Front Cover
 Table of Contents
 James: Or the useful boy
 Edward: Or the bad boy
 Back Cover

Group Title: The pastor's stories : moral sketches for youth
Title: The Pastor's stories
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00001898/00001
 Material Information
Title: The Pastor's stories moral sketches for youth
Alternate Title: Moral sketches for youth
Pastor's stories
Physical Description: 158, <2> p., <1> leaf of plates : ill. ; 13 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Stevens, Abel, 1815-1897
Milner, William ( Printer )
Manufacturer: W. Milner
Publication Date: 1851
Subject: Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1851   ( rbgenr )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1851   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1851
Genre: Publishers' advertisements   ( rbgenr )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
novel   ( marcgt )
General Note: Date of publication from inscription; title from earlier ed.
General Note: Publisher's advertisement: <2> p. at end.
General Note: Chromolithographed added t.p., signed: Stott Hx.
General Note: Baldwin Library copy lacks t.p.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00001898
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002447261
oclc - 45490114
notis - AMF2515

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Page i
        Page ii
    Table of Contents
        Page iii
        Page iv
    James: Or the useful boy
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
    Edward: Or the bad boy
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

The Baldw.I Library
Rm B u.of Y





I.-The Parsonage....................... 5
I.-The Good Boy.................. ..... 7
III.-A Scene in the School House........... 11
IV.-Another Scene in the School House...... 17
V.-The Rescue ........................... 28
VI.-The Reclaimed Father ................. 27
VII.-The Rural Visit..,..................... 33
VIII.-The Explanation........................ 88
IX.-The Plot............................. 42
X.-The Result.............................. 48
XI.-The Pastoral Visit ...................... 52
XIL-Conversation in the Sick Room.......... 60
XIII.-The Death Scene........................ 67
XIV.-The Conolusion........................ 70

L-The Village-Edward Winthrop ........ 73
II.-The First Theft ....................... 78
III.-Another Orime .......................: 3
IV.-The Detection .........................


V.-The Purse ............................. 95
VI.-The Victim ........................... 99
VII.-Farther Sorrows........................ 104
VIII.-Edward goes to the City ................ 108
IX.-New Temptations .................... 112
X.-A Sailing Excursion ................... 117
XLI-The Result................... ........... 122
XII.-Henry Goodwin ....................... 128
'XIIL-Henry's Justification .................. 133
XIV.-Edward Winthrop ..................... 139
XV.-Edward's Wanderings ................. 14S
XVI.-Henry Goodwin again ................ 151


IT was. my happiness to spend several most
delightful months in the family of the Rev. Mr.
C- Three children belonged to the happy
household,a son and daughter of the good pas.
tor, and little George Thornton, the only child
of a wealthy merchant, who at his death, had
committed his son to the care of his old friend,
the pastor, assured that under the roof of the
parsonage he would find a happy home and a
good teacher in his preparatory studies for col-
lege. These three children made the chief

happiness of our home in the long winter even-
ings. As soon as tea was over, the family
devotions for the evening were performed,
after which three or four hours were allotted,
sometimes to the pleasant in-door sports of the
children, at others to the reading of entertain-
ing books, and occasionally to the relation of
The last winter I spent at the parsonage, the
pastor occupied many of the long evenings in
relating striking incidents connected with his
ministerial life. The children gathered close
around him at the side of the blazing fire, and
hung on his narratives with breathless interest.
Though these stories were designed for the
instruction and entertainment of the younger
members of the family, I could not but be in-
terested in them ; they are vivid in my memory
yet, and I propose to record some of them for
the pleasure and profit of the good little boys
and girls who may read these pages.

ONE evening we were seated around the hearth,
picking nuts which had been gathered by the
children in the evening from a neighboring
forest, when the pastor told us the following
story :-
While yet a young man, I spent some six
months at L-, for the recovery of my health,
which had failed under my ministerial duties.
It is a beautiful place; on one side of the vil-
lage is the expanse of the ocean stretching
away to Europe; on the other rise noble high-
lands covered with forest trees, and ascended
by a good road, along which are interspersed
comfortable farm-houses, while through the
deep and broad glens extend the cultivated
fields of the farms. It was thought that the
sea bathing and the fine air of the neighboring

heights would be good for my health. I chose
therefore a home with a farmer on the road
that winds over the side of the hills. Much of
my time was spent in rambling, for exercise,
among the farms of the neighbourhood; and I
thus became acquainted with many of the
farmers and their families.
A cottage of one of these families always
attracted my eye when I passed it. It was
humble and retired, but wore such an appear-
ance of good taste and snug comfort, and was
surrounded with such fine scenery, that no one
would doubt it was the abode of happy inmates.
In front within a white-washed enclosure, was
a small extent of green sward, with here and
there a flowering shrub. Honeysuckles and
other vines crept up about the windows, and
in some places were stretching far on the roof.
A few feet to the right stood a huge oak which
spread its protecting branches over the whole
cottage, so that the smoke of the humble chim-
ney curled up among them. Around its foot
was a rude circular bench, where the cottagers
sat in the cool of sunset, and sometimes ate
their supper. A large generous-faced New-
foundland dog was the night-watch of tile cot-

tage; and when the family gathered under this
tree, he was always seen stretched at their feet
in the shade. The robin red-breasts loved the
place, doubtless because they found kind treat-
ment there. They kept the old oak vocal with
their sweet sounds. At some yards from the
tree stood a bench containing several bee-hives,
and further on, at the foot of the hill, could be
seen the low spring house where the milk and
butter were kept, and whence rippled a little
stream, making soft music, and extending away
down the glen like a streak of silver. Behind
the house was a well stocked garden, and then
on the low declivity an orchard. To the left
were the stable and barn, with several sleek
cattle in the barn-yard, while in the other
direction, spreading far away through the
widening glen, were fields of golden grain.
To this family belonged a boy named James,
whom I often met in my walks, and whose fine
gentle countenance always interested me. His
spirit was most amiable, and his manners full
of kindness. He was active and cheerful, and
yet there was a considerateness and tenderness
of feeling about him that could not be expected
at his years, and which showed that some rare

and good influence had operated on his forming
character. I found that he was universally
esteemed and loved among the neighbours on
the heights, and among the villagers below.
My interest in James increased with my know-
ledge of him. In my intercourse with the
neighbours, during my stay in L-, I learned
many instances of the good conduct by which
he became so endeared to every body.

JAMES had a young associate, John S-, who
was with him constantly in their leisure hours,
and seemed to love him very much, though he
was apparently quite opposite to him in mental
and bodily constitution., He was a stout, hardy
lad, rather rough in his manners, but evi-
dently having a frank and noble heart. He
had the reputation of having been once a very
bad boy, but the kindly influence of James
had produced a great change in him, and he
clung now to his gentle little friend with the
affection of a brother. The circumstance which
led to this beautiful friendship is so striking
an instance of James's goodness of heart, that
I cannot omit it.
About a mile up the winding road that passes
over the heights was a little school-house rudely

built of substantial timber. It stood aside from
the road on a small space of cleared land, while
the mountain forest was thick and grave about
it. The log used as a step before its door was
worn almost to a trough ; a range of wood pre-
pared for winter extended along one side. It
looked lonely, but at certain hours was full of
bright happy children, whose half-suppressed
voices kept it humrging; and then, at the re-
cesses, and a few minutes before and after
school, how they made the old forest echo with
their glad voices, some running to gather
flowers, others berries, some chasing a bird, and
some chasing each other, and all happy as the
bright summer day 'I remember well that
woodland school-house, for I used to contrive
to pass it about such times that I might see the
happy children. In their earlier days, James
and John both attended this school. They ar-
rived there one morning before the teacher or
any other scholars except the one who prepared
the room. John was then a wild boy. James,
though he was comparatively good, had not yet
developed that superior character which after-
wards marked him. The teacher had a loose
gown hanging on a peg in the school-room,

which he wore during school hours. John, al-
ways inclined to mischievous fun, proposed to
James to write the word Blockhead," upon a
piece of paper, and pin it among the folds on
the back of the gown, where the teacher would
not probably see it. James would not consent,
and admonished him of what might be the
consequences. John persisted, and put the la-
bel on the gown. When the school was as-
sembled, the teacher put on the garment, and
began to walk round among the benches, pre-
paring forthe exercises ofthe morning. Where-
ever he passed, a general titter followed among
the scholars. Ho turned round to reprove
them, but he no sooner turned his back again,
than it re-commenced. A class was called up
to read; on taking their places, they could not
proceed, but broke out into ill-suppressed
laughter. The astonished teacher shook his
stick at them, and demanded what they meant.
At last, one of the class told him that some-
body had written something on his back; he
took off his gown and discovered the trick.
He was a passionate man, and seemed unable
to control his feelings at the moment; red with
rage, he inquired who had done it, and offered

a dollar to any scholar who would tell, threaten-
ing to punish the evil-doer with the severest
whipping ever yet witnessed in that school.
No one answered ; but at last he appealed to
the boy whose turn it had been that morning
to open the school-room. He had gone out
about the time that James and John arrived,
and did not witness the trick. The teacher
asked him who had been earliest there that day I
Now this boy knew the rough nature of John,
and, with most of the scholars, feared to incur
his displeasure, he therefore omitted his name,
and gave merely that of James. The infuriated
teacher called up the accused scholar, and ar-
raigning him before the school, charged him
with the misdemeanor. James denied the
charge, but made no allusion to John, who, he
knew, was guilty, and whom he had admonished
in the very act. The scholar who accused him
persisted that he was earliest there, and must
have committed the offence. The poor boy
felt the reproach more than the punishment of
the crime, for he had the best of feelings, and
was never before accused of an offence ; still
he quietly submitted rather than expose the
real ofender. I will tell you by.and-bye his

reason for so doing. The teacher in the agita-
tion of the moment fulfilled his threat. The
punishment inflicted on the innocent boy was
terrible. His hands were smitten with the
ferule till they were swollen, and in many places
purple; and. when they could endure no more,
he was beaten on the back with a stick, till the
excited man himself grew weak. As James
passed John, on returning to his seat, with the
tears on his cheeks, he said, in a suppressed
and melting voice, "I have suffered this for
you, John."
It may seem strange to you that the good
character of James did not lead the 'teacher to
suspect the accusation against him, or at least
to lessen the punishment; but you must re-
member that few things enrage more an irrita-
ble man than a mortifying insult which turns
upon him the laughter of others; and that an
enraged temper takes away consideration. Alas,
how many evils have sprung from it How
many lives have been sacrificed by it 1 How
many deeds perpetrated which, when its excite-
ment has passed away, rise up in the memory
like spectres, and pursue the criminal to his
grave. One of the greatest achievements of

self-discipline is to get the control of our own
passions. The wise king says, He that is
slow to anger is better than the mighty; and
he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a
city." Difficult as is the task, the grace of
God can accomplish it in the worst heart.


