing of it.”

“‘ My father placed me here,” said Maurice, “to
be under Mr. Harding’s care, in his absence from
home. He told me to regard him as a friend,
master, and protector, and expects me in all things
to consult Mr. Harding’s wishes and opinions; and
I should feel as if I was acting very wrong to do
anything contrary to them. I would not do, when
absent from him, what I would not do in his pre-
sence; and besides that, I know my father would
disapprove of it. He is far away at sea, thousands
24 MAURICE GRAY.

of miles from here, and would never know it; but
I love him too well to do what I know he would
condemn.”

“O, you are too particular, altogether,” said
Tom Bailey. ‘ You will lose some of these ideas
after you have been here a while, and see what
capital times we have. A boy of fourteen must
begin to act a little independently, and to think a
little for himself, or he will be a baby all his life.”

*T have begun to think for myself, and to act
independently,” answered Maurice, “and that is
one reason why I declined taking wine. I scorn
the character of a hypocrite. To think one way
and appear to act one way, and in reality be doing
things directly contrary to the principles and
appearance, is what of all things I despise. I
am afraid to begin at fourteen years of age to
drink a glass of wine, for in a short time I might
want 2 bottle, and then, losing my relish for wine,
I might be induced to take something more stimu-
lating and powerful, and who can tell what the
end might be? I might become an indolent, use-
less man, or an habitual drunkard, and perhaps
lose soul and body both. Ido not say this would
certainly be the case, but it has been the case of
very many, and I might add another to the
number. It is best to be on the safe side,
MAURICE GRAY. 26

depend upon it; and I am determined to do what
I think is right in this case, even though I should
lose your good opinion by so doing. I should be
glad to join you any time in an innocent frolic,
when my conscience does not interfere; but when
that speaks to me, I must obey its voice. My
father allows me plenty of pocket-money; and a
treat of cakes and fruit on our walks, if Mr.
Harding does not disapprove of it, I shall always
be ready to give in my turn; but you must never
expect wine from me, nor invite me to join with
you in drinking it. And now, suppose you all”
make up your minds to give it up, before it be-
comes necessary to your pleasure to have it. It
will cost you now but little self-denial, and by-
and-by it may cost you much, or you may have
imbibed so strong a relish for it, that you will
think you cannot give it up at all.”

“Tam not ready to agree to any such proposi-
tion,” said Dick; ‘‘ but you will not inform on us,
Maurice?”

“T shall never do anything to bring you into
difficulty.” replied Maurice; “be assured of that:
but you must not invite me to join your parties as
long as you use champagne, or wine of any kind.
I shall ba quite content to join the younger boys
on a walk or in a play.”
26 MAURICE GRAY.

Maurice stood up as he speke, and though at
first some of the beys were inclined to ridicule
him, he spoke with so much dignity and inde-
pendence, and commanded so much respect by his
manly bearing, that no laugh was raised, an‘ all
seemed desirous of conciliating his good-will.

“He is a fine independent fellow,” said Frank
Henley. ‘If his notions are strict, J am not sure
but they are correct. I like a boy,” continued he,
rising, “ who is nut afraid to express an opinion,
though he knows every one is against him. Give
me your hand, Maurice—I stand by you—and
though I drank the wine, I think it would be
better not to do it, and fur the very reasons you
have given.”

Maurice gave his hand cordially. “If you
would all reflect a little upon the subject,” he
said, kindly looking around, “I do believe you
would all be of my mind. By doing when absent
from Mr. Harding what you would not do in his
presence, you show more respect to him than you
do tu your Maker, in whose presence we always
are,”

The last words Maurice uttered with solemnity,
and a pause followed, which was presently inter-
rupted by the sound of some one approaching from
the meadow which out-skirted the wood. The
MAURICE GRAY. 27
boys started, and looked eagerly in that direction,
to ascertain who was coming to interrupt their
retirement.

One figure only appeared. Bob Newton, who
was nearest the meadow, said, “It is Philip
Graham, but he sees nothing but the book he is
reading. He does not know we are here—but
look! Dick, Tom, Frank—stand here just where
Iam. He is now leaning against a tree. See,
he has a cigar in his mouth; and do you not re-
cognize by the cover of that volume, that it is no
book from Mr. Harding’s library, J am sure?
We know where it came from, do we not? Mr.
Shaw’s circulating library—plain as the sun. I
can tell the cover of his books as far off as I can
see them.

“So can I,” said Dick; “Iam quite sure it is
from Shaw’s. There is your ‘ pattern, model boy,’
stealing off alone to break two of Mr. Harding’s
rules. He little suspects his ‘model’ of such
deceit. That is the way your stiff, long-faced
fellows often turn out.”

“Why,” said Bob Newton, * do you remember,
Dick, what a time Mr. Harding had, when I
brought that cigar to school to give you, and set
you a few lessons.in smoking—what a long speech
he made to us about boys at fourteen getting into
28 MAURICE GRAY.

such habits, and how he strictly forbade any one
ever to bring a cigar to school?”

“I remember it well,” said Dick. Mr. Hard-
ing would hardly believe that his best boy would
stealthily break two of his rules. The circulating
library is forbidden, as we all know, decidedly and
entirely.”

“Well, that is a foolish rule, I think,” said
Tom; “and whenever IJ get a chance, I must say
I get a book now and then, but I do not set up to
be a pattern like Philip.”

The boys had unawares raised their voices, and
Philip started, and looking in the direction from
whence they proceeded, discerned, through the
trees, the group that was watching him. He
hastily pulled the cigar from his mouth, and con-
cealed it, and pocketing the book, he approached
the woods with a grave aspect.

“That must be a very interesting book, Philip,”
said Bob Newton, “as we have been looking at
you certainly for ten minutes, without you being
aware we were so near you.”

“ And a fine cigar, I should imagine also,” said
Dick. “Pray, where do you buy your cigars,
Mr. Graham? Does Mr. Harding furnish you?
We need not inquire whose cjgculating library
you encourage, as the cover of the book speaks
MAURICE GRAY. 29

plainly enough for itself. There is no mistaking
that.”

Philip looked exceedingly embarrassed. The
colour flew to his face, he made an attempt to
speak, but turned and walked away, without a
word.

“ Well,” said Bob, “the next time Mr. Hard-
ing tells us to imitate Philip Graham, I shall think
of this.”

Mark the difference between Philip Graham
and Maurice Gray: Philip served in the letter,
Maurice served in the spirit. Philip loved best
the praise of men: but Maurice the praise of
God.”

CHAPTER III.

Two or three weeks after the last-mentioned in-
cident, a group of boys were assembled on the
play-ground, when there appeared at the gate an
aged woman of quiet and quaint aspect. Her
dress was old-fashioned and peculiar, and her
manner and appearance were those of one who
seldom crept from her own homely fireside, to
mingle in the great world. Her face, though
bearing deeply the stern mark of time, wore such
30. MAURICE GRAY.

an expression of peace, and sweet, holy serenity,
that none could look at it without loving it, and
feeling that they were in the presence of one who
walked with God. She opened the large gate
timidly, and looked rather dismayed to find her-
self suddenly in the midst of a large party of boys,
ali curiously looking at her.

*‘Ts Maurice Gray here?” she asked.

“No, he is not. ma’am, he is in the house,”
was the answer. ‘“ Have you brought any
thing to sell? You seem to have a nice large
basket.”

“ No, I have not,” she replied. “TI called to see
Maurice Gray. Will you tell me where I shall
find him?”

“Tf you will tell us what you have in your nice
large basket,” said Bob, Newton, looking around
him very mischievously, “I will promise to find
him for you.”

“How can you be so rude?” said lame Louis,
who stood near. “I will go and find Maurice for
you, ma’am; but I cannot go so quick as the other
boys, because I am lame;” and Louis walked to-
wards the house.

‘* Now, please, old lady,” said Dick, “just tell
us if you are Maurice’s grandmother, who taught
him to be such a good boy.”


MAURICE GRAY.

** My yood kind 1urse, how glad I am to see you!” and giving her his arm, and
reiivviuig her of her basket, he led her towards the house,—Page 31.
MAURICE GRAY. 31.

“Tam sorry,” said the old lady, “that Maurice
has such rude companions.”

“We all know he had a good old grandmother,”
said Dick, ‘‘or he would not have such a pile of
good books, and so many stupid notions about
some things. It is a thousand pities it is so, for
he is such a pleasant, good-tempered, merry fellow,
and such a favourite with us all, in spite of his
odd ideas.”

* Please give us a peep,” said Bob Newton,
“into your nice basket, and we will praise Mau-
rice up to the skies.”

The old woman made no answer. Her eyes
were fixed on the distance, for she saw Maurice
approaching, and hastened forward to meet him.
Maurice looked grieved and vexed when he saw
her surrounded by the boys, all rudely looking
at her; but running hastily towards her, ex-
claimed, “ My good kind nurse, how glad I am
to see you !” and giving her his arm, and relieving
her of her basket, he led her towards the house.

“Nurse! He called her nurse!” said Dick;
“then she is not his grandmother. I did not sup-
pose she was.”

“T fear she will think us but a rude wild set of
boys,” said Frank Henley. “I could not treat an
old person so rudely.”
32 MAURICE GRAY.

“ Why, it was all in fun,” said Dick and Bob,
looking rather ashamed. “It was only fun. I
would not harm the good old lady for anything.”

About half an hour after this, Maurice, with his
old nurse and Mr. Harding, were seen leaving
the house together, and quitting the grounds, pro-
ceeded down the road towards the village.

In less than an hour, Maurice and Mr. Harding
returned together. Mz. Harding went into the
house, and Maurice approached the play-ground.

“* Now Bob,” said Frank Henley, “if Maurice
was a quarrelsome, cross fellow, you and Dick
would have a battle with him for your treatment
of his old nurse; for he looked much vexed
when he saw how she was situated.” But Mau-
rice came towards them with his usual pleasant
smile.

““What is the name of your good old nurse,
Maurice?” said Louis Tarleton.

“ Burton,” answered Maurice, “and I am sorry
she was not better received by my friends on her
first visit to me; but probably none of you feel
towards an old person as I do, or have had the
same cause. But I must persuade you to Jove
and respect her, for she is coming to live in the
little green cottage, half a mile from the school,
and Mrs. Harding has promised to employ her
MAURICE GRAY. 33

when sickness or any extra occasion shall require
her services. J am sure, when you‘know her, you
will never treat her disrespectfully again; let me
tell you something of her.”

The boys gathered round Maurice.

“I suppose all of you have mothers who watched
over your childhood, wiped your tears, and gave
you every pleasure; but I have no remembrance of
my mother. She died when I was hardly a year
old. My father, who is an officer in the navy,
was absent on a long cruise at the time, and I was
left entirely to the care of good Nurse Burton.
She has often described to me my mother’s fare-
well of me. She was very young—scarcely twenty
~—when she died. My nurse took me to her, and
laid me on the bed by her side. She placed her
feeble hand on my head, and prayed silently a few
moments, and then said, ‘I have put up once
more, and for the last time, the one only prayer
I have offered for my little Maurice since the first
hour of his birth. It is that he might be in spirit
and in truth a follower of the blessed: Redeemer.’
‘O nurse!’ she said, ‘you watched over my
motherless childhood—be the guide of this dear
Httle boy—I commit him in confidence to you;
and I give you but one injunction in regard to
him, and that is, that you will teach him as you

c
Su MAURICE GRAY}

did ine, from the earliest opeitirig-of his reason, to
have the singlé eye that discern$ clearly God's
will, and the single purpose that fulfils it. As it
regards this world’s wealth, honours, or pleasures,
I have no wish. God’s willis mine. ‘So long as
my Saviour is his Saviour, through life and through
etérnity, I ask nothing more.’

~-“ My dear mother died; and strictly and faith-
fully ‘did my good nurse perform my mother's
dying request. Her time, her strength, her mind,
and soul, were devoted wholly to taking care of
me. In health and sickness, by night and by day,
she watched over me, studied my happiness and
improvement in all things, and thought nothing a
sacrifice on her part that might contribute to my
welfare and pleasure. My father returned home
about a year after my mother’s death; but his
home was so desulate, that after committing me
again to-the tender care of Nurse Burton, he left
us. My nurse is a woman of excellent sense.
Her mind is elevated by religious truths. She
has a good common education, and she was the’
only instructor I had, or required, in my earliest
childhood. She patiently toiled with me through
the first elements of education; but the chief and
most delightful study to us both was the Bible.
Before'I could read, she told me pleasant stories
MAURICE GRAY: 38

from its pages, and instilled into my mind its
sacred truths; and if there is now within me
any desire of right, or any proper notions of duty,
I owe them all, under God’s blessing, to her pious
and early instructions, As soon as I could speak,
she taught me to pray, and endeavoured above all
things to impress upon my mind that I was ever
in the presence of the all-seeing God, and that
outward forms, without the spirit of religion, were
abomination in his sight. O how happily and
quietly we lived together,—my father’s visits to
us alone interrupting and giving variety and
delight to our humble home.
“My first grief was when at the age of tei
years, after having been a year under my father’s
instruction, he was ordered to sea, and I was sent
to a schoo} about six miles from our home; but I
was to return every Saturday and stay until Mon-
day, and my nurse would visit me during the
week; and so we became reconciled. school I remained until I was thirteen years of
age, when it was broken up, and for a year I was
again under the instruction of my father; but on
his again being ordered to sea the other day, he
placed me here. under the care of Mr. Harding,
having, at the earnest request of my kind nurse,
obtained a home for her in this neighbourhood,
86 MAURICE GRAY.

where she could often see me. She gladly left
her native village, and many friends who valued
her, to come here among strangers to be near me.
Only think what a desolate childhood mine would
have been without her Jove and care, and how
ignorant I might have been of the best knowledge,
that of right and duty, without her faithful teach-
ings. When you think of the love you bear your
mothers, and remember this was the only mother
I ever knew, you will not be surprised at the
attachment and respect J feel towards her. I hope
I shall have the pleasure of taking some of you to
see her at her little green cottage, and when you
know her you will Jearn to love her too.”

The bell soon summoned the boys to their rooms
to prepare for afternoon school. Several entered
their chamber together. They observed the large
basket which Nurse Burton had carried on her
arm, on a table near Maurice’s bed; and the
cover being off, they saw it contained some plum
cake, most temptingly iced, and a quantity of fine
ripe peaches and plums. Maurice and Philip
Graham first entered the room together.

* Maurice,” said Philip, in a low voice, on
observing the basket, “you had Letter put those
things out of the way, if you wish to keep them.
Conceal them among your clothes, or you will get
MAURICE GRAY. 3T

into trouble, if Mr. Harding discovers that you
have them,”

Several other boys, entering at the same time,
said the same thing, telling him it was against
the rules of the school for any presents of that
kind to be accepted.

“Indeed,” said Maurice, “I did not know it
was against the rules of the school, or I would on
no account have accepted them from my kind
nurse, though it would have disappointed her
much had I refused them.”

“Well,” said Dick, “you have done it now,
and so nothing remains but to hide them. You
must do it quickly too, for there is the second
bell.”

The boys hastily descended to the school-room,
and they had all taken their seats befure Maurice
entered; and to their surprise he held in his hand
the basket, and walked directly up to Mr. Hard-
ing’s desk, and addressing him, said—

“TI did not know, sir, it was against your rules
for us to receive presents of this kind, or I should
not have accepted this that my good nurse brought
me to-day; though it would have grieved her
much if I had refused it, as she made the cake for
ine herself, and brought the fruit all the way from
our own garden, thinking I would like it better if
38 MAURICE GRAY,

it came from home. Be so kind, sir, as to pardon
me for accepting it, and not oblige me to return it
to my nurse, as it would disappoint her much. . I
am. willing you should do what you think best
with it.” ;

Mr. Harding’s eyes beamed with pleasure, as he
looked upon the open, ingenuous countenance of
Maurice.

“Maurice,” he said, “your honesty merits my
warmest praise. I give you permission to accept
the present from your good nurse, and to do with
jt.as you please.”

Satisfaction beamed from the faces of many of
the boys at this eulogium from Mr. Harding, and
one only expressed envy and discontent. Philip
Graham had always merited, by his outward con-
duct and good scholarship, the esteem of his teach-
er, who could only judge of his character by what
he saw; but Philip had done nothing to win the
affection of his teacher. The friendly confidence
with which Maurice regarded Mr. Harding had
evidently won his love. Philip saw a rival in the
new scholar, who would take hig place in Mr,
Harding’s esteem; and his cold heart, instead of
feeling that there was room enough in the world
for all, looked upon him with envy and dislike.
But Maurice was wholly unaware of it, and equally
MAURIGE GRAY. 8?

unaware -that he had ‘done anything to: excite
praise or.surprise in any one. He was habitually
honest and upright. The Bible taught him that
as God knows all things, it is of little importance
to hide anything from the knowledge of man, and
that deceit. and hypocrisy were hateful in God’s
sight, and would sooner or later be unveiled.

“Come, boys,” said Maurice after school,.-as
they entered the play-grounds, “one and all take
seats on the grass here, and -help me to dispose of
the contents of Nurse Burton's basket, and you
will see what excellent cake she makes, and what
fine fruit grows in our old garden. Come, Philip,”
he said, as Philip Graham seemed turning away,
as if he thought it too childish to join the group,
“I know that boys as big as you like a good: slice
of cake as well as we; so come, take a seat with
us. his is a generous loaf, and quite enough for
all, and I have borrowed a plate and knife, that I
may serve it up handsomely.”

Such a pleasant, good-natured smile accompanied
Maurice's words, that Philip could not resist them,
and he joined the pamty.

“‘ No,-I thank you, Maurice,” said Bob Newton,
as Maurice handed him a slice in his turn, “J
was so rude to your good nurse to-day, that I do
really believe it would choke me if I should attempt
40 MAURICE GRAY.

to eat it. The truth is, Maurice, I never did any-
thing Y was more ashamed of, and I am willing to
own it.”

“ Nor I either,” said Dick. ‘ Bob and I both
feel alike about it, and wish to go with you to see
your good nurse, to apologize to her, and ask her
pardon for our rude, ungentlemanly conduct. We
were much excited, and in a high frolic, when she
appeared at the gate, and you know her dress and
appearance are peculiar, and we were very thought-
less, and did wrong, and must certainly apologize
for our misconduct.”

“ Well,” said Maurice, “Iam glad you feel so
ubout it, boys. I krew if I told you all about her
you would respect her, and when you know her,
you cannot fail to love her; but she is so good, she
will never remember it azainst you. I will forgive
you in her name, and we will go together, and
explain all to her, and all will be forgiven and
forgotten; so now, do oblige me by helping to eat
up the cake and fruit, or I shall not enjoy my slice
at all.”

“ Well, Maurice,” said Bob, “you always make
us do whatever you please; so we will accept our
share, though we do not at ail deserve it.”

“ You were a bold fellow,-Maurice,” said Tom
Bailey, “to take this basket to Mr. Harding.” ”


MAURICE GRAY.

I will forgive youin her name. . . . . . So now do oblige me by helping
tu eat up the cake and fruit, or I shall not enjoy my slice at all.—Page 4.
MAURICE GRAY. 41

“Why, what else could I have done with it?”

said Maurice. “I had accepted it, unconscious
that I was doing what was forbidden. You do not
suppose I would hide it, and deceive Mr. Harding?
That would, indeed, have been hard for me to do;
but there was nothing hard in telling him that £
had unintentionally broken his rules. I am gure,
had I concealed it, I could never have eaten any
of it. Besides, I should have done wrong, and
offended God and my own conscience.”
" “Youarea strange fellow, Maurice,” said Frank
Henley; ‘but I like your way of dealing. I do
not believe another boy in school would have done
so; but you have proved that it is the best way.”

“ The right way is always the best way,” said
Maurice, “and the only way in which we ought
to act.”

CHAPTER IV.

“ Do not look so sad, Louis,” said Maurice one day,
as lie joined the lame Louis, who was sitting alone
under a tree in the play-ground, and, with dejected
face, watching the boys at play. His crutch lay
beside him on the ground, and his dominos and
jack-straws on his knee showed that he had been
42 MAURICE GRAY,

trying to amuse. himself with a solitary game.
Come, let me help you at a game of dominos. I
should like it much.”

Tears filled the eyes of the lame boy. “ o no,
indeed,” he said, “ you must not sit moping here
with me. You are such a good hand at play, and
enjoy it so much, the boys will all be after you.
You sat here a long time with me yesterday, and
through all the play-hour to-day. Indeed, I cannot
permit you to do it now.”
' “QO, Ihave had play enough, and want to rest
now,” answered Maurice. ‘I want to be with you
awhile. There are plenty to play without me.”

* I shall never forget your kindness to me, even
if I live to be an old man; but if you insist upon
sitting here with a poor lame boy like me, let us
talk a little, instead of taking a game of dominos.
I should like to tell you a thought that was in my
mind just as you came up.”

“ Well, what was it?” asked Maurice, kindly.

“IT was wondering why it is, that of all the boys
here, Iam the only one that is deformed and lame.
I should be so happy if I could run about and play
with the others.”

“Ah, Louis,” replied Maurice, “there is but
one answer to that question. It is your heavenly
Father's will. God is your Maker and mine, He
MAURICE GRA YÂ¥x ey

is the Maker of all mankind: “He.makes seme
sound. jn mind and body, -and others weak and
deformed. He makes some righ, and others poor,
As we are all the'work of his Almighty hand, he
certainly has a right to create us as he pleases.
All he does is for some wise purpose, and it ig not
for us to question his ways. You must hear my
good nurse speak on these subjects. She can teach
you far better than Ican. You have been promis
ing me you would call and see her for a long while.
We shall have plenty of time; let us go there now.
Take my arm, and we will walk alowly, 80 as not
to tire you.”

Louis, leaning with one arm on his crutch, and
the other on his friend, walked slowly down the
shady road, and reached the little green cottage,
Under the porch, covered with creepers and honey=
suckles, quite shaded from sight, on a low bench,
sat Nurse Burton with a Bible on her lap,

“Ah, my dear child,” she said, as she. saw
Maurice, “I thought you would come to-day,
You are just in time for us to read our evening
lesson together, as we used to do at home, And
who is this young gentleman?” she asked, looking
tenderly at lame Louis, “I recollect I saw him
the day I first called on you at the school.” =.

“It is Louis Tarleton—one of my best friends,
44 MAURICE GRAY.

nurse,” answered Maurice, “and I know you will
love him. But first we will read together, and
then we will talk a while.”

Maurice seated himself by his old nurse, and
they read through a chapter alternately, Nurse
Burton often stopping to explain and comment on
different verses as they read. There was, indeed,
a striking contrast between the stooping, worn-out
form, the wrinkled face, and the trembling voice
of the old nurse, and the youthful figure, glowing
countenance, and musical tones of Maurice, as they
sat there together pondering the blessed Word of
Life—the help and strength of the aged, the guide
and counsellor of the young. The descending sun
gleamed through the fresh creeper and honey-
suckle, and fell with its golden light across their
faces—an emblem of the blessed Sun of Righteous-
ness, which inwardly shed its sanctifying rays over
their spirits.

“ Do you not love the Bible, young gentleman?”
said Nurse Burton, addressing Louis, as she closed
the book. °

“ ‘but you and Maurice seem to enjoy it so much,
and it appears to make you both so happy, that I
wish I could love to read it. You see I am lame,
and I cannot play like the other boys; so I read a
MAURICE GRAY. 45°

great deal, and am often at a loss fur something to
interest me, and Mr. Harding says no one ever
tires of reading the Bible. Ido not know why,
but it has always seemed a dull book to me. Do
you not think it is hard fur me to be Jame, nurse,
and unable to run or jump with the other boys?
I have to sit moping alune, or craw] around on
crutches.”

“ Ah, speak reverently, my child,” said Nurse
Burton, “ of your affliction; it is God’s hand upon
you. You see not its purpose yet, but be assured
there is a wise purpose init. Let the language of
your soul be,

*T cannot, Lord, thy purpose see,
Bat all is well, since ruled by thee.”

And,

‘My Father’s hand will never cause
His child a needless tear.’

Have you learned, dear child, te love God as
a father and friend? If not, your lot is indeed a
hard one, and your cross a heavy one; but only
learn that, and you will have but the single desire
that his will may be done in you and by you.
You will prefer to keep your affliction if he wills
it, and it will be to you a visible token of his care
over you.”
46 MAURICE GRAY.

* Q how I wish I could feel so!” said Louis,
with emotion, tears filling his eyes. ‘ How can I,
good nurse? Will you teach me?”

* The blessed Spirit will teach you, dear child,”
replied the good nurse, “and you can obtain all
you need, and that freely, by asking of Him who
giveth liberally. Begin now to pray for it, and
you will receive in abundance. Study the blessed
Bible; and if my poor assistance can help you to
understand its wondrous truths, come to me with
dear Maurice, and we will read it together.”

“T have long felt,” replied Louis, “that I
might be happier if I could feel reconciled to my
lot. Perhaps, if I learned to love God, I should
think less of my own troubles, and more of Him,
and then I might be happier.”

“Tt surely would be so, my dear,” replied the
nurse. ‘“ Have you no parents, Louis?”

‘«My parents both died when I was an infant,”
answered Louis, “and I have neither brother nor
sister.”

“Then you must feel the more need of a
heavenly Friend, my dear child,” answered the
nurse, ‘ He can supply the place of all others in
your heart, and by His presence life will become
to you so full of sweet flowers, lovely music, and
pleasant pictures, that you will be as happy as
MAURICE GRAY! at

you can desire. What relatives have you, my
dear?” oO '
~ “T have an uncle,” replied Louis, “who is
always generous and kind to me; but he is him-
self a lonely man, having neither home, wife, nor
children; and though he sometimes takes me to
the hotel where he boards in K——, on a visit, it
is not pleasant to me, and I generally pass my
vacations at school; and then, good nurse, I am
often very sick. Last spring I was so ill that mv
life was despaired of. I have never felt so strong
since, and I heard the physician tell my uncle that
I could never bear so severe an illness again.
That has often made me think a great deal about
dying, and I have concluded that it would be quite
as well to die as to live here in pain, weakness,
. and mortification through a long life. For of what
use can J ever be in the world, or what pleasure
ean I take in living?”

“O, my dear child,” answered the nurse, “ speak
not so of the lot God ordains for you. Light from
above must and will be shed upon your path, and
then all will be bright and happy to you. O,
Father of mercies,” continued the godly wi man;
raising her eyes and hands to heaven, “ send down
thy blessed light and truth into the soul of this
child of thine. Give him the oil of joy fur mourn-
48 MAURICE GRAY.

ing, and the garment of praise for the spirit of
heaviness, for Jesus Christ’s sake.”

The boys sat a few minutes longer conversing
with the good nurse, and as they walked home-
ward, Maurice saw that a calmer and more chas-~
tened spirit expressed itself in the sad and dejected
face of his companion; and his heart rejoiced, fur
he hoped the poor lad would now find the com-
forter he so much needed.

It was a public day at the school. There was a
class arranged fur recitation, and many visiters
were present. Frank Henley was at the head of
the class, Maurice second, and Philip Graham
third. A question was given to Maurice, whe
hesitated. He was quickly prompted by Frank;
but instead of availing himself of his assistance, he
replied, “I do not recollect the answer to that
question.” The question was passed to Philip,
who replied correctly, and took Maurice’s place.

Frank Henley seemed quite puzzled at this,
and as several boys stood together on the play-
ground after school, he said, “ Maurice, did you
not hear me prompt you this morning? You must
have heard, for I spoke right into your ear.”

“Yes,” answered Maurice, “I heard you,
Frank, and am much obliged to you for wishing
to assist me.”
MAURICE GRAY. 49

“ Then if you heard me, why did you not answer
the question?” asked Frank.

“« Because,” replied Maurice, “it was my memory,
and not yours, that ought to have been ready. It
would have been you answering, and not me, and
that would not have been right.”

‘‘And so you preferred the mortification of
missing the question,” said Frank, “ before all the
visiters, and losing your place in the class, to using
my memory! Besides, allowing Philip Graham,
who would not have hesitated (had he not known
the answer) to have made use of the prompting I
intended for you, to take your place.”

“Philip would not have been so simple,” said
Bob Newton, ‘as to have lost his place, if he
could have kept it by any means. He knows well
enough how to get along, and save himself from
disgrace. When he has not properly prepared his
lessons, I have many a time seen him with a scrap
of paper in his hand, which he adroitly concealed,
and adroitly read, too, if occasion required. If
Mr. Harding knew that, what would he think of
his model? You are too particular, Maurice, you
may depend upon it, to get along here; and you
will find it so by-and-by.”

“I must do what my conscience tells me is

right,” answered Maurice, “ whether I get along
D
50 MAURICE GRAY.

well or not. If I do not, I should be very un-
happy.”

“Which would cause you to feel most unplea-
santly,” asked Frank, “to miss a question on
exhibition day, lose your place in the class, and
cause the visiters to think you were an indolent,
careless scholar, or to auswer one single question
by my prompting?”

“TI should prefer missing several questions,”
answered Maurice, ‘and have the character of an
indolent scholar, than do what I theught was dis-
honest: but I have only missed one to-day, and I
have answered many in various classes correctly,
and I do not think that either Mr. Harding or the
visiters will be so unreasonable as to think I am
usually indolent or careless about my lessons.”

“Well, you are a strange fellow,” said Bob
Newton, “ and all I can say is, there is not another
boy in school that has such notions.”

CHAPTER V.

“O, wHat have I done? What have I done?”
cried Maurice Gray. ‘What shall I do? What
will Mr, Harding think of me? My unlucky ball.
I was so engaged in my game, that I did not
MAURICE GRAY. 51

notice how near I was to the conservatory, and
thus have disobeyed my teacher, and now I am
punished for it.”

“What is it? What is it, Maurice?” cried
several voices, and the boys quickly gathered
round to ascertain what had happened.

“Alas!” answered Maurice, “my ball has
broken a square of glass in the conservatory.
I threw it with such foree that I fear it has
thrown down some plants, fur I heard a loud
crash. Let us go and see.”

The boys hastened to the conservatory. They
were allowed to view the flowers from the outside,
but were strictly forbidden to enter it without
permission from their teacher.

‘Yes, it is too true,” said Maurice. “ Oh, I
am so sorry. I have thrown down that beautiful
scarlet cactus in full bloom, which Mr. Harding
showed us yesterday, and have probably injured
it very much. What will Mr. Harding think
of me?” .

“O say nothing about it—say nothing about
it,” said Dick Wells. Such things have often
happened here before, and no one could ever tell
who did the mischief. Mr. Harding has tried in
vain, every way, and offered rewards to have the
offender made known. But we have a way of
h2 MAURICE GRAY.

managing such things. So do not trouble your-
self about it, Maurice. You are too good a fellow
to get punished. None of us will allow it; de-
pend upon that.”

“T guess he will be glad enough to hide that
from Mr. Harding,” said Philip Graham, aside, to
Bob Newton, “though he was so bold in acknow-
ledging his fault about the present from the old
nurse. This is quite a different and a more
serious affair.”

“Broken glass and broken flowers are two
things which very seriously try Mr. Harding’s
temper,” said Bob Newton aloud. “He thinks
such things are always the result of carelessness or
wilfulness, and he has preached more upon them
than upon almost anything else.”

“O never mind, Maurice,” said Frank Henley.
“TI can easily get you out of the scrape, and I will
do it.”

Maurice stood thoughtfully looking at the mis-
chief he had done, and hardly heeding the various
remarks made by his companions; and did not
observe that Frank Henley had instantly left the
group, after saying that he could and would get
him out of his difficulty.

“ How fortunate,” said Tum Bailey, “ that Mr.
Harding is absent this afternoon! I saw him ride
MAURICE GRAY. 53

away with his family immediately after dinner,
and he will not probably return until dark, and
he will not find this out until to-morrow. So we
have time to arrange all about the matter, and to
prepare ourselves for the cross-questioning we shall
all get on the subject.”

At this moment Frank Henley re-appeared
with Maurice’s ball in his hand, and presented it
to him. Maurice looked at him with surprise.
“ Here, Maurice,” said Frank, “here is your ball.
You are now safe from discovery. It is not every
boy in school I would have broken one of its rules
to serve. But I cannot see you punished.”

“O Frank,” said Maurice, “you have not
entered the conservatory against Mr. Harding’s
commands! How could you?”

“‘How could I! Why,” said Frank, “ to make
you safe. There will now be no ball found there,
and Mr. Harding will not know how the glass was
broken. We-will all agree that we know nothing
about it, and he will think it was the gardener, or
Peter, or one of the other servants, and you will
get off. I really thought you would be grateful
for my services, but your looks express anything
but gratitude. I should think I had injured
you.”

“O Frank,” said Maurice, “you intended to
54 NAURICE GRAY.

do me a service, and have acted from feelings of
friendship and kindness to me. I do feel truly,
grateful for your intentions, but you have injured
yourself, without at all assisting me.”

«How do you mean, Maurice, that I have not
assisted you?” said Frank. “ The ball cannot now
testify against you. It is easy enough for all of
us to keep quiet, and you will never be dis-
covered.”

“©, but I have done wrong,” said Maurice,
“and I cannot conceal it from my teacher. I shall
go to him directly when we assemble in the hall
fur prayers to-night, if I cannot see him before. I
could not rest to-night without confessing all, and
receiving his forgiveness for my disobedience and
carelessness. I am sure he will not be unreason-
able or unkind, and I prefer receiving the punish-
ment I deserve to deceiving him.”

“You will not be such a simpleton as that,
surely,” said Bob Newton, ‘when Frank has done
so much to get you out of the difficulty. It would
be treating him very unhandsomely, and expos-
ing yourself unnecessarily to Mr. Harding’s cen-
sure.”

“IT am not ungrateful to you, Frank, for the
kindness you intended me,” said Maurice, “ but
there is only one path for me, and that is the right
MAURICE GRAY. 55

one. It is ever plain and open to us all, if we will
but see it. There are many winding and crooked
ways, but they are always full of perplexity and
trouble. Suppose I follow your advice, and con-
ceal what I have done from our teacher, I shall
cause you all to practise deceit, the blame of the
accident will rest on the wrong person, and feeling
that he has been injured and deceived, it will be
a long time before Mr. Harding forgets the affair.
But if I do right and confess my fault, and sub-
mit myself to my just punishment, no one will be
involved but myself, and no one but the real
offender will be suspected.”

«And Frank—what will he do in that case?”
asked little Joe Green, who stood intently gazing
at Maurice, and apparently quite confounded at
the new doctrines he was uttering.

“O!” said Frank, “I can manage it easy enough
for myself. If Maurice does not choose to accept
my assistance, I can easily replace his ball where
I found it; that is clear enough. I have not the
fancy for being punished that he has—and am
willing to be obliged to a friend once in a
while,”

«And so am I, Frank,” said Maurice, “ and to
no one sooner than yourself; but suppose I deceived
my teacher, I cannot deceive God, who knoweth
56 MAURICE GRAY,

all things. I feel that his all-seeing eye is upon
me, and I must act as in his sight.”

* You area proud fellow, Maurice,” said Frank,
in an angry tone, and seizing the ball roughly from
his hand, he walked towards the conservatory.

The bell rang for evening prayers.

‘*T guess Maurice will change his mind to-night
about confessing this accident,” said Phil Graham
to Frank Henley, as they walked together
towards the hall. “Depend upon it, with all
his bragging and preaching about right and con-
science, he has repented fifty times of not accept-
ing your offer to get him out of his scrape with-
out exposure.” ‘

“I do not agree with you there, Phil,” said
Frank. “He would not accept it now, if it was
made to him this moment; but he is a character
you cannot well understand, Phil. Your motto
has always been plain enough to us all, ‘Make
clean the outside of the cup and the platter,’ but
Maurice's seems to be, Make clean the inside. I
must own he is a noble fellow. Though I was
provoked with him this afternoon for spurning my
assistance, I have got over it now, and I like him
all the better for it—and I wish I was like him.”

“ Well, we shall see how he'll manage it,” an-
swered Philip. “Depend upon it, his heart will
MAURICE GRAY. 57

fail to-night, and he will be glad to keep clean
the outside, and let the inside go.”

It was quite a large assembly that gathered at
morning and evening prayer at Mr. Harding’s
school. It included his own family, his pupils, and
the numerous servants of his household. Mr.
Harding was in his accustomed place when the
boys entered, and was thoughtfully turning over
the leaves of the sacred volume that lay before
him, The silence in the room was interrupted by
Maurice, who, leaving his seat, approached Mr.
Harding, and asked permission to speak a few
words to him before the evening exercises com-
menced, adding, “I have done something unin-
tentionally, but carelessly, sir, which will displease
you, and I cannot retire for the night happily,
until I have confessed it to you.”

He then related the occurrences of the after-
noon, and blamed himself very much for becoming
so absorbed in his game as to approach so close to
the forbidden side of the play-ground near the
conservatory, and concluded by saying, “I am ex-
ceedingly sorry, sir. I submit myself cheerfully
to the punishment I deserve; only let me know
that you will not think I would wilfully do any-
thing to injure you, or deliberately disobey your
commands.”
68 MAURICE GRAY.

There was a profound silence in the room while
Maurice spoke, and his words were heard distinctly
by all.

The silence continued a moment after he had
ceased to speak, when, to the surprise of all, Frank
Henley left his seat, and, approaching his teacher,
said—-

“I too have done wrong to-day, sir, and have
disobeyed you; and though in times past I have
always endeavoured to conceal from you the acci-
dents and disobediences of which I have been
guilty, I so admire the bold and honest conduct of
Maurice, that I am induced to follow his example.
Unknown to Maurice, and wishing to save him
from exposure, I entered the conservatory, con-
trary to your orders, and took away his ball. I
presented it to him, telling him, as that could not |
now witness against him, it would be easy for him
to get out of the difficulty; that you would never
suspect him, but would impute the blame to some
other person, who I could answer for it would never
be discovered. I was angry with him for de-
cidedly, but kindly, refusing to accept my pro-
posal, and conceal it from you; and seized the ball
roughly from his hand, saying, I was not then
going to get myself into trouble, and that I should
return it to the conservatory. I left him intend-
MAURICE GRAY. 59

ing so to do; but as I walked along, my own mean
conduct, contrasted with the brave and honest
course of Maurice, presented itself vividly to my
mind, He was so different from any boy I had
ever met with before, that I could not help ad-
miring him, and desiring to imitate him. seemed sounding in my ear, ‘ Truth, brave Frank,
—he honest, Frank.’ It was a new idea for me to
act upon, and I did not know that I should have
courage to do it; but Iam glad I have, sir, for I
feel much happier than if I had concealed my
disobedience, and I am willing to be punished as
I deserve.”

Frank ceased to speak. Mr. Harding looked
much agitated, and seemed struggling to command
his feelings. There was a breathless silence in
the room. All eyes were turned first on the
teacher, and then on the two manly youths who
stood before him. At length Mr. Harding said—.

“‘Maurice, you have done me more service to-
day than you could have done me injury, had you
breken all the glass in my conservatory, and de-
stroyed every plant that it contains. I would be
willing that such an accident should occur very
often, for the sake of your good example, and
feel grateful to you for its effect upon Frank. 1
trust it will be of lasting benefit to his character.
60 MAURICE GRAY.

I freely forgive you your carelessness, and to show
my esteem for your character and influence, will
reward you by forgiving Frank the fault he has
committed in his effort to serve you. Frank,” he
continued, turning towards him, “you deserve
commendation for the effort you have made to con-
fess your fault. The struggle must have been
hard for you, if you have hitherto been in the
habit of deceiving and concealing. I trust you
will henceforth follow the good example of Mau-
rice, and I hope ere long you will be uniformly
actuated by the same high notions of duty which
influence him. For that which alone gives per-
manency to any good intentions or resolutions,
is to act in the fear and love of our heavenly
Father.”

Mr. Harding then extended his hand kindly,
first to Maurice, and then to Frank. They bowed
and retired to their seats, and the exercises of tle
evening proceeded.

CHAPTER VI.

Ir was the holy Sabbath-day. The services of
the sanctuary were over. It wasa rule of Mr.
MAURICE GRAY. 61

Harding’s that each boy should pass the interven-
ing time, from the close of the afternoon service
until tea-time, in his own closet. Books appro-
priate for the day were provided for all, and a
lesson in the Bible was to be learned for the even-
ing, that part of the Sabbath being devoted en-
tirely by Mr. Harding to the religious instruction
of his pupils. Let us glance for a moment into
the closets of some of the boys most conspicuous
in our story, and see how they are passing the
precious hours of God’s holy day, when none but
the all-seeing eye is upon them.

Frank Henley sat at his desk; his Bible and Ques-
tion-book lay open before him. He had evidently
been studying his lesson, but his head was now
leaning on his hand, and an expression of thought
:was upon his features quite foreign to his usual
light-hearted, gay look. He seemed pondering in
his mind some important subject. Yes !—new
thoughts had lately sprung up in his heart. He
had felt the nobleness of confessing a fault even
to his fellow-creature, and that led him to reflect
how often he had deceived him. The words of
Maurice, “We cannot deceive God, who knoweth
all things,” had led him to think how often, by
deceit and falsehood, and neglect of duty, he must
have offended his great Creator. The Bible lesson
62 MAURICE GRAY.

of the afternoon had drawn his thoughts into a
serious train; the Spirit of the Holy One was
near, hovering around his retirement with most
precious and blessed boons and benedictions, all
ready to pour into his youthful soul. God grant
he may open his heart to receive them, and not
grieve him away by thoughtlessness or love of
ease !

Dick Wells had stolen into the closet of Tom
Bailey, unknown to any one; they were sitting
close together, talking very earnestly in low whis-
pers, lest it should be discovered that they had
transgressed a rule of the school, and were pass-
ing the hours together. They appeared to be
laying a plan for something which was difficult to
settle, as they often paused thoughtfully, and then
resumed their conversation, as if undecided what
course to take. Had one been near, he might
have heard such phrases as these, “ Splendid
horses,” ‘‘ Best circus in the country,” ‘‘ Fine
music,” “Iam determined I will go.” “ Some-
how or other, Iam quite decided about that; I
had rather be punished for going than not go at
all—but we can manage so as not to be discovered,
I know.”

“Bob Newton is going,” said Dick, “and Frank
Henley will go, and Harry Blake, and Will Fos-
MAURICE GRAY. 63

ter—we are sure of those. Will it do to ask
Maurice Gray?”