JOHN, though a wild boy, had really a noble
heart, but it failed him in this instance. His
face burned, he trembled, and at one time
wept during the examination and punishment
of James ; but he knew the rash severity of the
teacher, and, afraid to acknowledge his fault,
he crushed his better feelings, and allowed his
innocent and kind-hearted schoolmate to suffer
in his stead. But he suffered in his mind more
than lie could in his person, had lie received
himself the punishment. He felt so badly, that
he was once about to rise and confess his guilt,
and probably would have done so, had not the
teacher been so excited as to hurry on the
punishment with scarcely a moment's delay.
The words of James as lie passed, touched his
128 n

heart. He covered his face with his hands, and
bowing his head to the desk, wept bitter tears.
All that day he was manifestly in deep uneasi-
ness, and he slept but little during the night.
What an intolerable burden is the remorseful
consciousness of a wicked deed There is but
one relief for it, repentance.
The next day a strange scene was witnessed
in the school-room. When all were assembled,
this noble hearted boy, noble, though his spirit
had failed him under the fears of the preceding
day, stepped up to the teacher before the whole
school, confessed the crime, and, with tears in
his eyes, cleared his friend James, informing
all that the latter knew his guilt while suffering
so innocently for him, but rather than hurt his
feelings by exposing him, endured the punish-
ment himself. This statement produced a sen-
sation through the whole school. The teacher,
though he was a man of quick temper, had
many good feelings, and could value a generous
act. He stared at John a moment in surprise,
and then burst into tears. How he regretted
now the violence of his course the preceding
day! He declared that John, though guilty,
had redeemed himself by his noble confession,

and ought to be honoured for it rather than
punished. He called up James, and acquitted
and applauded him before the whole school.
All the scholars were in excitement at this
strange conduct between the two boys; and
the teacher, who was a warm-hearted Irish-
man, and did everything with all his soul, cried
out for three cheers for the two friends. The
little boys, following the roaring voice of their
instructor, hurraed with all their might, and
the little girls clapped their hands and pounded
the desks-a strange scene was this for a
school, but it was a good one, and did good to
every little heart there. "God bless you, my
lads;" said the teacher to John and James, as
he wiped a tear from his rough cheek; "I
never knew such a circumstance before among
boys," He went that day to the parents of
James, and explained to them the whole
matter; and the following morning, he pre-
sented to him, before the school, a fine Bible,
with clasps and gilt edges.
Here the pastor's little daughter exclaimed,
" what a noble boy James was !"
Yes," replied her young brother, who was

a thoughtful child, "but ought he not to have
exposed John, as he knew him to be guilty ?"
Under the circumstances of the case, replied
the pastor, James thought otherwise. He knew
John's rough temper, and thought if he ex-
posed him, it would only enrage him, break up
their friendship, and hinder ever afterwards his
good influence over him. He knew also that
though John was rough and violent, he was
susceptible to kindness, and thought, that by
suffering for him, he would do him more good
than could a whipping from the teacher,
and then-what decided him most-he was
himself accused by the scholar who had
opened the school-house. If, therefore, he
should charge on John the crime, there
being no witness to sustain him, the re-
sult would probably be equally bad for
himself, and then he should irritate John, and
lose his friendship besides. Upon the whole,
he believed it best to simply declare his own
innocence without accusing any one else. And
this course had the good effect which he ex-
pected. John loved the generous-hearted boy
ever after, and a tender friendship sprung up
between them which. lasted through life. It

gave James an influence over John which af-
fected the whole character of the latter. And
then, who can tell the effect of this example
on every scholar who witnessed it It was a
lesson to them all, which probably no one of
them has forgotten since. It did good to James
himself,-it gave him immediately the affection
and esteem of every one who heard of it; he
thus acquired a character which he felt anxious
always afterwards to maintain. Every exercise
of virtue strengthens it.
"I say with Alice, he acted nobly," ex-
claimed little George Thornton, the merchant's
son, referring to what the pastor's daughter
had said :-" and I wish I had known the little
Perhaps you have known him," replied the
I What, have any of us ever seen him 1" ex-
claimed all three.
"Let us go on with the story," answered
the pastor, perchance we will see by the time
we get through."


THERE was a silent but sweet influence operat-
ing on James's character, which I shall men-
tion by-and-bye, and which had excited within
him these kindly feelings,; but the incident I
have related gave increased strength to his
good dispositions. He felt now that the greatest
pleasure in life arose from trying to be good and
do good.
His young associates admitted his kind dis-
position, and yet, like many other boys, some
of them seemed to think that no boy was really
superior, who would not resent an offence, and
quarrel, and even fight once in a while. Now
James never did any of these things ; he was
forbearing and mild-a little peace-maker.
Some of the boys, therefore, while they could

not but say much in his favour, would not admit
that he was brave and stout-hearted. They
were mistaken. True courage, my children,
does not consist in boasting or obstinacy ;
it is generally calm and quiet. The meek
are often the bravest. Many women and
children suffered death for religion in the old
times, without a murmur, and the most fright-
ful modes of death, too. James was not a
boisterous boy, but there was within him a
calm and thoughtful spirit, which could not
easily be alarmed. le one day gave an exam-
ple of his kindness and courage, which put an
end to all such objections, and procured him
additional esteem.
I have mentioned that the sea was in sight
from the hill-side. The boys of the village and
neighbourhood used to bathe on the shore at the
mouth of a stream. It was a fine exercise,
and good for their health. Pieces of timber
lay about the place; these often tempted the
smaller boys who could not swim, to venture
where the water was too deep for safety. One
day a little fellow pushed out too fur on one of
these logs. The tide was rapidly carrying him
out to sea. He cried for help, but the other boys


only ran out of the water, terrified at his danger.
James was not strong, nor a good swimmer.
He appealed to the best swimmers among
them, and entreated them to go out to the
boy, but they were all in agitation, and afraid
of the attempt; he alone was self-collected;
lie urged them more and more earnestly,
yet could not prevail. One of them exclaimed,
" Where is your courage if you are so much in
earnest?" James replied, "If I believed the
boy would be as safe in my hands as in yours, I
would not wait a moment; and since none of
you will go, I will, though I may die in the at-
tempt." Thus saying, he plunged under the
waves, rose at a distance, and pressed on
courageously for the endangered boy.
The boys on the shore could not but admire
the generous act; they no longer believed that
bravoism is courage. They shouted him on-
ward, and called to the poor boy to hold on
strongly to the log. James reached it at last,
but so faint and breathless, that he despaired
of pushing it back; he encouraged the little
fellow, however, to hold on firmly, and, clinging
to the other end himself, called to some of tile

stouter boys on shore to come out and help
him, but none dared to go.
Hanging a few minutes to the log for breath,
he perceived his danger ; the water was gradu-
ally bearing them away, and he saw he must
exert himself or be lost. Exhorting his little
companion in peril to keep up courage, he
strained every nerve to reach the land with the
log. He began to make headway ; harder and
harder did he press, putting forth all his
strength in swimming, and holding on mean-
while with one hand. As he approached
nearer and nearer to the shore, the other
boys began to grow very courageous; some
went into the water again, but kept near the
land, waiting for him. Soon the remainder
entered, and the first began to swim out to-
wards him, and by the time he was within per-
fectly safe distance, all were at the log puffing
and hallooing with wonderful displays of cou-
rage, but only obstructing James. The latter,
seeing all was safe, and feeling himself ex-
hausted, left them, and swimming faintly to
shore, threw himself on the sand, entirely over-
come with the effort.
There he lay insensible for some time. The

boys ran to the village for help ; he was carried
home, and remained unwell for more than a
week; but he had done a noble deed, and
won a noble reward in the satisfaction of his
Sown mind, and the good opinion of all around
him. No one ever doubted his courage after
this. Virtue is always brave when put to the
test, however distrustful of itself before the
trial. It never boasts, but proves its strength
by deeds.

How much happiness there is in doing good !
How easily can we all thus earn a life of enjoy-
ment, for the circumstances of all admit of
some usefulness ; and one occasion generally
opens the way for another. Thus it was with
James. The generous act I have mentioned,
gave him the opportunity of securing the
happiness of a whole family.
The little boy whom he rescued was the son
of a poor drunkard, whose family had been
reduced to poverty and wretchedness. The
miserable man, notwithstanding his intempe-
rance, loved his child, and the next day tot-
tered up the hill-side to the home of James,
to thank him.
James had a little sister named Amelia, a
sweet and beautiful girl, though an invalid.

She was afflicted with a spinal disease so badly,
that for months she had walked with a crutch,
and only a short distance at a time. But
though a frail flower, she had not yet lost her
bloom. Sickness had softened and sweetened
her disposition, and given her beautiful counte-
nance an expression full of angelic mildness
and goodness. She was like a young cherub in
the family, and James loved her most tenderly.
I have before told you that there was a precious
influence operating on his character to which
much of his gentleness was owing. I meant
the influence of his little sister. James had
indeed been rather a quick-tempered child; his
parents feared, in his earlier days, that he
would be hard to control when older; but when
his sister became ill he attended her constantly,
and her tender influence on his mind wrought
an entire change in his conduct. Her dan-
gerous sickness made him thoughtful, her sweet
manners softened his heart, and this little girl,
though confined almost exclusively to the cot-
tage and its garden, was educating the heart,
and every-where guiding the conduct of the
noble boy. Thus it is, my children, that our
holy household ties give us all a blessed influ-

euce over each other. James was often heard
to say in after life, that if nothing else could
keep him from evil conduct, the image of his
beloved sister, which attended him like an
angel's presence, would deter him. But let us
return to the story.
When the poor drunkard entered the house,
his wretched appearance affected the heart of
the little girl ; and while her mother afterwards
told her of the condition of his suffering wife
and children, the tears flowed from her eyes.
His family was indeed wretched. No vice is
accompanied with so many external signs of
misery as intemperance,-a bloated face, livid
colour, gross manners, rags, filth, a patched-up
house, broken furniture, an emaciated wife and
neglected children ; these are the circumstances
of drunkenness. Such were they in this in-
stance. Their miserable dwelling was in the
thickest part of the village, down a long, nar-
row, dirty lane, which was occupied by the
worst inhabitants of the town. Before it, the
pigs lay, sunning themselves, as if conscious
of being in the society of their equals. It was
a high frame building; the step before the
door had been carried away or burnt for fuel;

a pannel of the door itself had been knocked
out, perhaps, for the same purpose ; most of the
windows were broken, and stuffed with old
clothes, or covered with pasted paper. Several
families occupied this building ; the drunkard's
was in the third story. They were all crowded
together into one room ; and the stairs that led
up to it were narrow, dirty and decayed. Their
furniture consisted of two old straw beds, on
the floor in opposite corners, two stools which
had once been chairs, and one which still re-
tained part of a back, a barrel with a rough
board over it for a table, an iron kettle on the
cold hearth, a tin lamp on the greasy mantel-
piece, and some ragged old clothes hanging on
nails by the sides of the windows.
Amelia, on hearing these things from her
mother, began to plan how to relieve them.
After what James had done for the drunkard's
son she thought she would have a good apology
for visiting them, and in this manner convey to
them her small charities. Often did she thus
s3nd food and cheap clothing to the mother
and children, saving them sometimes from ex-
treme suffering. This course too had a salu-
tary effect upon James ; it strengthened in him

all those good dispositions which the sweet in-
fluence of Amelia had excited. But the best
result was to the intemperate father himself.
The charitable visits of James, together with
his generosity in saving the poor man's son,
affected deeply the heart of the drunkard, and
gave to a circumstance which afterwards oc-
curred an influence that changed his character
for life.
James was one afternoon carrying through
the village a basket of provisions to the suffer-
ing family, when he saw the drunken father
tottering through the streets, and surrounded
by unfeelling boys, who were hooting, and
throwing sticks and dirt at him. The misera
ble man could hardly move along ; but though
so intoxicated, he seemed to feel amidst the
tumult of the boys, the dreadful degradation of
his condition. James pressed through the
throng, and speaking kindly to him, took him
by the hand. The boys fell back silent and
abashed by this humane act, and James led
him quietly home through the streets, admired
by all who saw his noble conduct. The family
had been without food all that day; and when
the young visitor opened his basket, the hungry

children could scarcely wait till he had spread
the contents on the table. The father, as he
thought how the kind boy had led him home
through the streets, and saw him now feeding
his suffering children, felt deeply. Reproof
and reproach could never probably have
reached him ; but this kindness touched his
heart, and awakened in it feelings which
seemed for ever dead before. When he awoke,
the next morning, and reflected on these things,
and looked round on the degradation and
misery of his family, a new purpose sprung up
within him ; le resolved to drink no more; and
that good Being who knows our weakness, and
pities us as a father does his children, sup-
ported him in the resolution. Through a ter-
rible struggle of weeks he fought against his
appetite for strong drink, but triumphed at last.
He never drank the deadly liquor again.

.. .-.: / .. l

DURING my stay at L-, I became acquainted
with the pastor of the village, and frequently
called at the parsonage. At one of these calls,
after relating the above stories about James, he
said that he had a pastoral call to make at one
of the neighboring farm-houses that after-
noon, and requested me to accompany him.
Having nothing to do but seek health, I of
course consented.
. We commenced our walk when the sun was
but about an hour above the horizon ; the day
had been very warm, but a cool breeze now
played among the trees, and the western sky
was glorious with golden clouds, which seemed
to be revelling in fantastic sports around the
descending sun. Our route extended- about
three quarters of a mile ; and as it was harvest

time, we were regaled all the way with sights
and scents of the fields. The sweet fragrance
of the new-mown grass filled the air. Here
we met with the stout reapers still at work,
though evidently flagging with the toil of the
closing day ; there they were retiring from the
fields with their scythes and rakes upon their
shoulders; the tired horses slowly dragging, in
their midst, a large load of the new-made hay,
while the little children, who had come out to
welcome them home, were leaping about with
merry shouts of laughter. Through such de-
lightful scenes as these we reached a bridge
that spanned a beautiful stream, where a
chubby little rustic was watering a dozen or
more cattle, which stood in the midst of the
cool brook, as if reluctant to leave it. The
pastor immediately recognized the boy as the
son of the farmer whom we were about visiting.
After a few pleasant words, the little fellow
drove on the cattle that he might get home to
receive us with the rest of the family. We
soon arrived at a long avenue which turned off
from the main road, and was shaded by a line
of elms on either side. As we passed down
this delightfully cool walk, the cattle, tinkling

their bells, lazily lingered to crop the grass;
the new-made hay lay on the fields on either
side, and scented the atmosphere with its
wholesome smell; and nearer the house the
fatigued labourers, their day's work done,
were reclining against the heaps of hay, con-
templating the tranquil scene around them.
How sweet, my children, are the charms of
rural life I Truly has one said, "God made
the country, man made the town." The elms
terminated a few rods in front of the farm-
house, but the avenue was continued by rose-
bushes and other flowering shrubs, up to the
door-posts, which were wreathed with wood-
The building was a large, substantial edifice,
with small wings at either end. On the sward
in front I counted five noble sycamores, which
sheltered it like giant protectors. At a dis-
tance to the right were the large barns and
stables, on the left were several fruit trees, and
an arbour of unusual size covered with a
luxuriant grape-vine.
We were received at the house with smiles
of welcome from the enterprising farmer and
his family. My friend the pastor had a strong

attachment for them ; his visits had been fre-
quent and unceremonious, and all the members
of the household down to the youngest child
of five, years, seemed on the most familiar
terms with him. And well might he like to
visit them; for they were a large family, nine
buxom children, beside the parents, and three
hiredlabourers, all healthy, hearty and happy,-
a little community of themselves, living amidst
plenty and peace. The large homestead
seemed the very home of comfort, stocked
with all good things, and enlivened with the
jocund voices of the happy children.
Soon after our arrival, the girls were sent to
prepare us supper under the grape-vine bower
by the side of the house. It was got ready in
haste, for the sun was but a half-hour high,
and would allow but a short time for the little
festival; yet it was rich with the bountiful
things of the country-sweet bread, new but-
ter, fresh milk, fine cheese, and delicious fruits.
It seemed almost a fairy scene of happiness,
as I sat there amidst the joyful group, sur-
rounded by the glad and beautiful children,
and looked out on the fields stretching far
away, the heavens hung as with golden tapestry


over the setting sun, and the distant village
church-spire reaching up above the trees, and
tipt with the last rays of day.
When we had finished our supper in the
bower, and seen the sun sink below the horizon,
we all re-entered the house, where the hired
labourers assembled with the family, and the
large household Bible was brought forth for
the evening devotions. At the request of my
friend the pastor, I read a chapter, after which
we sung a few verses of the hymn-
"Now from the altar of our hearts,
Let warmest thanks arise;
Assist us, Lord, to offer up
Our evening sacrifice.
This day God was our sun and shield,
Our keeper and and our guide;
His care was on our weakness shown,
His mercies multiplied.
Minutes and mercies multiplied,
Have made up all the day;
Minutes came quick, but mercies weru
More swift and free than they.
New time, new favours, and new joys,
Do a new song require;
Till we shall praise thee as we would,
Accept our hearts desire."
We then knelt and offered our thanksgiving
to the Heavenly Father who lavishes so many
mercies on his creatures. We parted with
many kisses from the little children, and loads
of fruits with which they had filled our pockets.