“T should like much to have him, if we could
persuade him to join us,” said Tom; “but he is
so very strict Ido not think there is any use in
asking him, for we do not of course wish any
one to know of it, who will not heartily join
us.”

“ Maurice is so fond of a frolic, and delights so
much in horses,” said Dick, ‘“ that we might per-
haps persuade him to go.”

“Don’t you believe it,’ answered Tom. “ He
leves fun and horses too, I know, as well as any
of us; and could he go with Mr. Harding’s per-
mission, he would enjoy it much; but Maurice
would never run away and go. I am certain of
that.”

“ He is bold enough to do it, if he choose,” said
Dick. There is no cowardice in him. J am no
coward, but I dare not act as he does in some
things. I have not the same kind of courage.
There is something I cannot understand about
him, but I do like him exceedingly for all that.”

“There will be no harm in sounding him some
time,” said Tom. “ We are sure of one thing, he
will not betray us, or get us into any trouble.

“Our best plan,” said Dick, “I think, will be
64 MAURICE GRAY.

to ask permission to go to the woods on Wednes-
day afternoon, when the circus is in the village;
and then the older boys can separate themselves
from the rest. That will not excite suspicion, for
we often do that; and then make the best of our
way as fast as possible to the village, and if we
have good luck, and do not meet the honourable
Mr. Harding, nor his honourable assistant, Mr.
Neville, we shall get along well; perhaps we may
think of some other way before the time.”

“ Well,” said Tom, “ we will consider this plan
settled unless we can think of a better.”

Philip Graham sat at his desk with his Bible
and question-book before him, studying his lesson
most attentively for a short time—for he was
quick to learn—and it was not many minutes be-
fore he had it prepared. He then slyly drew a
book from his desk, and looked around the room.
But why? No person could possibly be concealed
there. He then looked from his window, and then
drew his chair back a little, that he might not be
seen from the outside, and then opened the book
he had taken from his desk, and was soon absorbed
in its pages. Dick and Tom would have recog-
nised it at a glance as belonging to Mr. Shaw’s
circulating library.

Lame Louis begged permission of Maurice
MAURICE GRAY. 65

Gray to pass the hours with him; but Maurice
firmly refused his request unless he could obtain
the consent of Mr. Harding; and to oblige Louis,
Maurice went with him to their teacher to request
the favour, which was kindly granted.

The sad and dejected expression of Louis's pale
face’ was softened into a look of more gentleness
and submission, which was quite touching. They
appeared deeply interested in the evening lesson,
and Louis often paused and with much earnestness
asked his young teacher the explanation of various
passages as they proceeded. After they had com-
pleted their lesson, Maurice turned to another part
of the Bible, and they read and conversed with
great interest on the subjects of various chapters.

The hours passed rapidly away, and the ringing
of the bell to summon them to tea still found them
studying with pleasure that Holy Book, which can
alone make us ‘‘ wise unto salvation,” and afford
us consolation under all the difficulties and trials
of life.

* Maurice,” said Philip Graham—entering his
closet one day, where Maurice sat preparing his
lessons for school—‘‘ I have a word to say to you
alone.”

“ Well, what is it, Philip?” said Maurice, laying
down his book. ‘‘ Can I do anything to assist you?”

E
66 MAURICE GRAY.

**O no,” said Philip, “quite the contrary. I
want to do you a favour.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Maurice,
“* What may it be?”

‘I observe you are very fond of reading,” said
Philip. “Ts it not so?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Maurice, “it is ome of my
chief pleasures. The having lived all my life in
the country, and being greatly dependent upon
myself for amusement, has given me, I suppose, a
taste for reading.”

“* And how do you like the books of Mr. Hard-
ing’s library,” asked Philip, ‘such as we are
permitted to use?” —

“Very much indeed,” replied Maurice. “I have
not been at a loss since I have been here for inter-
esting reading, and it must be a long time before
I have exhausted the library, especially as Mr.
Harding is so kind as to be constantly adding to
it.”

“ But would you not sometimes like a change,”
asked Philip, “in your reading? I have a plan I
think you would like, which will make a pleasant
variety in your reading, give you much pleasure,
and I will take all the trouble of it. Iam a sub-
scriber to Mr. Shaw’s circulating library, and I
thought if you would like to pay half the subscrip-
MAURICE GRAY. 67

tion, you can pay the money to me. I will obtain
and return all the books, and so no one will know
that you have anything to do with it.”

‘I daresay, Philip,” said Maurice, “ you intend
me a favour, and therefore I am obliged to you;
but in the first place, I will never wilfully break
any of Mr. Harding’s rules, and you know one of
them is, that we shall never take books from the
circulating libraries. In the second place, my
father has expressed a wish to me that I should
never read frivolous books, as he says it gives one
a disrelish for useful reading; and as Mr. Harding
provides us with works of history, biography, and
travels, I therefore can have no use for Mr. Shaw’s
books. And in the third place, I have no taste
now for works of fiction, and do not wish to acquire
one, as I fear it might injure me and cause me to
waste my time.”

“O,” answered Philip, “as for that, I like his-
tory, biography, and travels also; but I must have
a variety. Novels are delightful, and will never
injure you. I have been reading as many as I
chose fur several years, and I do not see that I
am any the worse for it.”

“ But the love you have acquired for them,”
said Maurice, “leads you deliberately to disobey
your teacher to obtain them. I should think that
68 MAURICE GRAY.

was evil enough, and you know not to what else
they may lead you.”

“O, such rules I always think are made for the
younger boys,” said Philip. “Iam no longer a
child, and will not submit like a child to every
such regulation. If I set a good example and
keep my own counsel, that is enough, I am sure.
When have I ever failed in a lesson, or been re-
proved by my teacher? There is not a boy in |
school so exemplary as J am. But come! do not
be a child any longer, Maurice,” he continued,
drawing a book from his pocket, “just take this
and examine it. It shall cost you nothing. It is
a most thrilling story. If you read this, I know
you will thankfully accept my proposal.”

Maurice drew back, and refused the book.

“No, Philip,” he said, “you cannot, by any .
means, tempt or persuade me to have anything to
do with that book, or any other that is forbidden us.
It is wrong, and I am afraid to do what is wrong.”

At this moment the bell rang for dinner. Foot-
steps were heard inthe hall. Philip, unperceived
by Maurice, hastily concealed the book under
some pamphlets and papers on his desk, and left
him. Maurice thought no more of the book, and
Philip was that day summoned home to visit his
father, who was very ill.
MAURICE GRAY. 69

A fortnight passed away, when one morning
Mr. Harding was called out of school, and after
being absent a few minutes, he returned looking
unusually grave, and addressing his school, said,
“that Mr. Shaw from the village, had just called
to look upa book that had for several weeks been
missing from his library, and which was taken out
by one of the pupils of the school. He refuses to
give the name of the boy, as he is under a solemn
promise of secrecy, unless the book cannot be
otherwise obtained. The book, he said, was a new
one, and the only copy he had; and as one volume
was missing, he could not use the other, or he
would not have made known the circumstances to
me. But as the young gentleman who had it had
not called for some time, he must excuse him for
using the most prompt method for obtaining his
property, and he should make known his name
unless he received his book without needless delay.
Tam exceedingly grieved,” continued Mr. Hard-
ing, “that any one should have violated what I
consider one of the most important rules of my
school, as you all know how strongly I have often
expressed my abhorrence of the kind of books
usually found in circulating libraries such as Mr.
Shaw’s. It seems to me also an act of ingrati-
tude, as I have been at the personal expense of
70 MAURICE GRAY.

purchasing a library for your use, of such books as
T approve. I advise whoever has the book Mr.
Shaw is in search of, to confess it immediately,
otherwise Mr. Shaw will himself make it known.”

No one spoke or moved.

Mr. Harding looked carefully around the room,
and then added, “There is no one absent from the
school now but Philip Graham, and his conduct
has been such as to exonerate him from the suspi-
cion of so gross a violation of duty, and of course
it must be one of those now present.”

Mr. Shaw returned home, and Mr. Harding
then directed the boys to remain in their places
while he visited their rooms in search of the miss-
ing book. He was absent but a few moments,
when he re-appeared in the school-room, bringing
a book which they all knew came from the for-
bidden circulating library. His countenance was
very grave, and he said with unusual emotion,—

“I have found this book where I least expected
to find it, and where, before searching, I should
have felt certain it would not be found. It was
concealed under papers and pamphlets on the desk
of Maurice Gray.”

Maurice involuntarily started at the sound of
his name, but soon recovered himself, and looked
steadily at his teacher.
MAURICE GRAY. 71

“QO Maurice!” said Mr. Harding, with much
feeling, “have I indeed been deceived in you?
Why did you not, as on former occasions, come
forward and confess your fault?”

Maurice arose in his seat and said respectfully,
“I have nothing to confess, sir. I did not know
the book was there.”

“Then you accuse some one,” said Mr. Hard-
ing, ‘‘of secreting the book under papers upon
your desk, do you?”

“It must have been done by some one else, sir,”
answered Maurice, “ for I have never read, nor
even taken in my hand, a book from the circulating
library since I entered your school.”

“ The missing book is found secreted upon your
desk, Maurice,” said Mr. Harding. “ Everything
looks against you, but I am persuaded you have
never yet deceived me.”

“ Circumstances are certainly against me, sir,”
said Maurice, looking calmly at his teacher with
his full, honest eye, “ but I do not dare to lie or
deceive. I believe I have never given you cause
to doubt my integrity, and I hope you will believe
me, when I say I did not know the book was
there. As it has been found there, and has been
missing for a fortnight, I know of but one way in
which it could have been put there. But I beg
972 MAURICE GRAY.

of you to take some other method of ascertaining
the truth, I may implicate one who is innocent,
and nothing but your express commands can cause
me to make known my suspicions. If you will
please to wait a day or two longer, perhaps all will
be cleared up.”

*‘T have such confidence in you, Maurice,” said
Mr. Harding, “and feel such a respect for your
wishes, that I will let the matter rest until to-
morrow, when Mr. Neville returns, and I will
consult with him as to the best course to pursue.”

Philip Graham returned that evening to school.
He looked very sad and much softened. He
had come from the death-bed and funeral of his
father, and was received with much kindness and
sympathy by Mr. Harding.

Mr. Neville returned the next day, but not until
the boys had been assembled in school for an hour,
and of course Mr. Harding had no opportunity to
consult with him on the discovery of the offender.

After the lessons were over, Mr. Harding
related to Mr. Neville, in presence of the whole
school, the circumstances of the missing book, and
concluded by asking him if he could conceive who
would have taken the book from the library, or
how it could have been concealed on Maurice’s
desk without his knowledge. ‘I have had this
MAURICE GRAY. 73

in my possession,” he added, producing the book,
“and have examined its contents, and it has made
me the more determined to discover who among
my pupils could have such a low and depraved
taste as to feel inclined to read it. I fcel ashamed
to think that I have a boy in my school who has
a taste for such reading.”

Mr. Neville looked much disturbed while Mr.
Harding was speaking, and after a few moments
he said—

“Tt iz most painful to me to be obliged to bring
disgrace and reproach upon one who has hitherto
occupied a high position in the school, in every
way; but it is my duty to state what I know of
this affair, that suspicion may not rest where it is
undeserved. I intended to have made known to
you, sir,” he continued, addressing Mr. Harding,
“the circumstances which occurred a fortnight
since; but as I was very much occupied at the
time in preparations for my journey, it escaped my
mind, and I had quite forgotten the affair, until
you mentioned what occurred here yesterday.

“Tt was about a fortnight since, I was on my
way to the closet of Maurice Gray. I wished to
speak with him alone. As I approached the
closet, I heard some one conversing with him
within, and not wishing to interrupt them, I
74 MAURICE GRAY.

retired to a window in the room to wait until his
visiter departed, and unintentionally overheard the
conversation within. Some one was urging Mau-
rice to become a subscriber to the circulating
library, telling him he should have no trouble about
it, that he would procure and return all the books,
&c., and he seemed at the same time to be urging
upon him a volume to read. Maurice Gray firmly
and positively refused to have anything to do with
it, giving the best of reasons for so doing, that he
would never wilfully break a rule of the school—
that his father entirely disapproved of such read-
ing—that he did not wish to cultivate a taste for
it himself—that he was perfectly satisfied with,
and much interested in, the books which were
provided for him to read. His companion was
still urging Maurice to do as he desired, when the
bell interrupted them, the other boys entered the
room, and he was obliged to leave. I saw no book
in his hand when he left the closet. I think it
must then have been left there. The boy who
was conversing with Maurice, and whom I-saw
leave the closet, was Philip Graham.”

Mr. Harding started with surprise. He was
well aware that among his older pupils there were
some he could not trust, as they preferred their
own will to his; but Philip Graham, from outward
MAURICE GRAY, 75

conduct, had always been exemplary—what the
boys called “Mr. Harding’s model.” He was a
brilliant scholar-—punctual and studions, and was
supposed by his teachers to be a boy of strict
moral principles. His comrades knew him better,
but it was a great disappointment to Mr, H. to
find he had been so deceived. He sat silent at
his desk for some minutes, and then called Philip
Graham, who arose in his seat.

“There can be no doubt,” said Mr. Harding,
“of the entire correctness of Mr. Neville’s state-
ment. Ifyou have any excuse to make, or any
explanation to give, you have an opportunity.”

Philip stood erect. His eyes were cast down,
but his countenance was unmoved, and he made
no reply.

“Tt grieves me more than I can express,” con-
tinued Mr. Harding, “to be compelled to look
not only with suspicion and distrust, but with deep
disapprobation, on one whom I have always re-
garded with confidence and esteem. I must hence-
forth regard you as opposed to my plans and my
interests. This is the first offence of yours that
has come to my knowledge, but it is one of great
aggravation. You have deliberately disobeyed me,
and as you are a subscriber to the library, your
offence is probably one of Jong standing. Nor is
76 MAURICE GRAY.

that all. You have used your influence to induce
another to break my rules, and to pervert his mind
with such vile trash as this book contains. I can-
not suppose that this is your only attempt. It may
be that you have induced others whose minds,
unlike that of Maurice, are not fortified by good
principles, to follow your example. I need not
say that you have lost the high place in my regard
which you formerly held, and nothing but a long
course of correct conduct can restore you to my
confidence. My sympathy with your great afflic-
tion leads me to suspend for the present the inflic-
tion of merited punishment. One word of advice
I must give you. Of all the severe judgments
which our blessed Redeemer denounced, none were
more severe than those which respect hypocrites—
those who appeared outwardly righteous, but were
within full of deceit and wickedness. Go to your
private room, Philip, and let the rest of the day
be passed in meditation on your past conduct, and
may God give you a penitent spirit, and a desire
for the future to live 4 penitent life! May he
give you a clean heart, and renew a right spirit
within you!”
Philip obeyed, and silently left the room.
MAURICE GRAY. 77

CHAPTER VII.

“Uniucky! unlucky! unlucky!” cried Dick
Wells, joining a group of the older boys on the
play-ground. “Is it not, Tom, the most unlucky
thing in the world, that the birth-day feée and the
circus come on the same day; I never heard of
anything more provoking? How can we manage
it?”

“It is, indeed, bad enough,

a»

answered Tom,
“but we must do the best we can, and that is, to
leave home as early as possible, and come out of
the circus before it is over, and try to be at home
again by four o'clock, which is the hour we are
invited to the fete.”

“Yes, that is all we can do,” answered Dick,
“unless we give it up altogether, and that is what
I will not do, happen what may. There never
was such a tempting hand-bill, and I must go, and
think of the consequences afterwards,”

“We must obtain permission,” said Tom, “to
go to the woods immediately after dinner, and as
soon as we are out of sight, make the best of our
way to the village. One of us must try to keep
an eye to the time, and just before four we must
78 MAURICE GRAY.

leave; and if we are fifteen minutes too late, Mr.
Harding will think we did not know the hour, or
that we wandered farther than we intended.”

‘“‘ Well, that is what we will conclude upon,”
said Dick. “How many of us are there? Bob
Newton joins us at the tent. He is to buy our
tickets and have all ready, so that there will be no
delay. Why, Maurice, I did not observe you were
here! I did not mean you should know our secret,
as I thought there would be no use in inviting
you; you are so fearful of disobeying Mr. Harding.
Come, now, do be somebody for once! Join our
party, and see the most delightful circus in the
world.”

“You must, Maurice,” said Bob Newton, “as
you have overheard the whole plan, you cannot
help it. You are so fond of horses, and ride sa
well yourself, you will enjoy it; and you may learn
something useful too in the way of managing a
horse—eh !”

**O, say nothing more to me about it,” answered
Maurice. ‘ You all know very well that I will
not join you; but I fear you will all get into
trouble, so you had better give itup. Iam sure
the pleasant entertainment Mr. Harding gives us |
on Wednesday ought to be sufficient amusement
for us; and suppose you were detained, or did not
MAURICE GRAY. 79

know the hour, how mortified you would all feel
to be discovered at such a time—to say nothing of
the disobedience, and the meanness of skulking
away in such a manner to attend a circus. Better
give it up.”

“We have thought it all over, Maurice,” said
Dick, ‘and we are quite resolved to run all risks
and go, and nothing you can say will induce us to
change our minds. So, if we cannot induce you
to join us, we will drop the subject.”

Maurice made no answer, but, putting his arm
within Frank’s, he coaxingly led him away.

“ Now, Frank,” he said, as they walked along,
“it is but a short time since you determined to be
more conscientious, and that you would not again
violate Mr. Harding’s rules. Why will you allow
the first temptation to draw you away from your
duty?”

“O, Maurice!” said Frank, “I cannot withstand
such a temptation as this. It is too much for me.
Of all things in the world the circus is my delight.
After this I do intend to try to do right.”

“Until the next temptation comes, Frank,”
said Maurice. “Where is the virtue of doing
right, when there is no temptation to do wrong?”

«That is true,” said Frank; but this once,
Maurice, I must follow my inclination. I am
80 MAURICE GRAY.

quite as determined as the others. Happen what
will, I attend the circus this time.”

“T fear you will repent of it,” answered Mau-
rice. ‘It seems to me to be quite impossible for
you to leave the village after the circus, and be
here in time for the sete. If you are late, Mr.
Harding will think you very ungentlemanly, and
feel as if you treated him with great rudeness.”

“O, trust us, Maurice,” said Frank, for slipping
in unobserved! We have done such things before
now. Mr. Harding will never know but that we
came in with the rest, there will be so many there.
Depend upon it, we will not be discovered.”

“Tam sorry to see you so determined, Frank.
I hoped I might persuade you to abandon the
plan, though I had but little hope of influencing
the other boys. But you are more guilty than the
others, because you are breaking a resolution to do
right, and had already taken one step, and are now
going backwards, and will find it harder than ever
to commence again.”

“T wish I was thoroughly good like you, Mau-
rice,” said Frank; “then I could do right easily
enough. But I never can be. I never thought I
should like to be good until I knew you. Almost
all the boys I ever knew before who pretended to
be good, were like Philip Graham,—good enough
MAURICE GRAY. §1

before their teacher, but elsewhere, just like all
the other boys. And though I never pretended to
be good myself, I always despised hypocrisy more
than anything else. But it seems to make no
difference with you, where you are or who you are
with, and that is a character I would like to imi-
tate. /

“Do not talk to me so,” said Maurice. “No
one knows my heart save myself, and Him who
knoweth all things; so no one can know how often
I fail in all my endeavours to be and to do what I
desire. But my heavenly Father, through his
mercy in Christ Jesus, has compassion on my
weakness, and gives me the earnest, constant de-
sire to serve and to please him. He pardons my
manifold transgressions, and comforts me with

assurances of his love and care towards all those
who sincerely wait upon him.”

“Well, Maurice,” said Frank, “I would like
to be as good as you, and after the circus I am
going to try again, but I cannot give up that now,
so good-bye. And off ran Frank to join the circus
party.

The birth-day fete mentioned just now, was a
little festival which Mr. Harding held every year
on the birth-day of his little twin daughters,
Minna and Rose.

F
82 MAURICE GRAY.

Many of the children, with their parents, and
other friends of Mr. Harding from the village and
neighbouring country-seats, with all the pupils,
were invited to attend. A table was spread on
the lawn under the shade of the lefty elms. Vari-
ous games were played in which old and young
participated, and everything was done by Mr. and
Mrs. Harding to make the jubilee pleasant to the
guests,

Minna and Rose, queens of the day, were
crowned with wreaths of flowers, and presided at
the feast. They also received from their parents
and many of the visiters, useful and beautiful
gifts.

The day was always anticipated by the pupils
of the school with great pleasure, but those who
were at this time determined to attend the circus
were so engrossed in that, that they did not re-
gard it with their usual interest. Good Nurse
Burton had been several days at the school assist~
ing and directing in the preparations for the fete.

The long-expected Wednesday at last arrived.
The day was fine. The grass on the lawn had
been recently mowed, and was soft as velvet be-
neath the feet. The air was fragrant with flowers
and new hay; and the table, most tastefully deco-
rated with flowers, was profusely covered with
MAURICE GRAY. 83

ices, confectionary, and fine fruit. The boys readily
obtained permission from Mr. Harding to pass an
hour or two in the woods before the time ap-
pointed for the fete; and, according to their pre-
vious plan, as soon as they were out of sight of the
house, they turned into the road leading to the
village, and rapidly pursued their way thither.

Now, it happened that some indispensable article
fur the entertainment was forgotten, and none of
the attendants being at leisure to ride to the vil-
lage, Mr. Harding mounted his horse in haste, and
proceeded thither to execute the commission. He
was detained longer than he expected, and it was
but a moment or two before four o’clock, when he
turned his face homeward. He happened to be
passing the circus-ground just as the people were
Waving it, and reined up his horse and let the
crowd pass. To his great surprise, among the first
who came from the tent were several boys of his
own school, who, casting an anxious look at the
old church-clock, set off in rapid steps for home.
He had hardly recovered from his surprise before
the crowd had dispersed, and he was again moving
onward, when he saw a solitary figure emerge from
the tent, and strike into a circuitous road leading
towards his house. It was Philip Graham!

Mr. Harding rode slowly homeward, pondering
84 MAURICE GRAY.

on the deceitfulness and ingratitude of those he so
earnestly and constantly endeavoured to Lenefit
and make happy, and did not reach the scene of
festivity until many of his guests had assembled.

The boys who had attended the circus made
great haste to get home, and arrived before their
teacher; and they congratulated themselves much
on his not being present on their arrival, and felt
quite sure they would not be detected. They were
consequently in high spirits, and entered with
great enthusiasm into the games and pastimes of
the day.

The festival was highly enjoyed by all, and the
moon shone brightly on the pleasant party ere they
dispersed for the night.

“ Did we not do well, Maurice?” said Frank,
as they retired together, on the breaking up of the
party. “Was it not a lucky thing that Mr. Hard-
ing was absent when we returned?”

“OQ, lucky! Jucky! lucky!” said Dick and Tom,
upon joining them. “ Two frolics in one day is a
rare thing. Now, Maurice, do you not wish you
had gone? Who is the wiser for it? I would not
have missed it for anything.”

The school was assembled next morning when
Mr. Harding entered. He stood in his desk, and
addressing his pupils, said—“ Before commencing
MAURICE GRAY. 85

the lessons of the morning, I have a few words to
say. The chief design I have in celebrating the
little festivals on the birth-day of my children, is
to give a pleasant holiday to my school. You
must perceive it is attended with much trouble
and expense, and did I not think it gave much
pleasure to you all, and that it would be among
the pleasant remembrances of your school-days in
after-life, and cause you to feel that your teacher
loved you, and was desirous of promoting your
pleasure in every innocent way, as well as your
improvement, be assured the celebration of yester-
day would be the last.

There are many among you who understand my
plans, and appreciate my indulgence, and I am
sure they look upon me as a friend as well as a
teacher; but there are others among you of a very
different disposition. I do not doubt that you all
enjoyed yesterday's pastimes, and you doubtless
thought I did also; but you are mistaken, I
hoped to have enjoyed the day as I usually have
done; but there was one circumstance which
brought a chill over my heart and spirits, and made
the joyous scene to me one of darkness and sad-
ness. It is hard to meet with deceit and ingrati-
tude, and to receive it, too, in return for kind
sympathy and affection.”
86 MAURICE GRAY.

There was a pause. The older boys looked
askance at each other. Mr. Harding resumed—

“T rode to the village in haste yesterday after-
noon to execute a forgotten commission connected
with our little festival, and was on my return
home, when the spectators of the circus were just
leaving the tent. I stopped to let the crowd pass,
and imagine my surprise and sorrow when I saw
among the crowd a number of my own pupils
hastily moving towards their home, as if fearful of
being late at my festival. Isaw them distinctly,
and recognized each, or I could hardly have be-
lieved them capable of such bold disobedience, and
that, too, on the very afternoon when I was doing
all in my power to promote their happiness. Now,
I wish every boy present who attended the circus
yesterday afternoon to arise in ‘his seat.”

One after another, with countenances expressive
of great mortification, the boys reluctantly arose
in their seats, until the six who had gone in the
party together were all standing.

Mr. Harding looked around. ‘ This is not all,”
he said. Still no one moved.

“This is all who were of our party, sir,” said
Dick Wells. ‘‘ There were but six.”

“ There is another present,” said Mr. Harding,
“who did not join your party, but who attended
MAURICE GRAY. 87

the circus, whom I saw slyly leave the tent after
all the spectators had gone, and make his way
home by a circuitous route. Philip Graham! why
do you not rise in your seat with the rest? Do
not think because you went more slyly and
stealthily than the others, and wished not only to
keep a fair face before me, but also befure your
schoolmates, that you were unseen.

“It is hardly a year since some of you requested
permission to attend the circus, and then, in deny-
ing your request, I stated to you that as long as
you were under my charge, I would never consent
to your frequenting a place where you would pro-
bably hear vulgar and profane language, and where
you might imbibe a taste for mountebank exhibi-
bitions, and the lowest grade of dramatic perform-
ances. As there are some present who have en-
tered school since that time, I again express my
opinion, and repeat my commands, on the subject.
The punishment I shall inflict on those who dis-
obeyed me: yesterday, will be to suspend them
from the school for one month at the end of this
term. Philip Graham will be suspended two
months, I shall also write to your parents the
particulars of your conduct, that they may deal
with you as they think proper.

“As for you, Frank,” continued Mr, Harding,
88 MAURICE GRAY.

“you had boldly taken the first step in the paths
of honesty and rectitude, and are capable of be-
coming an honourable and high-minded youth.
I feel greatly disappointed that the first tempta-
tion has caused you to fall. I fear you are tov
much governed by your associates. If you were
always to choose good ones, you might do well;
but there is no security for a person who cannot
stand alone,—who does not possess in his own
heart those principles and that strength which will
lead him to act rightly, independently of all out-
ward circumstances, and to resist in the hour of
temptation. Each of us must bear his own bur-
den, and give his own account to the Judge of all.
Strive and pray, I entreat you, for that grace and
light from above—that firm religious conscientious-
ness and love to your Creator—which can alone
give you the victory over sudden temptation.”

Frank Henley seemed deeply impressed by Mr.
Harding’s advice, and much distressed at his own
misconduct; but Philip Graham exhibited no
emotion !

And here we must take leave of Mr. Harding’s
little community. The diversity of character
which we have seen in it may be found in larger
and older communities all the world over—and
each of them answers to some representation or
MAURICE GRAY. 69

image, which we find in the Sacred Scriptures.
There are those who fear God and desire to please
and obey him. Their habitual thought is, “ Thou
God seest me;” and so convinced are they that to
love God and keep his commandments is their
reasonable duty, that they would suffer any re-
proach or ridicule rather than disobey them; no
matter what numbers may be found in the way of
evil, nor what flattering promises of enjoyment
may be held out, the right or wrong of the thing
is first in their thoughts. Concealment or detec-
tion they have nothing to do with, for there is
nothing they wish to conceal or fear to expose.
They are sincere and guileless people. Maurice
Gray evidently belongs to this group.

And then we have another class, and the world
is full of them. The chief motive which leads
them to do right is that it is more creditable.
They oblige themselves to maintain two opposite
characters ; and while they vainly suppose them-
selves to be in favour with the wicked companions
whom they despise, and with the good whom they
cannot but respect, they seldom fail to lose the
confidence of both, and to be exposed and detested
as deceivers and hypocrites. Pattie Granam is
a striking example of this class of persons. The
history of both not only illustrates the worldly
90 MAURICE GRAY.

proverb, that “honesty is the best policy,” but the
higher and far more comprehensive truth, that
“the fear of the Lord is the BEGINNING OF
KNOWLEDGE.”*

* Prov. L 7.
CLARENCE HARTLEY.
CLARENCE HARTLEY.

“CnarENcE has warm and tender feelings,” said
Mrs. Hartley to her husband, one evening they
were conversing about their children, “but I fear
that his passionate temper and selfishness will, like
evil weeds, completely check their growth.”

« The case is bad enough, Anna, but no so bad,
I hope, as you fear. These good affections are
sever active in vain. They leave upon the mind
an indelible impression. In after years, the re-
membrance of them will give strength to good
desires and intentions. In after life, the thoughts
of his mother will restore the feelings he had to-
day, and draw him back from evil with cords of
love that cannot be broken. In most instances
where men abandon themselves finally to evil
courses, it will be found that the impressions made
in childhood were not of the right kind—that the
mother's influence was not what it should have
94 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

been. For myself, I am sure that a different
mother would have made me a different man.
When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but
the tenderness with which my mother always
treated me, and the unimpassioned but earnest
manuer in which she reproved and corrected my
faults, subdued my unruly temper. When I be-
came restless or impatient, she always had a book
to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some de-
vice to save me from myself. My father was
neither harsh nor indulgent towards me: I cherish
his memory with respect and love. But I have
different feelings when I think of my mother. I
often feel even now as if she were near me, as if
her cheek were laid to mine. My father would
place his hand upon my head, caressingly, but my
mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did
not expect my father to do more—I do not know
that I should have loved him had he done more;
for him it was a natural expression of affection.
But no act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss
upon my cheek, her warm embrace, are all felt
now; and the older I grow, the more holy seem
the influences that surrounded me in childhood.
To-day I cut from @ newspaper some verses that
pleased and affected me. I have brought them
home. Let me read them to you.
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 95

I DREAMED OF MY MOTHER.*

I dreamed of my mother, and sweet to my soul
Was the brief-given spell of that vision’s control ;
I thought she stood by me, all cheerful and mild,
As when to her bosom I clung as a child.

Wier features were bright with the smiles that she wore,
When heeding my idle-tongued prattle of yore;

And her voice had that kindly and silvery strain

That from childhood had dwelt in the depths of my brain.

She spoke of the days of her girlhood and youth,
Of life and its cares, and of hope and its truth;
And she seemed as an angel winged from above,
To bring me a message of duty and love.

She told of her thoughts at the old village school,

Of her walks with her playmates when loosed from its rule,
Of her rambles for berries, and, when they were oer,

Of the mirth-making groups at the white cottage door.

She painted the garden, so sweet to the view,

Where the wren made its nest, and the pet flowers grew;
Of the trees that she loved for their scent and their shade,
Where the robin, and wild-bee, and humming-bird, played.

And she spoke of the greenwood which bordered the farm,
Where her glad moments glided unmixed with alarm ;

Of the well by the wicket, whose waters were free,

And the lake, with its white margin traversed in glee.

* By Thomas G Spear.
96 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

And she pondered, delighted, the joys to retrace
Of the family scenes of that ruralized place—

Of its parties and bridals, its loves and its spells,
Its heart-clinging ties and its saddened farewells,

She pictured the meeting-house, where, with the throng,
She heard the good pastor and sang the sweet song—
Of the call from the pulpit, the feast at the shrine,

And the hallowed communings with feelings divine.

‘* And listen, my son,” she did smilingly say,
‘Tf ‘tis pleasant to sing, it is sweeter to pray—
If the future is bright in the day of thy prime,
That brightness may grow with the fading of time.
* * ® *
“ Look up to thy Maker, my son, and rejoice!”
Was the last gentle whisper that came from her voice,
While its soft, soothing tones, on my dreaming ear fell,
As she glided away with a smiling farewell.

There are dreams of the heavens, and dreams of the earth,
And dreams of disease that to phantoms give birth,

But the hearer of angels, awake or asleep,

Has a vision of love to remember and keep.

I awoke from the spell of that vision of night,

And inly communed with a quiet delight,

and the past, and the present, and future surveyed,
In the darkness presented by fancy, arrayed.

I thought of the scenes when that mother was nigh,

In a soft sunny land, and beneath a mild sky,

When at matins we walked to the health-giving spring,
With the dew on the grass and the birds on the wing—
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 97

Of the draughts at the fount as the white sun arose,

And the views from the bluffs where the broad river flows—
Of the sound from the shore of the fisherman’s train,

And the sight of the ship as it sailed to the main—

Of the wild-flowers plucked from the glen and the field,
And the beauties the meadows and gardens revealed—
Of all that she paused to explain or explore,

Till I learned, in my wonder, to think and adore.

And of joys that attended the fireside scene,

When woodlands and meadows no longer were green—
Of the sports, and the tales, and the holiday glee,

That ever were rife at the fond mother’s knee—

Of the duties of home, and the studies of school,
With the many delights that divided their rule,

’Till the sunshine of boyhood had ended, and brought
The cares and the shadows of manhood and thought.

And I sighed for the scenes that had faded away—

or the forms that had fallen from age to decay—

For the friends who had vanished, while looking before,
To paths that their feet were forbid to explore.

And glancing beyond, through the vista of time,
With a soul full of hope, and with life in its prime,
Though flowers by memory cherished had died,
Life’s garden was stil} with some blossoms supplied.

And oft as that dream to my spirit comes back,
A newness of thought re-illumines my track.”—
* * " *
“Pure and tender. The mother who called
G
98 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

forth that heart-warm tribute was, doubtless, a
good mother,” said Anna.

“You remember Cowper’s lines, written on
receiving his mother’s picture?” remarked her
husband, after musing for a short time.

“© yes, very well. They have often affected
me to tears :-—

‘*© that those lips had language! Life has passed
But roughly with me since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ;

Voice only fails, else how distinet they say—
‘Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away.’ n

“To him, how great was the loss he sustained
in the death of his mother. Had she lived, the
deep melancholy that seized him in after life might
never have occurred. With what simple eloquence
he describes his loss!’ And Mr. Hartley repeated
a passage of the poem :—

“My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wert thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son?
Wretched, e’en then, life's journey just begun!
Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a kiss,
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—

Ah, that maternal smile, it answers Yes.

I heard the bell toll on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 99

And, turning from my nursery window, drew

A long, Jong sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
Thy parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

What ardently I wished, I lung believed,

And, disappointed still, was still deceived.

By expectation every day beguiled,

Dupe of éo-mvrrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
*Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

T learned at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.”

Mrs. Hartley leaned her head upon her hus-
band’s shoulder, unable to restrain the tears that
were springing to her eye.

“Tf Heaven only spares me to my children, it
is all J ask,” she murmured. “I will be patient
with and forbearing towards them. I will dis-
charge my duties with unwearied diligence. Who
can fill a mother’s place? Alas! no one. If any
voice had been so full of love for him when a
child, if any hand had ministered to him as ten-
derly, this touching remembrance of his mother
would never have been recorded by Cowper :-—

‘Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might’st find me safe and warmly laid ;
100 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interposed too often makes.

* * * *
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours
When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would'’st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile.)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might ;
But no—what here we call our life is such,
So little to be Joved, and thon so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.”

“ Ah, who could be unkind to a motherless
one ?”

“The lot of an orphan child is not always so
sad a one as must have been that of young Cowper,”
said Mr. Hartley, “for it is but rarely that a child
possesses the delicate, or rather morbid, sensibility
that characterized him.”

“T could not bear to think that any child of
CLARENCE HARPLEY. 101

mine would remember me with less tenderness,”
replied Mrs. Hartley.

“ Even though it embitter his whole life?”

“No, no. It was the mother’s selfishness, not
the mother’s love, that spoke,” she instantly re-
turned.

“ To recur to what we were first talking about,”
said Mr. Hartley, after a pause. “ There cannot
be a doubt that the whole life of the child is
affected by the mother’s character, and the in-
fluences she has brought to bear upon him. I
could point to many instances that have come
under my observation to illustrate this. You have,
therefore, Anna, much to encourage you.”

“If there was nothing to encourage me, love
and duty would make me persevere.”

* But there is much: ‘Cast thy bread upon the
waters, and it shall be found after many days.’ ”

“ There are two faults in Clarence and Henry,”
said Mrs. Hartley one day to her husband, “ that
I am ata loss how to correct. They are bad faults,
and will affect their characters through life, if not
judiciously corrected now. Clarence looks with
an envious eye upon everything that Henry has,
and manages, sooner or later, to get possession of
it by his brother’s consent. Henry soon tires of
what he has, and is easily induced to part with it
102 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

to Clarence for some trifling consideration. It is
not long, however, before he wants it back again,
and then trouble ensues. Sometimes I think I
will make « law that neither Clarence nor his
brother shall part with anything that has been given
tohim. But I am afraid of the effect of this. It
will foster a selfish spirit. It will allow of no
generous self-sacrifice for the good of others.”

“T think with you, that the effect would not be
good. Still, it is very important that a certain
feeling of property in what each one has should be
preserved. As far as this can be accomplished,
without strengthening the selfish tendency of our
nature, it should be done. It causes each one not
only to protect his own rights, but to regard the
rights of his neighbours.”

“ T see all that very clearly. The happy medium
is what I desire to attain. As things are now, the
disposition which Clarence has to appropriate
everything to himself is fostered, and Henry is
losing that just regard to his own rights that he
ought to have. Now, what ought Ito do? Can
you devise a plan?”

“Not so well as you can. But let me see.
Suppose you try this mode for a while. Makea
law, that if Henry give Clarence any of his play-
things, the right to possess them shall be as perfect
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 103

as if you or I had presented them to Clarence as
his own. The practical working of this will, in a
short time, make Henry reflect a little before he
relinquishes his property to his brother.”

“That will do, I think,” said Mrs. Hartley.
“There will be no harm in trying it at any
rate.”

On the next day she gave Clarence a new book,
and Henry a humming-top.

“Now let me tell you something,” she said.
“‘ This books belongs to you, Clarence, and this top
to you, Henry. I hope they will please you very
much, and that you will take good care of them.
You can lend them to each other, if you choose;
but I would rather you would not give them to
each other. Should either of you do so, the one
who gives his book or his top away cannot reclaim

"it. Do you understand, Henry?”

“O yes, ma’am, I understand; I’m not going to
give anybody my top, I know.”

“ Very well, my son. You can do so if you wish;
but remember, after you have once given it away
you cannot get it back again.”

“‘ Why can’t I, mother?” asked the little boy.

“ Because, after you have given anything away,
it is no longer yours.”

I’m not going to give it away,” he said, in a
104 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

positive voice, as he ran off to spin his top in the
play-room.

For about an hour Clarence was very much in-
terested in his book, while Henry continued to
spin his top with undiminished pleasure. After this
time the interest of Clarence began to flag, and
the sound of Henry’s humming-top came more and
more distinctly to his ears from the adjoining room.
At last he closed the book and sought his brother,

“Let me spin it once, won’t you, Henry?” hesaid.

“Yes, I will,” returned the generous-minded
boy, and instantly handed the top and cord to
Clarence, who wound it up, and sent it humming
and skipping about the floor at a fine rate.

Henry reached out his hand for the cord, but his
brother held it back, saying—

“ Just let me spin it once more.”

* Well, you may once more,” was replied.

But it was “once more,’ and “ once more,”
until Henry’s tears restored to him his toy.

“You are a selfish fellow,” said Clarence, as he
flung the top and cord at his brother’s feet.

Clarence did not resume his book, but stood
looking at Henry’s top, as he spun it, with a covet-
ous expression on his face.

“Tf. you'll let me spin your top, you may read
my book,” he at length said.
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 105

“J will,” quickly returned Henry.

The top and book were exchanged, and, for a
time, both were well pleased. But the book was
rather beyond the grasp of Henry’s mind. He
soon tired of it.

“ You may have your book now, Clarence. I’ve
done reading it. Give me my top.”

“ T’ve not done with it yet. I let you read my
book until you were tired, and now you must let
me spin your top until I am tired.”

Henry rarely contended with his brother: he

did not like contention. Knowing how resolute
Clarence was in doing anything that suited his
humour, he said no more, but went and sat down
quietly upon a little chair, and looked on wistfully
while Clarence spun his top.
» It was half an hour before Henry again got
possession of his top, but the zest with which he
had at first played with it was gone. After spin-
ning it for a few times, he said—

“Here, Clarence, you may have it. I don’t
want it.”

“May I have it altogether?” eagerly asked
Clarence.

* Yes, you may!”

“ You'll want it back ?”

“No, I won’t. You may keep it fur ever.”
106 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

Clarence took possession of the top with right
good will, and went on spinning it to his heart’s
content. After dinner Henry wanted it back
again, and when his brother refused to give it up,
went crying to his mother. Mrs. Hartley called
up Clarence, and asked him why he did not give
Henry his top.

“It isn’t his top, mother; it is mine,” said
Clarence.

“Yours! How came it yours?”

“Henry gave it to me.”

“ Did you give it to him, Henry?”

“Yes, ma’am, this morning ; but it’s my top,
and I want it.”

“No, it is not your top any longer, if you have
given it to Clarence. It is his, and he must keep
it. Have you forgotten what I told you when I
gave it to you? If you give away your things,
they are no longer yours, and you cannot expect
to get them back again. I hope, my son, that
hereafter you will be more careful what you
do.”

Henry cried bitterly, but his mother would not
compel Clarence, upon whom Henry’s tears had no
effect, to restore the toy. The poor little fellow’s
heart was almost broken at this hard lesson in the
school of human life.
OLARENCE HARTLEY. 107

In about a week Mrs. Hartley tried it over
again. Gifts were made to the children, and soon
Clarence went to work to get possession of what
his brother had. But Henry had not forgotten
the top, and was, therefore, not so generous as be-
fore. He withstood every effort for the first day.
On the second, however, he yielded. On the fol-
lowing day he re-claimed his toys; but his mother
interposed again, and maintained Clarence’s right
to what Henry had given him.

The poor child seemed unable to comprehend the
justice of this decision, and grieved so much about
it that Mrs. Hartley felt unhappy. But ultimate
good, she was sure, would be the result, painful as
it might be to correct her child’s fault.