WHAT happiness have we seen and enjoyed
within an hour exclaimed I to my friend, as
we walked leisurely home amidst the evening
hum of the insects and the light of the rising
moon. How little do the ambitious crowds
that fill our cities and exhaust their lives in the
persuit of imaginary fortunes understand the
secret of true happiness! They disappoint
their hopes by the very eagerness with which
they pursue them. I believe the first element
of genuine happiness is peace with God," as
St. Paul calls it; the second, contentment with
his dispensations; the third, health. Other
means may enhance it, these alone are neces-
sary. This evening's scenes will always re-
main a beautiful picture in my memory.
And yet, replied my friend, the half has not

been told you ; you have had but a glimpse of
this joyful household. I know of none imder
my pastoral care which pleases me more. I
sometimes spend whole days with them. I love
to house myself with them, and become as it
were one of them, for a time. Not only have
they, as you see, one of the best farms in the
town, but they are intelligent and pious, and
with their physical comforts combine those of
the heart and the mind. Eight out of the ten
children belong to the church; all of them ex-
cept the youngest two can read and write, and
the eldest, whom you have not seen, and who
is but sixteen years old, is now at college with
the finest prospect of a successful life. I knew
you would be pleased with the family, but I
took you to it not merely to witness a pleasing
picture of domestic happiness, but to show you
an example of the results which often flow from
humble endeavours to do good. You were in-
quiring of me this morning respecting my
young friend James's usefulness to the drunk-
ard's family. I proposed this visit that you
might see it for yourself.
What! exclaimed I, is this the drunkard's
family i

It is, answered my friend; and the son who
,is at college was the boy whom James rescued
at the mouth of the river. Mr. Hardy, the
farmer, commenced immediately after his refor.
nation to repair the ruin of his family. He
is, as you perceive, an active and clear-
minded man. His former friends gathered
again around him and encouraged him. He
soon got his family out of the miserable alley
where they had spent so many desolate months.
His children were sent to school; his wife's
health improved as her sorrows passed away;
they took their places in the church, and
became devoted Chirstians; and some time
after, a considerable amount of property fell to
them by the decease of a relative, with which
they provided their present happy home. Mr.
Hardy is now one of the most competent and
respectable men of the town. He is not only
industrious and successful, but generous; he
does much good to the poor, and has been in-
strumental in the reformation of several of his
old fellow-drunkards.
I have often thought, continued my friend,
that we distrust too much the possibility of
saving drunkards. Though- they become more

openly degraded than any other class of men,
yet I have thought that they have more suscep-
tibility of heart than the victims of any other
vice. Indeed, in these days when ardent spirits
stand on our side-boards, and drinking is con-
sidered a polite hospitality, a friendly treat-
ment, the most generous-hearted men are the
most liable to become its victims. Their
friendly occasions are more frequent, and their
incautious disposition renders them unsus-
pisious of danger until it is fastened upon
them. But when fallen, we generally treat
them as hopeless, and by heaping on them con-
tempt, only sink them deeper in ruin.
I believe these sentiments, my children, to
be correct. Happily, a change has occurred
since that day ; alcoholic drinks are no more
a necessary article of hospitality, and hundreds
of poor drunkards have been reformed by kind
influence. Learn from the example I have given
you, to have hope for even the worst of men;
seek to do them good ; a kind act may result in
their salvation in both worlds. Remember the
usefulness of James.

BUT even such uprightness and usefulness
as distinguished James, could not escape the
usual trials of virtue. There are people, who,
while they refuse to practise virtue, still envy
its rewards; and because they themselves do
not enjoy them, would withhold them from the
really deserving.
I have told you of the severe punishment suf-
fered by James in the school-room. You re-
member that the testimony of the scholar who
opened the school-house in the morning brought
upon him that unjust chastisement. This boy
was not called upon to say who played the trick
upon the teacher, for this he did not know, but
to declare who was the first at the school-house.
He knew very well that John and James en-
tered together. He actually believed that

James was innocent, for he knew his excellent
character. He had every reason to believe
John was guilty; for he was familiar with his
mischievous disposition ; yet fearing his resent-
ment, and presuming that the gentle-hearted
James would never revenge the charge, he
stood forth boldly and declared that the latter
was the first there, and in all probability com-
mitted the offence, omitting entirely to mention
the name of John.
This boy was not noted for wickedness, yet
he had one of the worst of hearts. The most
open sins are not always the greatest. There
are people who would not be guilty of under-
handed crimes, who yet, by the impulse of pas-
sion, frequently fall into very flagrant sins ; and
on the other hand, there are some who maintain
an external propriety, while their hearts are full
of selfishness, deceit and fraud. The latter
are marked by a want of frankness, by cun-
ning, and by a cowardice that will not allow
them to speak out for truth and innocence,
when they imagine their own interests cannot
be promoted by so doing. Flee, my children,
the example of such heartless characters.
This was the character of the boy who ex-

posed James to the punishment mentioned.
The next day when the innocence of the latter
fully appeared, he slunk away among the
scholars, hanging his head in shame; and from
that moment he became secretly and heartily
the enemy of his victim, though the latter
never referred in his presence to the wrong he
had suffered. The subsequent good reputation
of James only excited more and more his
jealousy and hatred. He resolved to do him
some signal harm, if he could ever find an op-
portunity of accomplishing it secretly. Such
a one soon presented itself; and now mark how
the wicked are entrapped in their own snares.
Some time after the occurrence in the
school-house, this boy became an assistant to
a grocer, who had a large store in the village.
James called one day to purchase an article ;
the grocer and two men were busy at the mo-
ment raising hogsheads and barrels in the back
part of the store. James laid his money on
the counter, and told the boy to prepare the
article while he stepped back to see them.
The grocer had that day done up some bank
bills in several little rolls, with paper labels
around them ; these were placed in a corner of

the money-drawer. As the boy opened it to
change the money of James, the malicious
thought struck him that he might now perpe-
trate a trick on his old schoolmate, which
would spoil for ever his good reputation, and
brand all his virtues as hypocrisy. His plan
was to put slily into the pocket of James one
of the rolls of notes, and quickly after declare
to the grocer that it was missing, and that he
saw James reaching over the counter towards
the drawer. He was sure that the grocer
would immediately follow him, and by finding
it on his person, ruin him for ever in the village.
But the unprincipled boy was selfish as well
as malicious. "I will reap an advantage my-
self," thought he, while I injure him." Thus
musing he took one of the notes out of the roll,
and hastily thrust it into his own vest pocket,
exulting meanwhile at his sagacity.


HAVING prepared himself he hastily went back
where James was standing, and craftily drop.
ping the roll of money into one of his pockets,
told him his purchase and change were ready
on the counter. James went forward, took
them and departed; but no sooner had he got
out, than the boy passed to the counter, and
pretending to be arranging the drawer, uttered
an exclamation as if he had suddenly made an
important discovery, and then ran to the
grocer, assuring him that one of the rolls of
notes was missing, and that no doubt James
had stolen it, for he saw him as he went out
bend over the counter, and then suddenly
The grocer on examining the drawer found
the money was really gone, and calling for one

of the men in the back store, ran out after
James. They soon reached him, and charged
him with the theft. He immediately denied it,
and offered to step into the magistrate's, which
was at hand, and submit to an examination of
his person. The magistrate would scarcely
admit the charge, declaring that the boys's ap-
pearance and whole history refuted it; Lut the
grocer, anxious for his money, began to search
him, and drew forth from his pockets the miss-
ing roll !
James was blank with astonishment. With
tears in his eyes, he declared he could not
account for it. The grocer replied that his boy
had seen him reach over the counter towards
the drawer. He denied the charge. The
magistrate then sent for the boy as a witness.
Guilt seldom surmounts meanness and shame.
The boy, as he entered the office, showed in
his countenance that all was not right in his
own conscience ; still he persisted in the charge
against James. Meanwhile the grocer had
unrolled the notes, and declared that they fell
three dollars short of the original amount, as
marked on the label. At this moment the
magistrate's experienced eye discovered the end

of a bank-note, with a large figure of 3 on it,
overlapping the edge of the boy's vest pocket,
for, in his hurry, it had worked itself partly
What is this 1" said the magistrate, seizing
"That's the note," said the grocer, recog-
nizing it, for he remembered it as the only one
of the kind in his drawer. "What means
this 1" he continued, appealing to his boy.
The latter was confounded. His colour
changed every minute from blushing red to
deadly pale. The perspiration stood out on his
brow, and he trembled from head to foot.
"You are the criminal," cried the magis-
trate; "you stole this money, and for some
purpose put the rest into the pocket of James.
Do you deny it 1"
The boy, overwhelmed with confusion, was
He does not deny it," said the grocer;
"he is evidently guilty. What do you propose
to do with him ?"
The grocer took him back to the store,
where, after talking to him at length, he dis-
missed him from his service. The old magis-

trate warmly assured James of his increased
regard, and sent him home with a thousand
compliments. He explained the adventure to
his parents and sister; they rejoiced at his pro-
vidential deliverance, and in the evening family
prayers, they thanked God with grateful hearts
that they were permitted to retire to rest for
the night, with innocence and an uninjured
The next day James called early at the gro-
cery to intercede for his young enemy. He
urged the grocer to retain him in his service,
on condition that he would promise never
again to be guilty of a similar act. James
hoped that he might yet become a good man,
and he feared that his dismission and exposure
might destroy what self-respect he still re-
tained, and lead him to give himself up to bad
The grocer sent for the boy. In hope of
keeping his place in the store, he made a hum-
ble confession and earnest promises, but his
employer looked upon his crime as evidence
of depravity too cool and deep to be safely
'trusted in the responsibilities of his business.
He pledged himself, however, as did also

James, that they would not make it known,
if he would demean himself honestly in fu-
Thus ended this heartless attempt to ruin
the well-earned reputation of James. How
deeply guilty was the design I What inde-
scribable anguish must have wrung his own
heart and smitten his whole family, if it had
succeeded Alas that human beings should
be found who can find pleasure in rendering
others unhappy! Of what is the human heart
not capable without the grace of God.
The boy went home to live with his parents,
I have heard of him since. Some years after
this circumstance, his father died, and left him
a few acres of land with a small decayed house
upon it. Here he lived, but without much suc-
cess; for, though the crime I have mentioned
was not generally known, yet such was his sly,
selfish and petulant disposition, the littleness
and meanness of all his views, that he never
could obtain the respect and patronage of
his neighbours. He was always behind-hand
and poor. For some years he drank ardent
spiritsfreely, and was reduced to want; but I
have been informed that the late temperance


reformation has rescued him from that vice,
and that he has since improved much in his
character and circumstances. The grace of
God can renew even such a man, and raise him
to heaven.

I HAVE related these incidents merely as
examples of the conduct of James. Many
others could be mentioned, for he was con-
stantly trying to be useful-and who that tries
can fail I In this manner did he win esteem,
do good to others, and above all, educate, if I
may so speak,'hip own heart, and form his own
character. His history shows how much good
even a boy, nay, I ought to say a little girl, can
do,-for, from all I could learn, his sweet sister
had first inspired him with these good incli-
nations, and, though a little invalid, formed his
plans of usefulness, and stimulated him to pur-
sue them. She had a list of poor and afflicted
people in the town, and James was her mes-
senger to them. In this and other ways did

she contrive to be useful through him. This
dear little girl had been a Sunday-school
scholaruntilshe could no longer walk to the
church, and then her pastor visited her fre-
quently. She did not expect to get well, but
having given her young heart to the Saviour,
lived only to suffer patiently, and to do what
good her small means would allow. But as she
could not walk so far as the village, she had to
use her brother as the agent of her little plans.
Thus the examples of usefulness I have told
you, were not the result of mere natural excel-
lence in James, but of christian principle on
the part of his sister.
Her sickness affected him much, and won
for her all his sympathies. lie was thus pre-
pared to feel the influence of her gentle spirit,
and then to cherish and strengthen that influ-
ence by the course of usefulness in which she
was guiding him.
But with all his virtues, one improvement
more was necessary in the character of James-
that change without which no man can enter
into the kingdom of God, (John iii. 5,) and
this also his young sister was instrumental in
bringing about. Some months after the re-

storation of the drunkard, her health declined
fast, and it was manifest that she could not live
long. James attended her incessantly, reading
to her by day, and watching with her by night.
Ah, how our affections strengthen and twine
about the dear one whom we know we must
soon lose, to recover no more in this world I
During these last days Amelia's mind was
wholly occupied with thoughts of that happier
world to which she was hastening. She talked
much to James about it, and told him that she
had no hope of such blessedness from anything
she had done, but only from the death and inter-
cession of her Saviour. She showed him how
insufficient were his virtues and good works to
merit heaven, and urged him to seek a new
heart by faith in the gracious Redeemer of
One afternoon as she was endeavouring to
explain and apply these things to James, who
sat by her bedside, with her pocket Bible open
in his hands, the village pastor entered the
room. He was a venerable man, with silvered
locks and benignant countenance, He loved
Amelia much, and his visits to her sick room
were almost daily. He seated himself near

James, and taking from his hands the Bible,
perceived that the subject of their conversation
had been our Lord's interview with Nicodemus.
He read the first eighteen verses of the chapter,
and proceeded in an easy but impressive man-
ner to explain them.
How strongly, said he, does our Saviour
declare the necessity of a change of the natural
heart! "Verily, verily, I say unto thee,
except a man be born again, he cannot see
the kingdom of God;" and again, he re-
peats the "verily, verily;" and in answer
to a hesitating remark of Nicodemus, he
replies, "Marvel not that I said unto thee,
ye must be born again." The Scriptures
generally insist on this spiritual renewal
as essential to the Christian character. Re-
ligion is not merely a system of morals and
forms ; these are necessary to it, but are not its
essence; they are but its body, and may be
destitute of the living spirit. True religion is
"the life of God in the soul of man," purifying
it from its natural and acquired corruption.
That which is born of the flesh is flesh,"
says our Saviour in the sixth verse. He refers
to the fact that corruption is born in our na-

ture, and hence,infers the necessity of the
change he was discussing. St. Paul declares
(Eph. ii. 3) that we are "by nature the chil-
dren of wrath, even as others ;" and again he
says, "The natural man receiveth not the
things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolish-
ness unto him ; neither can he know them, for
they are spiritually discerned." Whatever of
mystery there may be in this spiritual doctrine
of natural corruption, there is no absurdity in
it, none more than in the doctrine that diseases
are often hereditary, or the doctrine that mental
peculiarities are transmitted. We know that
consumption and other diseases are often in-
herited by children from their parents, and
that insanity sometimes extends from genera-
tion to generation. The doctrine of depravity
simply implies that the same law applies to our
moral as well as our physical and mental
natures. We have descended from a fallen
original,-a bitter fountain cannot send forth
sweet water.
But God would not in his mercy nor his
justice have allowed us to come into the world
in such a condition without full provision for it.
Hence, our Saviour, after explaining the

nature of the change, and its necessity, pro-
ceeds in the fourteenth verse to state the
means of its attainment;
"And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the
wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be
lifted up ; that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have eternal life. For
God so loved the world, that he gave his only
begotton Son, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have everlasting life.
For God sent not his Son into the world to
condemn the world ; but that the world
through him might be saved. He that be-
lieveth on him is not condemned: but he that
believeth not is condemned already, because he
hath not believed in the name of the only
begotten Son of God."
Thus, faith in the crucified Saviour is the
means of salvation. Works follow it, and
prove it, but cannot obtain it. Alas! who
could hope to be saved if his salvation de-
pended on his works, or if religion were a
mere matter of self-discipline, as some repre-
sent. Works are indeed important, all we can
perform, and religion is in one sense seL-
discipline; but this is not its first great office ;

it is but a result of the latter. We must first
look to Calvary, then we can go to Olivet.
We must first be renewed in our hearts, then
we shall have grace to direct our lives.
Repentance towards God, and faith in our
Lord Jesus Christ," are the first steps heaven-
ward. If salvation were to be earned by our-
selves, what would become of the aged, the
sick, or the dying penitent, who has no ad-
vantages for good works or self discipline i Such
would be hopeless: but the thief on the cross
was saved, and so shall all be who believe in
Christ. And then "being justified by faith, we
have," says Paul, "peace with God through
our Lord Jesus Christ." Ah who can de-
scribe the comforts of religion, the peace of
conscience, the support under trials, the sweet
sympathy with all that is good and holy, the
serene hope in death, and the life that is ever-
lasting, which are the lot of the righteous, and
theirs alone To such all things work to-
gether for good, however unfavorable they
Lord, how secure and blest are they,
Who feel the joys of pardoned sin!
Should storms of wrath shake earth and sen,
Their minds have heaven and peace within.

The day glides sweetly o'er their heads,
Made up of innocence and love;
And soft and silent as the shades,
Their nightly minutes gently move.
Quick as their thought their joys come on,
But fly not half so swub away;
Their souls are ever bright as noon,
And calm as summer evenings be.
How oft they look to th' heavenly hills,
Where groves of living pleasures grow '
And longing hopes, and cheerful sniles,
Sit undisturbed upon their brow."

Thus spoke the pastor. After a few more
words directly addressed to the young invalid,
and a short prayer, he retired, leaving James
deeply thoughtful on the subjects of the con-

.... ;^-1 h.:," ',.:.,, .',.


THE next day a serious change took place
in the symptoms of Amelia. It was evident
that she was fast failing, and could not survive
long. The good pastor called as usual, and was
about to lose this lamb from his flock. He ad-
ministered to her the sacrament of the Lord's
Supper, and so directed his conversation as to
prepare her mind for her departure. He took
up the Pilgrim's Progress, which was one of
the cottage books,-and read the beautiful de-
scription of the passage of Pilgrim and Hope-
ful into the land of Beulah, and across the
river of death.
You are, my dear, said the venerable man,
in that sweet land of Beulah, along the verge
of which flows the stream of death, but which

is visited by the shining ones,' and illumi-
nated day and night with the reflection of the
light of the holy city, and melodious with the
echoes of its music. You are about to pass the
stream; do not fear like Christian, but be con-
fident like Hopeful.
There are three considerations of fear in
dying, continued he, only one of which should
excite our concern.
One is the pain attending our dissolution.
We are disposed to think that the sickness
which destroys life must be more painful than
any which failed to destroy it; but this arises
from an impression that it is pain which pro-
duces death. Pain is not always the cause of
death ; it is indeed very seldom its cause.
Death arises from the disease of some vital
part of the body ; and such parts are usually
less sensible of pain than those which are
more remote from the seat of life. I suppose
most people suffer vastly more at times in their
life than they do in the moment of death. Dis-
ease loosens the connection of soul and body,
so that often at the last hour, the tie that binds
them together seems but a slight fibre that
gently gives way, and allows the spirit, like a

bird which had broken the thread that bound
it, to spread its wings and joyously ly away.
Most of the deaths I have witnessed, have been
attended with comparatively little pain; and
where there is considerable, it lasts but a short
time. This, therefore, should not alarm us.
Another cause of our fear of death is the
merely imaginary associations with which we
invest it. We think of the grave, its loneli-
ness, its silence, its dreariness, while the shades
of night or the storms of winter pass over it.
We think of the solemn funeral services, and
the sadness and weeds of the mourners. We
think how soon we shall be forgotten, and
others will rise up and take our places in the
affections of the living and the pleasant rela-
tions of life. All these I call imaginary
sources of dread, for how can they affect the
dead I The dead are not in the grave; it is
but the worn-out apparel which they have
thrown off, that we deposit there. These
solemn circumstances affect the living, not.the
departed. When the spirit has escaped, it is
doubtless too much interested in its new bless-
edness or woe to bend in sorrow over the fate
of its prostrate tenement. The dying man