On the next occasion, Clarence found it much
harder to prevail upon Henry to give him his play-
things than before. The same result following, the
little fellow’s eyes began to be opened. He would
consider the consequences, and think when Clar-
ence wanted him to give him anything ; and the re-
collection of the permanent losses he had already
sustained, at length gave him the resolution to per-
severe in refusing to yield up his right to anything
that had been given to him. He would lend what-
ever he had cheerfully ; but when asked to give, he
generally said—
108 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

“No; if I give it to you, I can’t get it back
again.”

The parents did not like to check the generous
spirit of their child, but they felt that it was ne-
cessary both for his good and the good of his bro-
ther, that he should be taught to set a higher value
upon what was his own. If he were not led to do
this while young, it might prevent his usefulness
when a man, by leaving him the prey of every one.
Besides, the want of a due regard to his own pro-
perty in anything was not right.

Another fault in Henry they felt bound to visit
with a rigid system of correction. He was natur-
ally an obedient child, while his brother was the
reverse. He was also very yielding, and could
easily be persuaded by Clarence to join in acts
which were forbidden by their parents. When
called to account his usual excuse was, that he had
been asked by Clarence, or had gone with him.
He did not appear to think that he was to blame
for anything if he acted upon his elder brother's
suggestions. The only way to correct this was to
let each be punished for offences mutually com-
mitted, even though Henry was far less to blame
than Clarence. It was only by doing so, the pa-
rents felt, that Henry could be made to see that
he must be held responsible for his own acts. This
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 109

course soon effected all they desired. Clarence
was usually alone in all flagrant violations of pa-
rental authority.

Five more years of patience, forbearance, and
anxious solicitude passed, and Mrs. Hartley began
to see many good results of her labour, especially
when she contrasted the habits and manners of ker
own children with the habits and manners of the
children of some of her friends.

At the age of sixteen Clarence was sent to cullege.
He left home for the first time, to be absent, except
at short intervals, for three years.

Affectionate and touching was the parting coun-
sel of Mrs. Hartley to her son. The question,
whether it would be best in the end to send their
son to college, was long and anxiously debated be-
tween the father and mother. Many reasons, for
ond against, were presented, and these were scanned
minutely. The strongest objection felt by them
was the fact that, from the congregating together
of a large number of young men at college, among
whom would be many with loose principles and bad
habits, there would be danger of moral contamina-
tion. For a time they inclined to the belief that it
would be betternot to send theirson from home; but
their anxiety to secure for him the very best educa-
tion the country afforded, at last determined them.
110 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

Long and earnestly did Mrs. Hartley commune
with her boy on the evening before his departure.

“ Never forget, my son,” she said, “the end for
which you should strive after knowledge. It is,
that you may be better able, by your efforts as a
man, to benefit society. A learned man can always
perform higher uses than an ignorant man. And
remember, that one so young and so little acquaint-
ed with the world as yourself, will be subjected to
many severe temptations. But resist evil with a
determined spirit. Beware of the first deviation
from right. Suffer not the smallest stain to come
upon your garments. Let your mother receive you
back as pure as when you went forth, my son.”

‘© You will discover, soon after you enter ccllege,
a spirit of insubordination, a disposition in many
of the students to violate the laws of the institution ;
but do not join with them. It is just as wrong for
a student to vielate the laws of a college, as it is for
a citizen to violate the laws of his country. They
are wholesome regulations, made for the good of the
whole; and he who weakens their force, does a wrong
tothe whole. Guard yourself here, my son, for here
vou will be tempted. But stand firm. If you break,
wilfully, a college law, your honour is stained, and
no subsequent obedience can efface it. Guard your
honour, my dear boy. It is aprecious and holy thing.
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 111

“J will write to you often, and you must write

often tome. Talk to me, in your letters, as freely
as you would talk if we were face to face. Con-
sider me your best friend; and he who would
weaken my influence over you as your worst enemy.
You cannot tell, my son, how anxious I feel about
you. I know, far better than you can know, how
intimately danger will surround you. But if you
will make God’s holy law the guide of your life,
you will be safe. Christian, in his journey to the
land of Canaan, had not a path to travel in more be-
set with evil than will be yours; but you will be safe
from all harm, if, like him, you steadily resist and
fight against everything that would turn you from
the straight and narrow way of truth and integrity.
You go with your mother’s blessing upon your
head, and your mother’s prayers following you.”
* ‘The earnestness with which his mother spoke
affected the heart of Clarence. He did not reply,
but he made a firm resolution to do nothing that
would give her a moment’s pain. He loved her
tenderly, for she had ever been to him the best of
mothers; and this love was his prompter.

“J will never pain the heart of so good a mother,”
he said, as he laid his head upon his pillow that
night.

At college Clarence found himself in a new
112 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

world. At first the reckless bearing and free con-
versation of some of the students surprised and
shocked him. Soon familiarity with such things
made them seem less reprehensible. He could not
only listen to them, but often join heartily in the
laugh awakened by some sally of ribald wit. When
alone, however, and the remembrance of home
arose in his mind, he felt grieved to think that he
could have taken pleasure in anything that would
so have shocked his mother’s ears.

He wrote home every week, and wrote with all
the frankness of a mind that had nothing to con-
ceal. Every letter was promptly answered by his
mother; and in every letter from her were some
tenderly urged precepts that ever came with a
timely force.

Very different was the case with James Fielding,
a young man who had entered college along with
Clarence, with whom he was acquainted. It was
not long before his natural love of companionship
caused him to form intimate associations with
several of the students whose principles and habits
were not good. With these he spent hours every
night in amusements and conversations by no means
calenlated to elevate the tone of his feelings. He
made frequent efforts to induce Clarence to join
them, who did so for a few times, but for a few
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 113

times only. After having spent an evening in
drinking, smoking, and card-playing, he found, on
retiring to his room, a letter upon his table from
his mother. The sight of this letter caused an in-
stant revulsion in his feelings. He did not open
it for some time. The very superscription, in the
well known hand-writing of his mother, seemed to
rebuke him for having felt pleasure in what would
have pained her pure mind deeply. When at
length he opened and read the letter, it affected
him to tears :-—

“My Dean CLaReENcE,” it said, “ How much
we missed you last night at our family party.
There were Marien, Henry, Fanny, and Lillian;
but Clarence was away. I believe I thought much
oftener of my absent one than I did of those who
were present. Henry accompanied Marien at the
piano on the flute, but not so perfectly as you used
to do; and yet he plays very well for one so young.
Fanny is improving rapidly in her music; she per-
formed for us a very difficult overture, and did
it exceedingly well. Dear little Lillian is always
talking about you, and asking when you will come
home. She grows sweeter and dearer every day.
We had a very happy time, indeed, as we always
have; but it would have been much happier had

not one been missing.
H
114 CLARENCE IARTLEY.

“J had a visit from Mrs. Fielding yesterday.
She says that James has only written to her twice
since he has been away. She asked me how often
I heard from you; when I told her every few days,
she said that if she could hear from her boy every
few weeks she would be very glad. Your mother
thanks you, Clarence, for your promptness in writ-
ing. It is a great pleasure for me to hear from
you often. How is James Fielding? Is he doing
well? I wish he would write home more fre-
quently. I thought his mother looked troubled
when she spoke of him.”

Clarence sighed and lifted his eyes from the
letter on reading this passage. He thought of
James Fielding, and the dangerous ground upon
which he was standing, and sighed again as he re-
sumed the perusal of his letter. The whole epistle
came pure and true from a mother’s heart, and it
so filled the mind of Clarence with images of home,
and made that home appear so like a little heaven,
that he experienced a shuddering sensation when
he compared with it the scene in which he had so
lately been a participant.

“Thank God for such a mother!” he could not
help ejaculating, as he read the last line of her
letter. ‘Shall I ever cause her to shed a tear?
No—never !”
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 115

When he met James Fielding next morning, he
asked him—

“When did you hear from home, James ?”

“From home! O, I’m sure I don’t remember.
I was going to say I don’t hear from there at all;
but I have had two letters from mother filling half
a page each.”

“When did you write?”

“ About a month ago, to say I wanted some
pocket-money.”

“T heard from home last night.”

“Ah! Got a remittance, I suppose?”

“Of love from my mother, more precious than

gold or silver,” replied Clarence with some feeling.
“ She says that your mother complains that you do
not write to her.”
« “Say to your mother, if you please, that I com-
plain that my mother doesn’t write to me. So the
account will stand balanced. I never could write
a letter, except to say I wanted something. And
I suppose mother is like me. We will excuse one
another.”

James spoke with a levity that pained Clarence.
He wanted to admonish him, but felt that, in his
present mood, it would be useless.

During the first year that Clarence was at col-
lege, the principles he had been taught by his
116 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

mother became rules of action with him. He set
his face resolutely against everything that he con-
sidered wrong. James Fielding, on the contrary,
was among the most thoughtless young men in
the institution. His wishes and passions were his
rulers.

One day he came to Clarence and said—

“There is to be some sport in about a week.”

“Ts there? What will it be like?”

“We don’t intend going to morning prayers un-
til seven o'clock.”

“‘ But the regulations say six.”

“IT know. Six is too early, and we are going
to have it at seven.”

“You did not come here to make Jaws, but to
observe them,” gravely replied Clarence.

“We came here to be instructed, not to be
dragged out of bed before day, not to be bamboozled
about by arbitrary professors. It is a public insti-
tution, and the Faculty have no right to make op-
pressive laws.”

“Tf any one dislikes these laws, let him go home.
It is the only honest course. But what else is
intended ?”

‘We intend ——”

“ Wel Have you really joined in this conspiracy
against law and order?”
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 117

“ Certainly Ihave. With the exception of about
twenty, every student is pledged to go through
with the matter when it is once started. My duty
is to bring you over. We wish to rise as one man.”

“ After you have refused to attend morning
prayers, what do you propose doing?”

“Ifthe hour is changed to seven, all well and
good. Nothing more will be done; but if not,
every regulation of the college is to be broken, till
our wishes are complied with. Wait a little, and
you will see fun, But let me tell you, it is de-
termined that every student who does not join us
shall be dipped in the horse-pond. You had better
consent. I should hate to see anything done to you.”

The eyes of Clarence instantly flashed, and his

cheeks grew as red as crimson.
. “I would not consent if my life were taken,”
said the high-spirited boy. ‘“ But never fear.
There is no one here that dare lay his hands
upon me.”

“Don’t trust to that. There are those here
who dare lay their hands upon anybody, and who
will do it too. Come, then, say you will join us.”

« No—never.”

“ You will be sorry when it is too late.”

“T have no fears.”

On the next day the matter was publicly
118 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

broached during the college recess, when the stu-
dents were alone.

“TI move,” said one, “that we begin on the
morning after to-morrow.”

«Second the motion,” came from three or four
voices.

“ All who are in favour, hold up your hands.”

More than a hundred hands were thrown into
the air.

* All who are opposed will now hold up their
hands.”

A deep silence followed. Then a single hand
was raised—then another, and another, until ten
hands were seen above the heads of the crowd.
It was the hand of Clarence that first went up.

A murmur of discontent ran through the bedy
of students, which deepened into execrations and
threats. Half a dozen who were nearest Clarence
gathered round him, with earnest and half angry
remonstrances. His only reply was—

“It is wrong, and I cannot join you.”

“ The regulation is oppressive,” it was argued.

* Then leave the institution; but do not violate
its laws.”

“That is easily said; but others have a word in
that as well as ourselves. All here are not ex-
actly free to do as they please.”


CLARENCE HAKTLEY.

Half a dozen wno were nearest Clarence gathered round him with earnest

half angry remonstrances, His only reply was, ‘It is wrong, and I cannot joim
you,”’—Page 118,

=e

mors pars / that Sae eas
* CLARENCE HARTLEY. 49

“It is better to endure what seems oppressive,
than to do wrong.”
“We don’t mean to do wrong

7

said several
voices.

* You threaten to dip any one in the horse-pond
who does not join you.”

Several of the students looked confused, but one
or two cried out—

“ Certainly we do; and what is more, our threats
shall be executed.”

“Right or wrong?” retorted Clarence, with a
meaning look and voice, and, turning on his heel,
walked away with a firm step.

His manner and words had their effect. He
had said but little, but that little caused several
who heard him to think more soberly. In nearly
every little knot of students that was drawn to-
gether in the various rooms that night, was one or
more who had become lukewarm. A re-considera-
tion of the matter was moved on the next day, and
the question again taken. Instead of a dozen
hands raised in the negative, as on the day before,
there were now more than fifty. From that time
little more was heard upon the subject. The
revolt never took place.

So much for the influence of a single well-
ordered, honest mind. Had the natural disposi-
120 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

tion of Clarence been unchecked, and had no
counter-balancing principles been stored up in his
mind, he would have been as eager for the pro-
posed rebellion as the most thoughtless. What
evil results might have followed cannot be told.
There were those in the institution who did not
love him much after this; but none who did not
feel for him an involuntary respect.

The incident just related occurred about a year
and a half after Clarence entered college. He had
then nearly completed his sixteenth year.

About a week afterwards, and before they had
received any communication from their son men-
tioning the circumstance, Mr. Hartley handed his
wife a letter. Its contents were as follows :—

“ Dear S1n,—As the President of —— Univer-
sity, permit me to express to you my own and the
thanks of the whole Faculty. The good and true
principles which you have stored up in the mind
of your son, have saved us from the evils of a well-
planned resistance of authority by the students.
No persuasions, we are told, could induce him to
join with the rest. Personal violence was threat-
ened, but this only made him adhere more firmly
to his good resolution. The consequence was, that
his conduct opened the eyes of one after another
to see the folly of what they were about to do.
CLARENCE HARTLEY. 121

Two parties were formed, and, before any overt
act, the peace-party prevailed. We shall ever re-
member your son with admiration and gratitude.
From his first entrance into our institution, he has
been known as the strict observer of all its rules,
and a diligent student. It is but just that his
parents should know all this from us.—-With senti-
ments of the highest respect and regard, I am,
yours, &c.”

Tears of joy gushed to the eyes of Mrs. Hartley
as she finished the last line of this letter.

** Noble boy!” she said with enthusiasm.

‘You are pleased with the letter then,” said her
husband, with assumed gravity.

“O yes! Are you not?” and she louked him in
the face with surprise.
* Not exactly.”
“ Why?”
“It would have all been well enough, if the

direction had not been wrong.”

“What do you mean? Was it not our son that
acted so nobly?”

“O yes. But the letter should have been ad-
dressed to you.”

Mrs. Hartley smiled through her tears, and
said—

“ Tt is all right—Are we not one? But what
122 CLARENCE HARTLEY.

would my efforts have been without your wise
counsel to second them. I will never care for the
praise, so my boy does right. That is my sweetest
reward, This is indeed a happy day.”

When Clarence returned from college, unscathed
in the ordeal through which he had passed, he
entered upon a course of legal studies. Law was
the profession he chose.

It was not long before life’s conflicts began in
earnest with him; but it is not our business to
speak of them, further than to say, that he was
subjected to strong trials, to severe temptations, to
cares and anxieties of no ordinary kind, and that
the remains of good and truth stored up in his
mind by his mother exerted a happy influence over
him in after life.
THE WIDOW’S SON,

In a village which stands on the sea-shore, there
lately lived a poor widow that had seen better
days. Her husband was a respectable sea-captain,
and supported his family in ease and affluence;
but he was lost at sea, leaving his widow with
two little sons, one six years old, the other an
infant. She retired from the circle in which she
had so long moved with esteem, and purchased a
neat little cottage by the water’s side. Here she
brought up her little boys, and early endeavoured
to lead them “in the way in which they should
go.” She felt herself to be but a pilgrim below,
and taught her sons that this world never was
designed for our home. In this manner this little
family lived retired and respected. The mother
would often lead her children on the hard sandy
beach just as the setting sun was tipping the
smooth blue water with his last yelluw tints. She
124 TILE WIDOW'S SON.

would then tell them of their father who was
gone, and with her finger would write his name in
the sand, and as the next wave obliterated every
trace of the writing, would tell them that the
hopes and joys of this world are as transient.
When the eldest son arrived at the age of twelve,
he was seized with an incurable desire of going to
sea. ‘The remonstrances of a tender parent and
an affectionate little brother were all in vain, He
at length wrung a reluctant consent from his
mother, and receiving from her a Bible, a mother’s
prayers and blessing, he embarked on board a
large brig. He promised his mother, as he gave a
last parting hand, that he would daily read his
Bible, and as often commit himself to God in
prayer. For some time he remembered his
promise to his mother, and daily read his Bible;
but the sneers of the wicked crew drew away his
mind from the instructions of his mother, and he
placed his Bible at the bottom of his chest, to
slumber with his conscience.

During a severe storm, when it seemed as if
destruction awaited every soul on board, he thought
of his mother, his home, and his promises; and,
in the anguish of his heart, resolved to amend, if
his life should be spared. But when the storm
had subsided, and the seas were smooth, and the
THE WIDOW'S SON. 125

clear sun brought joy and gladness over the great
waters, he forgot all his promises. No one of the
crew could be more profane—no one more ready
to scoff at religion, which, in his innocence and
childhood, he had been taught to love and revere.

After an absence of several years, this youth
found himself once more drawing neer to his
native land. He had traversed the globe; but
during all this time he had neither written to his
mother nor heard from her. Though he had
thrown off restraint, and blunted the finer feelings
of his nature, yet his bosom thrilled with delight
at the thought of once more meeting his parent
and brother. It was in the fall of the year he
returned, and on a lovely eve in September he
walked toward his long-deserted home. Those
pnly are acquainted with the pleasures of the
country who have spent their early days in rural
retirement. As the young sailor drew near the
cottage of his mother, as he ascended the last
sloping hill which hid it from his sight, his
memory recalled all the scenes of “his happier
days,” while fancy whispered deceitfully, that
hours equally agreeable would again be realized.
The hills over which he had so often reamed—the
groves through which he had so often wandered,
while they echoed with the music of the feathered

t
126 THE WIDOW'S SON.

tribe—the gentle stream on whose banks he had
so often sported, and the rising spire of the church,
all conspired to excite the most thrilling sensations.
He drew near the cottage door, and found all was
stillness. A solemnity seemed to breathe around
him, and as he rapped at the door his heart
misgave him, though he knew not why. He
knocked, but no one bade him enter; he called,
but no answer was returned, save the echo of his
own voice. It seemed like knocking at the door
of the tomb. The nearest neighbour hearing the
noise, came and found the youth sitting and
sobbing on the steps of the door.

“Where,” he cried with eagerness, “where aremy
mother and brother? O, I hope they are not dead!”

“Tf,” said the stranger, “you inquire for widow
,Lcan only pity you. Ihave known her but a



short time; she was the best woman I ever knew.
Her little boy died of a fever about a year ago,
and in consequence of fatigue in taking care of
him, and anxiety for a long absent son at sea, the
good widow was herself buried yesterday.”

“O heavens!” cried the youth, “ I have stayed
only long enough to kill my mother! wretch that
Iam! Show me the grave—I have a dagger in
my bundle—let me die with my mother, my poor
broken-hearted mother !”
THE WIDOW'S SON. 127

“ Hold, friend,” said the astonished neighbour,
“if you are this woman’s son, I have a letter for
you, which she wrote a few days before she died,
and desired you should receive, should you ever
return.”

They both turned from the cottage and went
to the house of the neighbour. The letter was
produced: the young man threw down his hat
and bundle, and read the following short letter,
while his manly cheeks were covered with tears:—

“My Dearest, ONLY Son,— When this reaches
you, I shall be no more. Your little brother has
gone before me; I cannot but hope and believe he
was prepared. I had fondly hoped that I should
once more have seen you on the shores of mortality,
but the hope is now relinquished. I have followed
you by prayers through all your wanderings.
Often, when you little expected it, even in the
dark cold nights of winter, I have knelt and
prayed for my lost son. There is but one thing
that gives me pain at dying, and that is, my dear
William, that I must leave you in this wicked
world, I fear unreconciled to your Maker! I am
too low to say more; my glass is run. As you
visit the sods which cover my dust, O remember
that you too must soon follow! Farewell: the
128 THE WIDOW’S BON.

last breath of your mother will be spent in praying
for you, that we may meet above.”

The young man’s heart melted on reading these
few words from the parent whom he so tenderly
loved, but whom he had disobeyed. I will only
add, that this letter was the means, in the hand
of God, in bringing this youth to the saving
knowledge of the truth, and that he is now a
reputable and pious man. From this we may learn
“that praying breath” can never be spent in vain.

‘* Let thoughtless thousands choose the road
That leads the soul away from God;
This happiness, dear Lord, be mine,
To live and die entirely thine.

** On Christ, by faith, my soul would live:
From him my life, my al], receive;
To him devote my fleeting hours;
Serve him alone, with all my powers,”
CARL ADLER.
CARL ADLER.

CHAPTER I.

THE OAKS.

Tur boys were all gathered under a spreading
chestnut-tree, not far from which a stone-quarry
had been opened, and then left to grow up with
brambles and tufts of grass and weeds. It is such
a cavern as children love, affurding a hundred
amusements to those who are inquisitive. Barry
was, for the time, one of the boys. He sat in the
shade of the mighty tree, with book in hand, but
unopened. His eyes were looking over at the
distant hills, and the intermediate landscape
checkered with field and orchard, and seamed
with hedges and brooks. But the noise and antics
of his young companions kept him from musing
132 THE OAKS.

long on any one thing. Grave as he might be, it
was impossible for him not to turn his head and
smile, when he saw the cheery faces and high
gambols of these healthy, happy fellows. Now
they are trying to bury the Newfoundland dog in
new hay, from which he rises like an animated
hay-cock. . Now they are repeating the experiment
with Bub Bolton, the biggest and best-hnmoured
of the set. Now they turn somersets down the
green side of the quarry; and now they are off,
like a herd of antelopes, ina race to the foot of
the green hill, where a silver rivulet marks the
lowest spot in the extensive field.

Timorous parents are sometimes gregtly afraid
of bones being broken or health being endangered
in such sports. But they are ignorant of the
safeguards of Providence, and occasionally interfere
to the injury of their children. I+ is wonderful
how rare such evils are, among tens of thousands
of instances. I think I have observed that in
many families the eldest sons are the most feeble
and fearful: when the little flock increases, the
sports become more gay, and the adventure more
bold. And home-sports such as these, when
unaccompanied by ill tempers and ill words, are
good and laudable, even though their noise should
sometimes jar on the ear of the nervous. Unless
THE OAKS. 133

we would rear a generation of effeminate creatures,
we must put up with some noise, and some soiling
and tearing of raiment.

Barry was almost disposed to join in the sport,
though he half-doubted whether his dignity as an
usher might not suffer by the condescension. The
scruple was unnecessary; but Barry had not
reached the point in his experience where this is
found out.

When the sun began to draw towards his setting,
he rang his little bell, and was instantly surrounded
by the whole company, at least twenty in number.
There they sat or stood around him, red and panting
and covered with healthful moisture. What sight
on earth is lovelier or more hopeful? Who is
happier than a loving teacher? Barry felt this, and
gazed on them with a new and swelling emotion.
What hope, what joy, what confidence in these
countenances! Even two or three lads, who had
been sullen and refractory in the school-room, were
here contented and docile, and clung to him, with
a readiness to do whatever he should order.

“Look yonder, boys,” said Barry, rising as he
spoke, and stretching his hand toward the west.
All the boys turned in the same direction, and
their faces were illuminated with the blush of the
setting sun, which at that instant was just sinking
134 THE OAKS.

among aclump of distant trees. “O how grand!
O how beautiful!” burst from several. Indeed,
the sight was glorious. ,

“What do you think, boys?” said Barry. “Can
you see anything like that in a show? Can any
painting or any panorama equal that ?”

Various exclamations were uttered by the more
animated boys, for the spectacle was uncommonly
fine, even in a land where we have to bless God
for so many brilliant sunsets. Little Carl was
silent. His hands were crossed upon his breast,
and his blue eye drank in the lights of the west,
as if none had been present.

“Carl,” said Barry, turning to the little foreigner,
‘that is what you call, in Germany, the Abendroth,
and it is a beautiful word.”

“ Yes, sir,” said Carl, and the tears filled his
eyes: he wiped them away with his little checked
handkerchief. The boys were affected: they knew
he was thinking of “ Bingen on the Rhine.”

Burnham, who led the school, turned to Mack,
and said in a low voice, ‘“‘ Mack, there’s something
in the Dutchman after all; let’s not quiz him so
hard !”

A distant bugle-note broke up their sentimental
gazing: it was the signal for the evening worship.
Barry led the way to the school, and the boys fell
THE OAKS. 135

into an irregular procession. It was plain they had
received benefit by even this momentary contem-
plation of a great object in nature. Why should
it not be a part of education to draw forth the
admiration of youth towards such wonders, and to
graft upon them. the needfal lessons?

Dr. Newman was not the man to neglect such
means of usefulness. He had been gazing on the
same western sky, as he sat in the portico, holding
the hand of his motherless daughter. Both were
in mourning, but both seemed revived by a tran-
sient gleam from the-sinking luminary. As Dr.
Newman led the way into the little chapel, the
lingering rays of the sunset were just gilding its
eastern wall. He rose in the pulpit, and read the
beautiful 104th Psalm. At the 19th verse, the
youthful worshippers .all felt, at least for the
moment, the meaning of these words, The sun
knoweth his going down. They were therefore very
attentive, when the doctor began his little address :

«My dear children,” said he, “I dare say you
have been looking at the beautiful sunset. It is
good to do so. Those lovely curtains of coloured
clouds are hung there to attract our eye. They
are pictures in the book of nature, from God's own
hand.

“ See how God directs us to study these works
136 THE OAKS.

of creation. It is plainly so in the chapter we
have just read. So also in other places. In the
book of Job (xxxviii., xxxix., x1, xli.) God speaks
out of the whirlwind; but all his discourse is con-
cerning the wonders of creation.

“We must not confine ourselves to the book of
nature. If we had no other guide, its characters
would be unintelligible. They would speak a
strange language. The heathen have the book of
nature; but they read it amiss. Blessed be God
for this other book, the book of revelation! (and
here Dr. Newman laid his hand on the great folio
Bible which lay before him.) Here we learn,
what brilliant sunsets can never teach us, that
God so loved the world as to give his only begotten
Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not
perish, but have everlasting life. But, after we
have learned this blessed gospel truth from the
Scriptures, we can come back to the book of
nature, with its beautiful sunsets, and behold, in
every hue and every cloud, an emblem of God’s
love and mercy. Therefore, my children, believe
in God, and then, when you turn your eyes
towards the crimson and gold of the gorgeous west.
you may say to yourselves, ‘The God who dis-
plays those lovely signs, is my Father, through
Jesus Christ.’”
THE OAKS. 137

Then they joined in singing the following ver-
sion of the 19th Psalm :— ,

Tlove the volume of thy Word;

What light and joy those leaves afford
To souls benighted and distressed ! .

Thy precepts guide my doubtful way,

Thy fear furbids my feet to stray,
Thy promise leads my heart to rest.

Thy threatenings wake my slumbering eyes,
And warn me where my danger lies;

But ‘tis thy blessed gospel, Lord,
That makes my guilty conscience clean,
Converts my soul, subdues my sin,

And gives a free, but large reward.

Who knows the error of his thoughts?
My God, forgive my secret faults,

And from presumptuous sins restrain:
Accept my poor attempts of praise,
That I have read thy book of grace

And bovk of nature not in vain.

It is a happy thing for our children, when they
go to a school where religious service is nut made
a drudgery, but is connected with pleasing associa-
tions, Such was the case at the Oaks. There
was no boy who remained there long who did not
love the suund of the bugle which called him to
this short but interesting exercise. Dr. Newman
almost always made an address, but it was seldom
- 138 THE OAKS.

longer than that which bas been given above. It
was customary at the Oaks, after tea, to spend-some
time in walking, or if the time of year were for-
bidding, in athletic games, in a large covered play-
room, called the hippodrome. This was not indeed
the hour for their regular gymnastic exercise; but
it was spent in this place, because of the large
space allowed for walking and running, and for
forming little groups for conversation. However
inclement the weather might be, here the boys
found themselves warm and sheltered; and the
recreation was good before returning to the short
tasks of the evening. But the plan of the school
did not admit of much work by candle-light, for
early rising was the order of the day. Into this
hippodrome the larger boys went at all times
during play-hours; and here they were assembled
in considerable force on the evening in question.
A large Jamp of stained glass hung from the
centre of the roof, and cast a pleasant gleam over
the space below. A knot of gay young fellows, in
loose summer-dress, was seen in the inner circle,
some leaning on benches, and some arm-in-arm
against the column in the midst. It was evident
that some plan was on foot; for boys are planning
creatures, and it is well when their schemes
involve no mischief. I am glad to say such was
THE OAKS. 139

now the case. ‘hey were talking in .a low tone
about the pale German boy, Carl Adler. Carl had
come to school with scarcely any knowledge of
English, and a few months had not sufficed to
remove his oddities of pronunciation. .He could
not for his life say, “ Thirty thousand thorns thrust
through the thick of their thumbs.” The attempt
to utter this formidable formula, which he never
refused, used to produce peals of laughter, such as
are heard only from a group of boys. Few at this
age can abstain from running rigs on a comrade.
But Carl, though he used to redden and hang his
head, never lost his temper; and this won him
some favour. Though he could not talk English
well, he was the best Frenchman in the school;
indeed he spoke the language fluently. Then he
was far before the rest of his age in Latin. He
could swim, wrestle, and fence, and was always
ready to doa favour. That evening the boys had
observed him weeping under the chestnut-tree.
Boys are as sagacious about such things as
men: they knew he was thinking of home, and
the word home is sweet at a boarding-school. But
little Carl’s home was far over the sea, on the
Rhine; and he was an orphan, and, what was
more, the boys had learned, within a few days,
that he was poor, and that his ancle, Mr. Schneck-
140 THE OAKS.

enburg, had written to Dr. Newman that he must
be taken away and put to a trade. Now they
began to regret their ridicule of the stranger, and
were busy contriving some way to help him; for
they could not bear the thought of losing so ami-
able and clever a companion.

“T’'ll tell you what it is,” said Murdock, who
was the son of Captain Murdock, of the army,
“I'll give all my pocket-money for the year, rather
than let the Dutchman suffer.”

* Dutchman!” cried Merriman, who slept in
the same chamber, “I will tell you he is no
Dutchman; he is a German boy, from Bingen
on the Rhine, and his father was a judge in that
town.”

** Never mind, Merriman,” said Murdock,
“Dutchman or German is all one; he is a fine
little man, if he does call think, sin’, and bath,
bass. Put my name down for as much as you
choose. Dr. Newman has my money for the quar-
ter, and he says it’s too much by half.”

“We are all ready,” said Mack, who was a
square-built, rosy-cheeked, brave-looking boy ; «T
don’t believe there isa fellow on our side who will
refuse to give something—all he can; but the
thing is, how shall we do it?”

“ True enough,” said Burnham; “it will never
THE OAKS. 14)

do to hurt the little man’s feelings. He is quiet,
and he is poor, but then he is very proud; no, not
proud, exactly; I don’t mean quite that. But he
is above begging, and above being helped; and he
never would forgive us if he knew what we are
saying.” .

“There is no danger of that,” said Merriman,
“for Lleft him writing a letter to his sister, in
those funny, little, slanting, peaked German
letters, that we used to quiz him about. I’m
sotry I langhed at him so much, for once I saw
him dropping tears over the sheet so fast that it’
must have blotted the paper. He will not be
down for an hour.”

“T tell you,” said Murdock, “ we are in danger
of all going wrong, unless we take advice; and
there is no better way than to talk it over with
Mr. Barry. He is always ready to help every-
body, and he thinks the world and all of Adler.”

“ Good! good!” cried several; “ Barry is the
man.”

“ Yes,” said Mack; “and what is more, Mr.
Barry has been in Germany, and understands a
good deal of the language. Iam glad you thought
of it.”

So it was agreed to lay the matter before Mr.
Barry; the boys meanwhile determining to be
142 " TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY.

ready with their contributions. The bell “rang,
and they went to the school-room with faces full
of earnestness and animation.

CHAPTER II.
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY.

Tue cooler days of summer are admirably suited
for open-air exercise; and boys at sehool know
how to enjoy them. Did you ever know a healthy
youth who did not like to spend such days out of
doors? Especially at large schools, where they
have not their parents to go to, young persons seek
recreation in the fields and woods. Here they
learn a thousand things which are useful to them
in after-life. It is not the least important part of
their education. For this reason, those schools
are best where the pupils have a wide range of
meadow and grove, pleasant brooks and safe
bathing-places. This was remarkably true of the
Oaks, which was so called on account of a number
of great and ancient trees, relics of the forest,
which were scattered in clumps upon the hill-side
in front of the house. It had been the seat of an
TRIALS OF THE- EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY. 143

old English family before the Revelution, and bore
many: characteristic marks of the aristocratic man-
sion, The spacious but irregular house was of
hewn stone, as were the stables and offices. A
gentle rill stole along the bottom of the declivity,
passing, in its. course, through an old-fashioned
spring-house, which was of snowy whiteness, and
overshadowed: by a gigantic sycamore. A green
lane behind the principal dwelling ran off among
cherry-trees, till it was lost in au extensive wood,
and, through this shaded walk, conducted to a
stream called by an Indian: name, Wicomico.

Upon the bank of this stream several boys were
seated during the noon of a half-holiday. The
voice of Carl Adler might have been heard in
pensive but continued discourse; he was giving an
account of his native town on the Rhine. I will
not attempt to imitate his broken English, for it
is not my purpose to excite a smile at his ex-
pense; and what he said was worthy of no ridi-
cule. He was-telling of the rapids in the Rhine
near Bingen, and of the antiquity of this little
town, which is said to have been known to the
Romans.

** But now,” said he, ‘I feel quite at home here.
My uncle lives here, and —’. The boys knew
what he meant; his father and mother were dead.
144 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY.

“Yes,” said Merriman, “ you will soon feel as
if.you had been born here; and, before the year is
out, you will lose all the little German burr that
is on your tongue.”

“He is losing it already,” said Burnham. “Who
could have spoken the address of Antony better
than Adler did last night?”

Carl smiled, and said, “Iam glad you have
come to think better of me. Everybody is kinder
to me than before. For you must know I was
beginning to think I never should open my lips
without uttering something laughable.”

“ Come, come,” said Merriman, laying an arm
across his shoulder, “no more of that. Let by-
gones be by-gones. You can take a joke; and
that is the surest way to avoid one. And if any-
body imposes on you, let me hear of it.”

« And me,’’—“ and me,”—said two or three at
once. It was evident that some remarkable in-
terest had been awakened in the stranger. Carl,
however, drew himself up, and said, “TI believe
you have all found out that I do not often need
help. I’m not fond of quarrels, but I was taught
by my mother not to fear.”

«Where shall you spend the holidays?” asked
Mack.

“ Heigh-ho} that is more than I can tell,” re-
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY. 145

plied Carl. “ Probably my holidays will begin
rather too soon.”

“What do you mean by that, Carl?”

“ Why, I mean that I am going away sooner
than I wished. Instead of going to college, as I
hoped, Iam informed by my uncle that I am to
be placed as an apprentice with a mathematical
instrument-maker.”

There was silence for some minutes. Though
all had expected this news, no one knew what to
say. At last, the smallest boy, Frank Shaw,
looked up in Carl’s face, and said, “ Carl, it will
never do; we can’t let you go. What can we do
to keep you? Can’t we writea long letter to Mr.
Snakebug, and get him to let you stay?”

“ Schneckenburg is my uncle’s name,” said Carl,
with a smile; ‘‘but his mind is made up, and he
has good reasons for what he does.”

“ What reasons?” asked Frank, eagerly; but
the other boys prevented a reply.

“Never mind about the reasons,” said Merri-
man; “I hope something will turn up to change
your uncle’s purpose. But who are these horse-
men?”

As he spoke, Dr. Newman rode up, in company
with Mr. Barry. They had been riding out to the

neighbouring village, and now paused to chat a few
K
146 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY.

minutes with the boys. This broke up the con-
versation foramoment. The group was dispersed,
and presently no one was left on the bank Lut
Carl, who waited a few moments, and then began,
with a sweet, touching voice, to sing a little Ger-
man song, beginning—

“ Kennst du das land, wo die citronen bluhn?” *

Presently he walked slowly along the forest-path
leading back to the Oaks. Why did he so often
pause under the green branches? Why did he
reverently lift his cap, and look upwards? Why
did the drops twinkle in his eye, while his pale,
thin lips moved? Why did he take that little
worn volume from his bosom, and undo the silver
clasp, and kiss the gilded name upon the cover, and
eagerly turn over the pages, as if in search for
some passage? These questions may be answered
by some readers without my prompting.

The truth was, Carl was a boy of many deep
reflections. He had been brought early into the
school of sorrow, and had borne the yoke in his
youth.t This had kept alive in him the instruc-
tions of his mother and his grandfather, now in
heaven. Among the scholars, he found none tu



® GorTHE.—Know’st thou the land where the citron blooms?
t Lam. iii. 27.
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY. 147

sympathize with his serious feelings. Some of
them had even laughed at him when he would sing
his German hymns, and he even began to feel a
shyness creeping over him in regard to religious
things. The only person to whom he dared to
open his mind was Mr. Barry; for Barry had been
in Germany, and was himself an orphan; and,
what was more, Barry did not conceal his persua-
sion that religion is the main thing, and that no
one can be happy without it. It was, therefore,
with pleasure that Carl saw, on leaving the wuod,
that Barry was walking towards him, in the green
lane, having given his horse to a servant.

“ Carl,” said he, with a joyful look, “mein
freund, fassen wir uns kurz: hier sind die Briefe!”
(But I must give the substance in English.)
‘$Here, friend Carl—quick, my boy! Here are
the letters!” And upon this, he placed in the
trembling hand of the boy a couple of sealed papers.
He lost not a moment in tearing them open. As
he read, he turned pale and red by turns, and at
length burst into tears.

“Well,” said Barry, ‘what have you to say
now?”

“I have to say,” said Carl, looking upward,
“that God is a hearer of prayer. How soon has
he answered my poor little petitions! See !—see,
148 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY.

Mr. Barry—read for yourself! I’m too happy to
tell you! I shall stay, I shall stay! No leaving
school for me! No instrument-maker! Uncle
says I shall stay! O, happy, happy Carl Adler!
Thanks, thanks!”

Barry could not but be affected by the joy of his
little pupil. Boys began to gather around. There
are few secrets at their age. By general request,
Mr. Barry read aloud parts of the letters, by
which it appeared that a grand-aunt of Carl’s, in
Darmstadt, had authorized Mr. Schneckenburg,
who was her son, to expend as much money as
should be necessary for the education of Carl and
his sisters, Charlotte and Ursula.

It is hard to say whether the little common-
wealth of the Oaks was most gratified by the ap-
proaching fireworks, or by the news about Carl.
While he was only “the Dutchman,” he was a
butt for every one’s arrow; as soon as he became
“poor little Carl,” he grew into a favourite. There
was much shaking of hands and congratulation;
and, what is worthy of notice, none of the boys
made any allusion to their plans for his relief,
which were now happily frustrated.

Some of the duller and coarser boys thought it
odd that Carl should frequently be caught with
Wet eyes, at a time when he had so much cause for
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY. 149

joy. They perhaps learned to understand the thing
better when they grew older. As for Carl him-
self, I will not undertake to explain his emotions.
It is an effect of early grief to give the appearance
of greater age; and Carl had, at fifteen, gone
through more vicissitudes, seen more countries,
and learnt more lessons, than many a man of forty.
Well was it for him that he had a gav, elastic
temper; and better still, that he had been bred in
the right ways of the Lord. See him, in the dusk
of the evening, in his chamber. The shadow is
deepened by the enormous oak which extends its
branches almost to the eaves of the house. The
vociferous sports of the school below form a con-
trast to the silence of the chamber. Carl sits in
the window with his arms folded, while next his
hosom he has two miniatures, and a letter in one
of his hands. What can he be thinking about, if
not the blessed days when he sat with his father
and mother under the lime-trees of his native
town? As he mused, he grew sadder and sad-
der, till at length he was about to become quite
womanish in his tenderness, when, all of a sudden,
a smart blow on the shoulder woke him from his
reverie, and he looked up to discover that Barry
stood over him.

“Come, come, Adler,” said the usher; “ this
150 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLROY.

will never do, There is such a thing as pondering
too much on one’s troubles.”

“ Troubles, Mr. Barry! I was thinking of my
joys; how happy I was at home, and how happy
I ought to be now!”

“Yes, you have much to be thankful for—
youth, health, strength, friends, and new prospects
of education. Don’t mope, don’t give way to
melancholy.”

“You mistake me, Mr. Barry. I never was
more brimful of joy in my life, and yet I can’t
help thinking and thinking. And I have just
been saying to myself, O how happy would father
and mother be, if they could see me so well
off!”

“They are happier where they are, Carl.
Heaven is better than earth, Who knows but
that they are even now informed of your con-
dition, and rejoicing in it? At any rate, they
are, we trust, in Christ’s presence, where there
is fulness of joy; and the thought of this ought
to lead you to follow their steps. But come
out, and take some exercise: you can never
fulfil your duty in life without strength of body;
and you will never have strength of body without
exercise.”

Down they went, for a long walk upon the high-
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOLBOY. 151

road, where there were houses in abundance, and
carriages, and horsemen, and pedestrians enough
to break the thread of Carl’s pensive thoughts.
This was exactly what Barry intended; and he
further promoted the same end, by a constant
series of questions about things the most remote
from his companion’s present affairs. Some people
have yet to learn that this is the true method of
quieting disturbed minds and diverting sickly
thoughts.

But just then a more violent interruption took
place. A horse suddenly appeared, running away
with a carriage, in which two ladies were seated,
The driver had been thrown out; and the vehicle
was rapidly approaching a rude bridge, over
which it seemed impossible that they should pass
unharmed. Barry disengaged himself instantly
from Carl, and rushed towards the frantic animal.
What he apprehended really occurred; the pas-
sage was too narrow, the carriage was overturned
into the dry bed of a little summer-brook, and the
horse, entangled in the harness, lay struggling and
kicking in the most alarming manner, while the
women, really in the greatest peril, were shrieking,
and unable to extricate themselves. Barry threw
himself on the floundering horse, and, holding his
head close to the ground, prevented his rising,
152 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ?

while he rapidly separated him from the vehicle;
all the while shouting to Carl to take care of the
women. It seemed a most dangerous position for
a man no stronger than Barry; but he succeeded
in separating the horse, which he took out and
made fast to a neighbouring post, and afterwards
repaired to the green bank where Carl had de-
posited his charge. One of the women was
unhurt, the other was bruised and bleeding, and
shortly the young farmer, who had been thrown
from his seat, came up, more frightened than
hurt, and full of apprehension about his wife and
sister,

As they resumed their walk, Carl said to him-
self, “One thing is certain, whatever the fellows
may say, Mr. Barry is far from being a coward:
I shall tell this to Mack and Merriman, the next
time they utter such a slander on our usher.”