should, therefore, have no more concern for
these circumstances, than if his body were to
be translated with the spirit to the invisible
world. The disposition of his body is of no
more importance to him, than would be the
fate of a marble statue of himself left among
his friends.
There remains, then, but one consideration
which should really concern us in dying; it is
the result of death to the spirit,-the question,
whither are we going? The spirit is the
human being; its great anxiety in departing
is to kn6w where it shall find a resting-place,
how it shall meet its God ; and no anguish this
side the grave can equal that of the dying man
who has neglected the necessary preparation
for heaven, and awakens to the sense of his
condition, when his lamp is going out, and no
time for preparation remains. All then is
lost, and he feels that it -would have been
better for him had he never been born. But
here where the wicked fail, the child of God
triumphs. He feels that though if he die yet
shall he live, because Christ who died for him
is the resurrection and the life.
He then who humbly believes in the Saviour,

has no ground of fear in death; for the only
real one is fully provided for in the gospel. In
dying, he but falls asleep in Jesus. Though
lie cannot fully understand that spiritual world
to which he is going, yet he knows from God's
Holy Word that it is one of inconceivable
beauty and happiness, one which the Scriptures
have described as Paradise, as having walls and
gates of precious stones, and streets of gold,
and resounding with rapturous music. He
goes from the society of frail and sinful men,
to the C" innumerable company of angels," and
" the spirits of just men made perfect." The
grave to him is but the end of his weary pil-
grimage, the portal of his long-sought home,
where he shall rest from all his wanderings.
No weariness, no pain, no- fear of the future,
can never affect him again. What a thought is
this for the weary sufferer of earth! deliver-
ance from all evil And this is not all; for to
this will be added blessedness which eye hath
not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered
into the heart of man to conceive. Ah why
should we fear then to die I
These hopes took away the fear of death
from the ancient Christians ; nay, some of them

even desired to die. Paul said that he "desired
to depart, and be with Christ." "To die is
gain," said he ; and when he was about to suffer
martyrdom, he wrote, "henceforth there is laid
up for me a crown of righteousness." He wrote
to the Corinthian church in these delightful
words of confidence : For we know that if our
earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved,
we have a building of God, a house not made
with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in
this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed
upon with our house which is from heaven.
We are confident, I say, and willing rather to
be absent from the body, and to be present
with the Lord." "The sting of death," says
this same apostle, "is sin," but the sins of
God's children are forgiven; and therefore can
they say," 0 death, where is thy sting 1 0 grave,
where is thy victory." Thanks be to God who
giveth us victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."
Thus, my child, continued the venerable
pastor, you have nothing to fear. The ever-
lasting arms are round about you. All the
good and holy who have passed from our earth
to heaven, have gone through this valley of
death ; and have gone with glad words upon
128 a

their lips. You shall tread in holy footsteps,
and God's blessed angels will walk joyfully with
you there. You part from us, but it is only
for a short time; soon we shall meet you again,
and thus be with the Lord and each other forever.
Such were the words of love and comfort
with which he prepared the mind of Amelia
for the solemn event which seemed so near.
Though shehad no distrust of the supporting
grace of God before, but with remarkable
sweetness, waited tranquilly for the hour of her
departure, yet these thoughts added freshness
to her hopes, and she felt that to die was gain"

AMELIA lingered through that day and night.
Her brother watched with her all night, and in
the morning could not be induced to leave her
except a few moments for breakfast. She had
conversed with him on religious subjects, as
her strength would allow during the night; his
heart was affected; and when the physician
came in the morning, and expressed a fear that
she would die on that day, James could not re-
strain hig tears, and took his seat by her bedside,
to leave it no more while she lived.
It was a soft and beautiful June day.
The sick room was on the lower floor, and the
windows were raised to afford breath for the
little sufferer, who was sinking fast, but tran-
quilly. James held one of her hands in his,
and as lie felt it grow cold, he wept; but she,

raising her mild young eyes, full of peace and
hope, and seeing the honeysuckles flapping in
the soft breezes at the window, the humming
bee and light butterfly fluttering among their
flowers, and the bright blue sky stretching far
and serenely away-said, in a subdued voice,
"Ah! it is a beautiful day to die! If this
world is so lovely, what must be that made for
the angels To-day, sweet thought! I shall
see it!" Before the sun of that bright day
went down, the beautiful child had entered the
land of angels.
Sad was this affliction to James, and yet it
was attended with one of the greatest blessings
of his life. He felt that his beloved sister was
not lost to him; she was still alive in the world
of the blessed, and perhaps attended his path
as one of those ministering spirits, who, though
unseen, wait upon us pilgrims of earth. He
resolved to live in such a manner as to meet
her in heaven. With the tears of his sorrow
for her, were mingled tears of penitence before
God. He searched more anxiously the Scrip-
tures, prayed much in secret, and in a few
weeks after stood at the altar where the bier
of his sister had stood, to be received into the


church of Christ. Before, his good conduct
and usefulness had resulted from his sister's
Christian influence over him; now, he was
fitted for still greater usefulness, by the endow-
ment of Christian principle in his own heart.

-- -


THUS, said the pastor, bringing the narrative
to a close, I have drawn for you the character
of this good boy. I have designed only to
sketch his early life; his subsequent career
was still more interesting, but I can only allude
to it. My visit to L- occurred two years after
the death of his sister. James was then grow-
ing into young manhood, with the prospect of a
useful and honourable life.
My health improved, and I returned to my
field of labour many miles inland. Fifteen
years passed without my hearing any thing
from L-. I had visited it merely as a stranger
for health, and never had occasion to return to
it. At the end of those years, I removed to
this city, to take charge of my present church.

On my arrival, I found among many other ex-
cellent,members, a wealthy merchant, who was
beloved and noted not only in the church but
through the community for his benevolence and
public usefulness. Riches had accumulated
around him, but he used them only as a
steward of God, dispensing them to the poor,
to the church, and public purposes. No man
perhaps in this community had done more real
good to the destitute and afflicted. Scores of
families were fed by his bounty, and every
benevolent movement claimed him as a patron.
The second day after my arrival, I was invited
to sup with him, and while conversing at his
fireside, surrounded by the comforts of his
happy home, we discovered that we were old
acquaintances-he was James, the good boy
of L-.
I have said, my children, that perhaps you
would discover that you knew the subject of
my story. He was your own father, my dear
child, said the pastor, turning to little George
Thornton, in whose eyes the tears were trem-
bling, for he had already begun to suppose the
His schoolmate, John, for whom he suffered

as I have told you, is Mr. Standish, his excel-
lent partner,who still carries on business at the
old firm; nothing could dissolve their friend-
ship. Mr. Standish came, when a young man,
to this city. He succeeded in business, and
invited his young friend to join him, and here
they remained together till death separated
them. God blessed your father, my dear
George, with a prosperous, happy and useful
life; and now, after leaving liberal endowments
to useful institutions, by which, in effect, he
may be said still to live, and act on the world,
lie has ascended to the world of the good in
heaven. The Bible with clasps, which you
have in your chamber, and which he left you
as a keepsake, is the one that was given him
before the school, by the warm-hearted Irish
teacher; and that gray-headed old man who
came with part of his family in a carriage from
the country, to attend his funeral, and wept so
sorrowfully over his coffin, was the poor
drunkard whom your father had reclaimed.
Learn thus, my children, to be good and
useful; for all such have the promise of the
life that now is, and of that which is to come.

THE next evening we again gathered around
the hearth of the parsonage, and the pastor
related the following story :-
The village of B- is one of the pret-
tiest in the State of Massachusetts. Most of
its houses extend along either side of a wide
and curved road, which is lined with double
rows of ancient trees, that half-conceal with
their foliage the neat white dwellings. Small
flower-gardens adorn the fronts of most of the
houses, and in summer the fragrance of the
rose-bushes and other shrubs sweetens the at-
mosphere of the streets. Soon after entering
the village, another road runs from the main


one, and passing up the side of an elevation,
re-enters the main street again three-quarters
of a mile beyond, forming a crescent on the
side of the hill. This semicircle, on the hill-
side, is the most beautiful feature in the village
scenery. From its beginning, all the way
across the hill to its termination in the main
street, it is sprinkled with farm-houses, fine
country-seats, rich orchards, and small clumps
of the noble old forest which once covered all
the region round about. The road is wide,
and hard and clean from its rocky soil; the
fences are mostly hedges of hawthorn, or fine
stone walls, and the prospect it affords stretches
far away, taking in several villages, which, with
their snug cottages and white churches, nestle
among the trees upon the wide-spread plain
On the highest part, and about mid-way of
this semicircular road is a venerable old church
thickly surrounded by huge forest trees; a few
rods from it stands a brick school-house, two
stories high, surmounted by a cupola, whose
merry bell spreads silvery music among the or.
chards and cottages of the hill-side.
Far down the road, near where it enters the

main street, was the farm and cottage of Mr.
Winthrop, the father of Edward Winthrop,
whose history I am about to tell you. A beau-
tiful home was that of Edward Winthrop. A
fine hedge-row fenced its front for rods. Within
this, above the house, was a luxuriant orchard,
the trees of which bent with their burdens
almost to the ground ; then there was the flower-
garden in front of the cottage, enclosed by a
white railing, and crowded with all kinds of
flowering shrubs; then the cottage, white as
white paint could make it, built in the fanciful
Swiss style, and shaded by a piazza, running
the whole length of its front; farther on, lay
the fields of the farm, extending far back, and
waving with the golden grain, while back of
the cottage were the stables and barns, with
the cows in the barnyard, the chickens and
ducks, and turkeys, clucking and fluttering
about, and the pigeons flying, and cooing on
the roofs.
With such a home, with good health and in-
dulgent parents, young Edward, you would
think, needed nothing more to make his life good
and happy. But that which is most necessary
in early life for virtue and happiness, he had

not-a good moral training. His parents were
in competent circumstances, and did every-
thing for his temporal comforts; they passed
for very good sort of people among their neigh-
bours; but they had no religious worship in the
family; they seldom went to church ; the Sab-
bath was a day of rest on the farm, but it was
not strickly kept. Edward rarely, if ever, went
to the Sunday School ; and as for the Bible, he
scarcely read or heard it read twice in the
twelve months of the year. Had he been
brought up with not one half his comforts, but
with a knowledge of the scriptures, and a deep
sense of his duties to God and man, his pros-
pects of a successful and an honourable man-
hood would have been a thousand times fairer.
With the training he had received, he was just
fitted to fall the victim of the first strong temp-
tation which might assail him, for he had no
fixed principle, no fine moral feeling, produced
by a cultivated conscience, and the fear of God
to control and direct his conduct. Being an
only son, he was much indulged; allowed his
own way in nearly everything. He grew up
with but a feeble sense of restraint and obliga-
tion to others, and the result was, that while he

was marked by bodily vigour, buoyant spirits,
and bright and quick powers of mind, he had
little sensibility, showed no generous disposi-
tions towards his young associates, but was
heartless and selfish.

THOUGH this was the general character of
Edward, yet it led him to no particular wrong
act, till about his twelfth year. The one which
then occurred might seem very insignificant,
were it not for the consequences which flowed
from it. It was the first crime-the first step
down a precipice which led him at last to
depths of sin and misery that he had never
He was a scholar in the academy I have
described. The .boys were accustomed to play
at one side of the school-house, so that the soil
was beaten and bare. Edward was standing
there one day looking at a group of his asso-
ciates who were playing at marbles. Among
them was a gentle little boy, named George
Goddard. He was a sickly, but amiable child,

beloved by all his playmates. The stouter
and more reckless boys, especially, felt that his
feeble health and kind-heartedness claimed
their sympathy and protection; he was, indeed,
the favourite of the school. A good-hearted
store-keeper of the village had given him a
beautifully coloured marble, which was the
admiration of all the boys. He was playing
with it at this time. Edward had no sooner
seen it, than, in the selfishness of his heart, he
determined to have it, if lie had to buy or steal
it. As the boys grew interested in their sport,
more and more of their schoolmates gathered
about them, till the group was quite large.
Edward took his stand behind several, close
against the wall of the school-house. The
beautiful marble of little George Goddard
rolled among their feet to where Edward
stood. Now, thought he, is my time to get it.
But he was too shrewd to expose himself
among so many by stooping down to seize the
marble; he therefore, as they were crowding
to find it, put his foot upon it, and grinding it
deep into the soil, stood upon it. Poor little
George and his friends looked about in every
direction, searching every little hole and tuft of

grass for it. At last the bell rang for school,
and he gaee up the search, with a tear on his
pale cheek. Edward worked the dirt over it
with his foot, and entered the school exulting
in his wicked ingenuity ; but there was not
another boy there who was not sorry for
George; and a bluff, but generous little fellow,
made him a present of four common marbles as
some relief for his loss.
The moment the school was dismissed, Ed-
ward ran out to the spot, dug up the marble,
and hastened home. Most boys, I trust, would
have felt that this was a mean and shameful
theft; but Edward had hardly such a thought;
he smiled with gladness all the way home. He
frequently took the marble from his pocket,
and glancing carefully around to see that no
one was near, chuckled over it with glee, and
then replacing it in his pocket, hastened on
with lighter step than ever.
Neglected as Edward's religious education
had been, yet he was not without responsibility
for his conduct; for God has placed in the
breasts of all men a conscience which tells
them more or less clearly what is right and
what is wrong, and then he gives them also

his own Holy Spirit to deepen the convic-
tions of conscience. Edward felt frequently
these inward monitors; and had he regarded
them, they would have been sufficient to lead
him in the path of a virtuous and useful life.
When he awoke the next morning after this
unworthy act, his first feeling was one of joy at
the thought that he possessed the marble; but,
as he lay reflecting, he began to see the heart-
lessness of his conduct. He felt for a few
minutes ashamed of himself; but then,"
thought he, it is done; there is no use in
being sorry for it, and it is best now to make
the most of it." Thus he drove away those
good though painful feelings, which, if fol-
lowed, would have led him to repair the wrong,
and to avoid such acts in future.
He reaped little advantage, however, from
the success of his wicked ingenuity ; for he
bethought himself that if he dared to use the
marble in playing with his young associates,
they would recognize it as George Goddard's,
and treat him with deserved contempt. All
he could do with it, therefore, was, to keep it
to himself, and never use it, except at home
sudalone. He soon got tired of this, and at


last, to avoid detection, threw it one day into a
stream, Ifeartily sick of the great trouble and
little advantage of his fraud.


SERIOUS consequences often flow from the
smallest causes. A single wrong act committed
in early life, may leave behind it an impression
which may tinge the whole character. Thus
was it with Edward Winthrop. Months passed
away during which, no strong temptation pre-
senting itself, he thought he was as good as he
had been before his mean conduct towards
little George. But one day he was sent by his
father to the village store to purchase an article
the price of which had lately fallen a few cents.
His parent, not aware of its decreased value,
sentthe full amount of money by him. The
grocer explained the difference to Edward, and
gave him the change. While the latter was
walking home, the thought struck him that he
might easily keep the change for his own use,

as his father did not know the cheapness of the
article. His conscience immediately began to
admonish him, but he soon silenced it. What
if it is wrong," thought he; "it is nothing
great, and my father can spare the few cents ;
he will never feel their loss." He did not think
that the value of the money was nothing com-
pared with the principle involved, and that the
same principle which rendered it improper to
steal a hundred dollars, made it wrong to steal
one. Then his fears began to disturb him.
"What if my father should find it out,"
thought he; how badly I shall feel, and how
severely he will punish me." He had nearly
concluded to resist the temptation, when the
recollection of the marble occurred to him,
and confirmed his wicked purpose. "I suc-
ceeded there," said he to himself; "I have
not been found out, and never can be, if I
don't confess the fault myself; there is then
no ground for fear." Thus reasoning, he took
home the article he had purchased, and kept
the money. Here was his second step down-
wards; and it would probably never have
been taken, had it not been for the encourage-
ment derived from the success of the first.

How dearly was. he now paying for that
marble !
. This misstep led him into another the very
next day. He was spinning a new top, pur-
chased with the money he had kept from his
father, when the latter, who was passing at the
moment, asked him where he obtained it. He
replied that the grocer had given it to him, thus
adding falsehood to fraud, and, by trifling with
his conscience, preparing himself for still
greater crimes. When once we break, in this
manner, over the first restraints of virtue, we
launch out on a fatal sea, to be tossed by every
wind that plays about us, and are swallowed up
at last in the depths of vice and ruin.
Happy would it have been for Edward, had
he been found out in these early sins, for then
he would have learned to distrust his safety in
future temptations. His first success led him
to infer that he could always escape detection.
He began to imagine too that he had uncom-
mon ingenuity for such achievements, and set
himself to work to contrive new ones. Thus
vice strengthens by every repetition, until it
binds its victim in its coil like the anaconda.
Edward soon attempted another crime, but

not with his expected success. He was sent
again to the grocer's with a piece of money a
few cents in value more than the price of the
article. Congratulating himself as he walked
homeward on his escape hitherto, he set his
wits to work to devise somo way by which he
could keep the change in the present case also.
"The last time," said he to himself, "the
price had been reduced, and I kept the re-
mainder; why cannot I now tell my father that
the price on this article has risen, and keep the
change, pretending there was none ; that's the
plan for me." His conscience again warned
him, and the consequences of detection again
stared him in the face, but he heeded them less
now than before. "What!" thought he as he
walked along buoyant with the idea of this new
fraud-" what shall I fear now I have I ever
been found out I No; and never shall be;
not I."
When he reached home and told the story to
his father, the latter looked much surprised;
it was improbable; the article was one upon
which he knew there could hardly be such a
sudden variation of price. He made minute
inquiries of Edward, and perceived, something

like confusion in his countenance. For the
first time suspicion flashed acrsos the mind of
the too indulgent parent. He could not satisfy
himself, but soon started for the grocer's, to
resolve his misgivings. What was his astonish-
ment and grief when he there learned that his
son had deceived him! He was a kind-hearted
though imprudent father, and felt, while re-
tracing his steps homeward, as if an insupport-
able burden pressed upon his spirit. A tear
stole into his eye as he thought of the uncertain
future. If his child had begun so early to
degrade himself by such practices, what might
the result be I When he entered the house he
could scarcely speak. He called his son to
him, and charged him with deception and
fraud. The boy, struck with confusion, was
about to contradict his parent, and resort to
some weak evasion, when the latter with a
stern authority commanded him to be cautious,
for he had ascertained the fact by his inquiries
at the grocer's. Edward then tried to apologize
for it by saying that it did not amount to
much, that he thought his father would not
care for a few cents, &c.
"I should not have cared for them, my

child," replied the parent, "if you had received
them honestly. It is the crime I care for. I
would rather have filled your pockets with gold,
than you had stolen six cents. Be warned,
Edward, that if you pursue this course, your
life will be filled with disgrace and sorrow."
The boy crouched beneath the admonitory
voice of his father, but not with sincere repent-
ance. He still imagined that the offence was
a small one, for he looked only at the value of
the money, not the principle concerned. He
even told a falsehood at the moment, declaring
it was the first fault of the kind he had com-
mitted, and promising that he would do so no
more if his father would forgive him. The
kind-hearted man believed him, and promised
him some fine presents if he would be a good
boy in future. Edward felt that no great evil
had resulted from his detection, after all, and,
instead of regret for his criminal conduct, con-
gratulated himself on his good fortune. Poor
boy he little thought he was undermining his
character and happiness for life by what he
considered such little misdemeanours. Not only
was liepreparing himself for future crime and
misery, but drying up in his young heart the

sweetest sources of the happiness of childhood;
for, what blesses our early days more than the
consciousness of innocence,-the frank, open
mind, that fears not to be scrutinized by the
eyes of all spectators,-the sweet conscious-
ness that no suspicions embitter towards us the
thoughts of those dear ones who mingle in our
daily life, and whose affections are the chief
endearment of our existence ?