CHAPTER III.
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER?

To those who love it, teaching is as full of interest
as hunting to the huntsman, or flowers to the
gardener. Why should it not be as interesting to
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ? 153

contemplate different kinds of boys as different
kinds of minerals and plants? Why should we not
examine the ways and habits of girls, as eagerly
as those of fish, fowl, and insects? Next to
parents, the persons who get the clearest insight
into children and youth are teachers. Some of
these only teach for a living; it is a drudgery to
them; they mean presently to leave it and go to
something else: how can such persons be happy
teachers ? Others love their work, and ask no
better employment. Hence they always meet
their pupils with a smile, and hear every lesson
with animation. The scholars, in their turn, see
this, and are all alive; teacher and scholar pull to-
gether, and there is more progress made in a week
than at one of the drudging schools in a month.

& What!” exclaimed Miss Hotchkin, who was
ona visit at the Oaks, ‘ What!” take pleasure
in teaching such a set of uncombed colts as those
yonder!” And she pointed with her parasol to the
green, over which the boys just dismissed for their
nooning were bounding and shouting. “ The thing
is impossible, Mr. Barry.”

‘J daresay you think so,” replied Barry; ‘ret
I say what I think and feel. It is a positive plea-
sure to me to be their teacher. And, then, allow
me to speak a word for the young fellows, They
154 WHAT MAKES TIE HAPPY TEACHER ?

are now in their summer trim and school-jackets,
and you see them just at the moment of release;
but some of them are already gentlemen, in every
sense of the word, and several of them are already
scholars.”

“ But such a noise, Mr. Barry! And such
violence!”

“ Noise, madam, is not always amiss. Ina sick-
room, at a funeral, during worship or study, noise
would be altogether out of place. But what say
you to the noise of a mill or a cascade? And
what say you to a pack of hounds, a parrot, or an
aviary? It is as much the nature of growing
boys to exert their limbs and lungs as for young
kids to do the same. It is healthful, it is unavoid-
able, and to me it is agreeable.”

“Osir, you shock me! Had I boys under my
charge, they should never be allowed to bellow like
those fellows—nor”—

“ Nor,” said Barry, smiling, “to have a torn
coat, or a speck on their shoes; all should be
starch and rose-water. It is not in this planet,
however, Miss Hotchkin, that your ideal semi-
nary can be conducted. The earth will soil, cloth
will wear, and youthful spirits will break over the
brim; our great task is to keep matters within
bounds, and to prevent ill words and ill tempers.”
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ? 155

“Can you ever persuade me, sir, that those
vehement fellows, who are now so busy in saddling
yonder caif, are fit for study?”

“Among the first boys in the school,” replied
Barry, “and among the best in every sense. You
now see them full of spirit and fun; you will
presently see them silent, collected, and studious,
as eager to master a difliculty in algebra or gram-
mar as yesterday they were to win at a rowing-
match.”

“You amaze me! I thought play and study
were exact opposites.”

“So they are; but the charm of life is made up
of these delightful opposites, It is the transition
from hilarity to seriousness which gives a zest to
school-boy life, never to be forgotten. I sometimes
think we might gain something by carrying the
same a little further into life. It might prevent
some wrinkles and gray hairs, even though it
should interrupt us a little in our race after money
or office.”

“So you let them do as they please?”

“By no means, madam! You see they are this
moment under my supervision: in half an hour I
shall be relieved by Mr. Cole. Let a single step
be made into the field of impropriety or danger,
and it becomes our duty to check them. But why
156 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ?

repress the genial flow of a season which can never
return? Even Paul could say, without a word of
disapproval, ‘When I was a child, I spake as a
child, I understood asa child, I thought as a child.’
Dr. Newman often says to the boys—and I agree
with him—‘ Work «while you work: play while
you play.”

“They are too merry, by half. Just think of
the troubles which await them in life! What a
preparation is this for them ?”

“I might answer you in the words of Gray,
written in view of such a scene :—

*To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condewned alike to groan ;

The tender, for another's pain,

The unfeeling, for his own,

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late,

Aud happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would disturb their paradise.
No more: where ignorance is bliss,

’Tis folly to be wise.’

But ” continued Barry, “I will not rest on the
poet’s answer, which is open to some exception.
It is safer to say, what is unquestionable, that high
animal spirits and the indulgence in animated
hoyish sports is in no degree inconsistent with the
most sober views of life that are proper in boyhood.
WISAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ? 157

Surely you would not have a boy to look on his
future course with the eyes of an old man! God
never intended it. Attempt to rear a child on this
plan, and you violently and cruelly resist Provi-
dence. No, no! If you would make men of them,
send your beys to a school where they shall have
wide range, free exercise, and where the teachers
shall not be in perpetual fear lest they break their
necks. If observation teaches me anything, it is,
that they will study all the better for it—But
here is my colleague, Mr. Cole, who takes my seat
of inspection, while I go to correct the Latin
exercises.”

Mr. Cole was a tall, raw-boned young man, who
had lately taken the place of second usher in Dr.
Newman’s school. His eyes were deeply set in
hig head, and he wore spectacles. His smile was
so reluctant and sour, that the boys used to say he
laughed with the wrong side of his mouth. Yet
he was a conscientious and a learned young man,
and had gained a number of prizes for solving
tough problems in mathematics.

He approached the bay-window, in which the
visiter was seated, and made a very angular and
jerking bow. It was well meant, and Miss Hotch-
kin received it in good part, though she could not
help saying to herself, “‘ITow much some people
158 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER?

fail in the graces of life, by overdoing matters and
not letting themselves alone!”

“ This spot,” said Mr. Cole, “is one on which I
must intrude, as it is the only one which commands
a view of my entire field of battle, and it will not
do to Jeave these outlaws to themselves.”

“Outlaws! do you call them, Mr. Cule? Are
they not scholars? And are they not gentlemen’s
sons ?”

Mr. Cole smiled, in his peculiar way, and said,
“You may be sure, madam, they are such that I
would not stay another day among them, if it were
not to enable me to prepare for a professorship of
which I have the offer.”

“Then you do not love teaching?”

“Love it! Talk of loving to drive cattle, cr
herd swine! No animal known to me is so annov~
ing as a half-grown boy.”

And here Mr. Cole picked off from his coat-tail
an impudent label, which he had just discovered,
and which some wag of an urchin had attached to
him by means of a pin.

“Why, Mr. Cole, your estimate of boys is not
like that of Mr. Barry.”

“No, no, indeed it is not. Mr. Barry is a
young man of genius; especially versed in the
modern tongues; not bad, I must own, even in

ae
WIIAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER? 159

the higher mathematics; a good fellow, too,—but,
but”—

“But what?”

“But he is a boy himself; and, therefore, he
loves boys; loves to teach them, loves to be with
them—strange to say, loves to play with them.
He therefore looks on his situation here with eyes
very different from mine.” And here Mr. Cole
wiped his spectacles.

“You are very right, Mr. Cole. This way of
encouraging freedom and mirth in striplings, and
letting them vault over fences, run like wild goats,
and bellow like oxen, is a way I was not brought
up to. And as to teaching them, I can judge
what it is by an attempt I made to teach a cham-
bermaid of ours to read; my temper was so curdled
by, her stupidity, that we never got beyond the
alphabet. But what success has Mr. Barry on his
plan?”

“O, better than I can account for. No classes
show better than his. Indeed, truth forces me to
say, that his pupils make extraordinary progress.”

“ Perhaps it is because they like him so much?”

“T daresay that is it, madam. They will do any-
thing for him, though he is perfectly inexorable as to
his rules and regulations, and, in some respects, is
the strictest man in the house. But he has singu-
160 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ?

lar ways of interesting them in their work. In-
deed, he seems to be actually interested himself,
and goes over a geography lesson with as much
zest as if he were the youngest among them, and
were getting the lesson with them.”

“That is singular, indeed; but it shows how
light his labour is.”

“Tt does, Miss Hotchkin. And all this is in
great contrast to my case; for I go into school
with the spirit of a turnkey, and come out with a
wish not to behold the face of a lad during the
interval.”

“Well, well, Mr. Cole, we all have our weak
points and our strung points; and it is very plain
that neither you nor I were ever intended to gain
eminence as teachers.”

Mr. Cole reddened, and said, “ Excuse me,
madam; you do not exactly take my meaning.
I would not have you to suppose that I am defi-
cient asa teacher. On the contrary, I have the
pleasure of believing that I am as well instructed
and as laborious as any man here. But the truth
is, I do my work against my will.”

“ Then, sir, be assured, you do it poorly,” said
Miss Hotchkin, with a shrill laugh, for she loved
to say things which sting. ‘Yes, you do it poorly.
So should I, but I take good care to shun every-
WHAT MAKES TIE HAPPY TEACHER P 161

thing like school-teaching, and so should you.
Good morning, Mr. Cole.” And here she tripped
away, to walk five miles before dinner, and to gain
spirits for a party in the evening.

Mr. Cole, though somewhat mortified at the
turn the conversation had taken, was led to some
new reflections. Especially was he drawn to con-
sider the secret of his past troubles as a teacher.
These reflections were much seconded by a re-
markable coincidence. It was the day for him to
correct the English compositions of the boys.
Among these was a little one by Carl Adler.
Here it is, in its corrected form; for it had
numerous Vivlations of idiom :—

CARL'S COMPOSITION.

* Methought I was admitted one evening to a
room full of boys and girls, who had their books
before them. The teacher seemed to be a capable
and worthy person, but still the ¢hildren did not
advance. Some were careless, some were stupid,
and some were cross. The teacher was concerned,
and even vexed. He went first to one, and then
to another. He advised, he threatened, he even
chastised them. Still there was little progress,
and the poor teacher went to bed quite disheart-

ened; but before he fell asleep, he offered a
L
162 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER?

prayer that he might know what it was that he
needed.

The next morning, I looked into the same room,
and saw the same teacher, and the same little
boys and girls, getting the same lessons. But
what a change! All were on the alert; all were
diligent; all were delighted. The frowns and the
rod were both laid aside. Joy played upon all the
happy countenances; and the happiest of all was
that of the teacher.

But now I perceived a new inmate in the room.
Wherever the teacher went among his children, a
bright and beautiful form accompanied him, or
hovered over him. It was fair and benignant, and
smiled gently on every part of the work. I ap-
proached with diffidence, and asked the name of
this new assistant. With a heavenly smile, she
turned to me, and answered,—“ I am Love.”

It was only one instane>, out of many, in which
scholars instruct their teachers, without knowing
it. The lesson was not altogether lost on Mr.
Cole, though he never carried it fully into practice.
LESSONS OUT-OF-DOORS, 163

CHAPTER IV.
LESSONS OUT-OF-DOORS.

A LARGE garden affurds some of the best amusc-
ments and safeguards of either family or school.
Not only does it keep the young fulks ont of mis-
chief, but it benefits their health and teaches them
many useful lessons. The garden at the Oaks had
been originally laid out for a gentleman’s estate.
The great greenhouse still remained; the grape-
vines were ancient and knotty, and clambering
over the largest trees. The box-borders were
several feet high, and made fine hiding-places for
the boys. A trumpet-creeper had hung its green
mantle over the whole side of a building which
lay on one boundary of the garden. In the middle
stood a stubborn-lovking holly, beset by its prickly
palisade, with every leaf separately armed, a noble
tree, both for beauty and for associations,

When a boy came to schovl, he was allowed free
access to this garden and the tool-house; but it
was not until he had been there a month that he
was allowed to have a plut of ground to cultivate
for himself. Before this month was out, more
than half the young gentlemen threw up the spade
164 LESSONS OUT-OF-DOORS.

and dibble; but there were always some who con-
tinued to till their little gardens. These were
separated by narrow gravel-walks, edged with box.
The boys were permitted to choose any sort of cul-
tivation—vegetables, flowers, or fruits; the only
condition being that they must stick to what they
began.

Donald, the old gardener, was invested with ab-
solute authority in the enforcement of these rules;
and sometimes the young gardeners were on the
point of insurrection. Like other emeutes, how-
ever, in larger governments, these were mostly un-
successful, Princes have smiles as well as frowns,
rewards as well as punishments; and though “ King
Donald,” as he was called, had neither blue
ribands nor embassies in his gift, he had green-
gages, seckel-pears, and delicious grapes aad
peaches. Hence the latter part of summer was
almost always a time of peace in his government;
there was little work and much fruit, and subjects
were exceedingly quiet.

One day, about noon, when everything was
radiant in the sun—it was about the middle of
August—Donald was cleaning and trimming the
dead leaves from a fine pomegranate-tree, wheeled
out on the north terrace. The deep green of the
foliage, contrasting with the laughing red of the
LESSONS OUT-OF-DOORS. 165

blossoms, caused Helen Newman to break out into
admiration. She was in mourning, fur she had
lately met with that greatest loss for a child, the
loss of a mother. But the sweet works of creation,
it may be observed, do not interfere with the
sacredness of grief. What God has spread out in
the sky and on the earth soothes the ruffled spirit,
which would revolt at a gay speech or a boisterous
jest. The old man pitied the young lady. He
had served her mother many, many vears; and,
what was more, he had been tried with affliction;
he knew how to sympathize with those who
suffered. He wisely drew Helen’s attention from
one to another beauty of the garden, till she was
entertained and refreshed almost against her will.
He showed her how the lady-slippers flaunted in
their parti-coloured coats; and how the large
altheas, from good pruning, were all over flowers.
Tiger-lilies, late roses, and the stately yucca, were
in season. Old Donald pointed out the beauties of
each. But, not content with this, he went to a
choice corner of the greenhouse, and brought her
a bouquet of rare and exotic flowers; and his hard,
withered old face softened into a fatherly smile, as
he placed it in Helen’s hand. But, while she was
examining its colours and enjuying its fragrance,
and for a moment forgetting herself in these
166 LESSONS OUT-OF-DOORS.

flowers of the field, she was violently interrupted
by a rush of the young gardeners into their place
of labour. She could not but smile when she saw
Bolton, Burnham, and Merriman, with coats off,
and faces flushed with expectation, pressing around
Donald, beseeching him to furnish them with
some strawberry-plants, to set out in their beds.
It so happened that King Donald was not in the
best humour with them, by reason of a trampling
down of his newly-sown turnip-beds; he therefore
held out some time against these requests. At
length, however, Carl entered the garden, and
joined in the petition; upon which the old man
instantly relented.

“What is the reason, Donald,” said Helen,
“that you always seem so partial to the German?”

* Because he is a German, miss. I mean, bee
cause he is a foreigner. I was once a new-comer
in this land myself, and I ‘know the heart of a
stranger,’ as the Bible says.” *

“I thank you for your kind feeling,” said Carl;
“but, indeed, I am suffering very few of the
troubles of a foreign boy just now. It was rather
different when I first arrived; but a text in the
same good book often came into my mind when I



* Exod. xxiii. 9.
LESSONS OUT-OF DOORS 167

was walking among the crowds in the city: ‘ The
Lord doth execute the judgment of the fatherless
and widow, and LOVETH THE STRANGER, in giving
him food and raiment.’”’*

“ Well said, my boy!” said Donald, smiling and
patting Carl on the shoulder; “keep up your
courage, and the day will come when you will feel
as much at home here as ever you did on the
Rhine. I do, as much as ever I did at Kelso and
Hawick. It is so with trees and shrubs. See
that ailanthus, or celestial tree, how kindly it
grows here, though it came from the Moluccas;
and see this double althea, or Hibiscus Syriacus,
which has forgotten its native Asia.”

“ Very well, Donald,” said Carl, “ I hope it will
be so. But I see by the knots and marks on this
althea, that it has had a good deal of cutting and
pruning, and so have I.”

* Louk again, my young friend,” said the gar-
dener, “and you will observe the effects of this
cutting and pruning. The little tree has become
more vigorous, and has put out thicker branches,
and is covered with ten times as many flowers, as
if it had never known affliction. This is one of
the lessons of the garden.”



* Dent. x. 18.
168 TEACHING AND TRAINING.

T gee it, I see it!” exclaimed Helen; “and I
trust we shall all profit by the hand of our merciful
Lord.”

“ Just so, young lady,” replied the old man,
with a benignant smile. “For what says our
blessed Master? ‘Every branch that beareth
fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more
fruit.’”*

CHAPTER VY.
TEACHING AND TRAINING.

‘Tux Oaks was a famous place for active and manly
exercises. Not only did the boys all learn horse-
manship, as a necessary part of their education,
but the teachers frequently made little excursions,
in the same way, to greater distances than they
could have reached on foot. One day the two
ushers were seen mounting a couple of bright
sorrel horses belonging to Dr. Newman. The
doctor himself was looking on with satisfaction, as
they set forth.

“There are few things,” said Mr. Barry, “more



* Jolin xv. 2.
TEACHING AND TRAINING. 169

exhilarating than a ride ona fine horse. It puts
the blood in motion, and agitates the frame; it
cheers the spirits and exercises the courage; it
carries one rapidly through changes of scene, and
gives much pleasure at little expense. What a
pity its value is so much unknown to sedentary
men !”

-‘ All true,” said Cole, “ provided a man is a
good rider. For my part, you see, I sit on my
horse like a pair of compasses. I could see the
stable-boys tittering as I rode through the gate.”

“They are severe critics in their own depart-
ment, Mr. Cole. But why should you not practise
till you become expert?”

“JT am ready enough to practise, but every one
laughs at my awkwardness. I seem to make no
prggress.”

You must bave had bad teachers,” said Barry,
“for you seem to be a willing scholar.”

“Why, do willing scholars always make pro-
ficiency 2?”

“ Yes, unless incompetent from some natural
defect; and you appear to have all the usual limbs.
You must have had bad training.”

“I can’t altogether admit it,” replied Cole,
though with some embarrassment, for his horse
showed strong dispositions to throw him over
170 TEACHING AND TRAINING.

his head. ‘‘ I can’t altogether admit it; for some
of them are excellent riders, and they are every
moment pointing out my faults, and every moment
trying to laugh me out of them.”

“T have seen that method tried in schools, Mr.
Cule’”—

“T have tried it myself,” said Cole.

* But I have never seen it succeed. It discour-
ages, it disheartens, it sours the mind, it disgusts
the beginner.”

“What! would you not point out faults!”

“FT would point out faults; but it is the very
smallest part of the teacher’s work.”

“ Suppose, Mr. Barry, you exemplify your rule,
in regard to my riding,” said the other with a
smile,

No sooner said than done, Barry dismounted
in an instant, and applying himself to the stirrup-
leathers, lengthened them about three inches.

“That is the first step,” said Barry. ‘‘ No man
of your dimensions can ride, either safely or grace-
fully, when trussed up after that fashion. In the
next place, good sir, allow your heel to withdraw
itself a little from the horse, as every motion makes
him feel the spur. The same means will help you
to what is called the clip, by which you will holJ

on the better.”
TEACHING AND TRAINING. 171

After a few roods had been passed, Cole said,
“T feel much easier already. I think Iam im-
proving.”

“Certainly you are; and the reason is worth
your notice: I have given you a little training.”

“You seem to lay an emphasis on that word,
Mr. Barry.”

“I do,sir. Did you ever consider the difference
between teaching and training? And did you
ever apply it in the school-room ?”

“Tam not sure that Itake your meaning. But
Tam willing to be informed; especially as I have
long observed that you have a knack of bringing
on your pupils, which casts me altogether in the
shade.”

* As to that Mr. Cole, Iam not a fit judge;
but J am persuaded of one thing, namely, that in
school-keeping, in forming habits, in moulding
manners, in everything connected with education,
we must not only teach, but train.”

“ Do not keep me in suspense, Mr. Barry; pray,
what is your meaning?”

“ Let me state a case,” replied Barry. “A boy
comes into school who writes a very bad hand,
You Jaugh at him, you storm at him, you punish
him. You say a hundred times that he writes il},
that he writes horribly, that nobody can endure it;
172 TEACHING AND TRAINING.

and this you consider teaching him. Still he writes
as illegibly or as scrawlingly as ever. You think
your duty is done, but you have as yet had no
effect on him. He pouts, mopes, flounders, and
despairs; but no progress. Ferule, keeping-in,
black marks, extra tasks, all are tried, and all
fail.”

© Yes,” said Cole, “I know just such a case.
But what remains to be done?”

“JT will tell you, Mr. Cole. It remains that
you train him. Show him, not merely wherein he
goes wrong, but how to go right. Sit down be-
side the hoy. Show him how to lay his book, and
how to hold his pen. Take his hand in yours,
and direct its motion. The negative part is not
enough: give him the positive part. Pat him on
the shoulder; forbear sneers and threatenings, and
show him precisely what he is to do. Do it before
him. Encourage him. Put him in the way, and
hold him up in it, as you would teach a little child
to walk.”

“ Barry, there is really something in what you
say. Suppose you give me another example !”

“Very well. Take the case of Tom Mowbray.
He had an ugly trick of speaking in a very cross
manner to his little brother. When I began to
deal with him, I did nothing but point out his
TEACHING AND TRAINING. 173

error. This he saw, but still he was as cross as
before. At length Dr. Newman took him in hand,
and, in a smiling way, said to him, ‘Mowbray, I
see you disapprove several things in little James.
Now let me advise you to speak to him thus.’
And then he showed him how to address his
brother, and how to reprove him with a kind and
persuasive tone, After a few day’s training, the
whole manner of the youth was altered. Both the
boys improved rapidly, and every one observes the
increase of their mutual affection. The doctor
breught him out of the wrong way by putting
him into the right.”

“ But you would tell him of the wrong way too,
would you not ?”

“Certainly,” said Barry; “but this is telling
him only part, and, as I said just now, the lesser
part. The great thing in all training is to lead
along in the right way. Look at old Donald when
you return, and observe how he trains his vines.
Just so would I train a boy to learn his Greek
verks. And allow me to say, Mr. Cole, no amount
of hard words will drive Greek verbs into a boy's
head.”

“Ah, I see your drift! You overheard me

berating Bolton yesterday; but what should I have
done?”
174 TEACHING AND TRAINING.

“ Let me tell you what I would have done. ‘I
would have sat down by him half an hour in the
verandah, with a Greek grammar, and would have
shown him how to get the lesson. I would have
got it with him. The method, thus attained,
would then be his own for life. And so of every-
thing else.”

“That reminds me of what we read in school,
that Julius Cesar did not commonly say to his
soldiers, Go! but Come! For he went before.”

“Yes, and when he meant to punish them,
he ceased to call them commilitones, or fellow-
soldiers. But we must turn our horses’ heads
homeward, and, if you are for a gallop, I will try
to suit the action to the word, and show you how
to go over the ground more speedily than yuu ever
did before.” ‘

“TI thank you for your teaching and your train-
ing,” answered Cole. But the words were scarcely
audible, for his hair was soon streaming in the
wind, and I know not but he would have cried to
his lively companion to halt, if he had not been
restrained by shame. As it was, they reached the
Oaks in safety, and were soon exemplifying their
principles amidst the hum and buzz of a well-
filled school-room.
FHIENDS OF THE STRANGER. 175

CHAPTER V.
FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

Near the scene of the principal events which
have been related, there was a country school,
taught by a young woman named Brewer. It
was in a small stone house, of a single storey,
situated, as country schovl-houses love to be, on
the edge of a wood, where the grassy bank was
overshadowed by oaks and maples. Mary Brewer
loved the spot, because it gratified her admiration
of nature, while it afforded her the opportunity of
improving her mind, and, at the same time, of
supporting her aged parents.

Ge by the Maplebank school about noon, and
very likely you will see Mary Brewer seated
under the grape-vine at the door. It is Septem-
ber, and the purpling clusters are hanging over
her head. The pigeons, that swell and coo around
her, show that they know who is their friend.
But hark! What a jocund shout! It is the noise
of the little boys and girls, amusing themselves at
their swing, all fun and frolic, full of health and
activity, learning as much from flowers and trees
as they could possibly do from bovks. If the
176 FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

swing should break, they would not have very far
to fall, and the grass is almost as soft as a bed.
So, as long as they do not quarrel, Mary remains
contented at her embroidery, every now and then
stealing a side-look at a volume which lies open
beside her.

The rosy-cheeked girl at Mary’s feet is a little
child whom she has taken to bring up, and whose
parents were carried off by the cholera. You
might guess, from the clear red and white of her
complexion, the pearly teeth, and the bright blue
eyes, that Hannah is of Irish blood. But she
knows nothing of Ireland except what is in her
geography lesson, and has no thought about any
friend but Miss Mary.

The boy who is entering the little enclosure
around the school-house, and taking off his hat to
Mary, is no other than our friend Carl Adler.
His face reveals that he has had a rapid walk; but
Carl is a youth who can bear a good deal of fatigue
and exposure. Perhaps I ought to tell how he
became acquainted with Mary Brewer. He met
her, on a visit of mercy to a poor German family,
in the neighbourhood of the Oaks. Carl had been
drawn to their assistance by hearing from their
hovel, as he passed one day, the well-known
melody of a German hymn. He first stopped,
FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER. 177

then opened the door, and then joined heartily in
the chorus. The effect was instantaneous. The
poor woman sprang up from the bedside of her
husband, and almost clasped Carl in her arma.
No other introduction was needed.

There is something very pleasing in the power
of Christian hymns over the German mind. The
Protestant emigrants, who come by thousands to
New York and New Orleans, are seldom without
their pocket hymn-books. The tunes of their
hymns are not so often changed as ours; many of
them are hundreds of years old, and a hymn is
seldom sung to more than one tune. Hence the
associations with certain melodies are very strong.
Those who visit German Christians in humble life
should learn their tunes.

Carl was naturally desirous to help his country-
man, who was a worthy joiner, but who had been
brought very low with ship-fever. Often, when
no one knew where Carl had strayed, he was
seated by the invalid’s bed, reading to him from
the Bible, or the Hymn-book, or from Arndt’s
True Christianity, or Luther's House-Postils.
Blessed employment for a pious youth! It edu-
cates the heart, and teaches the affections early to
flow in right channels. During one of these visits,

Carl was surprised at the entrance of a young
M
178 FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

woman, plainly dressed, and much older than him-
self, but of comely appearance, and with a face
flushed with exercise, and perhaps with modest
confusion at seeing him. She was bringing some
little diet-drink for the poor man, in a white
pitcher, covered with a still whiter napkin. After
a few moments’ rest, she was glad to avail herself
of Carl as an interpreter. Thus the acquaintance
began. Miss Brewer was so much older than
Car], that even waggish boys could not banter him
about his intimacy; and the friendship became a
source of mutual advantage. Mary Brewer was
one of those young women in humble life whom
every patriot ought to prize and honour: modest,
but firm and enterprising; first supporting them-
selves, and then, in many cases, supporting their
aged parents, or educating their younger brothers
for college and the ministry. My heart warms
towards them while I write, and wishes them
every blessing. Mary was well-instructed, and
amply furnished for teaching her little rustic
school; but her thirst for knowledge was unsated ;
and it seemed to her a romantic wonder, when she
found there were so many things which she could
learn from a little German emigrant. She caused
him to be invited to Farmer Black’s, where she
had her abode, and where he met another visiter,
FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER. 179

in the person of a young physician, Dr. Smith.
Carl had sagacity enough to discover that this
bashful but learned young man was about to take
Mary Brewer as his wife. The doctor was not
only pleased to meet with the bright, fair-haired
boy, but was ready to help him in his studies, and
willing, in his turn, to take lessons in German.
He paid for these, by giving instruction to Carl in
many little branches of which, as a foreigner, he
was yet ignorant. He corrected his English; he
drilled him in grammar and composition; and he
even entered him in chemistry and botany. Carl
taught the two young friends to read musical notes,
and diligently brought them forward in the study
of the German Bible, and some beautiful poems
of Schiller and Burger. These wer2 happy and
profitable days for all the three. Carl began to
learn the delights of a truly Christian friendship. |
He was soon introduced to the Sunday-school, and
gathered around him a class of German and Swiss
children from the neighbouring paper-mill. Mean-
while, he became more accurately instructed in the
great principles of Scriptural religion, in which he
had been sincere, but with obscure and puerile
notions. Here was exemplified his own maxim,
that the great helper in teaching, is Love; and he
learned more in a single evening of autumn, at the
180 FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

Cherry-hill farm-house, than during a whole day
at the Oaks.

What can make up to a loving child the loss of:
parents? Certainly nothing on earth. Yet, when
father and mother are gone, we may find some
relief in the presence of sincere and affectionate
friends. Carl found the truth of this at Cherry-
hill. When the nights began to grow longer, he
was permitted by Dr. Newman sometimes to spend
a long evening at the farm-house. Then, when
the doors were closed, and the curtains pulled
down, the family began to gather in what they
called the “living room.” Mrs. Black was at her
wheel or her knitting. The rosy-cheeked girls
were busy with their needles, altering winter
clothes for the younger brothers. The brothers
themselves were playing with Ponto, or trimming
sticks for their kites, or perhaps mending their
bridles. The farmer generally had on his steel-
rimmed spectacles, and was toiling through his
newspaper, before reading in Henry’s Commentary,
which he always looked at before going to bed.
Dr. Smith and Mary Brewer had little chats in
the shady part of the room; but when Carl’s well-
known rap was heard at the door, they usually
made a place for him. Then the conversation
was sure to turn on something which might cheer
FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER. ~ 181

up the little German, and make him feel at home.
There is a great difference in people as to this.
I have known some who seemed to take a pleasure
on always speaking of those things which tended
to revive the remembrance of sorrows and morti-
fications. Not so Smith and Mary. They re-
spected and loved the clever young Prussian; and
they talked with pleasure about the things which
he knew better than they.

Carl, however, was not so entirely engrossed
with these instructions and useful acquirements,
as to find no leisure for the recreations and amuse-
ments fitted to his youth; and it excited no sur-
prise, but only sincere pleasure in the mind of
Mary Brewer, when, on going down to the river-
side with her basket of linen to be washed in the
stream, she found Carl Adler with fishing-rod in
hand, as eagerly watching the dip of the float at the
end of his line, as ever did the most accomplished
disciple of Isaac Walton the ripples of the shady
pool from which he hoped to tempt the trout with
his fly.

“Come in, Carl,” said Mary, shortly after,
“come in, and taste some of our grapes;” and she
handed him a fine cluster. -‘ Did you ever see
any so fine?”

Carl thanked her, but smiled.
182 FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

“ Ah, Carl, do you pretend to think you have
ever seen finer?”

« Ah! my dear young miss, if I should tell you
all the thoughts I have, about our vineyards, and
about my shady home by the banks of the Rhine,
the tears would run down my cheeks. But you
have taught me that I can be happy here too; for
here I have found friends.”

“ Better these than Rhine-vines!” cried the
farmer in his gruff but hearty voice; for he had
overheard the conversation.

“O yes, sir,” said Carl, “better than all the
vines, rocks, and rivers in all Germany; but not—
but not better than—”

“ Than what?” said the farmer. ‘“ Speak it out,
my lad.”

Carl did not finish his sentence; and a tear was
in hiseye. So, to draw off attention, he seized
an old guitar of Mary’s and struck up a little
innocent German ballad.

Then, seizing his leathern cap, he made a formal
little bow, and dashed away, leaping and singing,
across the low grounds which led to the Oaks. As
he bounded along he felt the blessings of health
and courage, and thanked God inwardly for the
blessing of Christian friends.
WORK AND PLAY. 183

CHAPTER VII.
WORK AND PLAY.

Dr. Newman, Mr. Barry, and Mr. Cole had been
talking all one afternoon about the right way of
mixing up amusement with instruction. They all
agreed that the thing might be carried too far, and
that it would never do to have spelling lessons in
gingerbread, and philosophy in games at cards. Still —
the doctor admitted that there was an extreme on
the other side; for, said he, every valley lies be-
tween two hills, and I would not have Jack a dull
boy: I would not keep the pwpil always grave,
always tense, always feeling the bit, always in
heavy harness. But my maxim is, when you work,
work; when you play, play. Do not try to varie-
gate your common lessons too much, because part
of the discipline of all education is to keep the
mind at one thing, to hold it in one place, and to
learn to do and to bear things which at first were
disagreeable.

“Would you not,” said Mr. Barry, who was
particularly fond of lively ways, “would you not
enliven studies by anecdote, and illustration, and
experiment ? ”
184 WORK AND PLAY.

“ Yes, to be sure I would. For example, it is
very hard to fix in young people’s minds any
notion of the planetary system.”

“«T have observed it,” said Cole. ‘ They learn
the names and recite the figures, but have no con-
ceptions of the relative size of the bodies, or the
dimensions of the orbits.”

“This is the very thing I mean,” said the
doctor; “and this is a fair case for illustration.
Now, do me the favour to call up the group of
fellows whom I see yonder at the swing; they look
as if they were at a pause for amusement.”

Barry walked towards the swing, which was a
gteat grape-vine, suspended from an oak; but the
boys came leaping towards him before he came
near. Presently the whole cluster was gathered
at the green place under the bow-window. There
were Bob Bolton and Merriman, glowing with
exercise; there were Burnham and Mack, ready
for mischief ; and there was our blue-eyed Carl,
with fair curly hair, looking sad at one moment,
and indescribably merry at another.

“ Boys,” said Dr. Newman, “how many of you
can tell me the number of the planets ?”

All answered pretty well except Burnham, who
seemed to have been asleep ever since there were
seven planets only.
WORK AND PLAY. 185

“IT am going,” said Dr. Newman, “ to give you
some notion of the size, and distances, and orbits
of the planets, and you must try to imagine the
picture as I draw it. It is the illustration of a
great astronomer.* Are you ready?”

“ Ready, sir!”

‘Now, suppose yourselves over a great green
plain or prairie, miles across.”

“Yes, yes, that is fine; go on, sir.”

“Let it be very level and smooth, because our
planets must have free room for their rounds. In
the very centre of this plain, imagine a globe, two
feet in diameter. Call this globe the Sun,

“Ah! I see it already,” exclaimed Carl.

“Wait a little, my boy; you don’t see it al] yet.
Around this globe, let a grain of mustard-seed go
roywnd and round, in an orbit one hundred and
sixty-four feet in diameter. The mustard-seed is
Mercury.”

The boys laughed heartily at little Mercury,
and guessed he could scarcely be seen at that dis-
tance,

“Next place a pea, going round a circle two
hundred and eighty-four feet in diameter. The
pea is Venus.”

* Sir John Herschel : “ Outlines,” 1849.


186 WORK AND PLAY.

“TI have seen it,” said Bob, “as the evening
star.”

“Yes,” said the doctor; “and if you would
only rise a little earlier, you might see it as the
morning star. But we have a great way to travel.
Here is pea number two, which is’—

“ Our poor little earth!”

“ Even so; this pea is the Earth, ona circle of
four hundred and thirty feet. Then comes Mars,
a rather large pin’s head, on a circle of six hundred
and fifty-four feet. But what have we here?
Four grains of sand, in orbits of from a thousand
to twelve hundred feet: these are Juno, Ceres,
Vesta, and Pallas.”

“T don’t know any of them,” said Bob Burn-
ham.

“ Perhaps, then, you will be better pleased with
this orange, of moderate size, moving in a track
nearly half a mile across: it is named Jupiter.
Next comes a small orange, on a circle of four-
fifths of a mile: it is Saturn.”

“T thought,” said Mack, “that Saturn was
larger than his son.”

““A very common error,” replied the doctor.
“But here we have Uranus, or Herschel, a full-
sized cherry, or small plum, upon the circumfer-
ence of a circle more than a mile and a half.
WORK AND PLAY. 187

Lastly, Neptune, a good-sized plum, on a circle
two miles and a half in diameter.”

“‘T thought, sir,” said Burnham, “that Neptune
was the god of the sea;” and the good-natured
boy scratched his head in much perplexity.

This was a signal for an outbreak of pent-up
fun. All broke out together on Burnham; and
even Carl could not help saying, “ And now you
find him only a good-sized plum—eh?”

“No, no,” replied Burnham, with an air of in-
jurcd pride. ‘‘ What I mean is this, young gentle-
men: Neptune, to my thinking, is a heathen god,
the son of—of—of—”

“ Never mind his father and mother,” said Bob
Bolton. “I see your perplexity: you thought he
was a water-god, and you wonder at his being in
the Sky.”

This little badinage led Dr. Newman and Barry
to explain to the boys the whole subject of the
constellations and their names. And when the
beautiful clear night came on, all the boys were
assembled at that part of the portico where a glass-
door extended to the floor. A large celestial globe
was placed within the window, so as to be under
shelter; while the little company looked abroad
upon the vault of heaven. Teachers should all
make themselves acquainted with this easy and
188 WORK AND PLAY.

delightful branch of science. Nothing is more
interesting to youth; nothing is more elevat-
ing. It connects itself with the higher parts of
astronomy, with history, mythology, and poetry ;
and, above all, with religion and the Word of
God.

After they had satisfied themselves with star-
gazing, Mr. Cole said, with animation, “ Well, I
must acknowledge, here is high entertainment
mingled with high instruction. I hope to be a
wiser and happier teacher in consequence of this
lesson.”

“Do you love teaching?” said Carl to Mr.
Cole.

The assistant paused, remembering the composi-
tion; but seeing that Carl was innocent in his
question, he replied, ‘“ Not so much as some—Mr.
Barry, for instance—but more than I did. But
why do you ask?”

* Because I have been thinking myself of trying
to teach.”

“You, Carl! 1 thought you were going tu
college.”

‘©Ah!” replied Carl, “I should like to do so,
indeed, but "—

“Ah, my good fellow, I see how it is. You
want to make an honourable support. Res an-
WORK AND PLAY. 189

gusta domi,* and so forth. I know how to feel
for you.”

Then,” said Carl, brightly, “‘ you have had the
same experience.”

“Yes, indeed, like many other New England
boys, of whom hundreds, if not thousands, have
begun life in this way. And I am not ashamed to
say my father was a poor man, who brought up a
family of five sons and a daughter, on a farm
of thirty-five acres. Three of us have been to
college, and have all made our way by teaching.
Perhaps we may comfort the old age of our
parents, and keep our sister from hard work. I
only wish J had the same liking for the work which
I observe in Mr. Barry.”

“I know I shall like it,” said Carl, warmly.
“J always loved to tend and rear plants and flowers,
and these are living, thinking, immortal plants and
flowers!”

“You grow poetical, Carl.”

“So the boys are always saying to me,” an-
swered Carl. “ But how can I help it? I think
our German blood runs faster than that of the
English.”

“ At any rate,” said Mr. Cole, “you let your



* Straitened circumstances.
190 WORK AND PLAY.

feelings overflow more readily in words. When
you are much moved, your only rule seems to be,
out with it!”

“Very well,” said Carl, with a smile, “that will
be all the better in a schoolmaster; for how can
we teach much unless we express something?
And how can we teach pleasantly unless we are
in earnest? I always find I learn most with an
animated teacher.”

Mr. Cole looked grave. <‘‘ I know,” said he,
“© you do not mean to reprove me; but I am
touched by the truth you have spoken. Dull and
drowsy teaching is heavy work to both parties.”

“Certainly, Mr. Cole, I did not mean you in
what I said. And let me tell you one thing: all
the boys have observed how much more we learn
from you than we did a month ago.’

Mr. Cole retired to his chamber with pleasanter
thoughts than he had indulged for a long time.
ADVANCING TO MANHOOD. 191

CHAPTER VII.
THE EMIGRANT YOUTH ADVANCING TO MANHOOD.

Ir is not necessary to dwell on every link in the
chain of Carl’s history, as if we were writing a
chronicle. Already has the reader been informed
that the young German had formed the plan of
setting up a school for himself. Let us hasten to
the accomplishment of the purpose, leaping over
the years which intervened between the point
where this narrative began, and the day of Carl’s
instalment at the little school of Sunnyside. Sup-
pose I try to sketch the scene: it is one worthy of
a better pencil than mine.

Among the numerous little coves which indent
the“sland-beach near to the city of New York,
there is one of singular beauty, not far from the
turbulent passage from the East River into the
Sound. The boiling torrent dashes fearfully
against the rocks, which are often covered with
foam, and smooth from the dash of the waves
for ages past. But, above this rocky girdle, the
land slopes with a gentle curve, and is covered
with the richest verdure. Just beyond this natural
lawn, the remains of the forest overshadow the
192 THE EMIGRANT YOUTH

green, and give retirement to many a strolling
fisherman and fowler; as in former days the
mightier groves protected the Indian, before these
waters were ever entered by Hendrick Hudson
and his crews.

From some points, the steeples of the great
city, not many miles distant, may be clearly seen,
and, at most times, a heavy cloud from the smoke
of chimneys and furnaces overhangs the spot.
The wide river, or arm of the sea, is frequented
by craft of every description, from the enormous
steamboat, winding through those difficult rocks
and whirlpools towards the Sound and the At-
lantic, to the petty skiff, in which city-boys too
often venture their lives. This makes the view
from Sunnyside a perpetual panorama; and it went
to the heart of Carl with a thrill of delight, when
he first sat and viewed it from the door of his
humble school-house.

Humble, indeed, it was; but it was on a site
which made up for all defects. The little edifice
was of stone, and had been cast, by the whim of
the builder, into the shape of an octagon. The
door and chimney occupied two sides, and there
was a window in each of the remaining six. One
room took up all the space; and it was well that
the school was small, for you might almost have
ADVANCING TO MANHOOD. 193

leaped from the threshold to the hearth, But
without, the landscape was enchanting. The
background was massy foliage and black recesses
of shade among the old trunks and scattered rocks,
In front was, first the gentle, grassy bank, and
then the moving waters; while, beyond, the eye
rested on the farms and villages of the adjacent
country. The school-house was precisely at the
right spot for combining all these beauties, being
just where the last trees of the wood knotted their
reots together among vines and moss. The well
which supplied the school was under the shadow
of immense buttonwood-trees.

How many scholars, think you, formed the corps
of our young leader at this romantic spot? Do
not smile, nor despise the humble beginnings.
Thgre were only nine; but Carl felt that his hands
were full. Most of them were quite small chil-
dren; but one was fifteen, and one, strange to say,
was twenty! He was a German and a Roman
Catholic, and had been drawn to the place by love
of his native language, and by the opportunity of
learning English. ‘The scholars were mostly col-
lected by the kind offices of young Dr. Smith and
his wife, who had come to live near the neighbour-
ing carpet factory of Black and Bedloe. This

Jady, as the reader will have conjectured, was no
N
194 THE EMIGRANT YOUTH

other than Mary Brewer, already mentioned. It
is a kind Providence, thought Carl, which brings
me so near a Christian friend and a good physician.
More favours still, however, were in store for the
lowly boy. Smith and his kind-hearted Mary
insisted that Carl should be a boarder in their
cottage; and their secret intention was, that he
should pay nothing for it, any more than if he
were their own brother. True, his chamber was
very near the roof, and had but one window ;
but then, it was almost smothered in honey-
suckles, and a blue-bird held his little mimic
house-keeping exactly opposite, in a box fixed
to the maple-tree.

Carl did not complain that his pupils were too
few. Indeed, he wondered how he should ever
get along with so many. Out of nine boys, he
had to make five classes, if that can be called a
class which contains but one, as did two of his;
for the big boy and the man could not be put
with any companion, and his largest group con-
tained just three. He managed, however, to make
some little array at scripture-reading, in which
the whole seminary stood up together, not ex-
cepting Ludwig Ewald, who read very comically
indeed.

You must not think, because the institution was
ADVANCING TO MANHOOD. ~ 195

small, that the teacher did not feel some little
importance. It would be surprising to relate how
many little paper books he prepared; how he set
down their names in order; how he ruled lines
in black and red ink; and how he engrossed the
rules in printing letters, with a flourishing head
in German text. These innocent preparations
showed the zeal with which he set out. Other
people have done the like; and those have not
been the worst teachers who have most anxiously
settled their preliminaries. I must not conceal
that, on the first evening, about twilight, our
young schoolmaster walked very gravely into the
meadows, and returned with two very smooth
birchen rods, the use of which he never com-
municated. But, as he trimmed off the ends of
these wands and put them into his desk, it is said
that he smiled. No president of a college ever
felt more weighty responsibilities.

Carl was glad that his pupils were all boys.
The management of little girls would have given
him some embarrassment. His German accent
had not wholly forsaken him; but he was at an
age when peculiarities of this sort wear away
rapidly; and it is not every one who would have
detected his foreign origin. Now and then, a
stray farmer or labouring-man would look in at
196 ADVANCING TO MANIIOOD

the door, with or without reason; and this was
slightly embarrassing to the young preceptor: but
his mind was more and more taken up with the
responsible business of teaching. Pens were to
be made and mended. Sums, as the children call
all arithmetical questions, were to be set or ex-
amined; paper-chickens, fly-traps, and apples were
to be seized upon; untidy faces and hands were
to be sent out to the well. Then was the com-
mon round of reading, spelling, geography, and
grammar; the common adjudication of cases re-
specting crooked pins and scourging; and the
common rebukes of idle or quarrelsome children.
Not a little difficult was it to still the convulsions
of the little laughers, when poor Ludwig under-
took to read aloud his English lesson.

It was a relief to Carl to go out under the fine
trees, or among the rocks of the shore, at the
interval of noon. A favourite. spot with the
youngsters was a spring half a mile inland, at
the bottom of a small but deep basin, in the pas-
ture-ground. Here they secreted their jugs of
milk, and here they opened their little dinner-
baskets, and ate with a zest unknown at city
feasts; often exchanging the varieties of the dif-
ferent families, and joying in the superior cakes
of other mothers and aunts. These simple cares
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING. 197

and simple pleasures make up much of an humble
teacher's life. Perhaps, in later days, he inclines
to suspect that more ambitious vexations and
delights involve the same principles, teach the
same lessons, and reveal the same frailties. The
heart of the child is very much like the heart
of the man.

CHAPTER IX.
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

In a safe and secluded cove, Carl Adler some-
times gave lessons in a branch of education not
common in all schools: I meanswimming. He was
both a bold and an expert swimmer, and under his
directions every one of his young pupils learned
this healthful and necessary exercise. He used
to tell them of the daring adventures of his
countrymen on the Rhine. He gave them, in
English, Schiller’s celebrated story of the Diver
and the Golden Cup. He informed them that
the Romans, in order to describe a person of
extreme ignorance, said that he could neither read
nor swim. He read to them what Horace says
about swimming over the Tiber. He helped them
198 FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

to repeat Dr. Franklin’s experiment about floating
and the kite. He showed them, on the map, the
strait of Hellespont, and related in part the tale
of Hero and Leander, adding Lord Byron’s great
feat at the same spot, asacomment. He read
to them, out of missionary books, an account of
the Sandwich Isles, and of the surf-boards, and
of the almost incredibly early age at which the
infants can take care of themselves in the water.
When the tide made it safe, and the weather was
favourable, this was a chief recreation of Carl and
his boys.

Among the entertainments of odd hours, he
formed the purpose of teaching all the school to
sing, as he had himself been taught in Germany.
The thing is much more easily accomplished than
is commonly thought. Most of the difficulty oom-
plained of resides in what is not always detected,
the utter inability of the teacher to sing.

One fine summer evening, the whole company
was gathered under one of the shadiest trees, on a
knoll directly over the river. The sun had set,
and a refreshing breeze was rippling the water,
without, however, interrupting the calm that every-
where prevailed. It was a favourable moment for
impressions from sacred song, and the school let
out all their voices with right good will, as people
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING. 199

are apt to do who sing in the open air. Carl and
Ludwig added a very good accompaniment, in cer-
tain parts, on the flute and violoncello. Such a
volume of sweet sounds did not fail to reach those
who were passing in boats, and among the rest a
family party, who had come out from the city for
an airing. ‘Turning the head of the boat towards
Sunnyside cove, they made directly for the land.
Two boys, aged about sixteen and fourteen, leaped
ashore and made fast the little vessel. A plank
was run out, and two ladies, one old and one young,
stepped ashore. Several children followed; a ser-
vant came out last, with two large hampers. The
old lady addressed herself very politely to Ludwig,
believing him to be the principal personage, and
then to Carl, when she had learned her mistake.
She asked leave to join their party, and declared
her fondness for good music to be such that she
could scarcely refrain from this act of seeming
forwardness.

Carl made ‘all the courteous speeches that he
could muster up for the occasion. He said his
pupils were very young, and that they were begin-
ners. He proceeded, however, with modest con-
fidence, to lead them in an evening hymn, and
wound up with a German song about the Rhine,
in which Ludwig joined both with voice and instru-
200 FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

ment. Mrs, Grayson (such was the lady’s name)
and her children were highly pleased, and next
day sent from her greenhouse and garden a basket
of flowers and a profusion of grapes, which Carl
said put him in mind of Germany.

But all the visits which the young preceptor
received were not equally agreeable. One morn-
ing, as Carl, with one or two of the boys, sat just
in the door, engaged upon some lesson, a buggy, or
light chaise, suddenly stopped in the road, and a
young man, highly dressed and foppish in his man-
ners, jumped out. ‘It aint possible! Sure, this
is not the Dutchman? Why, Adler, is it really
you?”

“It is I, Burnham,” answered Carl; “ and I
am here teaching a little school.”

“ School! school !” shouted Burnham, ina high
state of amusement ; and then turning to his com-
panion, “ Here, Murdock, get out quick, and see
the Dutchman and his school. Who'd a-thought
it! Come now, and let one of the brats hold the
horse, while Murdock and I examine.”

The two young dandies, who had been on a drive
out of town, and had taken wine at the ferryhouse,
now proceeded, in a way which Carl found to be
highly insulting, to make him the object of their
stupid jests, Carl was resolved, at any cost, to
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING. 201

avoid sacrificing his proper authority in his own
school. He ordered the little boy who stood at
the horse’s head to come instantly into the house.
The horse would have escaped if Murdock had
not taken his place, and the animal was so restive
that the young fellow found himself sufficiently
occupied in keeping him quiet. Burnham mean-
while pretended to examine the boys, addressing
their teacher by the name of Dutchman, and other
contemptuous terms. At length, casting his eye
on Ludwig, he cried out, “ Well, grand-daddy,
and are you teacher or scholar ?”

Ludwig replied, in broken English, but with
great warmth, “ Iam the man what will put you

”

there out into the street ;” and seizing the over-
grown but lubberly fellow by the nape of the neck,
he gently but effectually placed him by his con-
veyance, into which he was very willing to get,
with a sneaking look, and a dreadful rent in his
fashionable coat. His companion gave him small
consolation, saying, “Served you right, you chicken-
hearted booby! I saw from the start that you
would make a fool of yourself.” And he gave
whip to his horse, as angry drivers are prone to
do, and was soon out of sight.

During this unusual scene, the little scholars

appeared much frightened, and huddled together
202 FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

like a flock of sheep before a strange dog. But
when they observed that their young teacher was
quite collected, and when they saw the big inso-
lent intruder give way in such a cowardly manner
before the resolute German, they plucked up
courage, and were almost ready to give three
cheers.

Carl soon won the love as well as the respect of
his pupils. This will always be the case where
the teacher really loves his little flock. His labour
will then be a pleasure, and his tasks will prove
almost an entertainment. Instead of repining at
his seclusion, and complaining about the wearisome
business of spending so many hours with idle or
disobedient children, he will experience a satisfac-
tion not unlike that of a parent. The best maxim
for a teacher is, Love your scholars. It contribates
equally to comfort and success. Love will suggest
a hundred expedients which never could be learned
from the ablest treatises, or under the greatest
professors. It will take the place of many a
punishment. It will fix attention and shorten toil.
It will win the froward and melt the stubborn. In
a word, it will, in almost every instance, insure a
good school.

Fondness for the company of the children led
Carl to pass many of his hours with them when
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING. 203

they were not at their tasks. He could not, indeed,
like some teachers, give them any expensive enter-
tainments. Poor fellow, it was as much as he
could do to procure food and raiment ; and but for
the generous friendship of the Smiths, he would
have felt the pinching of want. But his inventive
mind led him to a number of cheap means for
“communicating pleasure. Sometimes, on a Satur-
day afternoon, they would stroll together over the
woods and meadows, and come home Jaden with
flowers and minerals, which Dr. Smith taught Carl
to arrange. Lessons in natural history were turned
to account at odd hours; and there is no pursuit
which is more inviting to youth, none which exer-
cises their faculties in a safer way, and none which
admits of more ready connection with divine truth.
Cafl often amused the listening group with plea-
sant stories out of the Greek and Latin books
which he was studying ; which he found to have a
good effect in fixing im his own memory what he
had been reading. The very youngest of them
soon became acquainted with Cyrus and the Per-
sians, and could tell the anecdote of the two coats,
as related by Xenophon. They could point out
Troy and Rome upon the map, and talked fami-
liarly of Anchises, AEneas, Dido, and the little
Ascanius. They loved to hear the sounding lines
204 FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

of Greek which describe the noise of the ocean, and
the twanging of Apollo’s silver bow, even though
they could not tell the meaning of a word, In like
manner they learned a pretty long German ballad,
which they sung in parts. Carl further amused
himself by drilling them in the questions and
answers with which French conversation commonly
begins. Harmless games and riddles, and puzzles
in arithmetic, added to their holiday sports. But,
after all, it was not the particular thing which he
did, as the cheerful loving manner in which he
did it, that gained them over. In this way they
were drawn towards him, as a friend who had
their real welfare at heart, so that there was
scarcely anything which they would not have done
to please him. And this was the more remark-
able, because he did not attempt to turn tHeir
regular study into play. He remembered Dr.
Newman’s maxim, When you work, work; and
when you play, play. So that when they were at
their books it was a serious business, and they
soon found that no allowance was granted to idle-
ness, inattention, or impatience.

In such a school as this, children learn fast.
Every day leaves its mark. Parents found it out,
and at the end of the first quarter five new scho-
lars were offered, two of whom were elder brothers
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING. 205

of a child already there. One little fellow had
been two quarters at a district school, and yet had
not learned to read. ‘Tie first pages of his spell-
ing-book had been so thumbed and so worn by his
chin and elbows, that the letters were almost ille-
gible. By a little special attention, Carl carried
him through the book in a few months. His father,
who was a fisherman, and who had no learning
himself, was so much gratified that he sent the
teacher a bushel of oysters as a token of his regard.
Though Carl smiled at the donation, he received
it in good part, and was glad of the means thus
afforded for increasing the good cheer at the doc-
tor’s cottage. But he was rather more pleased
when James Donald, the smallest boy of all, son
of a Scotch gardener, came to him one Monday
mogning with two pots of mignionette and a
number of hyacinth bulbs.

“| have one more than a baker’s dozen,” said
Carl to his friend Mrs. Smith, one winter evening
as they sat over a bright hickory fire.

“ T wish it was a hundred, for your sake,” said
Mary.

*O! not a hundred, my love,” exclaimed the
doctor. ‘“ That would be almost a college, and
our young president would have to employ pro-
fessors.”
206 GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME

“« Very well,” said she, gaily, “stranger things
have happened ; and I don’t despair of seeing our
little Carl a learned professor yet.”

CHAPTER X.
GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME IN A STRANGE LAND.

Goon friends are among God’s most precious gifts
to youth ; and there are few places where a Chris-
tian can be cast, in which such may not be found.
True religion is a power which draws together and
holds united those who would otherwise be stran-
gers. As we go on in the pilgrimage of this world,
we have more and more reason to admire the un-
expected ways in which Providence brings us ac-
quainted with those who have done us the most
good. Often the meeting is without any endea-
vour of our own, and yet the results are moment-
ous. Some such thoughts as these passed through
the mind of our young schoolmaster on the evening
which followed his introduction to Mr. Mill.

The Rev. Frederick Mill was the pastor of the
little church which Carl Adler attended; for you
may be sure he did not allow himself to lack the
blessed advantages of public worship. As a stran-
IN A STRANGE LAND. 207

ger he had taken an humble seat in the gallery,
until the rich tones of his voice drew the attention
of the clergyman, who, indeed, had too few persons
gifted in this way. His eye often turned on Carl,
whom he found always intent on what was said, or
devoutly joining in the acts of worship. As good
ministers of Christ are used to do, Mr. Mill took
an early occasion to learn the name of this punctual
attendant, and at length detained him at the close
of the service, and drew from him some particulars
of his history. The interview was not without
tears; for Carl found that Mr. Mill had been in
Europe, and had even visited his native region.
From this it was an easy transition to visit at the
parsonage, which was on a hill-side, about three
miles from the school. The times which he chose
for these visits were at the close of the week’s
work, and, when he became better known, he was
often invited to remain until Monday morning.
The Smiths did not fail to rally him in regard to
this, and to repeat the name of Matilda Mill in
a sly, good-humoured way; but Carl maintained,
with a pensive earnestness, that for him the charm
of the house was in the excellent. pastor.

Spring Hill, the residence of this pious and ac-
complished family, was named from a bold foun-
tain which broke out from the side of a little
208 GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME

mount among rocks and vines, and dashed away
over the banks to join a rivulet which coursed
through the meadows below. The house was old,
but spacious, commanding a view of neighbouring
bays and islands, with intervening fields and
groves. The walls were overgrown with vines;
and honeysuckles and sweet-briars clambered about
the windows. Within, everything bespoke com-
petency, ease, and comfort, rather than display or
novelty, The chief room was the library, which
was surrounded with valuable books, on which the
eye of Carl rested with admiration and almost envy.

But that which most affected him was the reli-
gious atmosphere of the place. He had been in
Christian families before, but never in one like
this. The father, the mother, the only daughter,
Matilda, and the three little boys, nay, the very
domestics, seemed to be under the power of a
religious training. The Scriptures, without any
violence or any affectation, were evidently the
rule of the house, as they were. the topic of daily
but natural remark. Mutual improvement and
gentle affection breathed over all the little society,
and all their words and acts. Doubtless there was
much of human imperfection and sin, but it was in
a great degree hidden from the partial eyes of Carl.

The first Saturday evening which he spent at
IN A STRANGE LAND. 209

Spring Hill was long remembered by him. They
combined to rid the diffident stranger of those feel-
ings of restraint which he could not, all at once,
shake off. As they sat on the broad portico, which
overlooked a grassy hillside, the younger ones gam-
bolled over the velvet turf, in sight of the placid
father. The mother and daughter were seated
together, turning over the pages of a large book of
plates, which Mr. Mill had just brought from the
city. At a well-known signal all the company
repaired to the table, where the best of rural cheer
was spread before them. The meal was not hasty,
as meals are apt to be where the family gathering
is only for the purpose of satisfying the cravings
of nature. There was much delightful conversa-
tion, and Carl found that such a union at the
domgstic board may be made a class for high
instruction. More than one choice passage from
the poets was called for and repeated ; more than
one hard question was answered, and many reli-
gious precepts were inculcated from the Word of
God. By easy methods all were reminded of the
approaching day of holy rest; and questicns were
asked, to make sure that the week’s business had
been fairly closed up.

The few hours which followed, before retiring

for the night, convinced Carl that he had never
0
210 GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME

before known what was meant by the union of
intelligence and piety in a family circle. He had
seen one, and he had seen the other, but here they
were both together. Was it books? It looked to
him as if a fortune had been expended on the
costly volumes around the apartments, though in
this he made the blunder of inexperience. The
talk was natural, diversified, and playful, yet it
was on the very subjects which Carl had hardly
ever heard talked of. But above all was he de-
lighted with the prominence given to the things of
God. When the hour for evening worship came
(and it was early, so as to suit the young ones),
Mr. Mill, as master and father, opened the Word
of God, and read that noble Psalm, the 138th,
which he followed by a few remarks. Then how
passing sweet was the evening hymn, in which
the music was led by Miss Mill, while every child
and servant joined, except a gray-haired African,
who was past the age of singing. Solemn, united
prayer closed the short service. Carl could not
but say to himself, as with moistened eyes he
rose from his knees,—

‘When, soon or late, you reach that coast,
O’er life's rough ocean criven,
May you rejoice, no wanderer lost,
A family in heaven!”
IN A STRANGE LAND. 21t

When the affectionate salutations of the evening
had been exchanged, Mr. Mill beckoned to his
young visiter to take a seat beside him on the
sofa.

“ Mr. Adler,” said he, “I am older than you,
and I have, like you, been a schoolmaster.”

“Ts it possible!” said Carl, with animation.
“Then, sir, you are the very person whom I need,
fur I have a thousand things on which to get your
advice.”

“ All that I can give shall be yours, my young
friend. I have observed your interest in divine
things; and allow me to say, I perceive you in a
capacity for better acquisitions (here Carl’s clear
complexion became suddenly crimson) ; so that I
feel peculiar interest in trying to put you on the
right path. But, first, tell me, do you mean to
make teaching your profession for life?”

Here Car) explained to Mr. Mill the events
which led him to engage in this little enterprise ;
adding, that his views had undergone some change,
and that he found such an unexpected pleasure in
teaching boys, that he was half inclined to look on
it as a regular business.

“Tam not sorry to hear you say so. We want
such teachers in America ; I mean such as are wil-
ling to spend their lives in the work. Mest of our
212 GLIMPSR OF A CHRISTIAN HOME

schoolmasters spend only two or three years in the
work. Some of them are seeking means to enter
college; some employ themselves thus during the
very time they are in college, in long vacations.
More commonly they are persons who have taken
their first degree, and are intending to be physi-
cians, ministers, or lawyers. From this course
great evils arise to the character of our education.”

“I had not thought of any ill consequences,”
said Carl; “though I have certainly observed the
fact.”

“The evils are these,” said Mr. Mill; “and I
speak with some knowledge, for I have been such
a teacher myself. The young man so employed is
only half-hearted in the work. He may be con-
scientious and punctual, but he has no enthusiasm.”

“Ah!I see,” said Carl; “nothing can be well
done without some fire.”

“True, and there is seldom any ardour in such
acase, It is not the business of life. The man
looks one way and rows another. His eye is on the
bar or the pulpit, and to this he directs his wishes
and his efforts. Then there is no attainment of
experience. Teaching is an art, and one of the
noblest and most difficult. It is not to be acquired
in @ year or two years. Thus it often happens
that, just at the moment the teacher begins to feel
IN A STRANGE LAND. 213

his strength, recover from his mishaps, and mature
his methods, he breaks off from the work, and
transfers the pupils to another.”

«And so, perhaps, a school may be for years
together under the hand of novices.”

Exactly. Indeed, this is the case with a ma-
jority of our country schools.”

“ But how, sir, is this evil to be remedied?”

“Just as you have remedied it in Prussia, where
the profession of teaching is as distinct and as
honourable as most others.”

“ But allow me to ask yet further, why is it that
young men even of promise and learning are un-
willing to stay at their post and teach as long as
they live?”

“You are coming to the very point,” answered
Mr. Jul. “The reasong are many, but they re-
solve themselves into one comprehensive reason.
The work of instruction is not high enough in the
esteem of our people.”

“Ah! T thought no people made so much of
education.”

“We have many schools, many pupils, and many
zealous writings and speeches about the subject;
but what I say is still true. The very word
schoolmaster is used by many with a sneer. The
cry is for cheap teaching. Parents, of whom you
214 REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD.

would hope better things, grudge the pittance they
bestow on the teacher, and almost think it an
alms. Ihave farmers in my parish, who Icy out
more on a breed of swine, or a thrashing-machine,
than all they have ever given for their children’s
schooling put together. Half-starved instructors
lose the stimulus of hope and grow weary.”

Carl smiled, but said nothing.

“JT honour the instructor of my children,” con-
tinued the pastor, ‘as much as the doctor who
cures my body, or the Jawyer who attends to my
estate. But this is not the common feeling; and
the lower down you go in the scale of intelligence
and culture, the more you find people undervalu-
ing the schoolmaster. But, my dear fellow, the
night is wearing away, and I must show you to
your chamber. May the blessed morning find you
refreshed for its sacred work !”

CHAPTER XI.
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD,

From our forefathers we have derived the custom
of making the breakfast a cheerful and leisurely
meal. There is something delightful in the assem-
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD. 215

blage of a whole family at a bountiful repast ; and
such repasts are common in our favoured and fer-
tile country. The morning prayer and praise have
ascended to heaven, and, if there is grace in the
heart, the rays of holy contentment and mutual
affection are reflected from every face. On the
day of joy, the resurrection day, the first and best
day of the week, such gatherings take place in ten
thousand Christian families of our country; and
thus it was at the Spring Hill parsonage.

«As I mean you shall return to spend the day
with us,” said Mr. Mill to Carl, “I shall mount
you upon Nero, the riding-horse of my son Fred,
who is at college. But we must be on the alert,
for Sunday-school opens at nine.”

A long, light waggon, with two horses, carried
theefamily, with the exception of the servants,
who walked, and Mr. Mill, who accompanied Carl
on horseback. ‘The church was four miles off,
and, according to a well-established custom, they
did not return between services, but took with
them a frugal collation.

After the usual services, and such greetings
as are common between a good minister and his
family with many of the people, they all returned
to the parsonage. And here the evening hours
were spent in a manner quite new to Carl, After
216 REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD.

early tea, the whole household assembled in the
large sitting-room. Even the servants were there,
as soon as they had supped, and, what is unusual,
they retained their seats after evening prayers.

“T love,” said Mr. Mill, “to see my family
around me; and on no day do I love it more than
on the Sabbath. Why should not our domestics
come in for a portion of the children’s bread?”

Books were distributed, and an hour was spent
in singing hymns, interspersed with occasional com-
ments, and an occasional anecdote. Even Mrs.
Mill, though a meek and retiring invalid, made
bold to relate an incident of her youth, concerning
her grandfather, an officer of the Revolution, anda
pious man. Encouraged by such beginnings, Carl
found his mouth opened, and, after a little embar-
rassment, and in reply to several interrugatozies,
proceeded to give a narrative, which may be thus
abridged :—

“You must not expect much of a story, my
good friends; I am hardly more than a boy yet,
though sometimes, when I think how many places
I have lived in, and how many people I have seen,
I am ready to think myself quite old. When you
were all engaged just now in repeating the cate-
chism of your church, it carried me back to Bin-
gen on the Rhine.”
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD. 217

“Q! did you use to say the catechism there?”
asked Tom, a bright child of eleven, who had
already found his way to Carl’s knee.

“Yes, but not the same that you know. It was
Dr. Luther’s catechism, which has been used these
three hundred years and more.”

“Tt contains the same precious doctrine,” said
Mr. Mill; “ but go on.”

“« We were brought up in the old German way,
which, I am sorry to say, has gone very much out
of fashion. As the custom of the country is to
have commonly but one church service, we had
Sunday afternoon and evening much to ourselves.
Many people used to spend it in sauntering, and
worse, but we were generally taken to the house
of my dear mother’s father. My grandfather was
wegithier and more learned than any of my kin-
dred. He lived in an ancient stone house, among
the vineyards. It had been in the family no one
knows how many hundred years, and had carvings
on the gables and ends of the oaken beams, which
none of us could understand. The windows were
narrow, some of them being like slits cut in the
thick walls. Musty old volumes stood in the
heavy shelves, mostly in vellum, and some of them
were fastened with clasps of brass, which we
youngsters often tried in vain to undo.
218 REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD.

“My grandfather dressed in antique style; in-
deed, he seemed to pride himself on old customs.
At certain feasts, such as Easter and Michaelmas,
he took great pains to have certain flowers stuck
up, which bloomed about those times of the year.
At the winter holidays he always secured a Christ-
mas-tree, which reached to the very beams of the
vaulted hall, and was laden on every branch with
trinkets, toys, confectionery, and tapers. It has
made a deep impression on my memory. The
good old gentleman carried a grave face to most
people, and was thought to be cross; but I be-
lieve this was more from his gout than anything
else. To us he was always as gentle as could be;
and we longed for Sunday to come round, that we
might dine at grandpapa’s, and look at the pictures
in the ald books. Of these he had a great store,
and I remember, as if it were yesterday, how he
would sit in his great carved arm-chair, in what
he called his book-closet, which was a small room
cut off from his office. Placing me by his side, he
would open one after another of those ponderous
volumes, and descant upon the cuts, which were
from designs of Albert Durer and Hans Holbein.
One of these books I now possess. It was printed
at Nuremburg, in the year 1608. But this was
by no means the oldest of them. In these things
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD. 219

he took the more pleasure, because he was himself
an author, and had published a work on heraldry,
in which he used to show me the painted coats of
arms, with many strange pictures of lions rampant,
griffins, and the like. But, most of all, he loved
to show me the pictures of the reformers and the
martyrs. ‘ There, grandson,’ he would say, ‘thou
seest (in Germany it is always thee and thou to
children) Dr. Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms;
and there thou seest him on his death-bed. Print
it on thy soul, child; rather die a thousand deaths
than give up the faith of thy fathers. Presently
I shall be gone, and who knows what changes may
happen! Thy poor father, the judge, has no
knack at keeping the gold-pieces together. Per-
haps thou mayest wander over sea. Well, God
wil, guide; but mind this: go where thou mayest,
contend for the faith once delivered to the saints!
I never look on the volume, or the portrait of
Luther, without calling the scene and the words
to my memory.”

“T hope,” said Mr. Mill, “ that they will bring
forth fruit in you as long as you live. I daresay
you could sing us one of the fine old hymns of
Germany.”

“ With pleasure,” said Carl. “‘ But our hymns
are not heard to advantage when sung by a single
220 REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD.

voice, The slow and stately ancient tunes require
the full organ and the great congregation. But I
will do my best with a hymn of Paul Gerhardt’s.”

Carl then sang the closing stanzas of the famous
Advent Hymn, Wie soll wh dich empfangen, which
may be thus imitated in English :—

‘* Why should you be detained
In trouble day and night,
As though he must be gained
By arm of human might ?
He comes, he comes, all willing,
All full of grace and love,
Those woes and troubles stilling
Well known to him above.

“ Nor need ye tremble over
The guilt that gives distress;
No! Jesus all will cover
With grace and righteousness.
He comes, he comes, procuring
The peace of sin forgiven,
To all God’s sons securing
Their part and lot in heaven.

“ Why heed ye then the erying

Of crafty foemen nigh?

Your Lord shall send them flying
In twinkling of an eye.

He comes, he comes, for ever
A King, and earth’s fell band

Shall prove, in the endeavour,
Too feeble to withstand.”
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD. 221

All the company were gratified with the grace-
ful performance of Carl, who sang with more than
common ability, and who took the precaution to
furnish an English version of the words before he
began. He explained to them the methods taken
in Germany to train the whole population in sacred
music ; and promised to show them a sixpenny
pamphlet, one of many issued for youth, like tracts,
with all the common tunes used in the churches.
It contains sixty-three tunes in one part, and
twenty in three parts.

“ You have made a fine beginning in your
school,” said Mr. Mill; “and my good friend,
Mrs. Grayson, is so much pleased with what she
heard on Saturday evening on the bank, that she
is going to lend you her pianoforte, to accompany
the hymns and songs.”

“ Bravo!” cried Tom, who was almost ready to
beg that he might become a pupil at the little
octagon school-house. But his father repressed
this little burst, by calling for a volume, which
soon engaged the attention of all present. It was
the Life of Luther, by the Rev. Dr. Sears, himself
a zealous admirer of the mighty German, and a
labourer in the cause of education. The hour soon
arrived for the departure of the younger children
to bed; after which, a few words of religious con-
222 PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

versation closed the day, and each retired to the
private exercises of his own chamber.

CHAPTER XII.
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

Car did not leave the friendly mansion of Mr.
Mill without a suspicion that some plan was on
foot for his benefit. The questions had been too
close and searching to have proceeded from simple
curiosity. Some plan must be on foot for his
benefit. Why did the pastor inquire so particu-
larly as to his residence at the Oaks? Why did
he take down the name of Dr. Newman and Mr.
Barry? Why did he inquire for the residence of
each boy in the school? Carl was therefore less
surprised at receiving a note from Mr. Miil, in-
viting him to accompany him, during the approach-
ing fortnight of vacation, in a jaunt up the North
River. To relieve him from all anxiety about ex-
penses, this excellent gentleman asked, asa favour,
that Carl would act as his amanuensis, in recording
certain matters which he was collecting towards a
volume in the press. It was both benevolent and
delicate in Mr. Mill, and it went to Carl’s heart
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES. 223

more than a munificent gift could have done, if
unaccompanied by such considerate regard for his
feelings.

The boys were dismissed for the brief holidays,
the poor little quarter-bills were paid, except in
the case of one stingy, dishonest guardian, who
was willing to cheat the schoolmaster: and this
man was the richest among them all. Ona beau-
tiful August morning, the travellers rose long
before day, in order to be in time for the Albany
boat, at the foot of Cortlandt Street.

It may be safely said that there is no river
scenery in America which, in all respects, equals
that of the Hudson. Single traits of beauty or
grandeur may indeed be found as striking on other
streams, but nowhere else is the combination so
rich, and varied. Our young traveller admired
the breadth, and depth, and clearness of the river ;
the massy foliage of the woods and verdure of the
corn-fields ; the incomparable panorama of moun-
tains, some blue in the distance, like the Catskills,
and some boldly reaching to the water’s edge, as
in the Highlands; the multitude of vessels which
they passed or met, and the endless succession of
towns and country-seats along the banks.

On arriving at Albany, Mr. Mill procured a
light conveyance, and spent some days in excur-
224 PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

sions among the towns and villages on both sides
of the river, above and below the capital. At the
fine little city of Hudson they dismissed their
hired carriage and servant, and employed the
public conveyances to carry them over the moun-
tains, into Massachusetts. It was Carl’s first sight
of New England, and he was not slow to catch
the beauties, both natural and artificial, of Berk-
shire county. At one time he was struck with
the picturesque scenery of the mountains and
valleys, and wild pellucid streams; at another he
was charmed with the advancement visible in
agriculture, the neatness of enclosures, and the
quiet snugness of the farm-houses; at another, he
stood in admiration at the fresh and shining vil-
lages, which seemed to have sprung up in a night,
so unlike were they to the hoary, irregular niles
of European cities; and at every turn he was
impressed with the appearance of the people, who,
almost without exception, bore the marks of edu-
cation and morality.

After a short sojourn in Boston, Hartford, and
New Haven, they found themselves at home, much
refreshed by exercise and change of air, and wel-
comed by a circle of affectionate friends. On
leaving the steamboat which carried them from
New York, they found all the Smiths and all the
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES. 225

Mills on the wharf. Here Carl had the pleasure
of being made acquainted with Frederick Mill the
younger, who had returned from college, a young
man of genius and fine appearance, but of exuberant
spirits, and not exempt from some of these infeli-
cities of manner which grow up in college life.
But he was both kind and courteoas to Carl,
whom he looked upon with the more respect er
account of his Freneh and German knowledge,
which, among the young gentlemen of our colleges,
is more prized than formerly. The talk was soon
about Goethe, Schiller, and Jean Paul; and Carl
might have paid back some of the laughter spent
on his early attempts at English, by amusing him-
self at Frederick’s pronunciation of German.

Arrived at Spring Hill, the travellers took their
faveurite seats among the shrubbery, in sight of
the dashing spring. Then it was that Mr. Mill
beckoned Carl inte his study. What wae his
astonishment to meet there his first warm Ame-
rican friend!

“Mr. Barry!” cried he; “can it be possible?
And how came you here?”

“ By coach and steambeat, Adler,” said Barry,
smiling.

“O yes, of course; but what has brought you

into these parts? and to Spring Hill?”
P
226 PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

“Why, my dear fellow, do you think nobody
has a right to holidays and jaunts but yourself?
But how nobly you have grown.”

A hundred topics were broached, and question
followed question, till all obvious matters concern-
ing their school-days at the Oaks had been ex-
hausted. During this interview, Mr. Mill had
left them alone. But at length he entered, and
with a grave and affectionate air took Carl by the
hand, and said:—

“My dear Mr. Adler, I will no longer keep
you in suspense. All our recent movements, how-
ever mysterious, have been tending towards a
result which I hope will prove agreeable to you.
Your good friends, Dr. and Mrs. Smith, are in
the secret; and last, but not least, we have intro-
duced Mr. Barry. But there is still another
party in the affair, whom you do not know.”

“‘ Leave that to me,” said Barry; and throwing
open the door which separated them from the par-
lour, he said, “I must have the pleasure of pre-
senting you to Mrs. Barry.”

Carl saw a graceful lady rising to meet him,
without at first discerning her features; great
was his amazement to recognise in her, after a
moment, Helen Newman, the daughter of his
late preceptor.

.
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES. 227

2

It is surprise upon surprise,” exclaimed Carl,
quite bewildered with these inexplicable proceed~
ings. “I scarcely know where to begin, or what
to inquire.”

** Let the truth come out at once, then,” said
Mr. Mill. “ The plan is really my wife’s, though
with my hearty concurrence. You are no longer
to be the principal of the octagon school, Mr.
Adler. We have secured a promotion for you.
The new academy, near our church, has been
several months in preparation. An adjoining
house is very suitable for the reception of boarders.
The company of gentlemen who set up the school
have fixed on Mr. Barry and yourself as teachers.
We shall give you a week or two of preparation;
and the academy will open on the first day of
October. Now, the secret is fully out.”

Let us cast a veil over the ingenuous confusion
and grateful surprise of Carl, upon receiving this
shower of news. He was so overwhelmed that he
did not even urge his inquiries about the beautiful
building and the friendly arrangements. He was
even absent in mind during a part of the evening,
and often retired to the large bow-window, as if
to conceal his emotions. When, at length, his
considerate host conducted him to the retirement
of his chamber, he closed the door, and cast him-
228 PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

self on his knees before God. Tears streamed
from his eyes, and more by groans and sobs than
articulate words, he poured out his thanksgivings
toward that heavenly Father, who had been his
helper in a strange land, and had made his cup to
overflow with unexpected blessings. Blessed reli-
gion of the gospel! which cherishes even in the
young those sacred and generous emotions, such as
were altogether wanting in the greatest heroes of
antiquity. This youthful emigrant felt the en-
largement of soul produced by the belief that the
God of his fathers was making him his special
care, and that he who had guided Jacob, and de-
livered David, and glorified Josiah, would be his
God also, even unto death.

As Carl turned over the pages of his dear
mother’s Bible, it was long before he could tear
himself away, to throw himself on the bed for the
night. The sacred volume seemed as if it had
been made for just such a case as his. Among
them were such as these:—

“ And Jacob vowed a vow, saying, If God will
be with me, and will keep me in this way that I
go, and will give me bread to eat, and raiment to
put on, so that I come again to my father’s house
in peace; then shall Jehovah be my God: and
this stone, which I have set for a pillar, shall be
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES. 229

God’s house: and of all that thou shalt give me, I
will surely give the tenth unto thee.” *

The blessings of thy father have prevailed
above the blessings of my progenitors unto the
utmost bound of the everlasting hills; they shall
be on the head of Joseph, and on the crown of the
head of him that was separate from his brethren.”’+

“Who am I, O Lord God? and what is my
house, that thou hast brought me hitherto? And
this was yet a small thing in thy sight, O Lord
God; but thou hast spoken also of thy servant’s
house for a great while to come. And is this the
manner of man, O Lord God?” ¢

«What shall I render unto the Lord for all his
benefits toward me? I will take the cup of salva-
tion and call upon the name of the Lord. I will
pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence
of all his people.” §

“ O Lord, I know that the way of man is not
in himself: it is not in man that walketh to direct
his steps.” 1

“Let your conversation be without covetous-
ness; and be content with such things as ye have:

* Gen. xxviii. 20-22. ft Gen. xlix. 26.
$¢ 2 Sam. vii. 18. 2 Ps. exvi. 12-14.
q{ Jer. x. 23,
230 PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor for-
sake thee.” *

The last verse was designated in the well-worn
volume, by a distinct line drawn under it, in red
ink—as Carl doubted not, by the beloved hand
which was now in the grave. Deeply did he re-
volve in his mind those sacred words of promise,
IcH WILL DICH NICHT VERLASSEN NOCH VER-
SAUMEN. He called to mind also the observation
which Dr. Newman had made, and which he found
in his interleaved Greek Testament, that the ori-
ginal is much more expressive, having five nega-
tives, which could be represented in English only
by some such language as this: “I will never,
never leave thee, and never, never, never forsake
thee!”

Led thus from one thought to «another, Carl
remembered his hymn-book, and closed the
evening with singing those familiar lines, which
he had first learned from the voice of Matilda
Mill:—

‘In every condition, in sickness, in health,

In poverty’s vale, or abounding in wealth,

At home and abroad, on the land, on the sea,
As thy days shall demand, so thy succonr shall be.



® Hebe xiii. 5.
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE. 231

“ The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,
I will not, I cannot desert to his foes ;
That soul, though all hell should endeavour to shake,
I'll never, no never, no NEVER forsake!”

CHAPTER XIII.
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

As a mariner is seldom favoured with fair winds
and summer weather during the whole of his
voyage, so the servant of God, in passing over the
ocean of life, must expect to encounter some ad-
versities. The teaching of Scripture is very plain
on this subject: “Whom the Lord loveth he
chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he re-
ceiveth.” The ways of chastening are various, but
all are visited with some admonitions, and those
are blessed who turn them to good account. Afilic-
tions in early life are thought by experienced
believers to have a happy influence in forming the
character. So the Scriptures seem also to teach:
“It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his
youth. He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, be-
cause he hath borne it upon him. He putteth
232 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

his mouth in the dust, if so be there may be
hope.” *

The cup of Carl Adler seemed to be running
over the brim, and now that all-wise Governor of
human affairs, who doth not afflict willingly, but
chastens for profit, and to make men partakers of
his holiness, saw fit to add some bitter drops.
Carl had been tried with one class of afflictions;
he was now to experience another. He had been
left an orphan; he had become an exile; he had
been subjected to annoyance and scorn; he had
been pinched by want, and he had been cut short
in his eareer of education: the time was come
when he must be laid on a bed of illness.

Having left Spring Hill in fine spirits, he ac-
companied Dr. Smith and Mary to their sweet
cottage, and sat himself down at his fragrant win-
dow. The dahlias in the garden stood in a gor-
geous show, and the grapes hung in heavy clusters
over the arbour. Myriads of bees hummed in the
trees, and summer-birds sailed in circles around the
elms. Carl was placid, but not altogether at ease.
An unusual languor weighed on his limbs; and
while all was warm around him, he felt himself
shivering with cold. His strength and appetite

* Lam. iii. 27-29.
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE. 233

forsook him, and when the evening meal was an-
nounced, Dr. Smith found him stretched upon his
bed, flushed, and full of pain. His disease soon
proved to be a violent fever. It was a kind pro-
‘vidence that he was in the house of an intelligent
and conscientious physician, who was at the same
time his good friend, and that he was consigned
to such nursing as that of Mary Smith. He
needed these attentions, for the malady which
assaulted him was violent and obstinate. For a
week he may be said to have taken no nourishment,
and his strength and flesh declined under the vio-
lence of the fever. At times he was scarcely in
his right mind, and during the intervals of com-
parative relief, he was restive, harassed, and unfit
for settled thought. One lesson he learned in
this room, which is of great importance, namely,
that a sick-bed is no place to make preparation
for the eternal world. The pain, uneasiness, and
languor of disease absorb the thoughts and deaden
the sensibilities. The patient finds it next to
impossible to turn his mind to anything but what
concerns his own case. If he has neglected reli-
gion until this time, it is not unlikely that he yields
no additional attention to its claims. This was
made singularly manifest to Carl, as he tossed in
burning heats on his couch. The things of God
234 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

and of eternity came much before his mind; but
when he tried to think fixedly, fancies and images
and dreamy musings would come between, and
spoil his devotions. It was often the most he
could do to hear a single verse of the Bible from
the sweet voice of Mary Smith, or to join in a
prayer of two sentences, offered by Mr. Mill.
Neither he nor they could tell whether he should
recover. At one time, when his delirium was
great, the case looked dark even to the sanguine
physician. For one whole night he insisted on
talking in German; the case is not uncommon in
diseases of this kind. If not prevented, he would
have sung German songs which he had heard in
the nursery, and repeated lessons which he had
learned at school. But at length, the prospect
began to clear away. The doctor was able to pro-
nounce him free from fever, and now every means
must be employed to raise up the wan and hag-
gard youth from the infantile imbecility of frame
in which the disease had left him prostrate.

The steps of recovery from a fever are not in-
teresting, and they are familiar. It is best to
hasten on to the time when Carl was so far rein-
stated as to make a short excursion for change of
air. This had the expected result, and he came
home with all the indescribable glow and exulta-
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE. 235

tion of restored health. Then it was that he felt
how good God had been to him, in making all his
bed in his sickness, and sparing a life that seemed
to him so unprofitable. He could read with new
emotions the 116th Psalm, and sing with under-
standing those verses of the German hymn, which
begins :—
‘Tis sweet to me that God, my help,
So faithful stands by me.”*

And he chose this as the most fit occasion for
surrendering himself to God, in a complete and
unreserved dedication; especially as this deliver-
ance concurred with so remarkable an interposi-
tion in behalf of his temporal support.

The Ashdell Academy had been opened a few
days before Carl’s return, under the direction of
Mr. Barry, who was named principal. Besides
other assistants, he was to have the aid of Carl,
who was able to teach several branches of mathe-
matics, and to render service in regard to German,
French, and music. The school was to be visited
at least once a week by Mr. Mill, who acted as its
rector and chief patron. Every Monday morning,
in particular, he engaged to be present, to give



* Das ist mir lieb, dass Gott, mein Hort,
So treulich bei mir steht.
236 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

religious instruction. The edifice, having been
built for the purpose, was admirably suited to the
wants of the institution. The school-rooms were
spacious and numerous, so that there was no neces-
sity for crowding. ‘They were well lighted, and,
what is quite as important, well ventilated. No
one cause operates so disastrously on the health
of teacher and scholars as corrupt air. In schools
innumerable the atmosphere is perpetually foul, if
it may not rather be called pestilential. This par-
ticular had been well cared for by Mr. Mill and
Dr. Smith; and in this they had the hearty con-
currence of Mr. Barry, who had had experience
of the ill consequences of a few hogsheads of air
breathed over and over. He told them the story
of the Black Hole of Calcutta, and declared that,
in many school-rooms, the greatest favour one
could do, would be to knock out two or three
panes of glass.

I will not deny that Carl felt a glow of some
kind, when he first saw the printed ‘ Circular and
Prospectus of the Ashdell Academy.” It was
concise and modest, but it contained, in very con-
spicuous capitals, the name of “ Mr. Carl Adler,
Assistant, and Instructor in the French and Ger-
man Languages.” There are moments when trifles
like this weigh as much in the scale as legacies, or
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE. 237

prises in lotteries. Carl had the comfort of re-
flecting that this honourable advancement, which
was certainly considerable in the case of a youth,
bad been unsought by him; and he was earnestly
desirous to make it contribute to the good of his
fellow-creatures. And what situation is there in
life, I desire to ask, in which this hope may be
more reasonably entertained, than that of an in-
structor of youth?

Every one of Carl’s scholars at the octagon was
present as a pupil at the opening of the academy.
This had been matter of special arrangement by
Mr. Mill. But these nine had now increased to
thirty-five! As they sat at their separate desks,
on the cast-iron rotary seats, which had then just
come into use, they appeared to Carl like a little
army, of which he was in some sort the commander.
And he wrote to his elder sister Charlotte a letter,
of which the following is an extract :—

“ You must not think me exalted, dear Lotte ;
my illness has done something to prevent this ;
but still more, I trust, am I kept humble by a
sense of my daily and hourly shortcomings. Yet
there is something not unlike elation, when I find
myself admitted to such trusts. More than thirty
boys are partly under my control. Some of them
are advanced scholars, even in branches which I
238 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

have not studied; but my task is well defined.
The higher Greek and Latin classics are taught
by Barry, and the whole domestic charge falls to
his share. O! I wish you knew him! He is
just such a man as you could not but admire and
love: so self-forgetting, so many-sided in his
tastes, so noble, so fervid. If I ever think the
Americans cold, it is not when I am with Barry.
From him it was that I first caught the idea of
what it was to beateacher. I had thought it dull,
mechanical, and even irksome. He made me see
it to be a noble art—more noble than our darling
music—more noble than painting, sculpture, and
architecture. These work with dead materials,
but the hand of the teacher moulds the plastic soul.
The noblest cultivation of fields and gardens rears
only vegetable life; but the teacher watches the
development of a life which is spiritual and im-
mortal.

“ Often, dearest Lotte, have I unbosomed my-
self to you about the church. You know I have
sometimes thought seriously of being a minister of
the gospel—unworthy as I am-—and, indeed, I
sometimes think of it still. But is not this also a
kind of ministry? May I not serve our blessed
Redeemer, even if I pass my life in feeding his
lambs? Thus I regard it. I would not learn to
CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS. 239

regard it otherwise. - Some people here think
religion ought to be kept out of schools! Do not
laugh at the suggestion. They even attempt to
put it into practice. Is it not like opening an
hospital without medicine? or sowing fields with
everything except grain? You may be sure nei-
ther Barry nor I would come into any such schools
as these. The principal thing which a child needs
to learn, and that which he must learn now or
never, shall always have a chief place in all in-
structions of mine. But hold! I catch myself
talking Jarge, and remember that I am only an
usher, and not a president (as Mary Smith pro-
phesies I shall be); yet am I ever and ever your
loving, loving brother, Car.”

CHAPTER XIV.

SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

‘‘ComE, come! O, fellows, come!” cried a little,
piping, shrill voice, from the great field back of
the churchyard; ‘‘ come and see the kite that

Bill Sunbury has got up! I’m sure it’s a mile
high !”
240 CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOUBS.

“Not quite,” said Carl; “and besides this,
you have forgotten the rule, Charles. No boy
is to make any acquaintances out of the school ;
and Bill Sunbury is a youth whom we cannot
admit on our premises till he amends his bad lan-
guage.”

“ Mother thinks you tie us up rather tight, Mr.
Adler,” said Charles.

“Wait a little, my fine fellow,” said Carl,
drawing the curly-headed child to his side; “ wait
a little, and you will see how wise and how kind
the regulation is. Sit by me here a few minutes
till I finish this sketch of the old church. See, I
am just at the steeple, and presently I shall dash
off that clambering ivy.”

“Don’t you think I could learn to draw and
paint, Mr, Adler?” ‘

“ Certainly, Charles; that is, if you have eyes,
hands, and a good deal of patience,”

Charles laughed, and said, “I believe I have
as many hands and eyes as other folks, but I am a
little afraid about the patience.”

‘Wait a little, then; it is one of the things we
shall try to teach you.”

“ What, sir! teach patience ?”

© Why not? Is it not a good thing? ”

“O yes, sir, it isa very good thing. I wish I
CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURB. 241

had more of it ; but who ever heard of teaching it!
You must be quizzing me.”

“ No, indeed,” said Carl; ‘‘I am in earnest.
These things are not set down in our programme
of studies; but why did your parents send you
here >”

To learn reading and writing, and arithmetic,
and geography, and Latin, and French ; not to
learn patience, and such like.”

“If you inquire of your dear mother, you will
find that she desires and intends more for you than
what you have said. For, suppose you should go
home to Brooklyn, two years hence, full of Greek
and Latin, but cursing, swearing, and drinking”

“QO! dreadful, sir!” said the little boy, inter-
rupting his. teacher, who had by this time folded
his portfolio, and taken the child on his knee,
“That would be wretchedness. My mother would
not have me learn such things for the world. But
what can you mean, sir?”

“J mean, Charles, that if you would avoid
learning such evil things, you must not put your~
self under evil teachers.”

Charles. Teachers, sir! I never heard of a
school for teaching those things you mentioned !
What teachers are there, I wonder, to teach

drunkenness, and lying, and swearing?
Q
242 CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

Adler, Too many, too many. Suppose I should
let you and your brother Edward go every night,
or whenever you chose, to the tavern at the ferry.

Charles. I should be afraid to go. Mr. Barry
says, those who go there learn to drink rum.

Adler, True enough ; and many other bad things,
such as playing cards, talking wickedly, and taking
God’s holy name in vain. But suppose I should
allow you and Edward to play every day with a
person who curses horribly —

Charles. Then I suppose we should be in danger
of learning to do the like.

Adler. Would not such a person, then, be your
teacher?

Charles. Yes, sir.

Adler. And would not he be a teacher. of wicked-
ness? ‘

Charles. I see, Isee! You have been meaning
Bill Sunbury all along.

Adler. Yes, to tell you truly, I have meant Bill
Sunbury. He is a profane and wicked lad, and I
feel it my duty to warn you against him. But this
is not enough. Don’t you know that you and
Edward are nothing but little inexperienced boys,
and that you are net old enough or wise enough
to choose your own companions?

Charles. (Putting his arm around Carl's shoul-
CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS. 243

der.) Yes, I daresay it is so; and I am willing
to do what you advise me ; and I will not complain
of the rules any more.

Adler. Now you speak like a noble-hearted boy.
Love your parents and teachers; trust in them;
, submit to their regulations, even when you do not
see all the reasons. After a while, you will thank
them for the very things which seemed strict to
you before.

Charles. But you have not yet explained to me
about patience, and how any one can learn to be
patient.

Adler. I am glad you keep it in mind, for I am
coming to that in a roundabout way. Patience,
my Charlie, is a great thing in all learning. To
learn to dggwyyqu must be patient. To learn to
write, you must be patient. To learn geography,
you must be patient. To be a great man, or a
good man, you must be patient.

Charles. Yes, I know, I know; but how to
learn it—how to learn to be patient?

Adler. Just see how little patience you have!
You must wait a little, to learn; for patience is
only a kind of waiting. And you are taking a
lesson in it now, if you did but know it. Patience
is learned by practising patience. How did you
learn to swim? By trying to swim. How did
244 CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOUBS.

you learn to play ball? By trying to play. How
did you learn to cut the figure 6 on the ice? By
trying and trying again. Tell me, then, how you
are to learn patience ?

Charles. By trying to be patient.

Adler. Very well. You are an apt scholar,
Charles. Now, observe, half the things we give
you to do are helping you to learn this very thing.

Charles. How so, sir? Does getting my Latin
verb teach me patience? Stop—you needn’t an-
swer. I see it myself. For I grow very tired of
my verbs sometimes; and then John Grose says,
With patience and perseverance, one may open
an oyster with a rolling-pin.” So [turn to my
book again, and at last I know my verb.

Adler. Very good, indeed; thqugh Jahn’s comi-
cal proverb is new to me, it is true. All your
hard tasks, which seem so tedious, are helping you
to govern yourself. If you live to be a man, you
will find the use of this. Impatient people can
never do much good in the world. But some day
vou will be able to say to yourself, “O, how
glad I am that Mr. Barry kept me closely at
work! It taught me not only what was set down
in the books, but it taught me to keep long at the
same thing without getting tired; to repeat the
same task a hundred times, if needful; to sum
CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS. 245

up the same figures, and keep my thoughts in the
same channel. It taught me patience.” Come,
now, and I will give you a lesson in drawing.

Charles. Thank you, sir; I will try te be patient.

The conversation reported above is a very
humble specimen of what is daily occurring be-
tween every faithful teacher and his pupils. There
are, indeed, instructors who feel the toil of teach-
ing to be such a burden, that in hours of release
they try to forget there is such a thing as a school.
Not so the zealous and successful educator. Every
moment he is the teacher. It is his honour and
his delight. He loves to feel the pliable mass
under his beneficent touch all the day long; and
it is not wonderful if he dreams of it by night.
In addition to. this specimen of dialogue with one
of the youngest, the fullowing may serve as an
example of talk out of school with one of the oldest
scholars.

The scene is laid in Heron’s Bay, and the per-
sons are Carl Adler, Gregory Beale, and two
fishermen who manage the boat. The time is
Saturday evening, and the waters are reddened
with the blush of the western skies. The parties
are wearied with pulling the oar all the afternoon,
and have turned the head of their boat towards
the point where the graceful spire of Church


246 CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

rises above the trees, as a conspicuous land-
mark.

First Fisherman. Yes, yes, Mr. Adler, you speak
English as well as German; but here am I, twenty
years out of Hamburg, and yet everybody notices
the burr on my tongue.

Second Fisherman. Fritz, you talk plainer now
than when you used to take the bottle with you
in the boat. I wondered, sometimes, whether the
black-fish understood German, for we didn’t take
half so many as we do in these temperance days.

Adler. Let us forget past faults. Our old friend
Fritz has repented of his evil ways. I will sing a
hymn which he remembers.

Carl then poured out, in his clear manly voice,
the Seaman’s Evening Hymn:— |

“ Thanks be to thee, Almighty God,
Whose arm has been our guard,”* &c.

The two men listened with admiration, and the
old German occasionally added his voice to the
familiar tune, though he could not always hit the
words; but he understood and felt them, and
frequently put up his red sleeve to wipe the fall-
ing drops.

* Dank sey dir, O du starker Gott,
Dess Schutz uns heut umfangen.
CHIT-CHAT 1N PLAY-HOURS. 247

First Fisherman. Thank you, sir; it brings all
the old days back fresh upon me. But do tell me,
Master Adler, have you got the whole hymn-book
by heart?

Adler. No, no, my good fellow, far from it; but
I remember a good many hymns and songs which
were taught me by niy grandfather and my
sainted mother. And I have to thank them for .
many little snatches of knowledge, which will
stick to me wherever I wander. Luther’s little
ptayer, at the end of the catechism, is as familiar
to me as my alphabet. You remember it, Fritz?

Fritz. Yes, indeed, and say it over every night.

Gregory. I think, Mr. Adler, the German boys
must commit more to memory than we in America.

Adler. I have sometimes thought so myself. My
cousins, wno were older than I, were full of verses
out of Virgil and Horace, as well as hundreds of
stanzas from our own poets.

Gregory. Mr. Poole, who teaches the Polymathic
Inductive High School, makes a boast that no
scholar ever commits a single sentence to memory,
verbatim.

Adler. What! not the rules in grammar?

Gregory. Not one.

Adler. Nor the paradigms?

Gregory. Not one.
248 CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

Adler. Nor the multiplication table?

Gregory. Ah! that and the A B C, we all
happened to know before we went to the High
School at Basedow Hill.

Adler. Do the boys learn no passages from
Il Penseroso, the Seasons, the Task, or other
poems?

Gregory. None, I assure you. Mr. Poole lec-
tares on all these things; but he says the other
way is obsolete; that it turns the boys into parrots,
and that the grand object is to understand, and
not to remember.

Adler. He would be a better philosopher if his
Maxim was, “to understand anp to remember.”
Our Creator has given us memory as well as
understanding, and we are to cultivate both.

Gregory. Mr. Poole says that ‘boys who learn
other people’s words, get nothing but words; and
that they fill their heads with what they do not
understand,

Adler. It is true of some, just as it is true
that some people have gilt frames without any
pictures in them; but why not have both?

Gregory. 1 think I know boys who have only
the frames.

Adler. But the frames may contain pictures.
And if you have both frames and pictures, your
CHIT-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS. 249

frames help to keep your pictures. So, if you
retain the very words, they help to keep the
thoughts.

Gregory. What use is there in remembering
the very words?

Adler. It is not always desirable, but sometimes
it is highly so. In the first place, if you change
the words, you generally change the thoughts.
Thus you may recall to your mind something quite
different from what you have learned.

Gregory. 1 have observed this in the texts of
the propositions in Euclid.

Adler. This makes it very desirable that, in
elementary matters, and in rules, and in forms,
the very words should be remembered. Secondly :
there are cases in which the value of a passage
depaads on the very words. This is true of all
poetry and ali eloquence. What were the lines
you repeated in your declamation this morning?

Gregory. They were from Denham :—

“*O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!
Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o’erflowing full.”

Adler. Now please to give me the substance of
these lines, as one might remember them who had
caught their general meaning, without the words,
250 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

Gregory. O sir! it would be folly for me to
attempt it!

Adler. Then you admit the value of memory as
to poetic words.

Gregory. Certainly. You could not change a
single word without losing a beauty.

Adler, It is equally true of a thousand things,
especially of Scripture. And it is important to
practise this in childhood, because that is the
spring-tide of memory. It is a faculty sooner
developed than that of reasoning, and it sooner
decays; therefore we should seize its brief time of
bloom for purposes of education. As to abuses
and excesses, here, as everywhere, “ Wisdom is
profitable to direct.”

CHAPTER XV.
RELIGION IN SCHOOL,

IF religion is all-important to mankind, and if it
is most deeply impressed on the soul in childhood
and youth, then it ought unquestionably to form 4
part of every system of education, Shall we teach
our children all worldly things, and never incul-
cate the principles which are necessary to save
RELIGION IN SCHOOL. 251

their suuls? Every reasonable Christian parent
admits the duty of teaching his children the words .
of life. But teachers take the place of parents
in the matter of education. In many thousands
of instances, at large schools, the pupils are so
much separated from their parents that they sec
them only for a few weeks in every year, during a
considerable portion of early life. It would be a
monstrous absurdity to hold that such children
ought to be left without religious instruction from
their teachers, This is a very simple statement
of the question concerning Christian education.
None but an unwise or a wicked parent will place
his beloved offspring, for several years together, in
the hands of those who have no fear of God before
their eyes, or who teach errors in religion, or who
omit the teaching of religion altogether.

Carl Adler had entered on the work of instruc-
tion with an humble and devout mind. Often did
he pray to God that he might be guided and en-
abled to pursue the right path. Though he was
not a minister of the gospel, he felt that, in a cer-
tain sense, precious immortal souls were com-
mitted to his charge. The children whom he
taught might, with God’s blessing on his labours,
be kept from manifold vices, and even led into the
right ways of the Lord; or they might, through
252 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

his influence and neglect, grow up to be little
better than heathen. These thoughts made him
ask divine wisdom te conduct him in the perform-
ance of his duty to their souls.

An attempt has been made by Roman Catho-
lics and infidels to banish the Bible from the
common schools. If it should ever succeed, the
result is quite easily predicted. Our country will
become popish or infidel. But the best schools
continue to give a high place to the Word of Ged ;
and this agrees with the views of those who
founded the Ashdell Academy.

It is Monday morning—a time when school-
boys are fresh and in good trim, with bright,
shining faces. Who does not remember the
healthful exhilaration of a Monday morning at
school? The room itself is in uncommog, order.
Teachers and pupils look happy. The little pre-
liminary hum has ceased, for the good pastor, Mr.
Mill, is entering from a private door behind the
platform of desks, He takes his place behind the
principal desk, where the teachers have made
room for him. At this hour of the week, Mr.
Mill always visits the school, opens its religious
services, and gives the first lesson of the week.
It is a lesson in Scripture, which the boys have
learned on the preceding day. It is always a time
RELIGION IN SCHOOL. 253

of quiet, order, and pleasant looks. When Mr.
Mill has large maps or plates to exhibit, he calls
Mr. Barry and Carl to his assistance. The wall,
back of the platform, is hardened like slate, to
serve the purposes of a black board. On this
Barry draws outline maps of Palestine, or the sea
of Cinneroth; and Carl gives rapid sketches of
oriental antiquities. ‘This, you may be sure, en-
livens the lesson, and makes the hour one of the
most delightful in all the week.

There is a recess of half an hour, for conversa-
tion and amusement, every forenoon. On Mon-
day, it takes place after the Bible-lesson, and, of
course, the pastor has an opportunity of being
present. One day they had been engaged upon
the pea Robinson’s Harmony, in which
the much about the Mount of Olives. The
little lecture had taken hold of the boys, as a good
lecture always does. The upper class had much
of it down in their note-books. Several clever
boys had taken rapid copies on their slates of the
outline sketch which Carl had drawn large on the
black surface. There was a good deal of chat
under the trees about olives and figs, and the
Mount and Bethany.

* Matt. xxiv. 1-14, Mark xiii. 1-13. Luke xxi. 5-19,
254 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

Christopher Longworth. (A pale, but handsome
lad, whose father is a painter.) My father has
been in the Holy Land.

Mr. Mill. That is good. When we know
people who have travelled in Palestine, it makes
the scenes of sacred history more real to us,
Perhaps you remember something that he re-
ported.

Christopher. Yes, sir. My father says he saw
old olive-trees at the spot which is thought to be
Gethsemane.

Mr. Mill. A sacred spot, my dear young
friends; though we must not regard those places
with the superstitious veneration of the Papists
and Orientals.

Carl. The modern garden of Gethsemane, as it
is called, is of small extent, being, perhaps*e=ly a
portion of what was there in old times. The site,
however, agrees very well with all the accounts.
I am told the trees are supposed to be lineal
descendants of the grove which stood there
eighteen hundred years ago.

Christopher. My father brought me an olive-
branch, carefully pressed and dried, and a folder,
or paper-knife, made of wood from the Mount of
Olives.

Barry. You must bring them with you, Chris-
RELIGION IN SCHOOL. 255

topher. We will not venerate them as relics, but
they are valuable as testimonials.

A little boy. Mr. Barry, may I speak? There
was a French gentleman at our boarding-house at
Newport, who said, at table, that he did not
believe the stories about Jesus and the apostles
were true; or that there were ever any such
people as Christ and the apostles.

Several boys. Oh! dreadful!

Mr. Miil. Yes, indeed; dreadful impiety, and
dreadful folly. French infidelity of this sort used
to be more in fashion than it is now.

Christopher. But there are infidels now—are
there not, sir?

Mr. Mill. Yes, there are; but the fashion of
the oad Sool laa icin So foolish and ignorant are
the osers of God’s truth, that they are always
confuted. But, as fast as one kind of infidelity is
answered, another kind is invented. Volney had
his day, and several after him; but the New
Testament still abides.

Barry. Can any boy remember the figure which
alludes to this, in last week’s poetry-lesson ?

George Mulligan. The rock beaten by the waves.

Barry. Right. Who can apply it?

George Mulligan. The waves continually come
and break azainst the rock in the sea; one wave
256 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

comes and dashes, and is driven away, and another
and another follow; but the rock is unhurt. I
imagine the reck is Holy Scripture, and the
angry waves are the different sets of infidels.

Mr. Mill. Very well said. With Mr. Barry’s
leave, I will give you this for a theme.

Barry. Willingly. Let the class in composi-
tion try their hands upon this subject for Wed-
nesday.

After some talk about verbenas, geraniums, and
the painting of sticks to support the dahlias, as
well as some inspection of butterflies emerging
from their wintry coffins or cradles, and some
peeping through microscopes, the school went in
again, at the tinkle of a bell, to hard work at
Greek, Latin, and mathematics., —

Where the conductors of a school are truly-jious,
they are every day making religious impressions
on the young, without any constraint or violent
effort. They cannot help doing so; and the scholars
imperceptibly, but surely, receive a large amount
of religious knowledge. This is very unlike the
sour, hypocritical, or sanctimonious method, which
ungodly people ascribe to evangelical schools.
Religious truth, interspersed among the common
studies of every day, is so far from making youth
dull and unhappy, that it elevates and cheers them
RELIGION IN SCHOOL. 257

as truly as it protects and purifies them. But
there are also more stated means, which promote
the religious training of a school. A few of these
may be mentioned.

Secret devotion is too sacred and delicate a
matter to be managed by school regulations, yet it
is too important to be neglected. A boy had
better never go to any school than go to one where
he shall lose the habit of secret devotion. Mr,
Barry neglects no good opportunity of inculcating
this duty in the short lectures, of five minutes each,
which he makes in‘the prayer-room, at evening
prayers. Then he takes care that everybody shall
have time and place for suitable retirement, every
morning and every evening. Especially on the
Lord’s-dav,. a Janey portion of time is afforded for
thesedidly employments; and there are times when
many of the scholars seem to be availing them-
selves of these opportunities.

Social devotion of the whole school, including
teachers, ladies, scholars, servants, and visiters, is
a daily observance. It is very short, but very de-
lightful. The Scriptures are always read; sacred
music is added; and prayer to God opens and
closes the day.

The Lord’s-day is wholly spent in a religious

manner, in public or private worship—in the read-
R
258 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

ing of good books—in Scriptural lessons—in Sun-
day-school services (for some of the older boys
begin to teach)—in practising the praise of God
—and in serious, but pleasing, conversation. Such
Sabbaths are not wearisome, but altogether a de-
light. The parlours are thrown open at proper
hours, and the boys feel as if the family of their _
teacher is the next thing to their own beloved
homes.

Good bcoks, from the well-chosen library, con-
tain proper reading, not only for Sunday, but for
other days, when right-minded youth feel the need
of spiritual improvement. No school-day ever
passes without a short exercise on something con-
nected with divine truth, which is additional to
the Monday morning instructions of. the pestor.

Religious conversation, such as a faithfidrparent
would have at his own fireside, is attempted ina
natural, unobtrusive way, with each scholar in
private. Let me give one example, out of a
thousand.

John Marshall is a quick-witted little fellow,
from Newark, and a hopeful scholar, but rather
too full of curiosity. One day Carl Adler found
him seated on the rustic bridge, under the shade
of the willows, very busy over a large volume,
which contained plates, As his teacher ap-
RELIGION IN SCHOOL. 259

proached, John turned red, and hastily seated
himself upon the book. With much gentleness,
Carl took the volume, and perceived that it was
not a proper work for so young a child.

“ John,” said he, ‘there are persons for whom
this book is very useful, but it is net the book for
you.”

John, I did not know it was a bad book, sir.

Adler. It is not a bad book in proper hands, yet
it may be bad for you. A razor is not a bad tool,
in proper hands, yet you would not give little Fan
your father’s case of razors to play with. This
volume is excellent and necessary fur Dr. Smith,
who, I suppose, left it here, when he was visiting
a patient; but what could lead you to pore over it ?

John. I hardly know, Mr, Adler. I suppose—
I suppuse—it is that I am inquisitive; it is curi-
osity.

Adler. I believe you, John; you have made a
frank answer. It was curiosity—vain curiosity—
a source of many errors and many vices. (Here
the tears came into John’s eyes.) Do not go
away, my little friend. Iam glad of the occasion
to put you on your guard, You are young, and
without experience. You do not know Satan's
devices. Now, let me give you a lesson for life,
herein this pleasant shade, where nobody is near us.
260 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

John. Indeed, indeed, sir, I did not know I was
about anything wrong; I only thought I should
like to know—

Adler. Yes; but there are many things which
you should not like to know. There are many
things which you had better know ten years hence.
And there are some things which you and I had
better not know at all. Fix itin your mind, John,
that vain curiosity, or inquisitiveness about things
which do not concern us, is the door at which
Satan enters.

John. Please to explain, sir.

Adler, Are there not some things which your
father and mother never mention to you at all?

John. O yes, sir.

Adler. Yet these things are jn.some books?

John. Yes, sir. , “,

Adler. And these things are talked about in
your hearing?

John. Yes, sir.

Adler. And you listen with eagerness?

John. I believe it is so.

Adler. Then understand me. The less you
listen to such things the better. The less you
ask about them the better. The less you read
about them the better. Always talk, read, and
think, as if your dear mother and sisters knew all
‘ POETRY AND SCHOOLS. 261

that employs you, or rather as in the presence of
One who reads your thoughts. And now, go and
read how Satan gained an advantage over the vain
curiosity of our mother Eve.

CHAPTER XVI.
POETRY AND SCHOOLS.

SuENsToNE’s picture of the country school-mis-
tress has fewer and fewer resemblances in America.
Some of my readers will remember that pair of old
ladies, Miss Sally Martin and Miss Phebe Davis,
who taught in the village of my boyhood, and
whose scholars fill,the pulpit, the army, and the
senate. They pursued their good work till they
were old.
“ Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,

Emblem right meet of decency does yield ;

Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow,

As is the harebell that adorns the field;

And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield

Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,

With dark distrust and sad repentance filled;

And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,

And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.”

But the modern school-teacher is a lighter, gayer
262 POETRY AND SCHOOLS.

personage, and is almost always young. Mary
Brewer may be taken as the type of such; and
now, as Mrs. Smith, she still retained a fondness
for her former tasks, and loved to renew the old
associations, by surrounding herself with little
folks, It was for this reason that she gave the
strawberry feast on the 10th of June; and it was
for this reason that she invited all the Academy
teachers, as well as Dr. Newman, who was there
ona visit. Carl, of course, was there; and in a
retired part of the lawn sat a grave, but arch per-
sonage, surveying the scene with gray, twinkling
eyes, who was none other than King Donald. He
could not refrain from asking leave to visit Mrs.
Barry, or “the young mistress,” as he named her,
and the doctor could not find it in n_his heart to
tefuse him. Let us leave the ‘boys ‘at at their, gam-
bols on the broad grassy lawn behind the cottage,
while we listen to the talk of the elder group under
the vines. They have books on the garden-table,
and seem to be turning up pages which apply to
the matters under discussion. This is not seldom
the case, even in rural interviews, with bookish
people. Dr. Newman, especially, was a great
quoter of poetry, both Latin and English; and
knew how to hit the nail on the head with an apt
citation.
POETRY AND SCHOOLS, 263

Mrs. Smith. Some of Gray’s verse I never could
enjoy; but how often have I looked upon such a
group as that near us, and found myself repeating —

* Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possessed ;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast.
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirita pure, the slumbers light,

That fly the approach of morn.”

Mrs. Barry. All good, Mary; but how fearfully
dark are the stanzas which follow! I can scarcely
read that famous ode without a pang.

Dr. Newman. Have you ever observed how fond
our poets are of school scenes? It is so from
Chaucer down to Crabbe.

Mrs. Barry. Every one remembers Goldsmith’s
schoolmaster.

Barry. Yet no one ever wearies of it :

“ Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declared how much he knew;
*Twas certain he could write and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge;

In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,

For evn though vanquished, he could argue still.”
264 POETRY AND SCHOOLS.

Mr. Mill. Stop there, Mr. Barry, for I am ready
to admit the description to be just.

Barry. Wait till we try our powers in an argu-
ment, sir, Meanwhile, I beg leave, as lately be-
longing to the class, to read from this volume
Lloyd’s account of a school-usher. You will re-
member Lloyd as a friend of Cowper at West-
minster school :-—

‘* Were I at once empowered to show,
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremest rigour,
I could inflict no penance bigger
Than, using him as learning’s tool,
To make him usher of a school.
‘ Yet still he’s on the road, you say,
Of learning.’ Why, perhaps, he may;
But turns, like horses in a mill, .
Nor getting on, nor standing still! ° %



For little way his learning reaches
Who learns no more than what he teaches.’

Dr. Newman. Too severe by half; and like most
highly-coloured pictures, untrue. The last couplet
is, however, good indeed, though full of latent
sarcasm.

Mrs. Barry. Father, you will surely not forget
Lloyd’s friend, the gentle Cowper, and his Tiro-
cinium, which is all about education, from begin-
ning to end.
POETRY AND SCHOOLS. 265

Dr. Newman. Hush, hush, my dear! Don't
you see that our craft is ruined if you cry up the
Tirocinium? For what is it, but a defence of
private education ?

Mrs. Barry. If it is, it nevertheless is full of
wholesome and delightful truths.

Dr. Newman. Let us admit it, Helen, as we
safely do, without yielding the advantage of good
public schools.

Dr. Smith. Here are a number of schools and
school-folk, described to the life, in Crabbe’s
Borough, and other tales.

Dr. Newman. Yes; and, as in all his descrip-
tions, he has given pictures which have an accuracy
like that of the daguerreotype.

Carl. May | ask, sir, how it happens that schools
occupy so large a place in the poets?

Dr. Newman. We have only dipped into the
poets yet, Adler; this is but a taste. In regard to
your question, however, many reasons might be
given. The value and importance, and the uni-
versality of schools, is one. Almost all educated
persons, as poets generally are, went to school in
their youth. The recollections of schoolboy days
are among the greenest spots in the retrospect of
memory. Add to this, that hundreds of literary
men and women have been themselves instructors.
266 POETRY AND SCHOOLS.

This is remarkably the case in America. All
which goes to dignify the occupation of the teacher.

Carl. Perhaps the seclusion and quiet of a rural
schcol-life tends to foster poetic musings. Am I
right, sir?

Dr. Newman. You are not without some ground
for your conjecture, my young friend. But you
probably reason from your own temper and ex-
perience. Ah! is it so? You blush, Adler. I
must insist on your confession.

Mrs. Smith. I shall have to turn informer. I
have in my basket two morsels of German poetry
by our young friend, written at his school-desk.

Adler. And one of them, I am forced to say, has
been translated by Mary.

Dr. Smith. Mary is fairly caught ; and as some
of us read no German, we must insist on her pro-
ducing the English.

Mrs. Barry. J will spare Mary the confusion of
reading her own verses, which I find here enclosed
in the other papers; so here they are—we can
have them before the strawberries are served :—~

‘ Ye unseen powers that ever stand and wait
Upon the heav’nly Majesty, in love,
Say, do ye ever flag upon the wing,
And sink, like us, when ye should lightly move ?
Or doth the sacred power that, flowing in,
POETRY AND SCHOOLS. 267

Guides all your impulses, so lift you high,
That ye are ever active, ever glad? .
Ah! woe is me! I would be angel too;

But the flesh drags, and J am scarcely man!
Sink then I will, since I am slow to rise,

And bending, plunge me in my nothingness,
Content in humble thought that Christ is all ”

After the reading of the verses, which were pro-
nounced respectable by the critics, King Donald
came forward with the information that he was
about to honour the anniversary of Mary’s marriage
with a specimen of strawberries, which he had
brought with great care from the garden at the
Oaks. These being of superior kinds, were added
to the stores from Dr. Smith’s little beds. A table,
spread under the elms, had a pastoral look, which
became almost Arcadian, when heaps of the ruddy
fruit were seen to alternate with pitchers of cream.
The conversation soon turned on the case in hand,
and learned opinions were expressed as to the
comparative excellence of the Dundee strawberry
(Donald’s pride), the Black Prince, to which Mrs.
Smith gave the palm, Hovey’s Seedling, a giant
kind, and the several Hautbois and Alpines. The
boys were in raptures, and their elders, if more
quiet, were scarcely less gratified. Christopher
remembered a Latin saying, and declared the day
should be “ marked with a white stone.”
268 ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS.

CHAPTER XVII.
ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS.

A LETTER was delivered to Carl at the breakfast-
table, which made it necessary for him to repair
at once to the city. A vessel from Hamburg had
just come in, with several hundred German emi-
grants, among whom was an old man named Wolf,
who had been a tenant of his grandfather, and
who was about to settle, with a numerous family,
in Missouri.

The arrival of an emigrant ship presents a bust-
ling scene of varied interest. The small steam-
boat which brought the passengers from the Lower
Bay was crowded with men, women, and children.
Soon after they disembarked, amidst hundreds of
boxes, bags, and piles of household furniture and
kitchen utensils, greetings and earnest conversa-
tions began on the wharf, and along the streets,
and in the German taverns near the North River,
and even in the carts which conveyed them to the
appointed lodgings. Carl almost imagined himself
in his fatherland. On every side he heard the lan-
guage of his country. Here were the same dresses ;
the same hearty, sun-browned faces; the women
ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS. 269

with uncovered heads; the men with pipes and
blouses. He felt at home among the blue-eyed,
yellow-haired children of the Elbe and the Rhine.
Some of the number soon became too merry, and
jugs of lager-bier circulated with painful fre-
quency ; but most of the emigrants were sober and
discreet, and none more so than the circle around
the venerable Gottfried Wolf. Carl directed the
way of this worthy family to the retired lodging-
house recommended by the consul. Here the con-
versation became, first lively and then affecting, as
name after name of those most dear to him was
mentioned, and as letters, bouks, and other tokens
were produced. Wolf gave an account of the em-
barkation, and put into Carl’s hand a little poem
of Freiligrath, sent to him by his sister, of which
the following is a translation :-—

“T cannot leave the busy strand!
I gaze upon you, standing there,
And giving to the sailor’s hand
Your household furniture and ware-

“ Men, from their shoulders lifting down

Baskets of bread, with careful hand,
Prepared from German corn, and brown

From the old hearth in Fatherland ;

‘‘Black-forest maids, with sunburnt faces,
Slim forms, and neatly braided hair,
270

*

ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS.

Come, each within the shallop places
Her jugs and pitchers all with care.

‘“ The pitchers, carried oft to fill
At the familiar village spring ;
When by Missouri all is still,
Visions of home will round them cling.

“ The rustic well, with stones girt round,
‘The low stoue-wall they bended o’er,
The hearth upon the family ground,
The mantelpiece, with all its store:

* All will be dear, when, in the West,
These pitchers deck the lone log-hut,
Or when reached down, that some brown guest
May quench his thirst and travel on.

‘‘ Tired in the chase, the Cherokees
Will drink from them on hunting-ground ;
No more from glad grape-gleaning these
Shall come, with German vine-leaves crowned.

‘¢ Why, wanderers, must you leave your land?
The Neckar-vale has wine and corn;
Tall firs in our Black Forest stand ;
In Spessart sounds the Alper’s horn.

‘‘ Mid foreign woods you'll long in vain
For your paternal mountains green,
For Deutschland’s yellow fields of grain,
And hills of vines with purple sheen.

“ The vision of your olden time,
Of all you leave so far behind,
ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS. 271

Like some old legendary rhyme,
Will rise in dreams and haunt your mind.

“ The boatman calls—depart in peace!
God keep you, man, and wife, and child!
Joy dwell with you! and fast increase
Your rice and maize in yonder wild.”

Carl smiled at the little slips of the poet, about
Cherokees and rice on the Missouri; and thought
it would not be hard to write another poem, of a
corresponding character, on the arrival of emi-
grants in America; but his mind was turned to
more immediate duties. As he looked on the gray-
haired father, the meekly-patient but anxious
mother, the three hardy young men, whose appear-
ance betokened resolution and strength, and the
younger ones of the party, who were all daughters,
he was moved at the thought of the long journey
yet before them, and the unexpected trials through
which they might have to pass. Young as he was,
he found it to be his plain duty to become ‘their
adviser. He put them on their guard against the
sharpers who lie in wait for foreigners, and the
infidel seducers who betray hundreds. He be-
sought them from the beginning to reverence God,
and cling to the Christian principles of their fore-
fathers. He even offered to go with them to church,
where they might join in their own service and
272 ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS.

sing their own beloved hymns. And he advised
them to make no tarrying in the great city, but to
hasten towards their Western home, which was to
be in a beautiful section of the state of Missouri.
There, as he informed them, they would find a
large settlement of German Protestants, and would
have a welcome among their own people. He ex-
plained to them the danger of giving themselves
up exclusively to labour and gain, and recom-
mended early and constant attention to the worship
of God and the education of the little ones. And
before he left them he gave them letters to Mr.
Spalding, a pious and learned schoolmaster in Mis-
souri.

A day of much excitement was followed by a
delightful return on board the little steamboat,
which leaves New York every few hours, and
lands its passengers near Sunnyside. The waves
were calm, but speckled with craft of all dimen-
sions. As the sun went down over Harlaem, gay
boats, with parties of pleasure, and sometimes with
music, passed and repassed. The shores on either
side were one mass of green, broken only by ham-
lets, villas, and mansions, such as every year more
and more adorn the edges of these rivers and bays.
The south-west wind breathed freshly over the
vessel, as if sent to cool the youthful brow, not a
ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS. 273

little fevered by the warm emotions of a long and
busy day. The hour seemed short, therefore, when
Car] began to find himself among the boiling eddies
neat Island, and at length caught a glimpse
of the octagon school-house, where he entered on
earnest life, and the dark rocks and nodding groves
behind it. The school-waggon was in waiting for
him, and a rapid drive conveyed him to the academy
before it was entirely dark. But then he hastened
to his solitary chamber, to tear open the letters
which Wolf had brought from Germany.

The first was from his elder sister, Charlotte,
and it enclosed another for little Ursula, who was
living with her uncle Schneckenburg, in Balti-
more. It told him of deaths and other changes;
and made him laugh and cry by turns, when it
named one after another of his boyish comrades, and
related anecdotes of comical old friends still surviv-
ing at Bingen, intermingled with allusions to sacred
hours, when the family circle was yet unbroken.
With all the gentle love of a faithfal elder sister,
Charlotte expressed her joy at his promotion and
prospects, and poured out wishes and advices about
Ursula. ‘‘We three,” said she, “dearest Carl,
are all that remain of that once large happy house-
hold on the White Hill. Let us be true to one

another; and in order to this, let us pray to be
8


274 ARKIVAL OF EMIGRANTS.

kept true to our Lord! You cannot know how
anxious I was for you, and till I learned that you
were living a decidedly religious life. Now I am
at peace. I believe the prayers of our dear parents
are about to be answered for their children. Per-
haps we may yet see you serving the Lord in his
ministry. But if not, you are doing the next best
thing, by caring for his lambs.” Then, in a hur-
ried postscript, with many erasures, and many
injunctions of secresy, she confides to her brother
the intimation that her hand has been given by
solemn betrothal to a young civil engineer named
Falck. And then, naming the marriage-day, she
added, “ After which we expect to sail for Boston,
in the good ship Irene, hoping to spend our days
in America!”

Is Carl dreaming, or is he out of his head? He
lays his forehead on the desk; he paces the floor;
he stretches out his arms toward the heavens; he
kneels and weeps. These are only the signs of a
tumultuous feeling, awakened by the sudden news
of such a favour. ‘‘ Surely,” cried he, “ goodness
and mercy shall follow me all the days of my
life!”*

The gathering of friends, and reunion of fami-



* Pa, xxiii, 6.
DOCENDO DISCIMUs. 275

lies, after years of separation, may be ranked among
the most affecting circumstances of that emigra-
tion which is now socommon. Not a vessel passes
the ocean which does not carry some message or
some person connected with these touching scenes.
Sometimes the children precede, and, after a while,
are followed by their aged parents. Sometimes a
young husband comes over, explores and prepares,
and then returns, or sends for his wife and little
ones. When the union is complete, and a whole
family meets in the new home, in the rich wheat
lands of New York and Pennsylvania, or the
prairies of the West, and the hymn of praise goes
up from the domestic choir, amidst the indescrib-
able beauties and glories of nature, the cup of
Christian happiness, for a little while at least,
runs over the brim; and hearts flow together and
praise God in a full, irrepressible torrent of thank-
ful love.

CHAPTER XVIIL.
DOCENDO DISCIMUS.

Tue partnership of Barry and Adler, in teaching,
was productive of many agreeable results. In all
essential qualities of body and mind, they were
276 DOCENDO DISCIMUS.

alike; good sense, good temper, good manners, and
good principles, they had in common. But still
they differed, as good people may differ; and it is
likely the difference was an advantage to both.
Barry was more inclined to out-of-door labour.
He was what is called a practical man. He had,
withal, a great hilarity and a sanguine tempera-
ment in regard to all his projects. He was kind-
hearted, but not prone to undue pity. There was
very little fancy or sentimentality in his charac-
ter, and much more prose than poetry. Carl was
equally robust, and more trained in gymnastic
exercises, but his turn was pensive and poetical.
He often walked alone, at sunset or in twilight,
along the sounding beach. Such poems as Beattie’s
Minstrel not only gained his attention, but ex-
pressed his character.

Both were fond of teaching, but they succeeded
in different ways. Carl had owed to Barry some
of his best thoughts about school management;
but now he began to improve upon them, and
strike out some paths for himself. Barry’s re-
markable turn for natural history led him to un-
dertake extensive pedestrian tours; and he spent
almost a whole summer in the swamps and pines
of New Jersey, and along the sea-shore, collecting
the plants of those rich localities. During this
DOCENO DISCIMUS. 277

time, the government of the academy fell almost
entirely into Carl’s hands. He always had, indeed,
his excellent friend, Mr. Mill, to fall back upon,
in case of any doubt or difficulty.

There is nothing which brings out a young man’s
powers more than responsibility; and there are
few persons by whom this is more painfully or
more early felt than young schoolmasters. This
discipline makes men of them. It is one of the
reasons why teaching is so extensively the road to
success and promotion. Carl found this to be the
case; he often paced the floor in anxiety when
some new study was to come on, or when some
arrogant boy braved his authority, or when some
perverse parent took the side of a rebellious child;
but most of all was he filled with anxiety when
habits of idleness or vice threatened any one of his
school, Yet all these things together made him
feel his accountability, and his need of divine aid.
From day to day he had a sort of modest feeling
that he was getting stronger and stronger. While
it was far from his nature to put on any airs of
command, or seek authority over his lads by look-
ing big, Carl perceived that they respected him,
and gradually felt his strength. A hundred little
experiménts in teaching, or government, which he
would once have shrunk from, he now felt free to

+
278 DOCENDO DISCIMUS.

undertake. As his confidence and skill increased,
he took the same lively and indescribable interest
in managing his boys which a dexterous driver
has in controlling and guiding spirited horses, four
or six in hand. Or, to use his own figure in his
journal, ‘the same pleasure which a sculptor feels,
as the statue comes into shape and beauty under
his chisel.”

WE LEARN BY TEACHING, says a Latin proverb.*
Carl met with this remark in an old writer: “I
seem to myself to have no accurate knowledge of
a subject until I have tried to teach somebody else.”
There is nothing which gives such exactness of
knowledge as endeavouring to communicate it.
“It is,” said Mr. Mill, “‘a benignant provision of
our adorable Creator, who thus, as it were, puts a
bounty upon what might otherwise be a task and
a drudgery.” This was exemplified in the lessons
which Carl gave in his own language. If there
was one thing which he thought he knew above all
things else, it was German; yet, when he came to
teach a class of the higher boys, he found that they
put questions to him which he could not answer.
Then he was driven to study them out. In trying
to give rules for particular cases, he learned to

.



* Docendo discimus,
DOCENDO DISCIMUS. 279

express himself with clearness, precision, and bre-
vity: it is one of the best results of education.

So it was in the lessons of his Bible-class in the
Sunday-school: Carl learned while he taught, and
instructed himself in more than he gave his pupils.
Then he was led on to further attainments. . If a
child’s question opened a new path, he was not
content to answer it; he pursued the track into
other unknown fields. Thus was he led to draft
an outline map of Palestine, and to reduce to a
table all the kings of Israel and Judah. He wrote
alittle memoir of the apostle John, and borrowed
books of Mr. Mill in order to learn what the ancient
writers add to the New Testament history of the
beloved disciple.

Teaching young men of promise stimulates the
teacher more than the scholar. Carl had three
boys who were at surveying. It was easy to keep
up with all that they required; but he went further,
- and he did so with animation and delight. He
made himself better acquainted with logarithms
and geometrical problems. He gained a minute
knowledge of the theodolite and the sextant, and
took the boys out into the fields to survey with the
compass, constructing the figure in the field, or
registering the observations for subsequent plans.
He even peeped into the volumes of Biot and
280 DOCENDO DISCIMUS.

Puisant. Carl was wide awake. His motto was
Onwarp! To bea useful Christian teacher was
the great wish and purpose of his life; and he ex-
ercised himself with this in view, just as one who
means to be a great general exercises himself in
military exercises. This made his labour light,
and turned work into play. Instead of groaning
under his daily burden, he made school pursuits his
recreation and delight.

Car] and Ludwig were seated in the back piazza
of the academy, trying to keep cool, on a midsum-
mer morning. The earth was covered with its
fullest zyreen. The air was scented with the Ber-
muda grape, and valerian, and roses. Pinks and
verbenas sparkled in the borders. A colony of
martins kept all in a chatter about their mimic
house. The two young emigrants were talking
over their plans; for Ludwig had now caught the
prevailing enthusiasm to be a teacher.

Continue, Mr. Adler, if you please,” said Lud-
wig, “the account you were giving me of young
Sybel, out of the German volume which Mademvi-
selle Ursula sent you.”

Carl went to his room for the volume, and pro-
ceeded as follows :-—~
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER. 281

CHAPTER XIX.
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

“You must remember,” said Carl, “that Sybel
died in 1838, at the age of thirty-four, at Lucken-
walde.”

Ludwig. Did he not live once at Potsdam ?

Carl. He did. He was connected with a school
there; but it was before he came out fully and
clearly as an evangelical believer. And do you
know, Ludwig, I think a man must be crippled in
his teaching who is not a true Christian?

Ludwig. You have taught me to think so, my
dear friend; but how blind was I, when you took
me up! Though nominally a Catholic, I had
ceased to believe in the divinity of our Lord !

Carl. Neither did Sybel believe it at first. But
let me recur to his boyhood. You know how
dreadful was the war of 1813, 1814, 1815.

Ludwig. Ah! my father was killed in it.

Carl. You know, the whole of our countrymen
seemed to start from the long sleep of every-day
life, to a romantic interest, which we can scarcely
comprehend. This inspiration was wonderfully
breathed into the youth of the country. Arnold
282 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

Sybel, at ten years of age, already longed to be a
soldier, and wrote patriotic verses. To understand
what follows, it is necessary to refer to the associ-
ations of the Turnleben, as it was called. These
institutions were intended to revive the spirit of
chivalry, in a fanciful connection with patriotism,
manly vigour, and religion: a truly German con-
ception, which resulted in much good and much
evil. They stimulated the youthful mind in an
unexampled degree, raising it to a seriousness,
ardour, and precocious heroism, which had extra-
ordinary fascinations. At twelve years of age,
Sybel began to visit these earnest and awakening
meetings, which were spread over a large part of
Germany, under the influence of Jahn, who was
a type of German enthusiasm. Here boys were
trained to sacrifice everything on the altar of the
Fatherland ; and, after serving in the army against
the invader, many of them returned to the Turn-
platz, to throw fresh warmth into the circulation.
It was a part of this beautiful dream, to restore
the national integrity, to revive old German sim-
plicity and valour, to cherish a tender brotherhood,
and to connect all this with a sort of religion,
which, however latitudinarian in tenets, was full
of passion. The youth was introduced to a band
of ardent associates; to a series of the most athletic
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER, 283

exercises; to self-denials of the severest sort; and
to songs and music which inflamed the soul. No
wonder that they were frequented by multitudes,
and that they absorbed all juvenile sports in their
vortex. All distinctions of rank were levelled.
They were met, according to Jahn’s idea, to rescue
and elevate their dismembered and endangered
country. It is impossible to comprehend the cha-
racter of Sybel, unless we remember that it was
formed in this unusual school. A Spartan dis-
cipline was brought in, to cure the effeminacy of
luxurious ease, and this was accompanied by all
possible appliances of poetry and art. One trait
of this scheme is peculiar. It made war against
the voluptuous curiosity and heats of adolescence,
and inculcated a virginal chastity, in language,
demeanour, and life. If it were seemly, we might
give striking proofs of the extent to which this
prevailed, Under the harangues of Jahn, and the
Tyrtoean songs of Koerner, Schenkendorf, and
Arndt, the youthful assemblies were borne up to
an extraordinary height of animation. It was the
call of God, as they said, that they should save
their country. Little armies of these youth, under
their leaders, with chorus and music, traversed
whole provinces and states on their expeditions.
The effect may be imagined, which such stimul-
284 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

ants would produce in a mind susceptible as that
of Sybel, when, at fifteen, he joined in such an
expedition through Thuringia and the Hartz, and
when, at dawn, from a mountain-top, he opened
his eyes on the glorious prospect; amidst the swell
of hundreds of voices, united in the morning-hyimn.
At this period, Sybel is described as a boy of lovely
form and aspect. His complexion was fair and
ruddy, and his blonde hair flowed gracefully over
a high and ample forehead, while a light blue eye
spoke out the fresh and jocund earnestness of his
nature. The murder of Kotzebue, by Sand, and
the animadversion of the government on Jahn, put
an end to the patriotic associations, and left Sybel
to the ordinary influences of domestic and academic
life. He was already a poet, and he was rapidly
advancing in his classical career. Between the age
of seventeen and twenty, we find him agitated
with religious emotion; though, as he afterwards
found, this was more the religion of poetical mys-
ticism than of the gospel. Yet it tended to form
his peculiar character; and, though remote from
what we see at home, it is not uninteresting as a
study. His biographer admits that “ Christ was
still in the background of the picture.” After
being confirmed and admitted to the communion,
according to the Lutheran rite, the ardent youth -
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER. 285

thus writes: “ Brother, it is done! The Lord
has blessed me! With godly sorrow and deep
emotion, I have received the blessing, and ren-
dered to the Lord my vow. By the grace of our
Father, I received the holy Supper on Sunday,
with reverent awe, and espoused myself entirely
to Jesus. My dear friend, the church has now
bound us together, and our tie has become stronger,
holier, and more significant.” The hymns and
other sacred effusions of this period are numerous.
What follows gives a glimpse of his studies and
temper in 182] :—“ Yesterday I had to go to
Schonfeld, to work with him at Virgil: for this, I
laid down my pen and tore myself from you. How
far he makes up for your absence, is more than I
can express. What above all attracts me, is his
profound, noble feeling for piety, love, and Futher-
land. We labour together almost every day, and
provoke one another to study and to virtue. Iam
now content with my pursuits. Cicero’s Orations
are not hard, and the style pleases me; but Virgil
is not so much to my mind, as I read it along with
Homer; otherwise I find it easy. Homer is my
favourite, as Siebenhaar expoundshim. This, and
the religious lessons with Spilleke, please me most.
The Anabasis, on the contrary, where speeches are
to be translated, is more difficult than the Mliad.
286 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

Spilleke and Siebenhaar are my dearest and most
honoured teachers. My love for them does not
decrease; nay, every day, every hour, it grows on
me; and it is only in this class that I have begun
fairly to penetrate their interior spirit.”

Ludwig. There is something in this letter
which may afford a lesson to young academics in
America.

Carl. In 1824 and 1825, Sybel was at the
University of Bonn; afterwards, for two years,
at Berlin. He then took charge of a female semi-
nary, at Charlottenburg, for one year, at the same
time preparing for the ministry, and for the rigid
examination to which, you know, teachers in Ger-
many are subjected. He then became an instructor
in Berlin, where he remained till the spring of
183]. It was the period in which he became ac-
quainted with Bertha Kirstenmacher, who was
afterwards his wife.

Ludwig. I have heard of the love of Sybel’s
pupils for him. It confirms your maxim, Love
begets love.

Carl. Yes,a young man, who was long his pupil
at Berlin, says of him: ‘ The love of all his pupils
for him was touching. It was increased by the
walks which he took with us every week. When
he left us for Potsdam, and was driving through
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER. 287

the Kochstrasse, a hundred scholars accompanied
the carriage with cheers, till at length he dis-
mounted and walked along with them.

Ludwig. This would look odd in America.

Carl. But why should it? If we were as full
of heart in our teaching as was Arnold Sybel, we
should win the same affectionate enthusiasm. Sybel
lived and moved in school-teaching and school-
training, as his element. It was a darling idea of
his, to bring the teachers of Germany into nearer
fellowship, as a profession. This was perhaps en-
couraged by his remembrances of the gymnastic
associations of the Turnleben,

Ludwig. Did he still practise the exercises ?

Carl, Let his own words answer: “I feel the
need of a public gymnasium (Turnplatz), where
I may, at any time, run and take bodily exercise.
T use one of my vacant hours, from two to three,
for this, as it is unsuited for work; but, alas! I do
it alone. Thus far, they have been mostly running,
especially up hill, Now, I am adding motions of
the arms. I gather stones, and cast them right
and left, far into the air, or ata mark. To-day I
have practised with some pretty large stones, upon
a somewhat steep hill. After such exertion, I feel
quite fresh and joyous.” By the side of his desk,
where he spent so many hours of study and prayer,
288 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

he kept a pair of dumb-bells, for strengthening
the chest. In hig walks, he often carried in his
pocket a cord, which he would use among the forest
trees in swinging and vaulting exercises.

Ludwig. I love this lively temper.

Carl. It was equally manifest in his whole
career. He encouraged himself amidst discourage-
ments by Christian hopes, and no men need such
cheering more‘than teachers. In one of his letters,
he writes thus :—

“ The schoolmaster must not be too intent on ga-
thering the fruit. The seed ripens slowly. One
waters, another harvests. Some may even pull
up the seed sown unless it be well-rooted. And
how much falls by the wayside? And how often
might the very wayside have become good soil, if
the husbandman had only put in his plough with
strength, and begun at the right place!’

Ludwig. It was good to be the pupil of so ear-
nest a preceptor.

Carl. He always'worked with his boys around
him. In this he resembled the great Dr. Arnold
of Rugby. Before he sat down, he allotted to each
his employment, so as to escape needless interrup-
tion. Yet he was always ready to assist. When
the day’s work was over, everything must be put
into its place, for he was strictly observant of neat-
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER. 289

ness and order. Every week there was an inspec-
tion of the desks and other repositories, and every’
gross neglect incurred a trifling fine, which went
into the poor’s box. He was constant in accom-
panying squads of the boys in rambles and visits
to works of art. In this way, it was a main ob-
ject of his to cultivate gentle affection between
the youth.

Ludwig. Had Sybel any children of his
own?

Carl. He had; but they were left orphans by
his early death. As you might suppose, he was a
tender and a Christian parent. In 1833, he thus
wrote concerning one of them :—

“The dear babe is somewhat recovered. O,
what joy! Dear Albert, at this season I have once
more learned how great a weapon prayer is. I was
able to think with cheerfulness of giving up my
child. I should like te know what you think of
prayer. It is a point in which I think we are much
divided. For instance, in this, that I pray to
Christ, in which you will acknowledge no differ-
ence. If so, it must be the same to you, and there-
fore you must pray te Him. For my part, I talk
with him as the disciples talked with him during
his bodily presence, and cast myself on his promise,

that he is with me, and hears me, I pour out my
T
290 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

heart to him, just as it is, with all its joy, and all
its grief.”

Ludwig. O, Mr. Adler, have you no more let-
ters of the same kind?

Carl. Here are numbers of them in this volume.
Try this one :—“ B.’s letter has done me good. I
agree with that faith of his, which demands a for-
mula, and only inquire whether he will agree with
me in my formula, which says, with Luther’s Cate-
chism: I believe that Jesus Christ, very God, be-
gotten of the Father in eternity, and also very man,
born of the Virgin Mary, is my Lord, who has
redeemed, delivered, and won from all sin, death,
and the devil’s power (now comes a capital point),
me, a lost and condemned sinner ; not with gold and
silver, but with his holy, dear blood, and with his
innocent sufferings and death, that I should be his
own, to live under him in his kingdom, and to
serve him in eternal righteousness, innocence, and
happiness ; likewise he has arisen from the dead,
and lives and reigns evermore. This is assuredly
true. So speaks Luther; and I have written it
here, as fearing it might be unknown to B., as
within a few years it was unknown to me.”

Ludwig. And to me! But let me hear a word
or two concerning his death.

Carl. In November 1838 Sybel was seized with
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER. 291

what seemed to be the influenza. He had been
preaching a series of sermons, and was preparing
one on the kingly office of Christ. Writing to his
dear friend, the Rev. Mr. Karbe, he says: ‘‘ Above
all, I have this blessed experience, that I am his
own, and live as a subject in his kingdom. He is
the vine, we the branches. How precious, to be
his branches!” Meanwhile he looked to the build-
ing of a parsonage, the planting of vines, and the
planning of a little garden. “I wish yet,” he
writes to a Christian lady in Potsdam, “to plant
three fruit-trees; an apple-tree, which is to be
named John, a pear-tree, named Martin, and a
heart-cherry-tree, named Mary.” Soon after he
preached his last sermon. On the 15th of Novem-
ber he took to his bed, which he occasionally ex-
changed for the sofa. Though often disqualified,
by the violence of fever, from saying anything as
he wished to do, he sometimes exclaimed with
earnestness, “O, dear Lord, grant that by means
of my suffering and death some one soul at least
may be gained for thee and thy kingdom!” Even
after he was thought to be sunk in delirium he
revived, and cried aloud, ‘‘ The Lion of the tribe
of Judah, the Lord, will conquer: I am already
happy, I am already happy! Hallelujah!” On
recovering his usual clearness of mind, he said, “O
292 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

Thou who art my life! thou Prince of Peace;
thou mine Emmanuel, thou Rose of Sharon, my
Fairest One, thou brightness of glories!” And
again: ‘I have fought a good fight, I have kept
the faith, Iam saved! This is my deathbed ; let
me sleep a little, and then I am ready to die.”
To his children: ‘The blessing of Abraham, the
blessing of Isaac, and the blessing of Jacob come
upon you!” Again and again he said to his be-
loved Bertha, “ Bear thy suffering like a Christian
woman, when I am dead: seek Jesus, and his help;
there is no help anywhere else.”. He prayed and
sang as long as his strength held out. Among his
papers, one was found, requesting that his funeral
sermon should be on the words, ‘‘ This ts a faithful
saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom
Lam chief.”

Ludwig. You have given me the history of so
good a man, and so noble-learted a teacher, that I
would gladly learn more of him.

Cari. Then you had better take the volume with
you. It was printed at Berlin in 1841, and is by
the Rev. Dr. Liebetrut, an intimate friend of
Sybel.
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES. 293

CHAPTER XX.
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES.

Maxtripa MIct, the eldest daughter of the clergy-
man, has scarcely been brought into this narrative.
Yet if the vote had been taken among all the
people in and about Ashdell, the vuice of highest
approval would probably have been for Matilda.
Advantages of person were joined with sound un-
derstanding, delicate taste, and accomplished edu-
cation; and these were crowned by that which
Solomon says is the chief praise of the sex.* But
so retiring was she that many who saw her every
day had no suspicion of her attainments or her
force of character; and some in her vicinity were
even unaware of her existence. During the feeble
and declining health of her father she was the
manager of his domestic affairs, and the guide and
example of her little brothers. It was her grace-
ful hospitality and intelligent conversation which
formed the principal charm of the Spring Hill par-

sonage.

The intimacy was very natural which sprang up



* Prov. xxxi. 30.
294 SCHOOL FESTIVITIES.

between Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Barry, and Miss Mill.
Unlike in many things, they were united in the
love of knowledge and in true religion. Their
plans were often concerted together, and this oc-
curred in respect to the Examination festivities
which were approaching, and which it fell to Mrs.
Barry to provide for.

Examinations are often hollow and unprofitable.
At Ashdell it was determined to turn them to
account. Two ends were held in view; first, to
give a fair account of what the school had accom-
plished in the way of teaching and learning ; and,
secondly, to afford a grand entertainment to the
boys and their friends. A pleasant season of the
year was chosen. Preparations were elaborately
made, not only in the school, but out of it. The
ladies had to prepare accommodations and refresh-
ments for numerous guests, including the parents
of the pupils. It was atime of high enjoyment;
and the little exhibition of declamations and dia-
logues, on the evening of the closing day, was the
grandest time of all, when the boys were at the
top of their glee, in their best clothes and most
shining faces, while mothers and sisters were look-
ing on and listening with indescribable anxiety.

Matilda Mill assumed, under Mrs. Barry, the
charge of the minor arrangements. She selected
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES. 295

the music and drew up the programmes, and de-
corated the schoolroom with green branches and
flowers. It was she who gathered those stores of
apples, pears, peaches, apricots, nectarines, plums,
and grapes and melons, which loaded the table on
the lawn; and every visiter remembered the dainty
richness of the cream which she poured from her
liberal pitchers.

Why should I describe the wonders of an exami-
nation, and the delightful hopes of approaching
holidays? Every one can recall the loud confer-
ences under trees, and in play-grounds; the re-
hearsal of dialogues, the billets to friends, and the
inquisitive scanning of arrivals. Farmer Black of
Cherry Hill was the earliest visiter, in a newly
painted waggon, with white canvass top; he brought
two grandsons to school, and a copy of Henry’s
Commentary for the library; also a well-trained
horse for the riding-classes. You would have
thought that Carl and Matilda had been his own
children. Of course he had his quartwrs at the
doctor’s. The farmer had now become a rich man,
and had two sons married in New York. Next
came the Rev. Mr. Cole, no longer a schoolmaster,
but a professor in the North-west, as awkward
and honest as ever, and full of admiration at seeing
in Mr, Carl Adler the little German boy of former
296 SCHOOL FESTIVITIES.

days. He inquired of Matilda Mill whether Carl
was married yet, which brought the colour into
that young lady’s countenance. Mrs. Grayson, the
same old lady who had been attracted by the sing-
ing of Carl and his boys on the beach, gave notice
of her own approach by the sending of a pianoforte,
for the use of the academy: her little boys were
already members of the school. Fred Mill, now
a dashing young doctor, appeared in due time, with
a brother physician fresh from Paris, in whom Carl
recognised Burnham, the head boy of former days,
who had so often taken his part at the Oaks. That
venerable establishment, be it observed, was now
given up, and the excellent Dr. Newman being
infirm with years, and having no other children,
had come to reside with his beloved Helen, until
further plans should perhaps remove them all to
New York. The company was becoming large,
but the parsonage was ample. Mr. Barry’s accom-
modations were adjusted to just such gatherings,
and Dr. Smith, considering himself one of the
group, insisted on having Drs. Mill and Burnham
at the cottage, as he said, to help in taking care of
Farmer Black, who cried out, in reply, that he had
never been ill a day in his life.

For some reason or other the boys were in un-
cummon good humour, and seemed to have a secret
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES. 297

among them, which was very much hushed up.
King Donald, however, who had accompanied Dr.
Newman, and was now head gardener, took part in
their secret plans. On the gravelled walk, near
the spring, where a thicket of shrubbery surmounts
each side of the craggy pass (the boys called jt
Thermopyle, though the spring was not warm, but
exceedingly cold), great preparations were in pro-
gress for a scrt of triumphal arch. The wind had
blown it down twice, but Donald cheered the boys,
and even sang part of Burns’s lines to the Mouse,
whose nest was turned up by his plough:—

“ But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,®
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft a-gley, T
And Tea’e us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.”.

It was finally, however, completed, with beau-
tiful wreaths of myrtle, and two fine ciphers of
initials, which were carefully covered from curious
eyes. Carl, especially, was forbidden to approach
that darkened avenue near the cascade; and the
small boys took a peculiar arch satisfaction in bar-
ring out the master from his own grounds. Chris-
a

* Not alone. + Awry, off the line.
298 SCHOOL FESTIVITIES.

topher Longworth, the painter’s son, brought two
large canvass banners, executed in the manner
usual in scenes, so as to look well at a distance.
They were happily placed near the spring. Of
these, more hereafter. There was great practis-
ing of a German glee; and Ludwig was the leader
of the orchestra. Charles and Edward Lowe, with
John Marshall, being little boys, were drilled as
pages, to scatter flowers at the proper places, in a
grand procession. Gregory Beale brought a note
from his uncle, the great confectioner, offering a
number of pyramids of ice-cream; and the neigh-
bouring florists sent in baskets of bouquets. In all
this part of the preparations it was observed that
Matilda Mill took no part. She was busy at times
about other matters, but was often pensive and
solitary in her work, and sometimes came weeping
out of her mother’s chamber of languishing.

The first day of examination passed off well. The
neighbouring ladies and gentlemen who favoured
the school returned home at night, but numbers
remained to share the rural but abundant hospitali-
ties, and to attend a concert of sacred music, and
hear an address from Dr. Newman. When the
second and closing day of the solemnities was draw-
ing to a close, and the sun was near setting. a car-
riage drove upto the gate. Four persons approached,
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES. 299

two gentlemen, a young lady, and a little girl.
The quick eye of Carl detected in the lady his be-
loved sister Charlotte! She had just arrived in
the steamer Hermann. The embrace of a brother
and sister, so long separated, need not be described.
The foreign gentleman was Captain Falck, Char-
lotte’s husband. The youngest was Ursula. They
were accompanied by Mr. Schneckenberg.

Happy, happy meeting! at such an auspicious
moment. There are many such conjunctures af-
forded by an all-loving providence, if we would
but observe them. Every man, woman, and child,
at Ashdell, seemed to sympathize in the delight
and gratitude of Carl. After evening worship,
which was attended by quite a congregation, the
friends retired to a shady arbour, asking and an-
swering questions of affection, and recounting the
marvellous loving-kindness of the Lord. Here
Carl confided to his dear friends a secret of his life,
which the reader has only guessed.

4n hour was spent in listening to the speeches
of the boys, which were accompanied by music of
their own. The day closed with pleasing antici-
pations of the morrow, when the boys were to go
home for the vacation. But there was to be an-
other event, which may properly be made known
in another chapter.
300 CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION.

As this little work is far from being @ love-story,
it might very properly end without a marriage.
Nothing has been said about Carl’s courtship, but
it is nevertheless true that his wedding-day has ar-
rived, and that he is about to be married to Matilda
Mill. If intelligence, education, and piety, can fit
a young lady to be the ornament and blessing of a
household, Miss Mill was so fitted. It was uni-
versally pleasing to all concerned, and to none
more so than to Charlotte and Ursula, who loved
Matilda at first sight, and found it hard to keep
down some worldly pride, as they looked around
on the prospects of their once despondent brother.

There was not a boy in the school, nor a servant
in the establishment, who did not feel a glow of
pleasure at the happiness of Carl Adler. They
knew that he was soon to be principal of the aca-
demy, as Mr. Barry had accepted a more prominent
situation in New York.

Confidence and affectionate respect are the
natural consequence and sure reward of diligence,
punctuality, and Christian love. A gay procession
CONCLUSION. 301

of youth moved along the serpentine walk towards
the spring; and at the shady spot called Thermo-
pyle, the festive arch presented itself, with the
initials of the bridegroom and bride, in letters in-
geniously wreathed of evergreens and flowers. In
a rustic framework of the same were displayed the
two pictures, representing, one, Bingen on the Rhine,
and the other, the Oaks.

“Ah, my young master,” said King Donald,
“Did I not tell you in the old garden that the
day would come when you would feel as much at
home in this country as ever you did on the
Rhine?”

Just then Ludwig’s trained company of musicians
broke out in the strains of the famous German song
of Arndt’s, Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland.

Their pronunciation was tolerable, and their
execution admirable. At the closing stanzas tears
were in the eyes of all the Germans present, and
Charlotte and Ursula could scarcely cease weeping
for joy. The verses alluded to may be thus imi-
tated :—

‘Where, therefore, lies the German land ?
Name now at last that mighty land!
Where’er resounds the German tongue,
Where German hymns to God are sung,

There, gallant brother, take thy stand!
That is the German’s fatherland!”
302 CONCLUSION.

‘* That is his land, the land of lands,
Where vows bind less than clasped hands,
Where valour lights the flashing eye,
Where love and truth in deep hearts lie,
And zeal enkindles freedom’s band,—
There is the German’s fatherland !”

“That is the German’s fatherland !
Great God! look down and bless that land!
And give her noble children souls
To cherish, while existence rolls,
And love with heart and aid with hand
Their universal fatherland!”

There was a solitary hour of twilight, in which
Carl looked abroad over the beautiful expanse of
land and water, from the green knoll beyond the
spring. A whole lifetime seemed to press for
admittance into his bursting heart, and his soul
went forth to God in thankfulness and praise.
The God of the orphan and the stranger had been
his God. United to the believing daughter of a
devoted minister of Christ, he acknowledged the
weight of tender obligation. His memory recurred
to passages in the life of Sybel, his model of a
Christian teacher, who was so happy in his married
life. Especially did he recall the page in the
memoir which relates that, about a year before
Sybel’s call to the High School at Potsdam, he
ascended the eminence of Brauhausberg, and
CONCLUSION, 303

pointed out to his atfianced Bertha the beautiful
country around, which was new to her. As they
stood long in silent contemplation, Sybel said,
“Ah, my Bertha, if you and I were ever to live
in such a country, do you think we could sustain
so great a happiness?” And before long he was
called to that very place, carrying his bride thither
in the spring of the following year. As the party
entered Potsdam, the chime of the bells was play-
ing the familiar melody of the hymn,

‘Praise the Lord, the King of Glory,”

which had been sung at the time of their betrothing.
Remembering these passages, Carl adopted as a
motto for himself and Matilda the verse given to
Sybel on a like cecasion by his early and constant
friend, Professor Pischon: “ Be thou faithful unto
death, and I will give thee a crown. of life.”*

Here the history of Carl Adler may properly
end. Of his varied experience in joy and sorrow,
and his increasing usefulness and piety, this is not
the place to speak. The reader who has had
patience to bear us company thus far will have
observed the serious lessons which a simple and
sometimes playful narrative is intended to convey.
If a scholar, he will have read some things to en-



* Rev. ii. 10.
304 CONCLUSION.

courage him to diligence, fidelity, and the fear of
the Lord; if a teacher, he will have recognised the
importance, and dignity, and delightfulness of the
office, and the power there is in zealous regard for
youth and unfeigned operative love.
HERBERT MORGAN;

oR,

WORK TO DO
TNERBERT MORGAN;

oR,

WORK TO DO.

CHAPTER I.

“Work to do! Work to do!” said Herbert
Morgan. “ Thatis the cry for ever. If one wants
to play a minute, it is always ‘No, no; there’s
work to do—work todo!’ But I won’t work so
long; that’s a fact! I'll gotosea. But then they
say that sailors have to work—drive from night till
morning, and from morning till night. No, I won't
go tosea! I'll go—where, where shall Igo? O
yes—that’s mother.”

* Herbert ! Herbert !”

“Call again, call again. I fancy you won’t get
much more out of me to-night. But there’s father
calling too.”

“Herbert! Herbert!”
308 HERBERT MORGAN.

_ © Well, I suppose I must go.”

So Herbert put his dirty hands into his pockets,
and moved slowly toward the house.

« Why, what kind of a boy was that Herbert ?”
say some of my readers.

Herbert was the son of a farmer. His father
was a poor man, who had always been what we
call unfortunate. He had once had a good house
and barn, and was pretty well off. But one night,
after a beautiful summer's day, there was a heavy
thunder-shower, and the lightning struck the barn,
and soon the buildings around were all in a blaze.
Herbert was then a very little boy, too little to
know much about his father’s loss; but he was not
too little to know, and feel too, that there was a
great change in his father. The very youngest
know the difference between frowns and caresses,
between smiles and tears.

The father was not one of those persons who
try to be resigned to the providences of God. He
talked of his loss with almost angry feelings;
saying, that it was a most unfortunate and pro-
voking thing that the lightning should happen to
strike there. This was quite unlike the language
of good pious Job. When the messenger came and
told him that the fire of God had fallen from heaven
and burned up the sheep and the servants, he bowed
HERBERT MORGAN. 309

himself to the earth and worshipped, and said—
“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,
and blessed be the name of the Lord.” So did not
Mr. Morgan, Herbert’s father. He murmured
against the Lord, and became a gloomy, discon-
tented man.

Both the father and mother were now obliged
to work harder than they were able; and as Her-
bert grew to be a boy, they wanted him to do more
than boys in general are expected to do. I suppose
that Mr. Morgan had never sat down and told his
little son how much he needed his help; that his
health was failing, because he was obliged to work
so hard. If he had done so, we cannot help think-
ing that Herbert would have been a better boy.

We are unwilling to believe that any little boy
could be so wicked as to refuse to do what he could
for his father and mother, if he knew that they
were killing themselves with hard work to support
him. As it was, Herbert was a bad and idle
fellow. “It makes no difference,” he would say,
“ work or not, it is all the same—father is never
satisfied.” And so the boy made up his mind that
he would do nothing. That was a bad conclusion.
It was unreasonable, four Herbert had no right to
be idle.

But my readers may ask, if the father was not
310 HERBERT MORGAN,

unreasonable? No doubt he was; but that was no
excuse for Herbert. He should have done what
he could, and in the best way he could. Then
God would have been pleased with him, if his
father was not. Children who please God are
always happy. So was not poor Herbert. When
he was in the field, his father scolded him con-
tinually ; his mother complained when he was in
the house, saying, that he was the worst boy in
town, and would do nothing for her. . But this was
not all. Herbert was often obliged to bear some-
thing worse than scolding.

Bad children must be managed somehow, and it
often happened that Morgan considered a long
birch stick the very best argument that could be
used. We are sorry to say that even this did not
convince Herbert that it was best to be good. He
grew worse and worse; and whenever he found
himself unobserved, he would steal away to a little
grove back of the house, and there he would lie
hour after hour, looking through the green branches
up to the blue sky, sleeping, or thinking over bad
thoughts.

It was on a time like this that our story
commenced. Herbert heard his mother call, and,
instead of running as fast as a good boy would, he
said, ‘‘Call again, call again; I fancy you won't
HERBERT MORGAN. 311

get any more work out of me to-night.” When
the father called, Herbert went; not because he
loved or cared for him, but because he feared the
consequences of disobedience.

Mr. Morgan’s health was getting to be very
poor. He was quite unable to do his work alone;
and one evening he was sitting gloomily by the
fire, while his wife, pale and worn out like himself,
was mending old clothes :—“ Spring is coming on,”
said Mr. Morgan at last, with a deep sigh, “and
I must hire a servant. I can never get along as I
did last summer, with only that lazy, good-for-
nothing boy.”

“It is too bad,” replied Mrs. Morgan. ‘“‘ There
is George Jones, who is not so old nor stout as
Herbert, does more than half the work of a man.”

“Yes,” said Mr. M., “and with such help I
could get along; but it is my luck. Some people
are born to be tormented.”

Poor Mrs. Morgan said no more. She thought
of all the hard fortune they had endured; and then
she thought of Herbert. What a fine little baby
he was! how much the father thought of his boy !
How they both promised themselves so much hap-
piness in Herbert, and how sadly, woefully, they
were disappointed!

“ Surely,” thought the poor lady, “my husband
312 HERBERT MORGAN.

is right; and we are among those who are born to
be tormented.”

But God has good reasons for afflicting people.
It is not his will that people should be wicked, and
so distress and perplex their friends; but if they
choose to be, He knows how to turn even such
afflictions to the best account. Our heavenly
Father has kindly invited us to cast our burden
upon him, and has promised that if we do so, he
will sustain us. What pity that people in afflic-
tion will not always accept this gracious invitation !
Had Mr. and Mrs. Morgan done so, they would
not have gone to their beds that night, feeling so
discouraged and wretched; they would not have
kept awake through the long watches of that
gloomy night, thinking of their poverty, of their
bad luck, of their disobedient, idle boy. If people
are afflicted, they ought to pray. If they do this,
God will show them what they ought todo. He
will give them strength to bear their sorrows, grace
to endure patiently, and wisdom to direct them in
all their ways.

The next morning, Herbert was told that he was
such a lazy little rascal, that his father must hire
a man; that he was the torment of their lives, and
had better be dead than alive.

Herbert made but little reply to this. The
HERBERT MORGAN. 313

truth was, he cared but little about it. He soon
went to his old place in the grove. The snow had
nearly gone, and the little birds were beginning to
come home from the south. One beautiful song-
ster had perched on the branch of a tree directly
over Herbert’s head. He was singing a jubilee
song, and any good child would have been de-
lighted to hear him. But what do you think
Herbert did? Why, he said, “Stop your noise,
you little fool!” Just like a bad boy, to say such
a thing as that to a bird that was singing his
morning song. Wicked people don’t like to hear
the birds, nor human voices, praising the Lord.

But the little bird had no idea of spoiling his
pretty song to please a rude boy. So he kept on
singing, as much as to say, “I wonder which is
the greatest fool—an idle, ill-natured boy like you,
or a happy bird like me?”

It seemed so to Herbert; and feeling very angry,
he took up a stone, and flung it at the tree; but
the little songster flew to a higher branch, and
seemed to say, as he sung, ‘‘ You're a bad shot this
morning, idle Mr. Herbert.”

“Tf I don’t kill that bird,” said the cruel boy,
looking round for another stone, ‘then kill me—
that’s all.”

But God has a care for the birds; and before
314 HERBERT MORGAN.

Herbert found another stone his father called him.
“Come here, you good-for-nothing fellow,” said
Mr. Morgan, “and move quick, if you know what
is best for you. Didn’t I tell you yesterday to
carry Mr. Jones’s spade home? and here it is now,
If he was not one of the kindest men living, he
never would lend mea thing again. George al-
ways must come after what he lends us, because
you are too lazy to move. Why don’t you start,
sir?” And Mr. Morgan gave him a shake, and
then a push, that sent him head foremost into a
puddle of dirty water.

Herbert picked himself up, and brushing off the
wet a little, started on his errand. He walked
quite briskly up the hill towards Mr. Jones’s; but
when he was fairly out of sight, he muttered to
himself. You won’t gain anything by pushing me
down, old Mr. Cross-grain. I shall not hurry my-
self. You won't see me back again right away—
sO, sir.”

Herbert moped along, now building dams in the
rivulets at the side of the road, and now splashing
along in the middle of the road, filling his shoes
full of water, and trying to get as much mud as
possible upon the pantaloons, which his poor tired
mother had sat up the night before to mend and
clean. At last he came to Mr. Jones’s; and knock-
HERBERT MORGAN. 315

ing at the door—“ Good morning, Herbert!” said
Mr. Jones, in a pleasant voice; “ come to the fire,
and dry your feet.”

Herbert walked over the clean floor, feeling a
little ashamed of his wet, muddy clothes. Amelia
Jones, a sweet, pretty little girl, gave him a chair.
Herbert felt awkward; he stuck both of his legs
out, and then drew them up again; looked up to
the mantel-shelf, and then down under the table;
twirled his old hat, and tore off a piece more of the
brim. At last he said, “I’ve brought home your
shovel, Mr. Jones.”

“ Very well,” said Mr. Jones; “I wanted it very
much last night; but George is sick, and could not
go after it.”

Mr. Jones then took up the Bible, and said,
“We are rather late this morning, Herbert; but
we were up most of the night with George. If
you can wait until after prayers, and get thoroughly
dry, you can go in and see him; that is, if your
father did not tell you to hurry home.”

“QO, father is not in a hurry,” said Herbert.
But he thought, “I don’t care if he is.”

The children had now gathered around the
table, and read a chapter, by turns, with their
father and mother. Little Amelia then selected a
hymn.
316 HERBERT MORGAN.

“Can you sing, Herbert?” said Mrs. Jones.

“No, ma’am,” said the boy, feeling somewhat
as he did towards the bird.

The little Joneses soon sliowed that they could
sing, and loved to praise the Lord in this pleasant
way with their dear father and mother. The
hymn was concluded, and Mr. Jones knelt to pray.

He thanked God for the light and blessings of
another morning, and asked grace to improve all
the gifts of Providence aright. He prayed for his
children, that God would restrain them from vice,
lead their youthful feet into the path of virtue and
happiness, give them new hearts, and prepare them
fur heaven. He implored wisdom for their parents,
that they might do their duty towards the little
ones which God had given them. He prayed for
George, that Ged would be pleased to restore him
to health, or fully prepare him to die.

“0,” thought Herbert, “ George Jones is not
such a dreadful good boy after all. His father
does not seem to think that he is fit to die.”

Herbert did not know that those who are na-
turally the best people in the world, still need to
repent, and believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and
receive a new heart, before they can be saved.

Mr. Jones did not forget to pray for Herbert.
Christians want everybody to be good; and it can-
HERBERT MORGAN. 317

not be thought a strange thing, if he feared that
Herbert was not. He prayed that the little boy
might remember that he was born to die; and that
children were often called from this to the eternal
world.

Herbert did not really like to hear this, and was
glad when the prayer was over.

* Now,” said Mr. Jones, “ if you would like to
go up stairs with me, and see George, you can.”

When they entered the room, George was lying
with his face turned toward his eldest sister, who
was reading to him in a low voice from the Bible.

When Mr. Jones entered, Caroline closed the
book, and said, “I hope that you will pardon me,
father ; George was very anxious for me to read.”

* But, my daughter,” said Mr. Jones, “ you
know that the doctor said he must be kept very
quiet. Your mother and I were both hoping that
he was asleep.”

George now turned his red and fevered face
toward his father, and said, “‘ You must not be
displeased with Carrie, father. I gave her no rest
till she began to read. I can’t sleep, indeed I can’t.
I am afraid, father, that I shall die.”

“TI will take your place a little while, Caroline,”
said Mr. Jones. ‘Go out, and breathe the morn-
ing air, my daughter.”
318 TMLERBERT MORGAN.

George and the father sat down by the bed.
“ Why are you afraid to die?”

Poor George caught his father’s hand, and a
deeper flush came over his cheek. ‘‘ Do you think
that I shall die, father? O, I know that you do,
or you would say nothing about it !”

“There you are mistaken, my son,” said Mr.
Jones. “If you think a moment, you will remem-
ber that I often talk to my children of dying when
they are well; and that is the time to talk and
think of such things. It is impossible, my dear
boy, for me to tell whether you will die, or get well.
The doctor does not consider you dangerously sick
at present; but you now see the need of being
constantly prepared for death. It is very unsafe
for us to live a moment as we should not dare to
die.”

George turned his face upon the pillow, and
burst into tears. ‘ I have never been a good boy,
father,” said he, sobbing as he spoke. ‘“ People
have called me good, but I have done a great many
bad things. I was pleased and proud, the other
day, when I overheard you tell mother that you
did not think that I ever told a wilful lie.”

“T had hoped that this was true of you, my
son,” said Mr. Jones.

“J don’t know,” said George, “that I ever did
HERBERT MORGAN, 319

tell what people generally call a lie; but I am
afraid that God has sometimes seen a lie in my
heart. I have not always told the ehole truth;
and I have sometimes acted a lie to my little bro-
thers and sisters.”

“ My dear son,” said Mr. Jones, “ now listen to
me. You need not think over every wrong thing
that you have done, in order to convince yourself
or me that you are a sinner. But tell me, George,
for whom did Jesus die?”

“ For sinners,” said George.

“ For all?” asked his father.

“ Yes,” replied George ; “ Carrie has just read to
me that Jesus died for all.”

“Then,” said Mr. Jones, “ he died for George
among the rest ; and if you are the chief of sinners,
and come to him, he will not cast you out. This
is all that you can do, my son; it is all that any
sinner can do. Our friends may freely forgive us
our sins against them; but God only can forgive
the sins of the heart. You may come to him, my
son, just as you are. He will accept you, not be-
cause you have always done right, for you have
never done perfectly right. He will accept you
because you are a sinner, and Jesus died to save
you.”

George looked earnestly into his father's face
320 HERBERT MORGAN.

while he was talking. He then turned to Herbert,
and asked him if he was afraid to die?

“Don’t know,” said Herbert, “I never thought
much about it, any way.”

“QO, but Herbert,” said George, “ we ought to
think about it. I wish that I had thought more
of it when I was well; but I can’t help it now.”

“No, my son,” said Mr. Jones; “you can do
nothing with the past; but the present is yours.
We will leave you alone for a little time. You
may think calmly of what I have been saying to
you.”

“* But, father,” said George, “ perhaps God won't
listen vo me; will you not pray for me?”

“* God will listen to you, George,” said his father,
“if you come to him repenting of your sins, and
trusting in your Saviour. You must not trust to
your father’s prayers. You must remember that
none but Jesus can do helpless sinners good.”

So saying, Mr. Jones and Herbert left the room.
«As they were going down stairs, Mr. Jones said,
“ How important it is, Herbert, that children should
be good, and prepared to die. I hope, my little
boy, that if God lays you upon a bed of sickness,
you will not feel so unprepared for death as George
does.”

“T fancy Mr. Jones does not know what kind of
HERBERT MORGAN. 321

a boy lam,” thought Herbert, as he walked to-
ward home. “ George tells about acting a lie. Ha!
ha! Herbert Morgan wouldn’t think much of that.
Why I have told more lies than Mr. Jones could
stuff into his great barn. And now I must be
thinking up one to tell father when I get home,
for I’ve stayed far too long.”

Just then something seemed to whisper into the ,
poor wicked boy’s ear, “‘ Children are born to die!
Perhaps God may lay you upon a bed of sickness,
as he has George.” ‘I’ve a good mind to tell
the truth this time,” thought he, “and see what
will come of it. Well I will; then if I get a beat-

2

ing, I will lie as long as I live.” Something whis-
pered, ‘‘ What will you do when you die?” “Sure
enough,” thought Herbert; “ that I don’t like,
somehow.”

He had now come to his own door. He peeped
in, and saw his mother getting dinner; his father
was there, making a hoe-handle.

** Where do you suppose that boy is so long?”
said Mrs. Morgan.

“OQ, I don’t know,” said Mr. Morgan. “I tell
you what it is, Susan, Herbert is a ruined child.
I am completely discouraged about him.”

The mother said nothing. But Herbert saw

through the door that a tear was gathering in her
x
322 HERBERT MORGAN.

eye, and at last it rolled in a large silent drop down
her cheek. It had been a long time since the boy
had known whether he loved his mother or not ;
but somehow, when he saw that tear upon her pale
cheek, there was a strange kind of a feeling about
his heart—he hardly knew what it meant, but it
helped him in his good resolution to try the truth
for once; so he walked in.

“ How now, my lad?” said Mr. Morgan, “Pretty
business this, playing in the mud for half a day.”

“ No, I have not,” said Herbert; “‘ I have been
stopping at Mr. Jones’s.”

« And what did you stay there for?” asked his
father. ;

“O, Mr. Jones asked me,” replied Herbert.
“They were just going to say prayers; they all
read, one after the other, a long chapter about
Jesus being a man of sorrows, and going about
doing good, and dying for sinners. It was a first-
rate story. And then they sung. That Mela
Jones is a sweet girl, and a capital singer. I wish
she —~”

“Was your sister?” asked his mother.

“J don’t know,” said Herbert. I suppose if she
was my sister she would not be like Mela.”

Mrs. Morgan took up a corner of her apron and
wiped her eyes; and the boy noticed what he had
HERBERT MORGAN. 323

never seen before, namely, a tear in the corner of
his father’s eye. At last his mother spoke, in a
soft, tender voice, such as he had not heard since
he was a little boy. “Herbert,” said she, “ you
had a little sister once, a beautiful little creature
as ever breathed.”

“Where is she now?” asked Herbert eagerly.

‘She is dead,” sobbed Mrs. Morgan, quite over-
come with her feelings.

Herbert sat some time in silence ; at last he said,
“Father, when people are dead, do they know
anything more?”

“No,” said Mr. Morgan.

“Then,” continued Herbert, ‘I don’t see why
George Jones should be so mightily afraid to die.
I did not tell you that George was sick ; but he is,
and now he speaks about being bad.”

“ Bad!” said Mr. Morgan. ‘ George Jones is
the best boy in town.”

“O, but he is not ;” and Herbert seemed quite
pleased with the thought. “He says that he has
never been good; and he told his father so.”

**I do not believe that,” said Mr. Morgan. “I
am sure Mr. Jones does not think that he has
been bad. If J had such a boy, I should not mind
being poor.”

“Well,” said Herbert, “ I do not know anything
324 HERBERT MORGAN.

about it, only what Mr. Jones said. He told
George that he was a sinner, and I suppose that
means bad; and he talked as though he was not
fit to die.”

“George not fit to die!” said Mrs. Morgan.
“Why, Herbert, what do you think would become
of you, if George is not fit to die?”

“ Come of me—why?” asked Herbert.

“I mean if you should die, what would become
of you—a disobedient, idle, lying boy?”

“Why,” said Herbert, “I suppose anybody is
fit enough to be put into the grave, if that is all.”

Mrs. Morgan said no more. She began to feel
that she had not done her duty toward her boy.
Wer conscience condemned her. Mr. Morgan
wished to change the subject; so he said, ‘ Then
you stayed to see George.”

“ Yes,” replied Herbert, “and it took some
time; they read, and sang, and then Mr. Jones
prayed for everybody. His prayer was not very
long; but I don’t think he left anybody out.”

“Surely he didn’t stop to call everybody by
name,” said Mr. Morgan.

“No,” replied Herbert; “but I knew who he
meant. I knew when he prayed for me, and I was
much obliged to him, for I do not think anybody
ever prayed for me before; and I knew who he
HERBERT MORGAN. 325

meant when he prayed for his neighbours who did
not pray for themselves!” Here Herbert looked
at his father and mother in a way that they did
not really like, so they sent him to work in the
barn.

CHAPTER II.

HERBERT's short visit to Mr. Jones was not with-
out effect. The boy thought of it by day and by
night. He had pretended more ignorance than he
was guilty of. Herbert had heard, and believed,
too, that the soul lives for ever. It is true that he
had thought but little of it, for he was a careless,
sinful boy; but now, as he was alone, he thought
much of what Mr. Jones had said to George—of
what George had said to him—of Mr. Jones’s
prayer—and particularly what he said to him about
the need of a preparation for death. It was the
Spirit of the Lord which brought these things to
the little boy’s mind—that Spirit without which
this world would be a dreadful place, full of dark,
malicious spirits, sinning without reproof, and with-
out remorse.

Herbert had not yet resolved to bea better boy.
He did not even seem to think it possible, where
326 HERBERT MORGAN.

he was. “If I lived at Mr. Jones’s (thus the
little boy would think), perhaps I might come at
last to be like them; but as it is I cannot be good.”
Ah, how little did Herbert think that the Spirit
of Ged is everywhere, and especially near to those
who want to turn from their evil ways. The more
Herbert thought of what he was, and had always
been, the worse he felt. At last he made up his
mind, that, if possible, he would go and live with
Mr. Jones.

One evening he asked his father if he would be
willing to have him go. Mr. Morgan thought it
a strange request, and he told Herbert that he
need not talk any more about it; for Mr. Jones
would never think of being troubled with a boy
like him. He said, moreover, if it were not that
Herbert was his own son, he would have turned
him out of doors long before.

The poor boy went to his bed feeling sadly dis-
appointed. After he was gone, however, Mrs.
Morgan told her husband that if Mr. Jones would
take Herbert for a time, she thought it best to let
him go. The truth was, Herbert’s visit to Mr.
Jones, or his account of it, had greatly affected his
mother. She wished from her heart that the poor
boy could have the advantage of pious and right
instruction. She had not the courage to set about
HERBERT MORGAN. 327

a reform in her own character, or try what prayer
would do for herself and poor Herbert. She had
feelings somewhat similar to his with regard to
doing right, and being a Christian, and a faithful
mother where she was. She thought, as many
do, that hers was a peculiar case. She did not
then understand how Divine strength is made per-
fect in our weakness, or how full and unfailing is
the promise: ‘As thy day is, so shall thy strength
be.”

Mr. Morgan felt sure that Mr. Jones would not
take Herbert for a day; but Mrs. Morgan remem-
bered many things which Mr. Jones had done,
quite as singular as that would be—things for
which nobody could give a reason, Certain it was,
the boy was no profit to them; and as they would
be obliged to hire a man, they ought to do some-
thing, if possible, to lessen their burden. It was
therefore decided that Herbert should be allowed
to ask Mr. Jones; and, to his great joy, he was
told the next evening of this decision. He started
immediately, and in a few moments was at Mrs.
Jones's.

“Walk in, Herbert,” said Mrs. Jones. “I sup-
pose you have come to see George?”

«« Yes, ma’am—no, ma’am,” said Herbert; “ parte
ly to see George, and partly to see Mr. Jones.”
328 HERBERT MORGAN.

“©, well!” said the good woman, “if you want
to see Mr. Jones, you will find him in the sitting-
room with the children, showing them about their
lessons; you can go in.”

Once there, he hardly knew how to begin his
errand. He thought it would sound strangely to
Mr. Jones; for he had heard his father, only a few
days before, ask Mr. Jones if he knew of a good
man that could be hired; and now that all the boy
he had should be offering himself to a neighbour,
what would he think ?

Herbert thought, on the whole, that the best
way would be to tell his errand at once. So he
said, ‘I suppose George won’t be able to do much
for some time, Mr. Jones, so I have come to see
if you did not want me to come and help you?”

“You!” said Mr. Jones, “ why, my bey, what is
your father to do?”

“He does not want me,” replied Herbert, hang-
ing down his head.

* Then,” said Mr. Jones, “I am afraid that you
are not such a boy as shall want. Your father told
me, only a few days ago, that he was not able to
get along, and must hire a man.”

“ Father said I might ask you,” persisted Her-
bert.

«Are you a good boy at home?” inquired Mr.
HERBERT MORGAN. 329

Jones; “do you try to help your father and mother
all you can ?”.

Herbert. No, sir.

Mr. Jones. And do you think that I want a bad
boy to work for me?

Herb. I should not be bad with you.

Mr. J. Not bad here, and bad at home! Would
you be better to a neighbour than to your father
and mother? I am afraid, Herbert, that they
know nothing about this.

Herb. They do; by —

Mr. J. No, no! dont’t say by anything. Little
boys who tell the truth need not use an oath; and
to lie, and swear too, is a double sin. If you can
be good here, why cannot you be good at home? I
am sure that your father needs you.

Herb, Well, sir, I don’t know why—but I can-
not be good at home.

Mr. J. Have you tried ?

Herb. It would be no use.

Mr. J. Well, Herbert, just go home and try for
a week to he a good boy, and I rather think your
father would not let me have you at any rate.

“I cannot, sir,” said Herbert, his cheek glowing
with passion and disappointment; I can’t, and I
won't. If you will not let me come and live here,
I never will try to be good.
330 HERBERT MORGAN.

** Would you try,” said Mrs. Jones, “if we
would take you for a time?”

“J would,” replied Herbert firmly.

Mrs. Jones now talked awhile with her husband
in a low voice. Herbert did not hear what she
said; but he heard Mr. Jones say, “ youare right,
dear. It is a chance to do good.” He then said
to Herbert, “I will try you for a time. George
is better, but will not be able to do much of our
spring work, You may come; but you must know
that there is work to do. As long as people live
in this world there is work to do. When we come
to die, Herbert, we shall find it a sad case if our
work is not done. When we come before Christ
in judgment, we shall want to be able to say, ‘I
have finished the work thou gavest me todo.’ So
I try to remember myself, and teach my children
that, while we live in this world, there is ‘ work
to do.”

When Herbert was walking home that night,
he said to himself, “Work to do; work to do.
Well I shall not forget that, for I’ve heard it ever
since I was born.”

“Tam going to Mr. Jones's,” said Herbert.

“You will not stay long,” replied his father.
“Mr, Jones is a man that will have no drones in
his hive.”
HERBERT MORGAN. 331

CHAPTER III.

HERBERT was now fairly established at his new
home. ‘ Work to do,” began to have a different
and more agreeable sound. “ There is some such
thing as getting work done here,” Herbert would
say. ‘ When my work is well done Mr. Jones
says so, and gives me time to play.” And then
the evenings at Mr. Jones’s. It is true that they
had always something to do; but it was pleasant
to study, to learn to read, and to sing, where Mr.
and Mrs. Jones were the teachers. It must not
be supposed that an idle, wicked, passionate boy,
like Herbert, became good all at once. No; he
o‘ten gave his friends a great deal of trouble.
Sometimes he would be obstinate and idle for two
or three days, and Mr. Jones would think that it
was no use to try to do him good, and he would
almost resolve to send him home. But then he
would think how long God bears with the sinner !
how he sends his Spirit, not for a few days only,
but for many long rebellious years; how it strives
and entreats, by day and by night, till the lamp of
life ceases to burn, and the precious day of proba-
tion is gone! Then Mr. Jones would ask for more
grace and patience—for more of the Spirit of
332 HERBERT MORGAN.

Christ ; and as our heavenly Father giveth liberally,
and without upbraiding, to those who ask, Mr.
Jones would begin with new courage and hope to
instruct Herbert—to pray for him, and teach him
the right way. Things had gone on in this way for
two or three months. George was now able to go
about the house, and to assist his mother in teach-
ing the children. He was glad that Herbert was
one of their family; for, somehow, notwithstanding
his wicked and rude habits, he had a way of
making himself a favourite among other children.
George had always liked him, and still more now,
as he saw his character improving.

Mr. Jones had often talked seriously and earnestly
to Herbert about the sin of lying; and his efforts
had been crowned with great success. The little
boy seemed to fear a lie, and his kind friends
hoped that this dreadful habit was nearly over-
come.

One day, however, George was in the field, and
heard Herbert tell a lie to one of the workmen.
It was about a piece of work which he had for-
gotten to do. Presently Mr. Jones came into the
field, and the falsehood was repeated tohim. As
soon as George found Herbert alone, he entreated
him to confess that lie. ‘ You will be detected,”
said George. ‘‘ Father would readily pardon such
HERBERT MORGAN. 333

an omission—but a lie! Herbert, you know what
he thinks of a lie.”

But Herbert was beginning to feel proud of the
character which he gained for promptness and
diligence. “ Herbert never forgets anything,” so
the workmen wouldsay. And if Mr. Jones want-
ed anything done at a particular time, Herbert,
above all others, was the one to trust. It was no
wonder that the boy felt a little proud of this fine
character. He had, for nearly all his lifetime,
thought himself a miserable fellow, born for a
torment, and of no use in the world: now he be-
gan to feel how pleasant it is to be respected as
trustworthy. He began to hold up his head
among diligent and honest people, and he was
not willing to lose a particle of his newly-acquired
fame.

Ah, Herbert! poor boy! he thought more of the
praise of man than the favour of God. He was
willing to risk his immortal soul by telling a lie,
rather than to have Mr. Jones and the workmen
know that he had neglected what was intrusted to
his care. Herbert felt ashamed of the lie, and told
George that he should look out better, and not be
obliged to tell another; but one lie always brings
others in its train; and, on that very evening,
George was grieved and surprised to hear Herbert
334 HERBERT MORGAN.

ask leave to go to his father’s. The request was
readily granted.

“ Herbert,” said George, following him to the
door, “ you see now how you are obliged to tell a
second lie, in order to hide the first.”

“I know it is tuo bad,” said Herbert, “ but I
shall not get into such a scrape again. I must go
and do that work to-night, or they will certainly
find me out.”

“* God has already found you out,” said George,
solemnly.

“Well, well,” replied Herbert, “I shall not lie
again; you must not hinder me now, for there is
work to do.”

“ Poor boy,” thought George, “ 1am afraid that
you will find sad work to do by-and-by.”

It was late bed-time when Herbert returned,
but Mr. Jones was still up.

“You have spent the evening at your father’s,
Herbert?” said he.

“* Yes, sir,” was the reply.

“ Are your parents well?”

“‘ Very well, sir, thank you,” said Herbert.

“Has your father concluded to hire the man
that I sent him?” asked Mr. Jones.

Here Herbert was puzzled, but he dared not
hesitate. ‘ Yes, sir,” was the reply.
HERBERT MORGAN. 335

Just at that moment there was a loud knock at
the door. “TI scarcely expected to find you up at
this hour,” said Mr. Morgan, as he entered. “ My
wife has been sick during the day, and I was un-
able to let you know about the man you sent; I
think he will answer.”

“Is mother much sick?” inquired Herbert.

“Yes,” said his father. ‘“‘I hope she will be
better in the morning; but you must come and see
her, Herbert, when Mr. Jones can spare you. Iam
glad that you are doing so well, my boy; but you
must not forget that you have a father and mother.”

Here Mr. Morgan bade them a hasty good night,
and went out.

“ Did you not tell me that you spent the evening
at your father’s?” said Mr. Jones.

“ Yes, sir,” replied Herbert, impatiently.

Mr. J. What, then, does your father mean?

Herb. Means that I am a liar, I suppose.

Mr. J. I don’t understand you, Herbert.
Where have you been to-night?

Herb. Been to put up that fence.

Mr. J. And yet you told me to-day that it was
done.

Herb. If people must be compelled to tell every-
thing that they do, and all that they leave undone,
they must get along the best way they can.
3836 HERBERT MORGAN.

| Mr. J. Andis lying the best way?

Herb. It is the best that I know of.

Mr. J. Well, Herbert, it is often said that “ all
is well that ends well;” what if we should glance
at the end of the liar’s path? Here Mr. Jones
opened his Bible, and read these and similar pas-
sages :-—‘‘ For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and
murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and
maketh a lie.” “ Allliars shall have their part in
the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone,
which is the second death.” And O what a death!
a death that never dies. Where there are

‘* Groans that ever groan,
And sighs that ever sigh,
And tears that ever weep and fall,
But not in mercy’s sight.”
Tell me, Herbert, are you willing to walk the
liar’s path until you find its end?

“ I do not intend to do that,” said Herbert.

**No,” replied Mr. Jones, “it is not probable
that you do. You will not find a sinner who ex-
pects at last to reap the fruits of sin. All mean
to turn and live. But when? Herbert, my boy,
you may find the end of that dreadful path to-night.
There is work to do; work that should be done
before you sleep. You have spent a long evening
in hard work. that your character for faithfulness
HERBERT MORGAN. 387

might not suffer. But what is human character
to the interests of the soul? what is the opinion of
men to the knowledge of God? what is time to
eternity, my boy?”

Herbert felt startled at this earnest appeal.
He felt ashamed and degraded, but not penitent;
and when Mr. Jones proposed that he should
kneel with him, while he confessed his sin, and
asked pardon from God, Herbert refused. He
seemed to think that this act would increase his
degradation. Mr. Jones did not insist upon this.
He knew that true repentance is the gift of God ;
that all human effort is of no avail, without his
Spirit. He offered a short, but fervent prayer, for
the poor wicked boy who sat sullen and mortified
by his side, and, bidding him a good-night, left
him alone.

CHAPTER IV.

Lone after Mr. Jones had retired, Herbert sat
moodily by the fire, vexed and mortified, but not
humbled. The poor boy reasoned thus: ‘‘ What
is the use of trying to be anything? A little
while ago, and I did not care for my character.

I was a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, and did not
Y
338 HERBERT MORGAN.

care who knew it. Now, just as I begin to think
something of myself, and people begin to think
something of me, I must be mortified in this way.
What an everlasting fuss about a lie! I do not
believe that people ever get to be much in this
world without lying. I am now fourteen years
old, and IJ shall take the liberty to think for my-
self. If everybody were to go upon their knees,
and whine over every lie they happened to tell,
there would not be much else done in this world.”
Thus did Herbert grieve the good Spirit of God
from his heart, and, full of proud, rebellious feel-
ings, laid himself down to rest. But did he rest?
No! “There is no peace to the wicked;” and
hour after hour did the sinful boy turn upon his
pillow; he was unhappy, wretched, but not sorry
for his sin; if he had been thus, he would have
willingly, gladly come to a throne of grace. and
there he would have found rest; “for like as a:
father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth
them that fear him.” The next morning Mr.
Jones held the following conversation with George:
Mr. J. George, my son, did you know yester-
day that Herbert had not mended that fence?
George. Yes, father.
Mr. J. And you heard him tell us that it was
done?
HERBERT MORGAN. 339

George. Yes, father.

Mr. J. Do you think it right, my son, to allow
persons to tell falsehoods in your presence?

George. I did not know what was best to do,
father. I really hoped that Herbert would listen
to me, and confess the lie; but he would not.

Mr. J. Then you tried to persuade him to do
so? Iam glad of that, George. Iam glad that
you did not wholly neglect your duty in this case.

George. You think that I ought to have re-
proved him upon the spot, and not have allowed
you and the workmen to be deceived.

Mr. J. Certainly, George. We are not to suffer
sin upon our neighbour, for a moment, without
reproof.

George. You know, father, that Herbert is
proud and passionate. I was afraid of doing more
lurt than good by exposing his falsehood before
you all.

Mr. J. You acted from good motives, my son, I
have no doubt; but you must try, George, to keep
alive in your heart a sense of the worth of souls.
If you do so you will find it difficult to keep
silence when the soul is in such danger. What if
our Herbert had been cut off with that lie in his
mouth ?

George. O, father, it would have been dreadful !
340 IIERBERT MORGAN.

I hope God will forgive me for feeling so easy about
it as I did. But I have thought lately, and mother
too thinks, that Herbert is getting to be quite con-
scientious.

Mr. J. I had hoped so too, George; but last
evening I was convinced of my mistake. Herbert
begins to have pride of character; all this is well,
if not carried too far. Both your mother and my-
self have tried to show Herbert the importance of
respecting himself, that he might be truly respect-
able. We have been pleased with our success.
Herbert has become studious, diligent, exact,
prompt, and punctual; to us, who know what he
was, this change is delightful. His father and
mother weep tears of joy over him; and your
mother and myself have been scarcely less happy
on his account. We have tried in our instructions
to keep the fear of God before his eyes, and we
hoped that his scrupulous attention to duty was not
without a desire to secure the Divine favour.

George. You think now, father, that his chief
motive for doing right has been to secure the
approbation of men.

Mr. J. It is a painful thought, George; but
when I saw that Herbert was willing to tell lie
after lie, in order to hide a very slight omission of
duty towards me, I was obliged to come to this
HEEBERT MORGAN. 341

conclusion. He did not act from fear of me, for
he knew that I should have thought but little of
a thing like that. It was pride, George; and
your father feels humbled by the thought that
he may have been fostering a pride ruinous to the
soul,

George. But, father, do you not think he feels
sorry? He looks sad and unhappy this morning.

Mr. J. He is sorry that his omission and false-
hood are detected. He thinks that he has forfeited
my esteem. He is mortified, but not penitent. He
would, no doubt, do anything in his power to blot
the whole transaction from my memory; but he
seems to think nothing of the awful fact that it
stands recorded against him in the book of God.
He sat obstinately in his chair last night, while
your father, pained to the very heart, bowed before
God, and besought pardon for him in the name of
Jesus. I have told you all this, my son, because I
want your help.

George. What can I do, dear father?

Mr. J. Do you think, my son, that Christ has
redeemed you by his most precious blood?

George. Yes, father.

Mr. J. Do you think, George, that your sins
have been forgiven, and you have been adopted as
a son of God?
342 HERBERT MORGAN.

George. I really hope so, dear father. I love
God; I love to pray; and I know that God hears
me, for Christ's sake, and gives me his peace.

Mr. J. Well now, George, the Christian, above
all others, has work to do. Our Father does not
call us into his vineyard to be idle there. We are
to labour while the day lasts.

George. 1 am willing to do what I can, father.

Mr. J. Well, my son, you must join usin prayer
and effort for Herbert. We must not let him perish.
We must, at least, do all that we can. God has
promised to hear and answer prayer. You must
join your father and mother in prayer for Herbert.
You must use all your influence in striving to bring
him to Christ. It may be, my dear son, that God
will honour you as an instrument in saving that
precious soul.

George. It would be an honour, indeed; but I
am very weak and ignorant, father.

Mr. J. That will not be in the way of your use-
fulness, George, provided you feel your weakness,
and go tothe Strong for strength. God hath chosen
the weak things of this world to confound the wis-
dom of the wise.
HERBERT MORGAN. 343

CHAPTER V.

Day after day did Herbert think about the fence,
and about his falsehood: he became silent and
sullen; his good friends did everything in their
power to make him cheerful and happy as ever.
Mr. Jones went further than before in trusting to
his fidelity; but all was of no avail. Herbert’s
pride was deeply wounded ; he was unhappy, and
one fine summer day, when George was in the field
with him, he wished himself dead.

“‘ Dear Herbert,” said George, “I pray God that
you may not die feeling as you now do. O Her-
bert, Herbert!” and George burst into tears, and
threw his arms around his neck; ‘‘are you willing
to perish for ever?”

“Ido not believe it,” said Herbert. “I have
never seen a happy day until I came here—and
now all that is over; nobody ever loved me, and
now nobody respects me.”

“ How can you say that?” said George. “You
know that I love you, Herbert; and I am sure that
father loves you, or he would not try so hard to
save your soul. Why should we feel so much for
you, and pray for you too, if we did not love
you?”
344 HERBERT MORGAN.

“Do you?” asked Herbert.

“Indeed we do,” replied George. “ Father and
mother and I pray for you. We cannot bear that
you should perish. God is not willing that you
should perish, Herbert; and so he has sent his Son,
that, through him, ye might be saved. But you
won’t come to hin—you are too proud to come to
Jesus Christ.”

George was now called to the house, and Herbert
was left alone.

“T do believe,” said he to himself, “that George
loves me, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones too. They are
kind—I ought not to make them unhappy ; but I
cannot be pious like them—I do not know why,
but I can’t.”

What was the matter with poor Herbert. He
could love his friends, and want to please them;
he could hardly help weeping when he thought
how kind and patient they had been to him. But
why could not Herbert love the Lord Jesus Christ?
Why did he not feel like weeping when he thought
how kind the Saviour had been to him-——how long
he had borne with his wickedness?

What was the matter with Herbert? What did
he need? “ A new heart,” I know you will say.
And this is true. Even little children sometimes
have a heart of stone towards the Saviour. They
HERBERT MORGAN. 345

know that they ought to love him, yet they don't
love him; and what can they do? Why, they must
carry their wicked hearts to the foot of the cross,
and keep them there until they are changed from
stone to flesh. We cannot change our own hearts,
that is certain; but they ought to be changed—
they must be changed, or we cannot be saved.
Our hearts are wicked and rebellious: we can love
our earthly friends, but we cannot love our best
friend—the Friend who loved us so well that he
gave his only Son to die for us. Such a heart is
called in Scripture a “heart of stone;” and our God
has promised to take away this heart of stone, and
give us a heart of flesh. We must come to him to
do this great thing for us—come with our hearts
all hard and wicked as they are; for,
“ Tf we tarry till we're better,
We shall never come at all.”
We must come in the name of Jesus, our dear Re-
deemer, and for Ais sake God will hear us.

George was right, when he said that God was
not willing that Herbert should perish. In his
providence, he had placed him in a pious family.
We are not compelled to be Christians. We may
choose life or death. Yet so compassionate is our
heavenly Father, that he uses every means to in-
duce the sinner to turn and live.
346 HERBERT MORGAN.

After his day’s work was done, Herbert sat
down under a tree. He felt sad, though not quite
so wretched as before. The kind words and man-
ner of his friend George had soothed his bitter
feelings. He had now some hope that he might
become a respectable man, perhaps a great man.
Then for a moment he would think about eternity,
and what would be his character there. But his
heart would rise up against thoughts like these.
“IT cannot be a Christian,” he would say; “ but I
can be something—I can be a great man—a rich
man, perhaps.” Poor Herbert! “what will it
profit thee to gain the whole world, and lose thy
soul?”

A heavy shower was rising in the west, and, as
peal after peal of thunder rolled over his head, he
thought it time to return to the house. But then
he would lose himself again in that pleasant thought,
«Tt is not all over with me; I may become a great
man.” Suddenly there was a blaze of lightning,
and then a crash, such as often reminds us of the
voice of the archangel and the trump of God.

“The lightning has struck near us,” said one
of Mr. Jones’s workmen, as they all hurried from
the field.

“Where is Herbert?” inquired Mrs. Jones, as
they entered the house.
HERBERT MORGAN, 347

‘He was at work alone this afternoon,” said
Mr. Jones, going to the door; ‘the rain is coming
in torrents; why don’t the boy come in?”

One of the hired men offered to go for him, and,
putting on his hat, ran towards the field, calling
‘“* Herbert! Herbert!”

Mr. Jones watched at the door, and presently
saw him raise the poor boy in his arms. All now
ran towards the field, and what a sight was there!
The giant oak under which Herbert sat was
shivered into thousands of pieces. The green turf
was thrown up, as if preparing a grave for the
poor boy, who was stretched senseless upon the
ground.

Poor George threw himself beside Herbert, and
_ in an agony of terror called him by name; but the
tempest was close at hand, so they hastened with
him to the house. How the wind raved around
the farm-house, while the rain swept over it like
an overwhelming fleod! How the lightning pene-
trated the darkest nook of that spacious kitchen,
and how the thunder shook the earth and rent the
sky. But it was all unheeded by the family at
the farm-house.

“ Father! dear father!” said George, “is he
dead?”

Mr. Jones turned a pale face upon his son, as
348 HERBERT MORGAN,

he said: “ I hope not; perhaps we shall not be able
to recover him; but, O, I hope that he is only
stunned.”

George went to a little closet in a remote corner
of the house; it was dark as midnight, save when
the lightning came like a sheet of fire through the
narrow window. Here the little boy knelt and
prayed: “O God! let Herbert live! do not take
him away in his sins.” This was nearly all that
George could say ; but it was enough; his heavenly
Father knew all about it, and he pitied his dis-
tress.

After some time, his mother came and said,
“ Herbert has opened his eyes, George.”

George only waited to say, “ Blessed be the
name of the Lord!” Then he rose from his knees
and followed his mother.

The clouds had passed away. God had again
set his beautiful bow in the clouds. Herbert had
not yet spoken. He had lain silent for nearly an
hour; but he was not senseless, for he pressed
George’s hand, and seemed anxious lest he should
go away.

As soon as the rain had ceased, Mr. and Mrs.
Morgan came. They had heard that Herbert was
dead, and, trembling and breathless, had made
their way to the house; but when they found that
HERBERT MORGAN. 349

he was still living, and might probably recover,
they sat dowm beside the bed, and wept for joy.

“Tt would have been my luck exactly,” said
Mr. Morgan, “if that boy, just as I began to hope
that he would be a blessing to us, should have been
taken away,”

Herbert now spoke. Raising himself in the bed,
and stretching his hand towards his father, he said,
“It was not good luck, father, that saved my life.”

“What was it, then, my dear boy?” said Mr.
Morgan, delighted to hear him speak.

“O,” said Herbert softly, while the tears gather-
ed in his eyes, “it was the wonderful goodness of
God.”

“ True, true, my son,” said Mr. Jones joyfully,
“it is the goodness of God that has so wonderfully
spared your life; and thanks to his name that you

Jeel this truth.”

“T do,” said Herbert, pressing his hand to his
eyes, while the tears forced themselves through his
fingers; ‘I know now that he is not willing that
the sinner should perish.”

There is joy in heaven over one sinner that re-
penteth ; there is joy among the angels—among
the bright spirits who have never sinned, and for
whom a Saviour did not die. It is meet and right,
then, that redeemed sinners should rejoice over
350 HERBERT MORGAN.

each other; and there is no purer, no better joy
this side that blessed place, than the Christian’s
joy over the repenting sinner. Such was the joy
at the farm-house. It was too deep for words,
and so Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and George, sat down
and wept.

In a few days Herbert was in the field again.
He was not less diligent or less careful than before.
He did not love Mr. Jones less, or think less highly
of his good opinion; but still Herbert had a new
motive for diligence and faithfulness. “ Thou, God,
seest me,” said he many times in the day; nor did
he forget that to Him the darkness shineth as the
light.

But my readers may like to know if Herbert,
such a wicked boy as he had been, was willing
that the great God should look into his heart, and
see all that was there. Yes, he was willing now;
he hoped that God would pity his sin and misery,
and give him a better heart. It is when we want
to keep our bad hearts that we are not willing to
have them seen. When we are tired of them, O,
so tired and sick that we are almost ready to die
because of our sinfulness, then we are willing, yes,
we are very glad to expose our evil hearts.

Mr. Jones had talked much with Herbert since
the thunder-storm. Sometimes the poor boy felt
HERBERT MORGAN. 351

as though he had been too great a sinner to hope
for pardon; and sometimes he would throw down
his rake, and fall upon the grass, and weep and
pray. One day Mr. Jones found him there.

“Dear Mr. Jones,” said Herbert, “I almost
forget that there is ‘work to do.’”

“ You are doing very important work, my son,”
replied Mr. Jones: “ work which you have ne-
glected too long. Every sinner has work to do;
how rejoiced should the Christian be to see him
doing that work!”

“But,” said Herbert, “I make no progress in
this work. I fear it is too late. O, I fear that I
shall not finish this work.”

“You may be sure, my dear,” replied his friend,
“that you never will. God has begun this work,
and, if finished aright, he must be the finisher.
You weep, Herbert. It is natural that you should,
and this is right. The intercessions of Jesus
Christ would not prevail for you, if you were not
sorry for your sins; but you must not suppose that
God will have mercy upon you because you weep
so. It will be because Jesus has wept for you.
God might justly refuse to hear your prayers; but
he will not turn from the prayers of his Son. The
Lord Jesus Christ is your only hope, Herbert.
You must not think of any other. He is your only
352 HERBERT MORGAN.

trust. You must trust to nothing else. All you
have to do is to come tohim. Come repenting,
believing, and trusting; and the great work is
done.”

Herbert thought this too easy for a sinner like
him. He waited two or three days, and wept and
prayed, and made himself as wretched as he could.
His heart began to grow hard; his tears would not
flow; and asad, gloomy, despairing feeling came
over him, But one day, when he was in the field
alone, he thought on what Mr. Jones had said.

“Tam sure,” said he, “that I cannot make my-
self any better. If the Lord Jesus Christ does
not save me, I must perish after all. Mr. Jones
says that He will not turn any away who come to
Him, I have come in the best way that I knew.
I will believe that he has heard me. I will trust
in him now.”

And what do you suppose was the result of this
decision? Why, quick almost as thought, his
dark, sad feelings passed away. The Christian’s
peace came into his heart; and Mr. Jones found
him all bathed in tears, saying, *‘I will—I do
trust in the Lord Jesus Christ.”

For several days Herbert rejoiced greatly in
the new and blessed hope which had sprung up
in his heart. And+Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and
HERBERT MORGAN. 353

George—I hope that my readers can imagine how
they felt. I hope that they all know how the
reaper feels who goeth forth weeping, bearing
precious seed, and returns, “ bringing his sheaves
with him.”

After a few days of unspeakable joy, Herbert
came to Mr. Jones, with a sad and thoughtful
face. “I find it hard to think of leaving you,”
said he, while the tears started to his eyes; “ but
somehow I feel as though I must. My poor
father—”

‘* Needs you,” replied Mr. Jones.

“ Yes, sir;” and Herbert wiped his eyes. “ He
is not able to hire a man, and it is my duty to go
home.”

“Go then, my son,” said Mr. Jones, folding
him in his arms, “go! and the Lord go with thee.
The Christian, my dear boy, above all others, has
‘work to do.’ I am glad that you have begun
the heavenly race, by saying, ‘Lord, what wilt
thou have me to do?’ Always ask this question ;
always be willing to hear and obey the answer.
Go home, my son, your father needs you on his
farm; you will there find work to do. Your
heavenly Father needs you in his vineyard, and
while you tarry below you will find ‘ work to do’

there.”
Z
354 HERBERT MORGAN.

With some tears, but with a cheerful and obedient
heart, Herbert took an affectionate leave of his dear
friends, and returned home. He told his father
why he had come; and Mrs. Morgan said that she
had not been so happy for fourteen years.

God has set his children as lights in this be-
nighted world. If they suffer their light to shine,
others will see their good works, and glorify their
Father in heaven.

Herbert found, as Mr. Jones had said, that there
was “‘work to do.” Mr. Morgan was glad to dis-
miss his hired man, especially as he found Herbert
to be better help. The poor boy worked hard, and
was willing to do so!

It was not hard work that often made him feel
sad—that brought tears to his eyes, and deep sighs
from his heart. No! Herbert felt that there was
other work to do at home. He felt, as every
Christian feels, that he could not bear the destruc-
tion of his kindred. He wanted his dear father
and mother to come to Christ and be saved. What
shall I do? This was a constant inquiry wish
Herbert; and that Spirit, which is ever ready to
guide the humble into all truth, directed him in
this important work. We can do nothing without
that Spirit; but with it, we can do the work which
our heavenly Father appoints. We may be very
HERBERT MORGAN. 355

weak of ourselves; but it is not by human might,
but by the Spirit of the Lord, that his work is done
through us.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were pleased, greatly
pleased and rejoiced, at the change in Herbert,
though they did not really understand it. The
natural man cannot discern the things of the Spirit;
and it was therefore no strange thing that Mr. and
Mrs. Morgan felt more gratitude towards Mr. and
Mrs. Jones than towards God. They never opposed
Herbert in his religious duties. They were al:vays
good-natured when he talked tothem about the great
things the Lord had done for them; and they dearly
loved to hear him sing the songs of Zion. But this
did not satisfy Herbert. He wanted them to sing
the new song, and for this he prayed almost without
ceasing. The Bible says that “the wind bloweth
where it listeth, and we hear the sound thereof,
but cannot tell whence it cometh, or whither it
goeth—so is every one that is born of the Spirit.”
Herbert had prayed, and waited patiently for the
Lord for nearly a year. He knew that the Spirit
of truth was faithful to his parents as to others;
but he could not tell why. all at once, they opened
their hearts and bade that Spirit come in; why
they began to look at their past lives with shame
and sorrow, and were glad to come with him to the
356 HERBERT MORGAN.

Fountain opened for sin. Herbert did not know
why, and perhaps he did not care much. It was
enough to know and feel that it was even so; that
the great work was at length done; and his dear
parents were inclosed in the fold of the Great
Shepherd.

Years have since passed away; and Herbert is
now a man, and has proved the truth of this pro-
mise, “ Seek first the kingdom of heaven and its
righteousness, and all these things shall be added
unto you.” The Lord has blessed him and his
father’s house for his sake; and in their old age
Mr. and Mrs. Morgan find a pleasant home with
their pious son Herbert, who still feels that he has
“work to do.” So with his good little wife (once
Amelia Jones) he does with his might what his
hands find to do.

I hope, my dear readers, that we shall meet
them and their children in the kingdom of heaven ;
and that we shall all be able to say, “I have
finished the work thou gavest me to do.”

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Songs of Home and Happiness, Thomson's Seasons, and the Castle of
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The Kind Little Boy, &c,
Edith and Charlea, &c.
Stories on the Lord's Prayer.

And a variety of others.
Price One Penny each.

The Children and the Dove.
Little Frank and his Letter.
Sailor Boy and his Bible.

Who Directs our Steps?
The Lark's Nest.
Lucy Roberts.

And a variety of others.

Price Twopence each.

Robert, Margaret, and Maria.
Robert Ellis.
Honesty the Best Policy.



The Morning Walk, &.
The Holidays; or, A Visit Home.
Jane Scott.

And a variety of others.




—.
16 |. NELSON AND SONS, LONDON AND EDINBURGH.



SABBATH STORIES FOR LITTLE READERS.
Price Threepence each.

With Frontispiece and Picture Cover.

The Arthur Family. Mary Evans.
The Little Fabulists. Alfred Somerville.
And a variety of others.

Price Fourpence each.
With Frontispiece and Beautiful Gflt Cover.

Sarah and Laura. William Bartlett.
Rose and Louisa. Ellen Morrison.
Robert and Emily. Alfred Singleton.

And a variety of others.

Price Sixpence each.
With Frontispiece and Beautiful Gilt Cover

Helen Maurice. Ellen Hart.
The Henderson Family. | Helen and her Cousin.

And a variety of others.





Just Ready, a series of beautiful
PICTURE REWARD CARDS,
Each containing a Hymn and a neat Engraving.
Price 2d., 34., 4d., and 6a. per dozen.

NEW PICTURE BOOKS FOR GHILDREN.

NCLE TOM’S PICTURE BOOK. In verse. Dedicated, by permission, to
Her Grace the Duchess of Sutherland. Small Quarto, price 6d.

A most pleasing and happy adaptation of the leading incidents in Mrs. Stowe’s interesting
work to the understanding and tastes of the youngest readers. It is admirably fitted to prove
& favourite in the nursery library, and no higher recommendation can be needed for it than
this, that the poems which constitute ite chief features are from the pen of the gifted poetess,
Miss Frances Browne,

IMPLE HANS, AND OTHER FUNNY PICTURES AND STORIES.
Numerous Engravings. Small Quarto, price 6d.

‘This is one of the most humorous books ever published for the nursery, while at the same
the it is still more catculated for instruction and amusement, and cannot fail to benefit,
while it delights its young readers, The numerous lively illustrations are designed with a
special view to the tastes of children; and while they are full of spirit, they are just such as
a clever child might be supposed to execute,


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