EDWARD could not escape frequent and
serious reflections on his conduct. His con-
science suggested to him its sinfulness, and
that divine Spirit which is given to every man
to profit withal," frequently reminded him of
his accountability to God, and of the future
world where He will require an account of the
deeds done in the body. Though his religious
education was much neglected, yet he had ac-
quired enough information on these subjects to
lead him aright. At this point in his history,
there was still much hope for him. His habits
were not yet confirmed; and had he more
resolutely decided to be a virtuous boy and
upright man, he might, by the blessing of
God, have changed his course, and with it the

destiny of his whole life. But, alas I he re-
membered how he had escaped detection in re-
spect to the marble, and the first money he had
withheld from his father. That first offence
still rose up in his imagination as a proof of
security, and an impulse to farther crimes.
"It was only by accident," he said to himself,
"that my father found me out in the last case.
He might never do so again should I cheat him
every week."
Further up the hill, about a quarter of a mile
from his father's house, lived his uncle, sur-
rounded by the finest scenery of the crescent
road. On one side of his cottage was a small
peach orchard, of precious value, as it is diffi-
cult to raise peach trees in that climate. It
was found that as fast as the fruit became ripe
it was missing, and it was manifest that pecks
were carried away sometimes in a single night.
How they went was a mystery, for the neigh-
bours all had the reputation of honest people.
At last the proprietor determined to station his
large mastiff under the tree which was nearest
the road, and had been most ravaged, fastening
the dog by a rope long enough to allow him to
defend the tree. One evening, a few hours

after dark, when the parents of Edward were
visiting at his uncle's, the dog was heard to
bark violently, and soon the cries of a boy,
shrieking with terror and calling for help, start-
led the company. Edward's father and. uncle,
with several servants, ran out in haste, carrying
a lantern. Oh help me help me l" cried
the boy, the dog growling and struggling mean-
"We'll help you hold on to him, BluffI"
hallooed the servants. "I've caught you at
last, have I," exclaimed the uncle. "You
young rogue you, we'll make you smart," cried
Edward's father.
Thus exclaiming, they ran to the tree, but
what was their astonishment and mortification,
when they found that the young thief was Ed-
ward Winthrop himself. He was prostrate on
the earth, with a large basket by his side; the
grass was pressed down by his struggles with
the dog, which held him firmly clutched by the
shoulder, after having bit and lacerated him
dreadfully in other places. The animal had
gone to sleep at the foot of the tree, and was
not awaked until the boy got fully within his
reach, when the dog seized him with such vio-

lence, that there was no escape. When they
put the lantern to his face, and Mr. Winthrop
saw he was his own son, his spirit sunk within
him. The afflicted father had no language to
express his surprise and grief. His uncle and
the servants knew not what to say, but bore
him in silence to the house to dress his wounds,
which were bleeding profusely. When his
mother, who was waiting at the door with the
other ladies, saw her own son brought in, gory
with wounds, and caught in such a shameful
crime, she fainted with mortification and alarm.
They soon put him in the waggon, and car-
ried him to his home. A physician was called,
and for two weeks the guilty boy suffered under
the injuries inflicted by the dog, and still more
under the sense of dishonour which his conduct
had incurred. Often during his- confinement
at home did he ask himself how he could ever
again enter the house of his uncle or be seen
by any of the servants ; but his kind relative
called upon the family, expressed much sympa-
thy for them, and admonishing Edward never
to be guilty of such a crime again, promised
to keep it unknown to the other neighbours,
and thereby save his reputation. It was ascer-

trained that he had been in the habit of stealing
his uncle's fruit in this manner, and selling it to
a poor shopkeeper in another part of the town,
under the pretence that it was given him as a
reward for small services.

S; mr

I, A.'


THIS painful detection led Edward to reflect
much upon his late unworthy conduct: and,
for a short time, the conviction seemed to be
deeply impressed on his mind, that there was
really no advantage to be reaped in the end
from such criminal acts. It was again a favour-
able point in his history; he formed many good
purposes in the hours of leisure and reflection
which his confinement at home afforded, and at
times very solemn thoughts occurred to him ;
he remembered that he must sooner or later
die, and knew that he could not be safely called
to his account with the guilt of such sins upon
his soul. The good Spirit of God was doubt-
less operating upon his mind, endeavouring to
lead him to amendment. Ah I precious aro

such moments in our wayward lives! invalu-
able such salutary thoughts we should cherish
them as above price, for they do the heart
good, and however saddening for the time,
they leave behind them, if regarded, a savour
of life unto life."
But Edward got well, went abroad again,
and finding his last crime was kept a secret,
soon began to think that, after all, the results
of his wrong conduct were not very lamentable.
He even indulged the thought that a peculiar
good-fortune attended him, or that he pos-
sessed very superior tact in conducting his
wicked plots. In this last respect he was cor-
rect, as his next offence showed. He was a
boy of keen mind, and, if industrious and vir-
tuous, might have stood among the foremost in
his school, and become a distinguished man;
but his present course tended only to vice and
Two years passed away unmarked by any
further act of open wickedness; but this tem-
porary good conduct was not the result of a
real reformation of his heart; the good pur-
poses I have mentioned were forgotten, and it
was more for want of some new temptation,

than from any change of character, that he
now demeaned himself better than formerly.
About the end of these two years, he met with
such a temptation, and committed an act of
much deeper guilt than any which I have yet
He still attended the academy on the hill-
side. One afternoon, a farmer called at the
school, to receive payment for some provisions
which he had carried to the teacher's house.
The latter, after paying him, very carelessly
left his purse, which contained some notes and
several twenty-five cent pieces, upon his desk,
and went to a distant part of the room to hear
a class. The seats and the writing-desks be-
fore them were adapted but to two scholars
each. Edward sat near the teacher's platform,
and saw the purse ; the boy who sat with him,
though not notedly wicked, he knew to be mis-
chievous, and often perverse; he suggested to
him with a smile, the ease with which they
might take the purse, if they were so disposed;
and seeing that the thought struck him favour-
ably, he took courage to propose it seriously.
His associate consented, and they resolved to
get it, and share its contents between them.
128 G

Edward looked carefully around, and perceiving
the teacher to be busily engaged with his back
towards them, and the scholars attentive to
their books, he quickly, but quietly, stepped to
the platform, and, pretending to get a pen, he
seized the purse, and instantly returned to his
seat. The two boys opened it under their
desk, and divided the money, but concluded to
throw the purse away, in some safe place, to
prevent discovery.
The clock soon struck the hour of dismission,
but the teacher detained them for two or three
minutes, till he had finished his class, and then
hurriedly dismissed them, before returning to
his desk. When he reached it, and perceived
that the purse was missing, two-thirds of the
scholars had gone, including Edward and his
companion. The rest were detained and ex-
amined, but no clue could be found to the lost

GBEAT excitement was produced among the
scholars by this unwonted circumstance. A
similar crime had never taken place among
them; they were generally well-trained chil-
dren, and were shocked at the criminality and
mystery of the deed. They spread the news
everywhere. Edward's accomplice heard of it
some dozen times before the sun went down,
and became so alarmed at what he had done,
that he dreamed all night of detection, magis-
trates, turnkeys, and prison-cells. The next
morning, he hastened early to Edward's home,
and, terrified with fear, proposed to put the
purse, with its money, back on the teacher's
desk, and confess the whole matter, or do any
thing by which they might escape the prison.

But Edward declared he had thrown the
purse away beyond hope of recovery, and
frightened the poor boy, by assuring him that
to confess would only ruin them for ever;
whereas, if they kept quiet, they would not
only escape, but enjoy the money besides.
The boy was in despair. "We shall be
found out," said he, "I know we shall; then
what will my father and mother say; what will
everybody say ; I could never hold up my head
Edward endeavoured to inspire him with
courage, and, after a moment's pause, ex-
claimed, I know how to manage it; let us
charge it on Henry Goodwin."
In the outskirts of the village lived a poor,
but pious widow, who had lately moved into
the town. Her cottage was small and old, but
exceedingly neat, and almost buried in the
thick! e of shrubs and trees. She had a
very income, but by strict economy, and
the constant use of the needle, was able to sus-
tain herself and her little son, the only near
relative she possessed in the world. She en-
deavoured to train him up in the fear of God,
and to afford him as much time as possible

University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs