Citation
School-boy heroes

Material Information

Title:
School-boy heroes the story of Maurice Gray and Carl Adler
Added title page title:
The story of Maurice Gray and Carl Adler
Added title page title:
The story of Carl Adler
Added title page title:
School boy heroes
Creator:
Alexander, J. W.
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London
New York
Publisher:
T. Nelson and Sons
Publication Date:
Copyright Date:
1875
Language:
English
Physical Description:
247, [8] p., [8] leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 18 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Social life and customs -- Florida -- 19th century ( lcsh )
Juvenile literature -- 1875 ( rbgenr )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1875 ( rbgenr )
School stories -- 1875
Boys, Stories for -- Florida -- 1875
Bldn -- 1875
Genre:
Juvenile literature ( rbgenr )
Publishers' catalogues ( rbgenr )
fiction ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
United States -- New York -- New York
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Includes publisher's catalog.
General Note:
Imprint also notes publisher's location in Edinburgh.
Statement of Responsibility:
by the late Rev. J.W. Alexander.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
AHC3390 ( NOTIS )
21652774 ( OCLC )
020510923 ( AlephBibNum )

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SCHOOL-BOY HEROES:

THE STORY OF

MAURICE GRAY AND CARL ADLER.

BY THE LATE

REV. J. W. ALEXANDER, D.D.,

NEW YORK.



LONDON:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH ; AND NEW YORK.

1875.

RR ASTM Se ATT AM aR EMAAR NE STERN ey tte le etn aoe l=

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Wreface.




Wo ax HE two following tales are chiefly intended for
ae Dboys, and the object of the lamented author
=a . (whose name alone is a recommendation) ap-



SD pears to have been to represent true religion,
\ | as displayed during the trials and temptations
of school-life, in an attractive and manly form.

In both tales, the teachers are men of the mght
stamp; but the boys, as must ever be the case, are of
varied characters. The scene of the longest story is
the United States of America, where so many German
emigrants now find a home. |

If any young readers are led, from the perusal, to
seek a deeper experience of the power of truth and
love, as exemplified by the conduct of Maurice Gray
and Carl Adler, they will have good cause for grati-
tude to the author of this little volume.








THE STORY OF MAURICE GRAY.

I. The New Scholar ... ses ove eee
II. Lunch in the Wood

III. The Faithful Nurse wee ass a

IV. The Lame Boy... bee weet aes
V. A Noble Confession eee ase

VI. The Missing Book ... eee one eee

VII. Last and Worst ... ane eee see

THE STORY OF CARL ADLER.

1. The Oaks -

II. Trials of the Emigrant School-Boy ... eos
III. What makes the Happy Teacher? ... eee eee
fV. Lessons out of Doors tee eve eas eas
V. Teaching and Training ves les see eee

VI. Friends of the Stranger wes ves ees
VII. Work and Play os ees ves eee | eee
“VIII. The Emigrant Youth advancing to Manhood ... ave
IX. First Lessons in School-Keeping eee ses wes

X. Glimpse of a Christian Home in & Strange Land woe

18
30
41
50
59



Vill CONTENTS.

XI. Reminiscences of German Childhood .. 2s vas 164
XIT. Promotion and Surprises... eee .. vee 171
XIIL Shadows in the Picture... va A «179
AIV. School-Chat in Play-Hours ... ves ses wee 184
XV. Religion in School ses vee oes wes 197
XVI. Poetry and Schools bee wee vee kos 207
XVII. Arrival of Emigrants eee coe ees ote 214
XVIII. Docendo Discimus vee es ewe QOL
XIX. Sybel, the German Teacher - as ae: 926
XX. School Festivities vee ses aes ve O87

XXI. Conclusion one eae ore > oes was 244







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THE STORY OF MAURICE GRAY.

ARI Kn ome a A re ee

i.

Ghe Hew Scholar.

assembled. He was soon surrounded by a
group of them.
“What is it, Frank ? what is it ” asked



many voices. |

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

“How do you know?” “What is his name?”
“ How old is he?” “Where is he from ?” were ques-
tions rapidly asked.

“T can answer but one of these questions,” said



10 THE NEW SCHOLAR.

Frank. “TI heard Mr. Harding say so himself to Mr.
Neville, the assistant ; so it is true, you see.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How can you be so foolish ?” said Philip Graham,
a tall, slender boy, fourteen years of age, with an un-
commonly sedate countenance, small light blue eyes,
and rather a precise air. “To-morrow is time enough

to know. What difference can one day make ?”
“Oh! Phil would not condescend to be curious,”
said Bob Newton ; “it is too undignified for him.”



THE NEW SCHOLAR. | 11

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that is too many,” said some of the older boys.
“It would never do to ask so many. I think three
questions are as many as it will do to ask.’

“T think so too! I think so too!” said several voices.
“Three are enough ; what shall | they be? Three will
tell very little.” .

After some discussion, it was decided the three most
important items were his name, his age, and whether
he was from the city or the country, and little Joe
Green was despatched to acquire the important infor-



12 THE NEW SCHOLAR.

mation. He soon reached the summer-house where
Mr. Harding was sitting, who raised his eyes from his
_ book as he heard the approach of footsteps.

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

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

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

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

“Well, his name is Maurice Gray,” said Mr. Hard-
ing.

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

‘“ He is several years older than yourself, Joe,” an-
swered Mr. Harding. “ He is fourteen, I believe.”

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

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

“Thank you, sir,” said J oe, bowing, and preparing
to run away. |

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

i Yes, sir, very much,” answered J oe, “but the boys
told me I must not ask you but three questions, or
you would think me very rude ;” and, without waiting



THE NEW SCHOLAR, 13

for further information, Joe left Mr. Harding, and
hastened back to the play-ground.

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

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

“Fourteen years old—that is just our age, Dick,”
said Tom Bailey; “he will be one of the oldest
scholars. I hope he has not an old sober head like -
Philip Graham, who thinks it such a condescension to
play with us now and then, and seems to think it is
wicked to laugh, or have any fun at all. Mr. Harding
thinks him a model of good conduct, and a pattern for
us all. I think he is a very disagreeable fellow. He
is proud, and never notices the younger boys at all, and
seems to think boys are made for nothing but to study
and go to church! I hope Maurice Gray is a real
hearty fellow, Dick, like you and 1.”

“Yes; indeed I do,” answered Dick. “I hate
‘pattern boys,’ like Phil Graham. One never feels at
ease with them. If the fellow that is coming is to my —
mind, I shall be quite polite to him, for I like a new
friend once in awhile. As he is from the country, I
suppose we shall have to teach him a thing.or two. I
suppose he is not much of a scholar. This is probably



14 : THE NEW SCHOLAR.

his first coming out into the world. Well, we shall see
what he is like to-morrow. I wonder if he will come
in the coach at eleven o’clock, or whether his father
will bring him. To-morrow is not a great way off.”

To-morrow came in its proper place, and a bright
lovely summer day it was; and, at eleven o'clock, every
ear was opened as the old stage-coach came rumbling
leisurely along, and great was the satisfaction that
beamed from divers faces as it was heard distinctly to
stop at the front door. Mr. Harding left the room to
receive his new pupil, and, after being absent half an
hour, returned without him, to the evident dissatisfac-
tion of the many eyes that were fixed upon the door,
for they all knew they must now wait until after school
to be introduced to the new scholar,

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

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

“He is not so tall as I am by an inch or two,” said
Philip Graham, drawing up his thin figure to its full
height, “though he is fourteen years of age,”

“Oh, he. cannot equal Phil Graham in anything, of
course,” said Tom Bailey, aside. “No one pretends to



THE NEW SCHOLAR. 15

equal the model scholar—the ‘ pattern of propriety ’—
even in outward appearance. I am sure I hope
Maurice is not such a stiff conceited fellow, looking
down upon everybody else.”

“Why,” said Dick Wells, “how should we know
how straight we ought to walk, or how sober we ought
_ to look, how perfectly we ought to recite, how still we
ought to be in school-hours, how obedient to the rules
of the school, if we had not some such perfect pattern
before us as Phil Graham !”

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

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

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

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



16 | THE NEW SCHOLAR.

“¢ Well Maurice,” said Mr. Harding, upon leaving
him, “I see you will soon make friends here, and I
hope we shall make you happy.”
| “T will try to deserve friends, sir,

bowing respectfully ; “and then I do not fear but I
shall make them.”

“T love him already,” said Mr. Harding to himself,
as he walked towards the house. “He will be a friend
to me, and an ornament to the school ; I see it in the

said Maurice,

99

very expression of his face. He is a serious-minded,
conscientious boy, or I am much mistaken, though his
eye and his lip have a merry smile.”

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

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

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

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

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







BAIT MVEA ARR

DISENTANGLING THE KITE

page le



THE NEW SCHOLAR. 17

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

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

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

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



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YR. HARDING'S residence was about two
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Lipo as There was a fine garden in front, a large
AZ yess -play-ground ‘at one side, and behind the
LNA
ii a house were a farm-yard and vegetable
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fields, and shady roads. He built the house expressly .
for his school, and all was well arranged according to a
plan of his own. The chambers were large and airy,
each containing four beds, one in each corner of the
room. A door opened near each bed into a light,
good-sized dressing-room. One of these was appro-
priated to each scholar, to contain his clothes, &c.
Each was fitted with a neat writing-desk and chair, so
-that it was a pleasant and quiet place for a boy to
retire for study—or solitude, if he felt so disposed.

In addition to his boarders, Mr. Harding received at
his school day-scholars from the neighbouring village.
One wing of the house was occupied by Mr. Harding
and his family, which consisted of a wife and twin



LUNCH IN THE WOopD. 19

_ daughters, Minna and Rose, eight years of age. They
attended the school each day regularly, occupying |
small seats by their father’s desk. They were allowed
occasionally to visit the boys’ playground as spectators
of their games, and considered it a great treat so to do.
But they were always attended by one of their parents,

or placed under the especial care of one of the most
trusty boys. Philip Graham had this honour conferred
‘ upon him oftener than any other boy, and he was quite
proud of the trust reposed in him.

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

“ Look here, Dick. Quick, or I shall be discovered,”
said Tom Bailey one day, about a week after Maurice —
Gray had entered the school, as he was creeping
stealthily from Maurice’s closet. “Come quickly, Tom.”
Tom obeyed. “Here,” said Dick, “is your good, -
merry fellow, we have been calculating upon. Why,
he is worse than Philip Graham. See here! Phil has



20 LUNCH IN THE WOOD.

only a Bible on his desk, which I do not think he
opens very often, though he would have Mr. Harding
think he does; but Maurice Gray has a Bible, and a
book of sermons, and some tracts. They are all for
show, of course. No boy would ever read such books,
[ am certain, unless he was compelled, and I would
not believe Maurice ever reads them if he told me so.
He is worse than Phil Graham, is he not?” |

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

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

“There is one thing very certain,” said Tom, “and



LUNCH IN THE WOOD. 2]

— that is, that Mr. Harding takes a great liking to Maurice,
Never since I have been here has he invited a boy to
take tea with him during the first week of his being
here, and Maurice last evening not only took tea with
him, but took a walk of an hour after tea with Mr. and
Mrs. Harding, and Minna and Rose. I saw them re-
turning. Minna had his hand, and Rose was skipping
by his side, and they were both talking to him as if
they had known each other for a long time.”

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

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

“No knowing until we have tried him,” said’ Dick.
“Tam not sure but it is too soon to begin; but he is
such a pleasant fellow, he is worth trying for; if he has



92 | LUNCH IN THE WOOD.

a few rusty notions, I think we can wear them away,
and make a friend of him.”

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

‘‘ Here is a nice place to take our lunch,” said Dick,
throwing himself on the grass, and opening his basket.
The others gladly seated themselves round him. Dick
removed slyly part of the contents of his basket, and
"passed the basket containing the remainder to the boys
as they sat. It contained a generous supply of cakes
and dried fruits, which were soon consumed with great
relish by the little party.

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

champagne is bad enough.” }



LUNCH IN THE Woop. | 23

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

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

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

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

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

“Wrong!” said Dick; “why, what can there be
wrong in a simple glass of champagne? Do not be so_
queer. A young man, fourteen years of age, is certainly
at liberty to take a glass of wine if he pleases. We no
longer consider ourselves children. I am sure I, for
one, feel- capable of judging what is right and fitting
for me to do; but there are plenty to drink it if you
will not, Maurice;” and the bottles were speedily
emptied by the other boys. | a

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



24 LUNCH IN THE WOOD.

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

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

“My father placed me here,” said Maurice, “to be
under Mr. Harding’s care, in his absence from home.
He told me to regard him as a friend, master, and
protector, and expects me in all things to consult Mr.
Harding’s wishes and opinions ; and I should feel as if
I was acting very wrong to do anything contrary to
them. I would not do, when absent from him, what
I would not do in his presence; and besides that, I
know my father would disapprove of it. He is far
away at sea, thousands of miles from here, and would
never know it; but I love him too well to do what I
know he would condemn.”

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

“I have begun to think for myself, and to act inde-
pendently,” answered Maurice, “and that is one reason



LUNCH IN THE WOOD. 25

why I declined taking wine. I scorn the character of
a hypocrite. To think one way and appear to act one
way, and in reality be doing things directly contrary to
the principles and appearance, is what of all things I
despise. I am afraid to begin at fourteen years of age
to drink a glass of wine, for in a short time I might —
want a bottle, and then, losing my relish for wine, I
might be induced to take something more stimulating
and powerful, and who can tell what the end might be?
I might become an indolent, useless man, or a habitual
drunkard, and perhaps lose soul and body both. I
do not say this would certainly be the case, but it has
been the case of very many, and I might add another to
the number. It is best to be on the safe side, depend
upon it; and I am determined to do what I think is
right in this case, even though I should lose your good
opinion by so doing. I should be glad to join you any
time in an innocent frolic, when my conscience does
not interfere; but when that speaks to me, 1 must obey
its voice. My father allows me plenty of pocket-money;
and a treat of cakes and fruit on our walks, if Mr.
Harding does not disapprove of it, I shall always be
ready to give in my turn; but you must never expect
wine from me, nor invite me to join with you in drink-
ing it. And now, suppose you all make up your minds
to give it up, before it becomes necessary to your
pleasure to have it. It will cost you now but little
self-denial, and by-and-by it may cost you much, or



26 . LUNCH IN THE WOOD.

: you may have imbibed so strong a relish for it, that
you will think you cannot give it up at all.”

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

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

Maurice stood up as: he spoke, and though at first
some of the boys were inclined to ridicule him, he
spoke with so much dignity and independence, and
commanded so much respect by his manly bearing, that
no laugh was raised, and all seemed desirous of concili-
ating his good-will. |

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

Maurice gave his hand cordially. “If you would
all reflect a little upon the subject,” he said, kindly
, looking around, “TI do believe you would all be of my
mind. By doing when absent from Mr. Harding what



LUNCH IN THE Wvop. (97

you would not do in his presence, you show more
respect to him than you do to your Maker, in whose
presence we always are.” |

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

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

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

“Why,” said Bob Newton, “do you remember, Dick,
what a time Mr. Harding had, when I brought that
cigar to school to give you, and set you a few lessons



28 LUNCH IN THE Woop.

in smoking—what a long speech he made to us about
boys at fourteen getting into such habits, and how
he strictly forbade any one ever to bring a cigar to
school ?” |

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

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

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

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

_“ And a fine cigar, I should imagine also,” said Dick.
“Pray, where do you buy your cigars, Mr. Graham ?
. Dees Mr. Harding furnish you? We need not inquire
whose circulating library you encourage, as the cover
of the book speaks plainly enough for itself. There is
no mistaking that,”



LUNCH IN THE WOOD. 29

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

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

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
















Frith {

‘ ‘. \ Vy it
x \ . ‘ Soph ~ Ny WEA. ,
XS Wine OZLYW; ; YN

9 , i HE TH ———— OVETH _ H ge op. \

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/
- es Ke

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LE? PWV
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IIL.

Che Farthtul Aurse.

Sgi {WO or three weeks after the last-mentioned
incident, a group of boys were assembled on



“the play-ground, when there appeared at
the gate an aged woman of quiet and quaint
aspect. Her dress was old-fashioned and
peculiar, and her manner and appearance were those of
one who seldom crept from her own homely fireside, to
mingle in the great world. Her face, though bearing
deeply the stern mark of time, wore such an expression
of peace, and sweet, holy serenity, that none could look
at it without loving it, and feeling that they were in
the presence of one who walked with God. She opened
the large gate timidly, and looked rather dismayed to
find herself suddenly in the midst of a large party of
boys, all curiously looking at her.

‘Is Maurice Gray here ?” she asked.

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



THE FAITHFUL NURSE. 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old woman made no answer. Her eyes were
fixed on the distance, for she saw Maurice approaching,



32 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

and hastened forward to meet him. Maurice looked
grieved and vexed when he saw her surrounded by the
boys, all rudely looking at her; but running hastily
towards her, exclaimed, “ My good kind nurse, how

glad I am to see you!”

and giving her his arm, and
relieving her of her basket, he led her towards the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ne aad

Seo oho
pee eae

seed

dpa he

4 he entice
BVPRES



AON De Hist Sr NSU S-E

MAURICE



THE FAITHFUL NURSE. 32

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

“ Burton,” answered Maurice, “and I am sorry she
was not better received by my friends on her first visit
to me; but probably none of you feel towards an old
person as I do, or have had the same cause. But I
must persuade you to love and respect. her, for she is
coming to live in the little green cottage, half a mile
from the school, and Mrs. Harding has promised to
employ her when sickness or any extra occasion shall
require her services. I am sure, when you know her,
you will never treat her disrespectfully again ; let me
tell you something of her.”

The boys gathered round Maurice.

“IT suppose all of you have mothers who watched
over your childhood, wiped your tears, and gave you
every pleasure; but I have no remembrance of my
mother. She died when I was hardly a year old. My
father, who is an officer in the navy, was absent on a
long cruise at the time, and I was left entirely to the
care of good Nurse Burton. She has often described
to me my mother’s farewell of me. .She was very young
—scarcely twenty—when she died. My nurse took
me to her, and laid me on the bed by her side. She
placed her feeble hand on my head, and prayed silently
afew moments, and then said, ‘I have put up onge
more, and for the last time, the only one prayer I have

offered for my little Maurice since the first hour of his
(100) 3



34 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

birth. It is that he might be in spirit and in truth a
follower of the blessed Redeemer.’ ‘O nurse!’ she
said, ‘you watched over my motherless childhood—be
the guide of this dear little boy—I commit him in con-
fidence to you; and I give you but one injunction in
regard to him, and that is, that you will teach him as
you did me, from the earliest opening of his reason, to
have the single eye that discerns clearly God’s will, and
the single purpose that fulfils it. As it regards this
world’s wealth, honours, or pleasures, I have no wish.
God’s will is mine. So long as my Saviour is his
Saviour, through life and through eternity, I ask nothing
more.’ |

“My dear mother died; and strictly and faithfully
did my good nurse perform my mother’s dying request.
Her time, her strength, her mind, and soul, were de-
voted wholly to taking care of me. In health and
sickness, by night and by day, she watched over me,
studied my happiness and improvement in all things,
and thought nothing a sacrifice on her part that might
contribute to my welfare and pleasure. My father re-
turned home about a year after my mother’s death ;
but his home was so desolate, that after committing
me again to the tender care of Nurse Burton, he left
us. My nurse is a woman of excellent sense, Her
mind is elevated by religious truths. She has a good
common education, and she was the only instructor I
had, or required, in my earliest childhood. She



THE FAITHFUL NURSE. oo

patiently toiled with me through the first elements of
education ; but the chief and most delightful study to
us both was the Bible. Before I could read, she told
me pleasant stories from its pages, and instilled into
my mind its sacred truths; and if there is now within
me any desire of right, or any proper notions of duty,
I owe them all, under God’s blessing, to her pious and
early instructions, As soon as I could speak, she
caught me to pray, and endeavoured above all things to
impress upon my mind that I was ever in the presence
of the all-seeing God, and that outward forms, without
the spirit of religion, were abomination in his sight.
QO how happily and quietly we lived together,—my
father’s visits to us alone interrupting and giving variety
and delight to our humble home.

“ My first grief was when, at the age of ten years,
after having been a year under my father’s instruction,
he was ordered to sea, and I was sent to a school about
six miles from our home; but I was to return every
Saturday and stay until Monday, and my nurse would
visit me during the week ; and so we became reconciled.
At that school I remained until I was thirteen years of
age, when it was broken up, and for a year I was again
under the instruction of my father; but on his again
being ordered to sea the other day, he placed me here
under the care of Mr. Harding, having, at the earnest
request of my kind nurse, obtained a home for her in
this neighbourhood, where she could often see me.



0 THE FAITHFUL NURSE,

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

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

“ Maurice,” said Philip, in a low voice; on observing
the basket, “you had better put those things out of
the way, if you wish to keep them. Conceal them
among your clothes, or you will get into trouble if
Mr Harding discovers that you have them,

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



THE FAITHFUL NURSE. | 37

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

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

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

“T did not know, sir, it was against your rules for
us to receive presents of this kind, or I should not
have accepted this that my good nurse brought me to-
day ; though it would have grieved her much if I had
refused it, as she made the cake for me herself, and
brought the fruit all the way from our own garden,
thinking I would like it better if it came from home.
Be so kind, sir, as to pardon me for accepting it, and
not oblige me to return it to my nurse, as it would
disappoint her much. I am willing you should do
what you think best with it.”

Mr. Harding’s eyes beamed with pleasure, as he
looked upon the open, ingenuous countenance of
Maurice. | 7

“Maurice,” he said, “your honesty merits my



08 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

warmest praise. I give you permission to accept the
present from your good nurse, and to do with it as you
please.” | ,

Satisfaction beamed from the faces of many of the
boys at this eulogium from Mr. Harding, and one only
expressed envy and discontent. Philip Graham had
always merited, by his outward conduct and good
scholarship, the esteem of his teacher, who could only
judge of his character by what he saw; but Philip nad
done nothing to win the affection of his teacher. The
friendly confidence with which Maurice regarded Mr,
Harding had evidently won his love. Philip saw a
rival in the new scholar, who would take his place in
Mr. Harding’s esteem; and his cold heart, instead of
feeling that there was room enough in the world for
all, looked upon him with envy and dislike. But
Maurice was wholly unaware of it, and equally unaware ~
that he had done anything to excite praise or surprise
in any one. He was habitually honest and upright.
The Bible taught him that as God knows all things, it
is of little importance to hide anything from the know-
ledge of man, and that deceit and hypocrisy were
hateful in God’s sight, and would sooner or later be
unveiled.

“Come, boys,” said Maurice after school, as they
entered the play-grounds, “one and all take seats on
the grass here, and help me to dispose of the contents
of Nurse Burton’s basket, and you will see what ex-



THE FAITHFUL NURSE. a9

cellent cake she makes, and what fine fruit grows in
our old garden. Come, Philip,” he said, as Philip
Graham seemed turning away, as if he thought it too
childish to join the group, “I know that boys as big
as you like a good slice of cake as well as we; so come,
take a seat with us. This is a generous loaf, and quite
enough for all, and I have borrowed a plate and knife,
that I may serve it up handsomely.”

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

“No, I thank you, Maurice,” said Bob Newton, as
Maurice handed him a slice in his turn. “I was go
rude to your good nurse to-day, that I do really believe
it would choke me if I should attempt to eat it, The
truth is, Maurice, I never did anything I was more
ashamed of, and I am willing to own it.”

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

“Well,” said Maurice, “I am glad you feel so about
it, boys. I knew if I told you all about her you would
respect her, and when you know her, you cannot fail



40 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

to love her; but she is so good, she will never remember
it against you. I will forgive you in her name, and
we will go together, and explain all to her, and all will
be forgiven and forgotten ; so now, do oblige me by
helping to eat up the cake and fruit, or I shall not
enjoy my slice at all.”

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

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

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

Maurice. “I had accepted it, unconscious that I was
doing what was forbidden. You do not suppose I .
_ would hide it, and deceive Mr. Harding? That would,
indeed, have been hard for me to do; but there was
nothing hard in telling him that I had unintentionally
broken his rules. I am sure, had I concealed it, I
could never have eaten any of it. Besides, I should
have done wrong, and offended God and my own con-
science.” |

“You are a strange fellow, Maurice,” said Frank
Henley; “but I like your way of dealing. I do not
believe another boy in school would have done so; but
you have proved that it is the best way.”

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





BURTON'S BASKET

OPENING NURSE





Ghe Lame Pov.



in QO not look so sad, Louis,” said Maurice one
day, as he joined the lame Louis, who was
sitting alone under a tree in the play-
ground, and, with dejected face, watching
the boys at play. His crutch lay beside
him on the ground, and his dominos and
jack-straws on his knee showed that he had been trying
to amuse himself with a solitary game. “Come, let me
help you at a game of dominos. I should like it much.”

Tears filled the eyes of the lame boy. “Oh, no,
indeed,” he said, “you must not sit moping here with
me. You are such a good hand at play, and enjoy it
so much, the boys will all be after you.. You sat here
a long time with me yesterday, and through all the ~
play-hour to-day. Indeed, I cannot permit you to do.
it now.” |

“Oh, I have had play enough, and want to rest now,”
answered Maurice. “I want to be with you a while

There are plenty. to play without me.”



49 THE LAME BOY.

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

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

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

“Ah, Louis,” replied Maurice, “there is but one
answer to that question. It is your heavenly Father’s
will. God is your Maker and mine. He is the Maker
of all mankind. He makes some sound in mind and
body, and others weak and deformed. He makes some
rich, and others poor. As we are all the work of his
Almighty hand, he certainly has a right to create us as
he pleases. All he does is for some wise purpose, and
it is not for us to question his ways. You must hear
my good nurse speak on these subjects. She can teach
you far better than I can. You have been promising
me you would call and see her for a long while. We
shall have plenty of time; let us go there now. Take
my arm, and we will walk slowly, so as not to tire
you.”

- Louis, leaning with one arm on his crutch, and the
other on his friend, walked slowly down the shady



THE LAME BOY. 43

road, and reached the little green cottage. Under the
porch, covered with creepers and honey-suckles, quite
shaded from sight, on a low bench, sat Nurse Burton
with a Bible on her lap.

“Ah, my dear child,” she said, as she saw Maurice,
“T thought you would come to-day. You are just in
time for us to read our evening lesson together, as we
used to do at home. And who is this young gentle-
man?’’ she asked, looking tenderly at lame Louis. “I
recollect I saw him the day I first called on you at the
school.”

“Tt is Louis Tarleton—one of my best friends,
nurse,” answered Maurice, “and I know you will love
him. But first we will read together, and then we will
_ talk a while.”

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

faces—an emblem of the blessed Sun of Righteousness,



44 | THE LAME BOY.

which inwardly shed its sanctifying rays over their
“spirits.

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

“T have never read it much,” answered Louis ; “but
you and Maurice seem to enjoy it so much, and it
appears to make you both so happy, that I wish I
could love to read it. You see I am lame, and I can-
not play like the other boys; so I read a great deal,
and am often at a loss for something to interest me,
and Mr. Harding says no one ever tires of reading the
Bible. I do not know why, but it has always seemed
a dull book to me. Do you not think it is hard for
me to be lame, nurse, and unable to run or jump with
the other boys? I have to sit moping alone, or crawl
around on crutches,” |

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

‘I cannot, Lord, thy purpose see,
. But all is well, since ruled by thee.’
And,
‘My Father's hand will never cause
His child a needless teur.’

Have you learned, dear child, to love God as a fatber
and friend? If not, your lot is indeed a hard one, and



THE LAME BOY. 45

your cross a heavy one; but only learn that, and you
will have but the single desire that his will may be
done in you and by you. You will prefer to keep
your effliction if he wills it, and it will be to you a
visible token of his care over you.”

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

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

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

“Tt surely would be so, my dear,” replied the nurse,

“Have you no parents, Louis ?” |
| “My parents both died when I was an infant,”
answered Louis, “and I have neither brother nor
sister.”

“Then you must feel the more need of a heavenly
Friend, my dear child,’ answered the nurse. “He

col



46 THE LAME BOY.

can supply the place of all others in your heart, and
by His presence life will become to you so full of
sweet flowers, lovely music, and pleasant pictures, that
you will be as happy as you can desire. What relatives
have you, my dear ?”

“JT have an uncle,” replied Louis, “who is always
generous and kind to me; but he is himself a lonely
man, having neither home, wife, nor children; and
though he sometimes takes me to the hotel where he
boards in K
and I generally pass my vacations at school; and then,



, on a Visit, it is not pleasant to me,

good nurse, [am often very sick. Last spring I was
so ill that my life was despaired of. I have never felt
so strong since, and I heard the physician tell my uncle
that I could never bear so severe an illness again.
That has often made me think a great deal about dying,
and I have concluded that it would be quite as well to
die as to live here in pain, weakness, and mortification
through a long life. For of what use can I ever be in
the world, or what pleasure can I take in living?”
“Oh, my dear child,” answered the nurse, “ speak not
so of the lot God ordains for you. Light from above
must and will be shed upon your path, and then all
will be bright and happy to you. O Father of
mercies,” continued the godly woman, raising her eyes
and hands to heaven, “send down thy blessed light
and truth into the soul of this child of thine Give
him the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of



THE LAME BOY. 47

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

The boys sat a few minutes longer conversing with
the good nurse, and as they walked homeward, Maurice _
saw that a calmer and more chastened spirit expressed
itself in the sad and dejected face of his companion ;
and his heart rejoiced, for he hoped the poor lad would
now find the comforter he so much needed.

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

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

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

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

“ Because,” replied Maurice, “it was my memory,
and not yours, that ought to have been ready. It



48 THE LAME BOY.

would have been you answering, and not me, and that
would not have been right.”

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

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

_ “I must do what my conscience tells me is right,”
answered Maurice, “whether I get along well or not.
If I do not, I should be very unhappy.”

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



THE LAME BOY. 49

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

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



(100) 4



PROV. 10, 10,6,

THE TusT:



(eH , what have I done? What have I done?’
, w cried Maurice Gray. “ What shall I do?
Hf What will Mr. Harding think of me? My
: unlucky ball. I was so engaged in my



game, that I did not notice how near I
was to the conservatory, and thus have disobeyed my
teacher, and now I am punished for it.”

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

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

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

“Yes, it is too true,” said Maurice. “Oh, I am so



V
\



ve

E GRA

C

CRIED MAURI

| DONE

HAT HAVE

f

-—

0



A NOBLE CONFESSION. : 5]

sorry. I have thrown down that beautiful scarlet
cactus in full bloom, which Mr. Harding showed us
yesterday, and have probably injured it very much.
What will Mr. Harding think of me?”

“Q say nothing about it—say nothing about it,”
sald Dick Wells. “Such things have often happened
here before, and no one could ever tell who did the
mischief. Mr. Harding has tried in vain, every way,
and offered rewards to have the offender made known.
But we have a way of managing such things. So do
not trouble yourself about it, Maurice. You are too
good a fellow to get punished. None of us will allow
it ; depend upon that.”

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

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

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

Maurice stood thoughtfully looking at the mischief
he had done, and hardly heeding the various remarks



n2 A NOBLE CONFESSION,

made by his companions; and did not observe that
Frank Henley had instantly left the group, after saying |
that he could and would get him out of his difficulty. _

“ How fortunate,” said Tom Bailey, “that Mr. Hard-
ing is absent this afternoon! I saw him ride away
with his family immediately after dinner, and he will
not probably return until dark, and he will not find this
out until to-morrow. So we have time to arrange all
about the matter, and to prepare ourselves for the cross-
questioning we shall all get on the subject.”

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

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

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



A NOBLE CONFESSION, 53

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

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

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

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

“T am not ungrateful to you, Frank, for the kindness
you intended me,” said Maurice, “but there is only one
path for me, and that is the right one. It is ever plain
and open to us all, if we will but see it. There are
many winding and crooked ways, but they are always
full of perplexity and trouble. Suppose I follow your



54 A NOBLE CONFESSION.

advice, and conceal what I have done from our teacher,
_ I shall cause you all to practice deceit, the blame of the
accident will rest on the wrong person, and feeling that
he has been injured and deceived, it will be a long time
before Mr. Harding forgets the affair. ButifI do right
and confess my fault, and submit myself to my just
punishment, no one will be involved but myself, and
no one but the real offender will be suspected.”

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

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

“And so am I, Frank,” said Maurice, “and to no
one sooner than yourself ; but suppose I deceived my
teacher, [ cannot deceive God, who knoweth all things.
I feel that his all-seeing eye is upon me, and I must
act as in his sight.”

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

The bell rang for evening prayers.
“I guess Maurice will change his mind to-night



A NOBLE CONFESSION. 55

about confessing this accident,” said Phil Graham to
Frank Henley, as they walked together towards the hall.
“ Depend upon it, with all his bragging and preaching
about right and conscience, he has repented fifty times
of not accepting your offer to get him out of his scrape
without exposure.”

“Ido not agree with you there, Phil,” said Frank.
“He would not accept. it now, if it was made to him
this moment; but he is a character you cannot well
understand, Phil. Your motto has always been plain
enough to us all, ‘Make clean the outside of the cup
and the platter,’ but Maurice’s seems to be, Make clean
the inside. I must own he 1s a noble fellow. Though
I was provoked with him this afternoon for spurning
my assistance, I have got over it now, and I like him
all the better for it—and I wish I was like him.”

“ Well, we shall see how he’ll manage it,” answered
Philip. “Depend upon it, his heart will fail to-night,
and he will be glad to keep clean the outside, and let
the inside go.”

It was quite a large assembly that gathered at morn-
ing and evening prayer at Mr. Harding’s school. It
included his own family, his pupils, and the numerous
servants of his household. Mr. Harding was in his
accustomed place when the boys entered, and was
thoughtfully turning over the leaves of the sacred
volume that lay before him. The silence in the room
was interrupted by Maurice, who, leaving his seat,



56 A NOBLE CONFESSION.

approached Mr. Harding, and asked permission to
speak a few words to him before the evening’s exer-
cises commenced, adding, “I have done something
unintentionally, but carelessly, sir, which will displease
you, and I cannot retire for the night happily until I
have confessed it to you.”

He then related the occurrences of the afternoon, and
blamed himself very much for becoming so absorbed
in his game as to approach so close to the forbidden
side of the play-ground near the conservatory, and con-
cluded by saying, “Iam exceedingly sorry, sir. I sub-
mit myself cheerfully to the punishment I deserve ;
only let me know that you will not think I would wil-
fully do anything to injure you, or deliberately disobey
your commands,” |

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

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

“J, too, have done wrong to-day, sir, and have dis-
obeyed you; and though in times past I have always
endeavoured to conceal from you the accidents and dis-
obediences of which I have been guilty, I so admire the
bold and honest conduct of Maurice, that I am induced
to follow his example. Unknown to Maurice, and
wishing to save him from exposure, I entered the con-
servatory, contrary to your orders, and took away his



A NOBLE CONFESSION. 57

ball. I presented it to him, telling him, as that could
not now witness against him, it would be easy for him
to get out of the difficulty; that you would never sus-
pect him, but would impute the blame to some other —
person, who, I could answer it, would never be dis-
covered, I was angry with him for decidedly, but
kindly, refusing to accept my proposal, and conceal it
from you; and seized the ball roughly from his hand,
saying, I was not then going to get myself into trouble,
and that I should return it to the conservatory. I left
him intending so to do; but as I walked along, my own
mean conduct, contrasted with the brave and honest
course of Maurice, presented itself vividly to my mind.
He was so different from any boy I had ever met with
before, that I could not help admiring him, and desir-
ing to imitate him. A voice seemed sounding in my
ear, ‘Truth, brave Frank; be honest, Frank.’ It was
a new idea for me to act upon, and I did not know that
I should have courage to do it; but I am glad I have,
sir, for I feel much happier than if I had concealed my
disobedience, and I am willing to be punished as I
deserve.”

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



58 A NOBLE CONFESSION.

“ Maurice, you have done me more service to-day
than you could have done me injury, had you broken
all the glass in my conservatory, and destroyed every
- plant that it contains. I would be willing that such
an accident should occur very often, for the sake of
your good example, and feel grateful to you for its
effect upon Frank. I trust it will be of lasting benefit
to his character. I freely forgive you your careless-
ness; and, to show my esteem for your character and
influence, will reward you by forgiving Frank the faulé
he has committed in his effort to serve you. Frank,”
he continued, turning towards him, “you deserve com-
mendation for the effort you have made to confess your
fault. The struggle must have been hard for you, if ©
you have hitherto been in the habit of deceiving and
concealing, I trust you will henceforth follow the good
example of Maurice; and I hope ere long you will be
uniformly actuated by the same high notions of duty
which influence him. For that which alone gives per-
manency to any good intentions or resolutions is to act
in the fear and love of our heavenly Father.”

Mr. Harding then extended his hand kindly, first to
Maurice, and then to Frank. They bowed and retired
to them seats, and the exercises of the evening pro-

RET

ceeded.








b
ms NY

AAAS

> \ Ma Q tT i
ee ENTER NOT | NTO. THE =i Ue
(, Tam aN R iat Cae A\\

Wig
ry,

NG 'n

“ges, the sanctuary were over. It was a rule of
S Be ‘3 Mr. Harding’s that each boy should pass
fA the intervening time, from the close of the



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

Frank Henley sat at his desk; his Bible and ques-
tion-book lay open before him. He had evidently been
studying his lesson, but his head was now leaning on
his hand, and an expression of thought was upon his
features quite foreign to his usual light-hearted, gay



60 THE MISSING BOOK.

look. He seemed pondering in his mind some import-
ant subject. Yes!—new thoughts had lately sprung
up in his heart. He had felt: the nobleness of confess-
ing a fault even to his fellow-creature, and that led him
to reflect how often he had deceived him. The words
of Maurice, “ We cannot deceive God, who knoweth all
things,” had led him to think how often, by deceit and
falsehood, and neglect of duty, he must have offended
his great Creator. The Bible lesson of the afternoon
had drawn his thoughts into a serious train; the Spirit
of the Holy One was near, hovering around his retire-
_ ment with most precious and blessed boons and bene-
dictions, all ready to pour into his youthful soul. God
grant he may open his heart to receive them, and not
grieve him away by thoughtlessness or love of ease!
Dick Wells had stolen into the closet of Tom Bailey,
unknown to any one; they were sitting close together,
talking very earnestly in low whispers, lest it should be
discovered that they had transgressed a rule of the
school, and were passing the hours together. They
appeared to be laying a plan for something which was
difficult to settle, as they often paused thoughtfully,
and then resumed their conversation, as if undecided
what course to take. Had one been near, he might
have heard such phrases as these: “Splendid horses !”
—* Best circus in the country !”—“Fine music !”—
“Tam determined I will go !”—“Somehow or other I
am quite decided about that: I had rather be punished



THE MISSING BOOK, es” 61

for going than not go at all; but we can manage so as
not to be discovered, I know.”

“Bob Newton is going,” said Dick, “and Frank
Henley will go, and Harry Blake, and Will Foster—we
are sure of those. Will it do to ask Maurice Gray?”

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

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

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

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

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

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



—6«62 THE MISSING BOOK. |

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

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

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

Lame Louis begged permission of Maurice Gray to
pass the hours with him; but Maurice firmly refused
his request, unless he could obtain the consent of Mr.
Harding ; and, to oblige Louis, Maurice went with him



THE MISSING BOOK. 63

to their teacher to request the favour, which was kindly )
granted. |

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

The hours passed rapidly away, and the ringing of
the bell to summon them to tea still found them study-
ing with pleasure that Holy Book which can alone
make us “wise unto salvation,” and afford us consola-
tion under all the difficulties and trials of life. |

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

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

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

“T am much obliged to you, said Maurice. “What
may it be?”

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



64 THE MISSING BOOK.

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

“ And how do you like the books of Mr. Harding’s
library,” asked Philip ; “such as we are permitted to
use ?” |

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

“But would you not sometimes like a change,”
asked Philip, “in your reading? I have a plan I
think you would like, which will make a pleasant
variety in your reading, give you much pleasure, and
I will take all the trouble of it. I am a subscriber to
Mr. Shaw’s circulating library, and I thought if you
would like to pay half the subscription, you can pay
the money to me. I will obtain and return all the
books, and so no one will know that you have anything
to do with it.”

“I daresay, Philip,” said Maurice, “you intend me
a favour, and therefore I am obliged to you ; but, in
the first place, I will never wilfully break any of Mr,
Harding’s rules, and you know one of them is that we
shall never take books from the circulating libraries,
(n the second place, my father has expressed a wish to



THE MISSING BOOK. 69

me that I should never read frivolous books, as he
_ Says it gives one a disrelish for useful reading ; and as
Mr. Harding provides us with works of history, bio-
graphy, and travels, I therefore can have no use for
Mr. Shaw’s books. And in the third place, I have no

taste now for works of fiction, and do not wish to
acquire one, as I fear it might injure me, and cause me
to waste my time.” |

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

“ But the love you have acquired for them,” said
Maurice, “leads you deliberately to disobey your.
teacher to obtain them. I should think that was evil
enough ; and you know not to what else they may
lead you.”

“Qh, such rules, I always think, are made for the
younger boys,” said Philip. “Iam no longer a child,
and will not submit like a child to every such regula-
tion. If I set a good example and keep my own
counsel, that is enough, I am sure. When have I
ever failed in a lesson, or been reproved by my teacher?
There is not a boy in school so exemplary as I am.
But come, do not be a child any longer, Maurice,” he
continued, drawing a book from his pocket; “just

take this and examine it. It- shall cost you nothing.
(100) — 5



66 THE MISSING BOOK.

It is a most thrilling story. If you read this, I know
you will thankfully accept my proposal.”

Maurice drew back, and refused the book.

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

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

A fortnight passed away, when one morning Mr.
Harding was called out of school, and after being
absent a few minutes, he returned looking unusually
grave, and addressing his school, said, “That Mr.
Shaw from the village had just called to look upa
book that had for several weeks been missing from his
library, and which was taken out by one of the pupils
of the school. He refuses to give the name of the boy,
as he is under a solemn promise of secresy, unless the
book cannot be otherwise obtained. The book, he
said, was a new one, and the only copy he had; and
as one volume was missing he could not use the other,
or he would not have made known the circumstance to
me. But as the young gentleman who had it had not
called for some time, he must excuse him for using the



THE MISSING BOOK. 67

most prompt method for obtaining his property ; and
he should make known his name unless he received
his book without needless delay. I am exceedingly
grieved,” continued Mr. Harding, “that any one should
have violated what I consider one of the most impor-
tant rules of my school, as you all know how strongly
I have often expressed my abhorrence of the kind of
books usually found in circulating libraries such as
Mr. Shaw’s. It seems to me also an act of ingratitude,
as I have been at the personal expense of purchasing a
library for your use, of such books as I approve. I
advise whoever has the book Mr. Shaw is in search of
to confess it immediately, otherwise Mr. Shaw will
himself make it known.”

No one spoke or moved.

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

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



G8 THE MISSING BOOK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Circumstances are certainly against me, sir,” said
Maurice, looking calmly at his teacher with his full,
honest eye; “but I do not dare to lie or deceive, I



THE MISSING BOOK. — 69

believe I have never given you cause to doubt my
integrity, and I hope you will believe me when I say
I did not know the book was there. As it has been
found there, and has been missing for a fortnight, I
know of but one way in which it could have been put
there. But I beg of you to take some other method
of ascertaining the truth. I may implicate one who is
innocent, and nothing but your express commands can
cause me to make known my suspicions. If you will
please to wait a day or two longer, perhaps all will be
cleared up.” : |

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

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

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

After the lessons were over Mr. Harding related to
Mr. Neville, in presence of the whole school, the cir-
cumstances of the missing book, and concluded by



10 THE MISSING BOOK.

asking him if he could conceive who would have taken
the book from the library, or how it could have been
concealed on Maurice’s desk without his knowledge.
“T have had this in my possession,” he added, pro-
ducing the book, “and have examined its contents,
and it has made me the more determined to discover
who among my pupils could have such a low and de-
praved taste as to feel inclined to read it. I feel
ashamed to think that I have a boy in my school who
has a taste for such reading.”

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

“Tt 1s most painful to me to be obliged to bring
disgrace and reproach upon one who has hitherto occu-
pied a high position in the school, in every way ; but
itis my duty to state what I know of this affair, that
suspicion may not rest where it is undeserved. I
intended to have made known to you, sir,” he con-
tinued, addressing Mr. Harding, “the circumstances
which occurred a fortnight since; but as I was very
much occupied at the time in preparations for my
journey, it escaped my mind, and I had quite forgotten
the affair until you mentioned what occurred here
yesterday.

“It was about a fortnight since, I was on my way
to the closet of Maurice Gray. I wished to speak
with him alone. As I approached the closet I heard



THE MISSING BOOK. 7

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

Mr. Harding started with surprise. He was well
aware that among his older pupils there were some he
could not trust, as they preferred their own will to
his; but Philip Graham, from outward conduct, had’
always been exemplary—what the boys called “ Mr.



72 THE MISSING BOOK.

Harding’s model.” He was a brilliant scholar—
punctual and studious, and was supposed by his
teachers to be a boy of strict moral principles. His
comrades knew him better, but it was a great dis-
appointment to Mr. Harding to find he had been so de-
ceived. He sat silent at his desk for some minutes,
and then called Philip Graham, who arose in his seat.

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

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

“Tt grieves me more than I can express,” continued
Mr. Harding, “to be compelled to look not only with
suspicion and distrust, but with deep disapprobation,
on one whom I have always regarded with confidence |
and esteem. I must henceforth regard you as opposed
to my plans and my interests. This is the first offence
of yours that has come to my knowledge, but it is one
of great aggravation. You have deliberately disobeyed
me, and as you are a subscriber to the library, your
offence is probably one of long standing. Nor is that
all. You have used your influence to induce another
to break my rules, and to pervert his mind with such
vile trash as this book contains. I cannot suppose
that this is your only attempt. It may be that you
have induced others whose minds, unlike that of



THE MISSING BOOK. 723

Maurice, are not fortified by good principles, to follow
your example. I need not say that you have lost the
high place in my regard which you formerly held, and
nothing but a long course of correct conduct can restore
you to my confidence. My sympathy with your great
affliction leads me to suspend for the present the in-
fliction of merited punishment. One word of advice ~
I must give you. Of all the severe judgments which
our blessed Redeemer denounced, none were more
severe than those which respect hypocrites—those
who appeared outwardly righteous, but were within
full of deceit and wickedness. Go to your private
room, Philip, and let the rest of the day be passed in»
meditation on your past conduct, and may God give
you a penitent spirit, and a desire for the future to live
a penitent life! May he give you a clean heart, and
renew a right spirit within you !”
Philip obeyed and silently left the room.









2 <2 mS

VII.

Hast and Cdorst.

¥ \eNLUCKY ! unlucky! unlucky!” cried
oN > Dick Wells, joining a group of the older
MO boys on the play-ground. “Is it not,
. Tom, the most unlucky thing in the world,
) that the birth-day fete and the circus come
on the same day; I never heard of anything more pro-
voking? How can we manage it ?”

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

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





“We must obtain permission,” said Tom, “to go to
the woods immediately after dinner, and as soon as we



LAST AND WORST, 75

are out of sight, make the best of our way to the village.
One of us must try to keep an eye to the time, and just
before four we must leave; and if we are fifteen minutes
too late, Mr. Harding will think we did not know the
hour, or that we wandered farther than we intended.”

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

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

“Oh, say nothing more to me about it,” answered
Maurice. “You all know very well that I will. not
join you; but I fear you will all get into trouble, so
you had better give it up. I am sure the pleasant
entertainment Mr. Harding gives us on Wednesday
ought to be sufficient amusement for us; and suppose
yon were detained, or did not know the hour, how
mortified you would all feel to be discovered at such a



76 LAST AND WORST.

time—to say nothing of the disobedience, and the
meanness of skulking away in such a manner to attend
a circus. Better give it up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That is true,” said Frank ; “but this once, Maurice,
Imust follow my inclination. I am quite as deter-
_ mined as the others. Happen what will, I attend the
circus this time.”

“T fear you will repent of it,” answered Maurice.
“It seems to me to be quite impossible for you to leave



LAST AND WORST. | V7

the village after the circus, and be here in time for the fete.
Ifyou are late, Mr. Harding will think you very ungentle-
manly, and feel as if youtreated him with great rudeness.”

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

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

“T wish I was thoroughly good like you, Maurice,”
said Frank ; “then I could do right easily enough. But
- Inever-can be. I never thought I should like to be
good until I knew you. Almost all the boys I ever
knew before who pretended to be good, were like Philip
Graham,—good enough before their teacher, but else-
where, just like all the other boys. And though I
never pretended to be good myself, I always despised
hypocrisy more than anything else. But it seems to
make no difference with you, where you are or who
you are with, and that is a character I would tke to —
imitate.

“Do not talk to me so,” said Maurice. “No one



78 LAST AND WORST.

knows my heart save myself, and him who knoweth
all things; so no one can know how often I fail in all
my endeavours to be and to do what I desire. But my
heavenly Father, through his mercy in Christ Jesus,
has compassion on my weakness, and gives me the
earnest, constant desire to serve and to please him. He
pardons my manifold transgressions, and comforts me
with assurances of his love and care towards all those
who sincerely wait upon him.”

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

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

Many of the children, with their parents, and other
friends of Mr. Harding from the village and neighbour-
ing country-seats, with all the pupils, were invited to
attend. A table was spread on the lawn under the
shade of the lofty elms. Various games were played
in which old and young participated, and everything
was done by Mr. and Mrs. Harding to make the jubilee
pleasant to the guests.
~ Minna and Rose, queens of the day, were crowned
with wreaths of flowers, and presided at the feast.
They also received from their parents and many of the
visitors, useful and beautiful gifts,



LAST AND WORST. | 79

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

The long-expected Wednesday at last arrived. The
day was fine. The grass on the lawn had been recently
mowed, and was soft as velvet beneath the feet. The
air was fragrant with flowers and new hay; and the
table, most tastefully decorated with flowers, was pro-
fusely covered with ices, confectionery, and fine fruit.
The boys readily obtained permission from Mr. Harding
to pass an hour or two in the woods before the time
appointed for the fete; and, according to their previous
plan, as soon as they were out of sight of the house,
they turned into the road leading to the village, and
rapidly pursued their way thither.

Now, it happened that some indispensable article for
the entertainment was forgotten, and none of the at-
tendants being at leisure to ride to the village, Mr.
Harding mounted his horse in haste, and proceeded
thither to execute the commission. He was detained
longer than he expected, and it was but a moment or
two before four o’clock, when he turned his face home-
ward. He happened to be passing the circus-ground
just as the people were leaving it, and reined up his



80 LAST AND WORST.

horse and let the crowd pass. To his great surprise,
among the first who came from the tent were several]
boys of his own school, who, casting an anxious look
at the old church-clock, set off in rapid steps for home.
He had hardly recovered from his surprise before the
crowd had dispersed, and he was again moving onward,
when he saw a solitary figure emerge from the tent,
and strike into a circuitous road leading towards his
house. It was Philip Graham !

Mr. Harding rode slowly homeward, pondering on
the deceitfulness and ingratitude of those he so earnestly
and constantly endeavoured to benefit and make
happy, and did not reach the scene of festivity until
many of his guests had assembled.

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

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

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

we returned ?”



LAST AND WORST, : 8]

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

The school was assembled next morning when Mr.
Harding entered. He stood in his desk, and addressing
his pupils, said— Before: commencing the lessons of
the morning, I have a few words to say. The chief
design I have in celebrating the little festivals on the
birth-day of my children, is to give a pleasant holiday
to my school. You must perceive it is attended with
much trouble and expense, and did I not think it gave
much pleasure to you all, and that it would be among
the pleasant remembrances of your school-days in after-
life, and cause you to feel that your teacher loved you,
and was desirous of promoting your pleasure in every
innocent way, as well as your improvement, be assured
the celebration of yesterday would be the last,

“There are many among you who understand my
plans, and appreciate my indulgence, and I am sure
they look upon me as a friend as well as a teacher ; but
there are others among you of a very different disposi-
tion. I do not doubt that you all enjoyed yesterday’s
pastimes, and you doubtless thought I did-also; but
you are mistaken, I hoped to have enjoyed the day as
I usually have done; but there was one circumstance

which brought a chill over my heart and spirits, and
100) 6



82 LAST AND WORST.

made the joyous scene to me one of darkness and sad.
ness. Itis hard to meet with deceit and ingratitude,
and to receive it, too, in return for kind sympathy and
affection.”

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

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

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

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

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



LAST AND WORST. 83

“There is another present,” said Mr. Harding, “who .
did not join your party, but who attended the circus,
whom I saw slyly leave the tent after all the spectators
had gone, and make his way home by a circuitous
route. Philip Graham! why do-you not rise in your
seat with the rest? Do not think -because you went
more slyly and stealthily than the others, and wished
not only to keep a fair face before me, but also before
your schoolmates, that you were unseen. __

“It is hardly a year since some of you requested
permission to attend the circus, and then, in denying
your request, I stated to you that as long as you were
under my charge, I would never consent to your fre-
quenting a place where you would probably hear vulgar
and profane language, and where you might imbibe a
taste for mountebank exhibitions, and the lowest grade
of dramatic performances. As there are some present
who have entered school since that time, I again express
my Opinion, and repeat my commands, on the subject.
The punishment I shall inflict on those who disobeyed
me yesterday, will be to suspend them from the school
for one month at the end of this term. Philip Graham
will be suspended two months. I shall also write to
your parents the ‘particulars of your conduct, that they
may deal with you as they think proper.

“As for you, Frank,” continued Mr. Harding, “you
had boldly taken the first step in the paths of honesty
and rectitude, and are capable of becoming an honour-



84 LAST AND WORST.

able and high-minded youth. I feel greatly disappointed
that the first temptation has caused you to fall. I fear
you are too much governed by your associates. If you
were always to choose good ones, you might do well ;
but there is no security for a person who cannot stand
alone,—who does not possess in his own heart those
principles and that strength which will lead him to act
rightly, independently of all outward circumstances,
and to resist in the hour of temptation. Each of us
must bear his own burden, and give his own account
to the Judge of all. Strive and pray, I entreat you,
for that grace and light from above—that firm religious
conscientiousness and love to your Creator—which can
alone give you the victory over sudden temptation.”
Frank Henley seemed deeply impressed by Mr.
Harding’s advice, and much distressed at his own mis-
conduct ; but Philip Graham exhibited no emotion!

And here we must take leave of Mr. Harding’s little
community. The diversity of character which we have
seen in it may be found in larger and older communities
all the world over—and each of them answers to some
representation or image, which we find in the Sacred
Scriptures. There are those who fear God and desire
to please and obey him. Their habitual thought is,
“ Thou God seest me ;” and so convinced are they that
to love God and keep his commandments is their
reasonable duty, that they would suffer any reproach or



LAST AND WORST. 85

ridicule rather than disobey them; no matter what.
numbers may be found in the way of evil, nor what
flattering promises of enjoyment may be held out, the
reght or wrong of the thing is first in their thoughts,
Concealment or detection they have nothing to do with,
for there is nothing they wish to conceal or fear to ex-
pose, They are sincere and guileless people. MAvRIcE
GRAY evidently belongs to this group.

And then we have another class, and the world is
full of them. The chief motive which leads them to
do right is that it is more creditable. They oblige
themselves to maintain two opposite characters ; and
while they vainly suppose themselves to be in favour
with the wicked companions whom they despise, and
with the good whom they cannot but respect, they
seldom fail to lose the confidence of both, and to be
exposed and detested as deceivers and hypocrites.
Puitre GRAHAM is a striking example of this class of
persons. The history of both not only illustrates the
worldly proverb, that “honesty is the best policy,” but
the higher and far more comprehensive truth, that “the
fear of the Lord is the BEGINNING OF KNOWLEDGE”
(Prov. i. 7).





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THE STORY OF CARL ADLER.

yg
1.
Che Oaks.

r 6 {HE boys were all gathered under a spreading
: chestnut-tree, not far from which a stone-



ca quarry had been opened, and then left to
srow up with brambles and tufts of grass
and weeds. It is such a cavern as children
love, affording a hundred amusements to those who are
inquisitive, Barry was, for the time, one of the boys.
He sat in the shade of the mighty tree, with book in
hand, but unopened. His eyes were looking over at
the distant hills, and the intermediate landscape
checkered with field and orchard, and seamed with
hedges and brooks. But the noise and antics of his
young companions kept him from musing long on any
one thing. Grave as he might be, it was impossible
for him not to turn his head and smile, when he saw



THE OAKS, 87

the cheery faces and high gambols of these healthy,
happy fellows. Now they are trying to bury the New-
foundland dog in new hay, from which he rises like an
animated hay-cock. Now they are repeating the ex-
periment with Bob Bolton, the biggest and best hum-
oured of the set. Now they turn somersets down the
green side of the quarry ; and now they are off, like a
herd of antelopes, in a race to the foot of the green hill,
where a silver rivulet marks the lowest spot in the ex-
tensive field. |
Timorous parents are sometimes greatly afraid of -
bones being broken or health being endangered in such
sports. But they are ignorant of the safeguards of
Providence, and occasionally interfere to the injury of
their children. It is wonderful how rare such evils
are, among tens of thousands of instances. I think I
_ have observed that in many families the eldest sons are
the most feeble and fearful: when the little flock in-
creases, the sports become more gay, and the adventure
more bold. And home-sports such as these, when un-
accompanied by ill tempers and ill words, are good and
laudable, even though their noise should sometimes jar
on the ear of the nervous. Unless we would rear a
generation of effeminate creatures, we must put up
with some noise, and some soiling and tearing of
raiment.
Barry was almost disposed to join in the sport,
though he half-doubted whether his dignity as an



88 THE OAKS.

usher might not suffer by the condescension. The
scruple was not necessary ; but Barry had not reached
the point in his experience where this is found out.
When the sun began to draw toward his setting, he
rang his little bell, and was instantly surrounded by
the whole company, at least twenty in number. There
they sat or stood around him, red and panting, and
covered with healthful moisture. What sight on earth
is lovelier or more hopeful? Who is happier than a
loving teacher? Barry felt this, and gazed on them
with a new and swelling emotion. What hope, what
joy, what confidence in these countenances! Even two
or three lads, who had been sullen and refractory in the
school-room, were here contented and docile, and clung
to him, with a readiness to do whatever he should
order. |
“ Look yonder, boys,” said Barry, rising as he spoke,
and stretching his hand toward the west. All the boys
turned in the same direction, and their faces were
illuminated with the blush of the setting sun, which
at that instant was just sinking among a clump of dis-
tant trees. ‘Oh, how grand! Oh, how beautiful !”
burst from several, Indeed, the sight was glorious.
“What do you think, boys?” said Barry. “Can
you see anything like that in a show? Can any paint-
ing or any panorama equal that ?” :
Various exclamations were uttered by the more
animated hoys, for the spectacle was uncommonly fine,



JHE OAKS. 689

even in a land where we have to bless God for so.many
brilliant sunsets. Little Carl was silent. His hands
were crossed upon his breast, and his blue eye drank
in the lights of the west, as if none had been present.

“Carl,” said Barry, turning to the little foreigner,
“that is what you call, in Germany, the Abendroth,
and it is a beautiful word.” |

“Yes, sir,” said Carl, and the tears filled his eyes:
he wiped them away with his little checked handker-
chief. The boys were affected: they knew he was
thinking of “Bingen on the Rhine.” —

Burnham, who led the school, turned to Mack, and
said in a low voice, “ Mack, there’s something in the
Dutchman after all; let’s not quiz him so hard !”

A distant bugle-note broke up their sentimental
gazing ; it was the signal for the evening worship.
Barry led the way to the school, and the boys fell into
an irregular procession. It was plain they had received
benefit by even this momentary contemplation of a
great object in nature. Why should it not be a part
of education to draw forth the admiration of youth to-
wards such wonders, and to graft upon them the need-
ful lessons 9

Dr. Newman was not the man to neglect such means
of usefulness. He had been gazing on the same western
sky, as he sat in the portico, holding the hand of his
motherless daughter. Both were in mourning, but
both seemed revived by a transient gleam from the



90 THE OAKS.

sinking luminary. As Dr. Newman led the way into
the little chapel, the lingering rays of the sunset were
just gilding its eastern wall. He rose in the pulpit
and read the beautiful 104th Psalm. At the nineteenth
verse the youthful worshippers all felt, at least for the
moment, the meaning of these words, The sun knoweth
has goung down. They were therefore very attentive
when the doctor began his little address.

“ My dear children,” said he, “I dare say you have
been looking at the beautiful sunset. It is good to do
so. Those lovely curtains of coloured cloud are hung
there to attract our eye. . They are pictures in the
book of nature from God’s own hand.

“See how God directs us to study these works of
creation. It is plainly so in the chapter we have just
read. So also in other places. In the book of Job
(XXxVill., xxxix., xl, xli.,) God speaks out of the whirl-
wind, but all his discourse is concerning the wonders
of creation. |

“We must not confine ourselves to the book of
nature. If we had no other guide, its characters would
be unintelligible. ‘They would speak a strange lan-
guage. ‘Ihe heathen have the book of nature, but they
read it amiss. Blessed be God for this other book,
the book of revelation (and here Dr. Newman laid his
hand on the great folio Bible which lay before him).
Here we learn what brilliant sunsets can never teach
us, that God so loved the world as to give his only be



THE OAKS. 91

gotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should
not perish, but have everlasting life. But after we
have learned this blessed gospel truth from the Serip-
tures, we can come back to the book of nature, with
its beautiful sunsets, and behold in every hue and every
cloud an emblem of God’s love and mercy. Therefore,
my children, believe in God, and then, when you turn
your eyes towards the crimson and gold of the gorge-
ous west, you may say to yourselves, ‘The God who

displays those lovely signs is my Father through Jesus
Christ.’”

Then they joined in singing the following version of
the 19th Psalm :—

**T love the volume of thy Word;
What light and joy those leaves afford
To souls benighted and distressed!
Thy precepts guide my doubtful way,
Thy fear forbids my feet to stray,
Thy promise leads my heart to rest.

Thy threatenings wake my slumbering eyes,
And warn me where my danger lies;

But ‘tis thy blessed gospel, Lord,
That makes my guilty conscience clean,
Converts my soul, subdues my sin,

And gives a free, but large reward.

Who knows the error of his thoughts?
My God, forgive my secret faults,

And from presumptuous sins restrain:
Accept my poor attempts of praise,
That I have read thy book of grace

And book of nature not in vain.”

It is a happy thing for our children when they go



92 THE OAKS.

to a school where religious service is not made a drud
gery, but is connected with pleasing associations. Such
was the case at the Oaks. There was no boy who re-
mained there long who did not love the sound of the
bugle which cailed him to this short but interesting
exercise. Dr. Newman almost always made an address, .
but it was seldom longer than that which has been
given above. It was customary at the Oaks, after tea,
to spend some time in walking, or if the time of year
were forbidding, in athletic games in a large covered
_play-room, called the hippodrome. This was not in-
deed the hour for their regular gymnastic exercise, but
it was spent in this place because of the large space
allowed for walking and running, and for forming
little groups for conversation. However inclement the
weather might be, here the boys found themselves
warm and sheltered; and the recreation was good be-
fore returning to the short tasks of the evening. But
the plan of the school did not admit of much work by
candle-light, for early rising was the order of the day.
Into this hippodrome the large boys went at all times
during play hours, and here they assembled in consider-
able force on the evening in question.

A large lamp of stained glass hung from the centre
of the roof, and cast a pleasant gleam over the space
below. dress, was seen in the inner circle, some leaning on
benches, and some arm-in-arm against the column in



THE OAKS. | 93

the midst. It was evident that some plan was on foot,
for boys are planning creatures, and it is well when
their schemes involve no mischief. I am glad to say
such was now the case. They were talking in a low
tone about the pale German boy, Carl Adler. Carl had
come to school with scarcely any knowledge of English,
and a few months had not sufficed to remove his
oddities of pronunciation. He could not for his life
say, “ Thirty thousand thorns thrust through the thick
of their thumbs.” The attempt to utter this for-
midable formula, which he never refused, used to pro-
duce peals of laughter such as are heard only from a
croup of boys. Few at this age can abstain from
running rigs on a comrade. But Carl, though he used
to redden and hang his head, never lost his temper,
and this won him some favour. Though he could not
talk English well, he was the best Frenchman in the
school; indeed, he spoke the language fluently. Then
he was far before the rest of his age in Latin, He
could swim, wrestle, and fence, and was always ready
to do a favour. That evening the boys had observed
him weeping under the chestnut-tree.

Boys are as sagacious about such things as men:
they knew he was thinking of home, and the word home.
is sweet at a boarding-school. But little Carl’s home
was far over the sea, on the Rhine; and he was an
orphan, and what was more, the boys had learned within
a few days that he was poor, and that his uncle, Mr. |



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SCHOOL-BOY HEROES:

THE STORY OF

MAURICE GRAY AND CARL ADLER.

BY THE LATE

REV. J. W. ALEXANDER, D.D.,

NEW YORK.



LONDON:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH ; AND NEW YORK.

1875.

RR ASTM Se ATT AM aR EMAAR NE STERN ey tte le etn aoe l=

ren eb th CPL A AE ONT LCN LRT ALR SE ALARA
a
Wreface.




Wo ax HE two following tales are chiefly intended for
ae Dboys, and the object of the lamented author
=a . (whose name alone is a recommendation) ap-



SD pears to have been to represent true religion,
\ | as displayed during the trials and temptations
of school-life, in an attractive and manly form.

In both tales, the teachers are men of the mght
stamp; but the boys, as must ever be the case, are of
varied characters. The scene of the longest story is
the United States of America, where so many German
emigrants now find a home. |

If any young readers are led, from the perusal, to
seek a deeper experience of the power of truth and
love, as exemplified by the conduct of Maurice Gray
and Carl Adler, they will have good cause for grati-
tude to the author of this little volume.


THE STORY OF MAURICE GRAY.

I. The New Scholar ... ses ove eee
II. Lunch in the Wood

III. The Faithful Nurse wee ass a

IV. The Lame Boy... bee weet aes
V. A Noble Confession eee ase

VI. The Missing Book ... eee one eee

VII. Last and Worst ... ane eee see

THE STORY OF CARL ADLER.

1. The Oaks -

II. Trials of the Emigrant School-Boy ... eos
III. What makes the Happy Teacher? ... eee eee
fV. Lessons out of Doors tee eve eas eas
V. Teaching and Training ves les see eee

VI. Friends of the Stranger wes ves ees
VII. Work and Play os ees ves eee | eee
“VIII. The Emigrant Youth advancing to Manhood ... ave
IX. First Lessons in School-Keeping eee ses wes

X. Glimpse of a Christian Home in & Strange Land woe

18
30
41
50
59
Vill CONTENTS.

XI. Reminiscences of German Childhood .. 2s vas 164
XIT. Promotion and Surprises... eee .. vee 171
XIIL Shadows in the Picture... va A «179
AIV. School-Chat in Play-Hours ... ves ses wee 184
XV. Religion in School ses vee oes wes 197
XVI. Poetry and Schools bee wee vee kos 207
XVII. Arrival of Emigrants eee coe ees ote 214
XVIII. Docendo Discimus vee es ewe QOL
XIX. Sybel, the German Teacher - as ae: 926
XX. School Festivities vee ses aes ve O87

XXI. Conclusion one eae ore > oes was 244




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THE STORY OF MAURICE GRAY.

ARI Kn ome a A re ee

i.

Ghe Hew Scholar.

assembled. He was soon surrounded by a
group of them.
“What is it, Frank ? what is it ” asked



many voices. |

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

“How do you know?” “What is his name?”
“ How old is he?” “Where is he from ?” were ques-
tions rapidly asked.

“T can answer but one of these questions,” said
10 THE NEW SCHOLAR.

Frank. “TI heard Mr. Harding say so himself to Mr.
Neville, the assistant ; so it is true, you see.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How can you be so foolish ?” said Philip Graham,
a tall, slender boy, fourteen years of age, with an un-
commonly sedate countenance, small light blue eyes,
and rather a precise air. “To-morrow is time enough

to know. What difference can one day make ?”
“Oh! Phil would not condescend to be curious,”
said Bob Newton ; “it is too undignified for him.”
THE NEW SCHOLAR. | 11

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that is too many,” said some of the older boys.
“It would never do to ask so many. I think three
questions are as many as it will do to ask.’

“T think so too! I think so too!” said several voices.
“Three are enough ; what shall | they be? Three will
tell very little.” .

After some discussion, it was decided the three most
important items were his name, his age, and whether
he was from the city or the country, and little Joe
Green was despatched to acquire the important infor-
12 THE NEW SCHOLAR.

mation. He soon reached the summer-house where
Mr. Harding was sitting, who raised his eyes from his
_ book as he heard the approach of footsteps.

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

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

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

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

“Well, his name is Maurice Gray,” said Mr. Hard-
ing.

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

‘“ He is several years older than yourself, Joe,” an-
swered Mr. Harding. “ He is fourteen, I believe.”

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

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

“Thank you, sir,” said J oe, bowing, and preparing
to run away. |

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

i Yes, sir, very much,” answered J oe, “but the boys
told me I must not ask you but three questions, or
you would think me very rude ;” and, without waiting
THE NEW SCHOLAR, 13

for further information, Joe left Mr. Harding, and
hastened back to the play-ground.

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

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

“Fourteen years old—that is just our age, Dick,”
said Tom Bailey; “he will be one of the oldest
scholars. I hope he has not an old sober head like -
Philip Graham, who thinks it such a condescension to
play with us now and then, and seems to think it is
wicked to laugh, or have any fun at all. Mr. Harding
thinks him a model of good conduct, and a pattern for
us all. I think he is a very disagreeable fellow. He
is proud, and never notices the younger boys at all, and
seems to think boys are made for nothing but to study
and go to church! I hope Maurice Gray is a real
hearty fellow, Dick, like you and 1.”

“Yes; indeed I do,” answered Dick. “I hate
‘pattern boys,’ like Phil Graham. One never feels at
ease with them. If the fellow that is coming is to my —
mind, I shall be quite polite to him, for I like a new
friend once in awhile. As he is from the country, I
suppose we shall have to teach him a thing.or two. I
suppose he is not much of a scholar. This is probably
14 : THE NEW SCHOLAR.

his first coming out into the world. Well, we shall see
what he is like to-morrow. I wonder if he will come
in the coach at eleven o’clock, or whether his father
will bring him. To-morrow is not a great way off.”

To-morrow came in its proper place, and a bright
lovely summer day it was; and, at eleven o'clock, every
ear was opened as the old stage-coach came rumbling
leisurely along, and great was the satisfaction that
beamed from divers faces as it was heard distinctly to
stop at the front door. Mr. Harding left the room to
receive his new pupil, and, after being absent half an
hour, returned without him, to the evident dissatisfac-
tion of the many eyes that were fixed upon the door,
for they all knew they must now wait until after school
to be introduced to the new scholar,

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

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

“He is not so tall as I am by an inch or two,” said
Philip Graham, drawing up his thin figure to its full
height, “though he is fourteen years of age,”

“Oh, he. cannot equal Phil Graham in anything, of
course,” said Tom Bailey, aside. “No one pretends to
THE NEW SCHOLAR. 15

equal the model scholar—the ‘ pattern of propriety ’—
even in outward appearance. I am sure I hope
Maurice is not such a stiff conceited fellow, looking
down upon everybody else.”

“Why,” said Dick Wells, “how should we know
how straight we ought to walk, or how sober we ought
_ to look, how perfectly we ought to recite, how still we
ought to be in school-hours, how obedient to the rules
of the school, if we had not some such perfect pattern
before us as Phil Graham !”

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

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

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

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

“¢ Well Maurice,” said Mr. Harding, upon leaving
him, “I see you will soon make friends here, and I
hope we shall make you happy.”
| “T will try to deserve friends, sir,

bowing respectfully ; “and then I do not fear but I
shall make them.”

“T love him already,” said Mr. Harding to himself,
as he walked towards the house. “He will be a friend
to me, and an ornament to the school ; I see it in the

said Maurice,

99

very expression of his face. He is a serious-minded,
conscientious boy, or I am much mistaken, though his
eye and his lip have a merry smile.”

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

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

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

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

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




BAIT MVEA ARR

DISENTANGLING THE KITE

page le
THE NEW SCHOLAR. 17

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

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

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

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



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YR. HARDING'S residence was about two
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AZ yess -play-ground ‘at one side, and behind the
LNA
ii a house were a farm-yard and vegetable
1% garden. Beyond were thick woods, pleasant

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

In addition to his boarders, Mr. Harding received at
his school day-scholars from the neighbouring village.
One wing of the house was occupied by Mr. Harding
and his family, which consisted of a wife and twin
LUNCH IN THE WOopD. 19

_ daughters, Minna and Rose, eight years of age. They
attended the school each day regularly, occupying |
small seats by their father’s desk. They were allowed
occasionally to visit the boys’ playground as spectators
of their games, and considered it a great treat so to do.
But they were always attended by one of their parents,

or placed under the especial care of one of the most
trusty boys. Philip Graham had this honour conferred
‘ upon him oftener than any other boy, and he was quite
proud of the trust reposed in him.

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

“ Look here, Dick. Quick, or I shall be discovered,”
said Tom Bailey one day, about a week after Maurice —
Gray had entered the school, as he was creeping
stealthily from Maurice’s closet. “Come quickly, Tom.”
Tom obeyed. “Here,” said Dick, “is your good, -
merry fellow, we have been calculating upon. Why,
he is worse than Philip Graham. See here! Phil has
20 LUNCH IN THE WOOD.

only a Bible on his desk, which I do not think he
opens very often, though he would have Mr. Harding
think he does; but Maurice Gray has a Bible, and a
book of sermons, and some tracts. They are all for
show, of course. No boy would ever read such books,
[ am certain, unless he was compelled, and I would
not believe Maurice ever reads them if he told me so.
He is worse than Phil Graham, is he not?” |

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

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

“There is one thing very certain,” said Tom, “and
LUNCH IN THE WOOD. 2]

— that is, that Mr. Harding takes a great liking to Maurice,
Never since I have been here has he invited a boy to
take tea with him during the first week of his being
here, and Maurice last evening not only took tea with
him, but took a walk of an hour after tea with Mr. and
Mrs. Harding, and Minna and Rose. I saw them re-
turning. Minna had his hand, and Rose was skipping
by his side, and they were both talking to him as if
they had known each other for a long time.”

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

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

“No knowing until we have tried him,” said’ Dick.
“Tam not sure but it is too soon to begin; but he is
such a pleasant fellow, he is worth trying for; if he has
92 | LUNCH IN THE WOOD.

a few rusty notions, I think we can wear them away,
and make a friend of him.”

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

‘‘ Here is a nice place to take our lunch,” said Dick,
throwing himself on the grass, and opening his basket.
The others gladly seated themselves round him. Dick
removed slyly part of the contents of his basket, and
"passed the basket containing the remainder to the boys
as they sat. It contained a generous supply of cakes
and dried fruits, which were soon consumed with great
relish by the little party.

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

champagne is bad enough.” }
LUNCH IN THE Woop. | 23

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

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

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

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

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

“Wrong!” said Dick; “why, what can there be
wrong in a simple glass of champagne? Do not be so_
queer. A young man, fourteen years of age, is certainly
at liberty to take a glass of wine if he pleases. We no
longer consider ourselves children. I am sure I, for
one, feel- capable of judging what is right and fitting
for me to do; but there are plenty to drink it if you
will not, Maurice;” and the bottles were speedily
emptied by the other boys. | a

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

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

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

“My father placed me here,” said Maurice, “to be
under Mr. Harding’s care, in his absence from home.
He told me to regard him as a friend, master, and
protector, and expects me in all things to consult Mr.
Harding’s wishes and opinions ; and I should feel as if
I was acting very wrong to do anything contrary to
them. I would not do, when absent from him, what
I would not do in his presence; and besides that, I
know my father would disapprove of it. He is far
away at sea, thousands of miles from here, and would
never know it; but I love him too well to do what I
know he would condemn.”

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

“I have begun to think for myself, and to act inde-
pendently,” answered Maurice, “and that is one reason
LUNCH IN THE WOOD. 25

why I declined taking wine. I scorn the character of
a hypocrite. To think one way and appear to act one
way, and in reality be doing things directly contrary to
the principles and appearance, is what of all things I
despise. I am afraid to begin at fourteen years of age
to drink a glass of wine, for in a short time I might —
want a bottle, and then, losing my relish for wine, I
might be induced to take something more stimulating
and powerful, and who can tell what the end might be?
I might become an indolent, useless man, or a habitual
drunkard, and perhaps lose soul and body both. I
do not say this would certainly be the case, but it has
been the case of very many, and I might add another to
the number. It is best to be on the safe side, depend
upon it; and I am determined to do what I think is
right in this case, even though I should lose your good
opinion by so doing. I should be glad to join you any
time in an innocent frolic, when my conscience does
not interfere; but when that speaks to me, 1 must obey
its voice. My father allows me plenty of pocket-money;
and a treat of cakes and fruit on our walks, if Mr.
Harding does not disapprove of it, I shall always be
ready to give in my turn; but you must never expect
wine from me, nor invite me to join with you in drink-
ing it. And now, suppose you all make up your minds
to give it up, before it becomes necessary to your
pleasure to have it. It will cost you now but little
self-denial, and by-and-by it may cost you much, or
26 . LUNCH IN THE WOOD.

: you may have imbibed so strong a relish for it, that
you will think you cannot give it up at all.”

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

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

Maurice stood up as: he spoke, and though at first
some of the boys were inclined to ridicule him, he
spoke with so much dignity and independence, and
commanded so much respect by his manly bearing, that
no laugh was raised, and all seemed desirous of concili-
ating his good-will. |

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

Maurice gave his hand cordially. “If you would
all reflect a little upon the subject,” he said, kindly
, looking around, “TI do believe you would all be of my
mind. By doing when absent from Mr. Harding what
LUNCH IN THE Wvop. (97

you would not do in his presence, you show more
respect to him than you do to your Maker, in whose
presence we always are.” |

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

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

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

“Why,” said Bob Newton, “do you remember, Dick,
what a time Mr. Harding had, when I brought that
cigar to school to give you, and set you a few lessons
28 LUNCH IN THE Woop.

in smoking—what a long speech he made to us about
boys at fourteen getting into such habits, and how
he strictly forbade any one ever to bring a cigar to
school ?” |

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

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

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

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

_“ And a fine cigar, I should imagine also,” said Dick.
“Pray, where do you buy your cigars, Mr. Graham ?
. Dees Mr. Harding furnish you? We need not inquire
whose circulating library you encourage, as the cover
of the book speaks plainly enough for itself. There is
no mistaking that,”
LUNCH IN THE WOOD. 29

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

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

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













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Sgi {WO or three weeks after the last-mentioned
incident, a group of boys were assembled on



“the play-ground, when there appeared at
the gate an aged woman of quiet and quaint
aspect. Her dress was old-fashioned and
peculiar, and her manner and appearance were those of
one who seldom crept from her own homely fireside, to
mingle in the great world. Her face, though bearing
deeply the stern mark of time, wore such an expression
of peace, and sweet, holy serenity, that none could look
at it without loving it, and feeling that they were in
the presence of one who walked with God. She opened
the large gate timidly, and looked rather dismayed to
find herself suddenly in the midst of a large party of
boys, all curiously looking at her.

‘Is Maurice Gray here ?” she asked.

“ No, he is not, ma’am, he is in the house,” was the
answer. “Have you brought anything to sell? You
seem to have a nice large basket.”
THE FAITHFUL NURSE. 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old woman made no answer. Her eyes were
fixed on the distance, for she saw Maurice approaching,
32 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

and hastened forward to meet him. Maurice looked
grieved and vexed when he saw her surrounded by the
boys, all rudely looking at her; but running hastily
towards her, exclaimed, “ My good kind nurse, how

glad I am to see you!”

and giving her his arm, and
relieving her of her basket, he led her towards the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seo oho
pee eae

seed

dpa he

4 he entice
BVPRES



AON De Hist Sr NSU S-E

MAURICE
THE FAITHFUL NURSE. 32

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

“ Burton,” answered Maurice, “and I am sorry she
was not better received by my friends on her first visit
to me; but probably none of you feel towards an old
person as I do, or have had the same cause. But I
must persuade you to love and respect. her, for she is
coming to live in the little green cottage, half a mile
from the school, and Mrs. Harding has promised to
employ her when sickness or any extra occasion shall
require her services. I am sure, when you know her,
you will never treat her disrespectfully again ; let me
tell you something of her.”

The boys gathered round Maurice.

“IT suppose all of you have mothers who watched
over your childhood, wiped your tears, and gave you
every pleasure; but I have no remembrance of my
mother. She died when I was hardly a year old. My
father, who is an officer in the navy, was absent on a
long cruise at the time, and I was left entirely to the
care of good Nurse Burton. She has often described
to me my mother’s farewell of me. .She was very young
—scarcely twenty—when she died. My nurse took
me to her, and laid me on the bed by her side. She
placed her feeble hand on my head, and prayed silently
afew moments, and then said, ‘I have put up onge
more, and for the last time, the only one prayer I have

offered for my little Maurice since the first hour of his
(100) 3
34 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

birth. It is that he might be in spirit and in truth a
follower of the blessed Redeemer.’ ‘O nurse!’ she
said, ‘you watched over my motherless childhood—be
the guide of this dear little boy—I commit him in con-
fidence to you; and I give you but one injunction in
regard to him, and that is, that you will teach him as
you did me, from the earliest opening of his reason, to
have the single eye that discerns clearly God’s will, and
the single purpose that fulfils it. As it regards this
world’s wealth, honours, or pleasures, I have no wish.
God’s will is mine. So long as my Saviour is his
Saviour, through life and through eternity, I ask nothing
more.’ |

“My dear mother died; and strictly and faithfully
did my good nurse perform my mother’s dying request.
Her time, her strength, her mind, and soul, were de-
voted wholly to taking care of me. In health and
sickness, by night and by day, she watched over me,
studied my happiness and improvement in all things,
and thought nothing a sacrifice on her part that might
contribute to my welfare and pleasure. My father re-
turned home about a year after my mother’s death ;
but his home was so desolate, that after committing
me again to the tender care of Nurse Burton, he left
us. My nurse is a woman of excellent sense, Her
mind is elevated by religious truths. She has a good
common education, and she was the only instructor I
had, or required, in my earliest childhood. She
THE FAITHFUL NURSE. oo

patiently toiled with me through the first elements of
education ; but the chief and most delightful study to
us both was the Bible. Before I could read, she told
me pleasant stories from its pages, and instilled into
my mind its sacred truths; and if there is now within
me any desire of right, or any proper notions of duty,
I owe them all, under God’s blessing, to her pious and
early instructions, As soon as I could speak, she
caught me to pray, and endeavoured above all things to
impress upon my mind that I was ever in the presence
of the all-seeing God, and that outward forms, without
the spirit of religion, were abomination in his sight.
QO how happily and quietly we lived together,—my
father’s visits to us alone interrupting and giving variety
and delight to our humble home.

“ My first grief was when, at the age of ten years,
after having been a year under my father’s instruction,
he was ordered to sea, and I was sent to a school about
six miles from our home; but I was to return every
Saturday and stay until Monday, and my nurse would
visit me during the week ; and so we became reconciled.
At that school I remained until I was thirteen years of
age, when it was broken up, and for a year I was again
under the instruction of my father; but on his again
being ordered to sea the other day, he placed me here
under the care of Mr. Harding, having, at the earnest
request of my kind nurse, obtained a home for her in
this neighbourhood, where she could often see me.
0 THE FAITHFUL NURSE,

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

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

“ Maurice,” said Philip, in a low voice; on observing
the basket, “you had better put those things out of
the way, if you wish to keep them. Conceal them
among your clothes, or you will get into trouble if
Mr Harding discovers that you have them,

Several other boys, entering at the same time, said
the same thing, telling him it was against the rules of
the school for any presents of that kind to be accepted.
THE FAITHFUL NURSE. | 37

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

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

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

“T did not know, sir, it was against your rules for
us to receive presents of this kind, or I should not
have accepted this that my good nurse brought me to-
day ; though it would have grieved her much if I had
refused it, as she made the cake for me herself, and
brought the fruit all the way from our own garden,
thinking I would like it better if it came from home.
Be so kind, sir, as to pardon me for accepting it, and
not oblige me to return it to my nurse, as it would
disappoint her much. I am willing you should do
what you think best with it.”

Mr. Harding’s eyes beamed with pleasure, as he
looked upon the open, ingenuous countenance of
Maurice. | 7

“Maurice,” he said, “your honesty merits my
08 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

warmest praise. I give you permission to accept the
present from your good nurse, and to do with it as you
please.” | ,

Satisfaction beamed from the faces of many of the
boys at this eulogium from Mr. Harding, and one only
expressed envy and discontent. Philip Graham had
always merited, by his outward conduct and good
scholarship, the esteem of his teacher, who could only
judge of his character by what he saw; but Philip nad
done nothing to win the affection of his teacher. The
friendly confidence with which Maurice regarded Mr,
Harding had evidently won his love. Philip saw a
rival in the new scholar, who would take his place in
Mr. Harding’s esteem; and his cold heart, instead of
feeling that there was room enough in the world for
all, looked upon him with envy and dislike. But
Maurice was wholly unaware of it, and equally unaware ~
that he had done anything to excite praise or surprise
in any one. He was habitually honest and upright.
The Bible taught him that as God knows all things, it
is of little importance to hide anything from the know-
ledge of man, and that deceit and hypocrisy were
hateful in God’s sight, and would sooner or later be
unveiled.

“Come, boys,” said Maurice after school, as they
entered the play-grounds, “one and all take seats on
the grass here, and help me to dispose of the contents
of Nurse Burton’s basket, and you will see what ex-
THE FAITHFUL NURSE. a9

cellent cake she makes, and what fine fruit grows in
our old garden. Come, Philip,” he said, as Philip
Graham seemed turning away, as if he thought it too
childish to join the group, “I know that boys as big
as you like a good slice of cake as well as we; so come,
take a seat with us. This is a generous loaf, and quite
enough for all, and I have borrowed a plate and knife,
that I may serve it up handsomely.”

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

“No, I thank you, Maurice,” said Bob Newton, as
Maurice handed him a slice in his turn. “I was go
rude to your good nurse to-day, that I do really believe
it would choke me if I should attempt to eat it, The
truth is, Maurice, I never did anything I was more
ashamed of, and I am willing to own it.”

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

“Well,” said Maurice, “I am glad you feel so about
it, boys. I knew if I told you all about her you would
respect her, and when you know her, you cannot fail
40 THE FAITHFUL NURSE.

to love her; but she is so good, she will never remember
it against you. I will forgive you in her name, and
we will go together, and explain all to her, and all will
be forgiven and forgotten ; so now, do oblige me by
helping to eat up the cake and fruit, or I shall not
enjoy my slice at all.”

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

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

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

Maurice. “I had accepted it, unconscious that I was
doing what was forbidden. You do not suppose I .
_ would hide it, and deceive Mr. Harding? That would,
indeed, have been hard for me to do; but there was
nothing hard in telling him that I had unintentionally
broken his rules. I am sure, had I concealed it, I
could never have eaten any of it. Besides, I should
have done wrong, and offended God and my own con-
science.” |

“You are a strange fellow, Maurice,” said Frank
Henley; “but I like your way of dealing. I do not
believe another boy in school would have done so; but
you have proved that it is the best way.”

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


BURTON'S BASKET

OPENING NURSE


Ghe Lame Pov.



in QO not look so sad, Louis,” said Maurice one
day, as he joined the lame Louis, who was
sitting alone under a tree in the play-
ground, and, with dejected face, watching
the boys at play. His crutch lay beside
him on the ground, and his dominos and
jack-straws on his knee showed that he had been trying
to amuse himself with a solitary game. “Come, let me
help you at a game of dominos. I should like it much.”

Tears filled the eyes of the lame boy. “Oh, no,
indeed,” he said, “you must not sit moping here with
me. You are such a good hand at play, and enjoy it
so much, the boys will all be after you.. You sat here
a long time with me yesterday, and through all the ~
play-hour to-day. Indeed, I cannot permit you to do.
it now.” |

“Oh, I have had play enough, and want to rest now,”
answered Maurice. “I want to be with you a while

There are plenty. to play without me.”
49 THE LAME BOY.

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

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

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

“Ah, Louis,” replied Maurice, “there is but one
answer to that question. It is your heavenly Father’s
will. God is your Maker and mine. He is the Maker
of all mankind. He makes some sound in mind and
body, and others weak and deformed. He makes some
rich, and others poor. As we are all the work of his
Almighty hand, he certainly has a right to create us as
he pleases. All he does is for some wise purpose, and
it is not for us to question his ways. You must hear
my good nurse speak on these subjects. She can teach
you far better than I can. You have been promising
me you would call and see her for a long while. We
shall have plenty of time; let us go there now. Take
my arm, and we will walk slowly, so as not to tire
you.”

- Louis, leaning with one arm on his crutch, and the
other on his friend, walked slowly down the shady
THE LAME BOY. 43

road, and reached the little green cottage. Under the
porch, covered with creepers and honey-suckles, quite
shaded from sight, on a low bench, sat Nurse Burton
with a Bible on her lap.

“Ah, my dear child,” she said, as she saw Maurice,
“T thought you would come to-day. You are just in
time for us to read our evening lesson together, as we
used to do at home. And who is this young gentle-
man?’’ she asked, looking tenderly at lame Louis. “I
recollect I saw him the day I first called on you at the
school.”

“Tt is Louis Tarleton—one of my best friends,
nurse,” answered Maurice, “and I know you will love
him. But first we will read together, and then we will
_ talk a while.”

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

faces—an emblem of the blessed Sun of Righteousness,
44 | THE LAME BOY.

which inwardly shed its sanctifying rays over their
“spirits.

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

“T have never read it much,” answered Louis ; “but
you and Maurice seem to enjoy it so much, and it
appears to make you both so happy, that I wish I
could love to read it. You see I am lame, and I can-
not play like the other boys; so I read a great deal,
and am often at a loss for something to interest me,
and Mr. Harding says no one ever tires of reading the
Bible. I do not know why, but it has always seemed
a dull book to me. Do you not think it is hard for
me to be lame, nurse, and unable to run or jump with
the other boys? I have to sit moping alone, or crawl
around on crutches,” |

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

‘I cannot, Lord, thy purpose see,
. But all is well, since ruled by thee.’
And,
‘My Father's hand will never cause
His child a needless teur.’

Have you learned, dear child, to love God as a fatber
and friend? If not, your lot is indeed a hard one, and
THE LAME BOY. 45

your cross a heavy one; but only learn that, and you
will have but the single desire that his will may be
done in you and by you. You will prefer to keep
your effliction if he wills it, and it will be to you a
visible token of his care over you.”

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

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

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

“Tt surely would be so, my dear,” replied the nurse,

“Have you no parents, Louis ?” |
| “My parents both died when I was an infant,”
answered Louis, “and I have neither brother nor
sister.”

“Then you must feel the more need of a heavenly
Friend, my dear child,’ answered the nurse. “He

col
46 THE LAME BOY.

can supply the place of all others in your heart, and
by His presence life will become to you so full of
sweet flowers, lovely music, and pleasant pictures, that
you will be as happy as you can desire. What relatives
have you, my dear ?”

“JT have an uncle,” replied Louis, “who is always
generous and kind to me; but he is himself a lonely
man, having neither home, wife, nor children; and
though he sometimes takes me to the hotel where he
boards in K
and I generally pass my vacations at school; and then,



, on a Visit, it is not pleasant to me,

good nurse, [am often very sick. Last spring I was
so ill that my life was despaired of. I have never felt
so strong since, and I heard the physician tell my uncle
that I could never bear so severe an illness again.
That has often made me think a great deal about dying,
and I have concluded that it would be quite as well to
die as to live here in pain, weakness, and mortification
through a long life. For of what use can I ever be in
the world, or what pleasure can I take in living?”
“Oh, my dear child,” answered the nurse, “ speak not
so of the lot God ordains for you. Light from above
must and will be shed upon your path, and then all
will be bright and happy to you. O Father of
mercies,” continued the godly woman, raising her eyes
and hands to heaven, “send down thy blessed light
and truth into the soul of this child of thine Give
him the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of
THE LAME BOY. 47

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

The boys sat a few minutes longer conversing with
the good nurse, and as they walked homeward, Maurice _
saw that a calmer and more chastened spirit expressed
itself in the sad and dejected face of his companion ;
and his heart rejoiced, for he hoped the poor lad would
now find the comforter he so much needed.

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

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

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

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

“ Because,” replied Maurice, “it was my memory,
and not yours, that ought to have been ready. It
48 THE LAME BOY.

would have been you answering, and not me, and that
would not have been right.”

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

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

_ “I must do what my conscience tells me is right,”
answered Maurice, “whether I get along well or not.
If I do not, I should be very unhappy.”

“Which would cause you to feel most unpleasantly,”
asked Frank, “to miss a question on exhibition day,
lose your place in the class, and cause the visitors to
think you were an indolent, careless scholar, or to
answer one single question by my prompting ?”
THE LAME BOY. 49

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

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



(100) 4
PROV. 10, 10,6,

THE TusT:



(eH , what have I done? What have I done?’
, w cried Maurice Gray. “ What shall I do?
Hf What will Mr. Harding think of me? My
: unlucky ball. I was so engaged in my



game, that I did not notice how near I
was to the conservatory, and thus have disobeyed my
teacher, and now I am punished for it.”

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

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

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

“Yes, it is too true,” said Maurice. “Oh, I am so
V
\



ve

E GRA

C

CRIED MAURI

| DONE

HAT HAVE

f

-—

0
A NOBLE CONFESSION. : 5]

sorry. I have thrown down that beautiful scarlet
cactus in full bloom, which Mr. Harding showed us
yesterday, and have probably injured it very much.
What will Mr. Harding think of me?”

“Q say nothing about it—say nothing about it,”
sald Dick Wells. “Such things have often happened
here before, and no one could ever tell who did the
mischief. Mr. Harding has tried in vain, every way,
and offered rewards to have the offender made known.
But we have a way of managing such things. So do
not trouble yourself about it, Maurice. You are too
good a fellow to get punished. None of us will allow
it ; depend upon that.”

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

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

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

Maurice stood thoughtfully looking at the mischief
he had done, and hardly heeding the various remarks
n2 A NOBLE CONFESSION,

made by his companions; and did not observe that
Frank Henley had instantly left the group, after saying |
that he could and would get him out of his difficulty. _

“ How fortunate,” said Tom Bailey, “that Mr. Hard-
ing is absent this afternoon! I saw him ride away
with his family immediately after dinner, and he will
not probably return until dark, and he will not find this
out until to-morrow. So we have time to arrange all
about the matter, and to prepare ourselves for the cross-
questioning we shall all get on the subject.”

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

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

“How could I! Why,” said Frank, “to make you
safe. There will now be no ball found there, and Mr.
Harding will not know how the glass was broken. We
will all agree that we know nothing about it, and he
will think it was the gardener, or Peter, or one of the other
servants, and you will get off. I really thought you would
be grateful for my services, but your looks express any-
thing but gratitude. I should think I had injured you.”
A NOBLE CONFESSION, 53

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

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

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

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

“T am not ungrateful to you, Frank, for the kindness
you intended me,” said Maurice, “but there is only one
path for me, and that is the right one. It is ever plain
and open to us all, if we will but see it. There are
many winding and crooked ways, but they are always
full of perplexity and trouble. Suppose I follow your
54 A NOBLE CONFESSION.

advice, and conceal what I have done from our teacher,
_ I shall cause you all to practice deceit, the blame of the
accident will rest on the wrong person, and feeling that
he has been injured and deceived, it will be a long time
before Mr. Harding forgets the affair. ButifI do right
and confess my fault, and submit myself to my just
punishment, no one will be involved but myself, and
no one but the real offender will be suspected.”

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

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

“And so am I, Frank,” said Maurice, “and to no
one sooner than yourself ; but suppose I deceived my
teacher, [ cannot deceive God, who knoweth all things.
I feel that his all-seeing eye is upon me, and I must
act as in his sight.”

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

The bell rang for evening prayers.
“I guess Maurice will change his mind to-night
A NOBLE CONFESSION. 55

about confessing this accident,” said Phil Graham to
Frank Henley, as they walked together towards the hall.
“ Depend upon it, with all his bragging and preaching
about right and conscience, he has repented fifty times
of not accepting your offer to get him out of his scrape
without exposure.”

“Ido not agree with you there, Phil,” said Frank.
“He would not accept. it now, if it was made to him
this moment; but he is a character you cannot well
understand, Phil. Your motto has always been plain
enough to us all, ‘Make clean the outside of the cup
and the platter,’ but Maurice’s seems to be, Make clean
the inside. I must own he 1s a noble fellow. Though
I was provoked with him this afternoon for spurning
my assistance, I have got over it now, and I like him
all the better for it—and I wish I was like him.”

“ Well, we shall see how he’ll manage it,” answered
Philip. “Depend upon it, his heart will fail to-night,
and he will be glad to keep clean the outside, and let
the inside go.”

It was quite a large assembly that gathered at morn-
ing and evening prayer at Mr. Harding’s school. It
included his own family, his pupils, and the numerous
servants of his household. Mr. Harding was in his
accustomed place when the boys entered, and was
thoughtfully turning over the leaves of the sacred
volume that lay before him. The silence in the room
was interrupted by Maurice, who, leaving his seat,
56 A NOBLE CONFESSION.

approached Mr. Harding, and asked permission to
speak a few words to him before the evening’s exer-
cises commenced, adding, “I have done something
unintentionally, but carelessly, sir, which will displease
you, and I cannot retire for the night happily until I
have confessed it to you.”

He then related the occurrences of the afternoon, and
blamed himself very much for becoming so absorbed
in his game as to approach so close to the forbidden
side of the play-ground near the conservatory, and con-
cluded by saying, “Iam exceedingly sorry, sir. I sub-
mit myself cheerfully to the punishment I deserve ;
only let me know that you will not think I would wil-
fully do anything to injure you, or deliberately disobey
your commands,” |

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

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

“J, too, have done wrong to-day, sir, and have dis-
obeyed you; and though in times past I have always
endeavoured to conceal from you the accidents and dis-
obediences of which I have been guilty, I so admire the
bold and honest conduct of Maurice, that I am induced
to follow his example. Unknown to Maurice, and
wishing to save him from exposure, I entered the con-
servatory, contrary to your orders, and took away his
A NOBLE CONFESSION. 57

ball. I presented it to him, telling him, as that could
not now witness against him, it would be easy for him
to get out of the difficulty; that you would never sus-
pect him, but would impute the blame to some other —
person, who, I could answer it, would never be dis-
covered, I was angry with him for decidedly, but
kindly, refusing to accept my proposal, and conceal it
from you; and seized the ball roughly from his hand,
saying, I was not then going to get myself into trouble,
and that I should return it to the conservatory. I left
him intending so to do; but as I walked along, my own
mean conduct, contrasted with the brave and honest
course of Maurice, presented itself vividly to my mind.
He was so different from any boy I had ever met with
before, that I could not help admiring him, and desir-
ing to imitate him. A voice seemed sounding in my
ear, ‘Truth, brave Frank; be honest, Frank.’ It was
a new idea for me to act upon, and I did not know that
I should have courage to do it; but I am glad I have,
sir, for I feel much happier than if I had concealed my
disobedience, and I am willing to be punished as I
deserve.”

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

“ Maurice, you have done me more service to-day
than you could have done me injury, had you broken
all the glass in my conservatory, and destroyed every
- plant that it contains. I would be willing that such
an accident should occur very often, for the sake of
your good example, and feel grateful to you for its
effect upon Frank. I trust it will be of lasting benefit
to his character. I freely forgive you your careless-
ness; and, to show my esteem for your character and
influence, will reward you by forgiving Frank the faulé
he has committed in his effort to serve you. Frank,”
he continued, turning towards him, “you deserve com-
mendation for the effort you have made to confess your
fault. The struggle must have been hard for you, if ©
you have hitherto been in the habit of deceiving and
concealing, I trust you will henceforth follow the good
example of Maurice; and I hope ere long you will be
uniformly actuated by the same high notions of duty
which influence him. For that which alone gives per-
manency to any good intentions or resolutions is to act
in the fear and love of our heavenly Father.”

Mr. Harding then extended his hand kindly, first to
Maurice, and then to Frank. They bowed and retired
to them seats, and the exercises of the evening pro-

RET

ceeded.





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“ges, the sanctuary were over. It was a rule of
S Be ‘3 Mr. Harding’s that each boy should pass
fA the intervening time, from the close of the



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

Frank Henley sat at his desk; his Bible and ques-
tion-book lay open before him. He had evidently been
studying his lesson, but his head was now leaning on
his hand, and an expression of thought was upon his
features quite foreign to his usual light-hearted, gay
60 THE MISSING BOOK.

look. He seemed pondering in his mind some import-
ant subject. Yes!—new thoughts had lately sprung
up in his heart. He had felt: the nobleness of confess-
ing a fault even to his fellow-creature, and that led him
to reflect how often he had deceived him. The words
of Maurice, “ We cannot deceive God, who knoweth all
things,” had led him to think how often, by deceit and
falsehood, and neglect of duty, he must have offended
his great Creator. The Bible lesson of the afternoon
had drawn his thoughts into a serious train; the Spirit
of the Holy One was near, hovering around his retire-
_ ment with most precious and blessed boons and bene-
dictions, all ready to pour into his youthful soul. God
grant he may open his heart to receive them, and not
grieve him away by thoughtlessness or love of ease!
Dick Wells had stolen into the closet of Tom Bailey,
unknown to any one; they were sitting close together,
talking very earnestly in low whispers, lest it should be
discovered that they had transgressed a rule of the
school, and were passing the hours together. They
appeared to be laying a plan for something which was
difficult to settle, as they often paused thoughtfully,
and then resumed their conversation, as if undecided
what course to take. Had one been near, he might
have heard such phrases as these: “Splendid horses !”
—* Best circus in the country !”—“Fine music !”—
“Tam determined I will go !”—“Somehow or other I
am quite decided about that: I had rather be punished
THE MISSING BOOK, es” 61

for going than not go at all; but we can manage so as
not to be discovered, I know.”

“Bob Newton is going,” said Dick, “and Frank
Henley will go, and Harry Blake, and Will Foster—we
are sure of those. Will it do to ask Maurice Gray?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Our best plan,” said Dick, “I think, will be to ask
—6«62 THE MISSING BOOK. |

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

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

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

Lame Louis begged permission of Maurice Gray to
pass the hours with him; but Maurice firmly refused
his request, unless he could obtain the consent of Mr.
Harding ; and, to oblige Louis, Maurice went with him
THE MISSING BOOK. 63

to their teacher to request the favour, which was kindly )
granted. |

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

The hours passed rapidly away, and the ringing of
the bell to summon them to tea still found them study-
ing with pleasure that Holy Book which can alone
make us “wise unto salvation,” and afford us consola-
tion under all the difficulties and trials of life. |

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

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

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

“T am much obliged to you, said Maurice. “What
may it be?”

“I observe you are very’ fond of reading,” said
Philip. “Is it not so?”
64 THE MISSING BOOK.

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

“ And how do you like the books of Mr. Harding’s
library,” asked Philip ; “such as we are permitted to
use ?” |

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

“But would you not sometimes like a change,”
asked Philip, “in your reading? I have a plan I
think you would like, which will make a pleasant
variety in your reading, give you much pleasure, and
I will take all the trouble of it. I am a subscriber to
Mr. Shaw’s circulating library, and I thought if you
would like to pay half the subscription, you can pay
the money to me. I will obtain and return all the
books, and so no one will know that you have anything
to do with it.”

“I daresay, Philip,” said Maurice, “you intend me
a favour, and therefore I am obliged to you ; but, in
the first place, I will never wilfully break any of Mr,
Harding’s rules, and you know one of them is that we
shall never take books from the circulating libraries,
(n the second place, my father has expressed a wish to
THE MISSING BOOK. 69

me that I should never read frivolous books, as he
_ Says it gives one a disrelish for useful reading ; and as
Mr. Harding provides us with works of history, bio-
graphy, and travels, I therefore can have no use for
Mr. Shaw’s books. And in the third place, I have no

taste now for works of fiction, and do not wish to
acquire one, as I fear it might injure me, and cause me
to waste my time.” |

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

“ But the love you have acquired for them,” said
Maurice, “leads you deliberately to disobey your.
teacher to obtain them. I should think that was evil
enough ; and you know not to what else they may
lead you.”

“Qh, such rules, I always think, are made for the
younger boys,” said Philip. “Iam no longer a child,
and will not submit like a child to every such regula-
tion. If I set a good example and keep my own
counsel, that is enough, I am sure. When have I
ever failed in a lesson, or been reproved by my teacher?
There is not a boy in school so exemplary as I am.
But come, do not be a child any longer, Maurice,” he
continued, drawing a book from his pocket; “just

take this and examine it. It- shall cost you nothing.
(100) — 5
66 THE MISSING BOOK.

It is a most thrilling story. If you read this, I know
you will thankfully accept my proposal.”

Maurice drew back, and refused the book.

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

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

A fortnight passed away, when one morning Mr.
Harding was called out of school, and after being
absent a few minutes, he returned looking unusually
grave, and addressing his school, said, “That Mr.
Shaw from the village had just called to look upa
book that had for several weeks been missing from his
library, and which was taken out by one of the pupils
of the school. He refuses to give the name of the boy,
as he is under a solemn promise of secresy, unless the
book cannot be otherwise obtained. The book, he
said, was a new one, and the only copy he had; and
as one volume was missing he could not use the other,
or he would not have made known the circumstance to
me. But as the young gentleman who had it had not
called for some time, he must excuse him for using the
THE MISSING BOOK. 67

most prompt method for obtaining his property ; and
he should make known his name unless he received
his book without needless delay. I am exceedingly
grieved,” continued Mr. Harding, “that any one should
have violated what I consider one of the most impor-
tant rules of my school, as you all know how strongly
I have often expressed my abhorrence of the kind of
books usually found in circulating libraries such as
Mr. Shaw’s. It seems to me also an act of ingratitude,
as I have been at the personal expense of purchasing a
library for your use, of such books as I approve. I
advise whoever has the book Mr. Shaw is in search of
to confess it immediately, otherwise Mr. Shaw will
himself make it known.”

No one spoke or moved.

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

Mr. Shaw returned home, and Mr. Harding then
directed the boys to remain in their places while he
visited their rooms in search of the missing book. He
was absent but a few moments when he re-appeared in
the school-room, bringing a book which they all knew
came from the forbidden circulating library. His counten-
alce was very grave, and he said, with unusual emotion:
G8 THE MISSING BOOK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Circumstances are certainly against me, sir,” said
Maurice, looking calmly at his teacher with his full,
honest eye; “but I do not dare to lie or deceive, I
THE MISSING BOOK. — 69

believe I have never given you cause to doubt my
integrity, and I hope you will believe me when I say
I did not know the book was there. As it has been
found there, and has been missing for a fortnight, I
know of but one way in which it could have been put
there. But I beg of you to take some other method
of ascertaining the truth. I may implicate one who is
innocent, and nothing but your express commands can
cause me to make known my suspicions. If you will
please to wait a day or two longer, perhaps all will be
cleared up.” : |

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

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

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

After the lessons were over Mr. Harding related to
Mr. Neville, in presence of the whole school, the cir-
cumstances of the missing book, and concluded by
10 THE MISSING BOOK.

asking him if he could conceive who would have taken
the book from the library, or how it could have been
concealed on Maurice’s desk without his knowledge.
“T have had this in my possession,” he added, pro-
ducing the book, “and have examined its contents,
and it has made me the more determined to discover
who among my pupils could have such a low and de-
praved taste as to feel inclined to read it. I feel
ashamed to think that I have a boy in my school who
has a taste for such reading.”

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

“Tt 1s most painful to me to be obliged to bring
disgrace and reproach upon one who has hitherto occu-
pied a high position in the school, in every way ; but
itis my duty to state what I know of this affair, that
suspicion may not rest where it is undeserved. I
intended to have made known to you, sir,” he con-
tinued, addressing Mr. Harding, “the circumstances
which occurred a fortnight since; but as I was very
much occupied at the time in preparations for my
journey, it escaped my mind, and I had quite forgotten
the affair until you mentioned what occurred here
yesterday.

“It was about a fortnight since, I was on my way
to the closet of Maurice Gray. I wished to speak
with him alone. As I approached the closet I heard
THE MISSING BOOK. 7

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

Mr. Harding started with surprise. He was well
aware that among his older pupils there were some he
could not trust, as they preferred their own will to
his; but Philip Graham, from outward conduct, had’
always been exemplary—what the boys called “ Mr.
72 THE MISSING BOOK.

Harding’s model.” He was a brilliant scholar—
punctual and studious, and was supposed by his
teachers to be a boy of strict moral principles. His
comrades knew him better, but it was a great dis-
appointment to Mr. Harding to find he had been so de-
ceived. He sat silent at his desk for some minutes,
and then called Philip Graham, who arose in his seat.

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

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

“Tt grieves me more than I can express,” continued
Mr. Harding, “to be compelled to look not only with
suspicion and distrust, but with deep disapprobation,
on one whom I have always regarded with confidence |
and esteem. I must henceforth regard you as opposed
to my plans and my interests. This is the first offence
of yours that has come to my knowledge, but it is one
of great aggravation. You have deliberately disobeyed
me, and as you are a subscriber to the library, your
offence is probably one of long standing. Nor is that
all. You have used your influence to induce another
to break my rules, and to pervert his mind with such
vile trash as this book contains. I cannot suppose
that this is your only attempt. It may be that you
have induced others whose minds, unlike that of
THE MISSING BOOK. 723

Maurice, are not fortified by good principles, to follow
your example. I need not say that you have lost the
high place in my regard which you formerly held, and
nothing but a long course of correct conduct can restore
you to my confidence. My sympathy with your great
affliction leads me to suspend for the present the in-
fliction of merited punishment. One word of advice ~
I must give you. Of all the severe judgments which
our blessed Redeemer denounced, none were more
severe than those which respect hypocrites—those
who appeared outwardly righteous, but were within
full of deceit and wickedness. Go to your private
room, Philip, and let the rest of the day be passed in»
meditation on your past conduct, and may God give
you a penitent spirit, and a desire for the future to live
a penitent life! May he give you a clean heart, and
renew a right spirit within you !”
Philip obeyed and silently left the room.






2 <2 mS

VII.

Hast and Cdorst.

¥ \eNLUCKY ! unlucky! unlucky!” cried
oN > Dick Wells, joining a group of the older
MO boys on the play-ground. “Is it not,
. Tom, the most unlucky thing in the world,
) that the birth-day fete and the circus come
on the same day; I never heard of anything more pro-
voking? How can we manage it ?”

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

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





“We must obtain permission,” said Tom, “to go to
the woods immediately after dinner, and as soon as we
LAST AND WORST, 75

are out of sight, make the best of our way to the village.
One of us must try to keep an eye to the time, and just
before four we must leave; and if we are fifteen minutes
too late, Mr. Harding will think we did not know the
hour, or that we wandered farther than we intended.”

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

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

“Oh, say nothing more to me about it,” answered
Maurice. “You all know very well that I will. not
join you; but I fear you will all get into trouble, so
you had better give it up. I am sure the pleasant
entertainment Mr. Harding gives us on Wednesday
ought to be sufficient amusement for us; and suppose
yon were detained, or did not know the hour, how
mortified you would all feel to be discovered at such a
76 LAST AND WORST.

time—to say nothing of the disobedience, and the
meanness of skulking away in such a manner to attend
a circus. Better give it up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That is true,” said Frank ; “but this once, Maurice,
Imust follow my inclination. I am quite as deter-
_ mined as the others. Happen what will, I attend the
circus this time.”

“T fear you will repent of it,” answered Maurice.
“It seems to me to be quite impossible for you to leave
LAST AND WORST. | V7

the village after the circus, and be here in time for the fete.
Ifyou are late, Mr. Harding will think you very ungentle-
manly, and feel as if youtreated him with great rudeness.”

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

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

“T wish I was thoroughly good like you, Maurice,”
said Frank ; “then I could do right easily enough. But
- Inever-can be. I never thought I should like to be
good until I knew you. Almost all the boys I ever
knew before who pretended to be good, were like Philip
Graham,—good enough before their teacher, but else-
where, just like all the other boys. And though I
never pretended to be good myself, I always despised
hypocrisy more than anything else. But it seems to
make no difference with you, where you are or who
you are with, and that is a character I would tke to —
imitate.

“Do not talk to me so,” said Maurice. “No one
78 LAST AND WORST.

knows my heart save myself, and him who knoweth
all things; so no one can know how often I fail in all
my endeavours to be and to do what I desire. But my
heavenly Father, through his mercy in Christ Jesus,
has compassion on my weakness, and gives me the
earnest, constant desire to serve and to please him. He
pardons my manifold transgressions, and comforts me
with assurances of his love and care towards all those
who sincerely wait upon him.”

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

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

Many of the children, with their parents, and other
friends of Mr. Harding from the village and neighbour-
ing country-seats, with all the pupils, were invited to
attend. A table was spread on the lawn under the
shade of the lofty elms. Various games were played
in which old and young participated, and everything
was done by Mr. and Mrs. Harding to make the jubilee
pleasant to the guests.
~ Minna and Rose, queens of the day, were crowned
with wreaths of flowers, and presided at the feast.
They also received from their parents and many of the
visitors, useful and beautiful gifts,
LAST AND WORST. | 79

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

The long-expected Wednesday at last arrived. The
day was fine. The grass on the lawn had been recently
mowed, and was soft as velvet beneath the feet. The
air was fragrant with flowers and new hay; and the
table, most tastefully decorated with flowers, was pro-
fusely covered with ices, confectionery, and fine fruit.
The boys readily obtained permission from Mr. Harding
to pass an hour or two in the woods before the time
appointed for the fete; and, according to their previous
plan, as soon as they were out of sight of the house,
they turned into the road leading to the village, and
rapidly pursued their way thither.

Now, it happened that some indispensable article for
the entertainment was forgotten, and none of the at-
tendants being at leisure to ride to the village, Mr.
Harding mounted his horse in haste, and proceeded
thither to execute the commission. He was detained
longer than he expected, and it was but a moment or
two before four o’clock, when he turned his face home-
ward. He happened to be passing the circus-ground
just as the people were leaving it, and reined up his
80 LAST AND WORST.

horse and let the crowd pass. To his great surprise,
among the first who came from the tent were several]
boys of his own school, who, casting an anxious look
at the old church-clock, set off in rapid steps for home.
He had hardly recovered from his surprise before the
crowd had dispersed, and he was again moving onward,
when he saw a solitary figure emerge from the tent,
and strike into a circuitous road leading towards his
house. It was Philip Graham !

Mr. Harding rode slowly homeward, pondering on
the deceitfulness and ingratitude of those he so earnestly
and constantly endeavoured to benefit and make
happy, and did not reach the scene of festivity until
many of his guests had assembled.

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

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

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

we returned ?”
LAST AND WORST, : 8]

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

The school was assembled next morning when Mr.
Harding entered. He stood in his desk, and addressing
his pupils, said— Before: commencing the lessons of
the morning, I have a few words to say. The chief
design I have in celebrating the little festivals on the
birth-day of my children, is to give a pleasant holiday
to my school. You must perceive it is attended with
much trouble and expense, and did I not think it gave
much pleasure to you all, and that it would be among
the pleasant remembrances of your school-days in after-
life, and cause you to feel that your teacher loved you,
and was desirous of promoting your pleasure in every
innocent way, as well as your improvement, be assured
the celebration of yesterday would be the last,

“There are many among you who understand my
plans, and appreciate my indulgence, and I am sure
they look upon me as a friend as well as a teacher ; but
there are others among you of a very different disposi-
tion. I do not doubt that you all enjoyed yesterday’s
pastimes, and you doubtless thought I did-also; but
you are mistaken, I hoped to have enjoyed the day as
I usually have done; but there was one circumstance

which brought a chill over my heart and spirits, and
100) 6
82 LAST AND WORST.

made the joyous scene to me one of darkness and sad.
ness. Itis hard to meet with deceit and ingratitude,
and to receive it, too, in return for kind sympathy and
affection.”

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

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

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

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

“ This is all who were of our party,.sir,” said Dick
Wells. “There were but six.”
LAST AND WORST. 83

“There is another present,” said Mr. Harding, “who .
did not join your party, but who attended the circus,
whom I saw slyly leave the tent after all the spectators
had gone, and make his way home by a circuitous
route. Philip Graham! why do-you not rise in your
seat with the rest? Do not think -because you went
more slyly and stealthily than the others, and wished
not only to keep a fair face before me, but also before
your schoolmates, that you were unseen. __

“It is hardly a year since some of you requested
permission to attend the circus, and then, in denying
your request, I stated to you that as long as you were
under my charge, I would never consent to your fre-
quenting a place where you would probably hear vulgar
and profane language, and where you might imbibe a
taste for mountebank exhibitions, and the lowest grade
of dramatic performances. As there are some present
who have entered school since that time, I again express
my Opinion, and repeat my commands, on the subject.
The punishment I shall inflict on those who disobeyed
me yesterday, will be to suspend them from the school
for one month at the end of this term. Philip Graham
will be suspended two months. I shall also write to
your parents the ‘particulars of your conduct, that they
may deal with you as they think proper.

“As for you, Frank,” continued Mr. Harding, “you
had boldly taken the first step in the paths of honesty
and rectitude, and are capable of becoming an honour-
84 LAST AND WORST.

able and high-minded youth. I feel greatly disappointed
that the first temptation has caused you to fall. I fear
you are too much governed by your associates. If you
were always to choose good ones, you might do well ;
but there is no security for a person who cannot stand
alone,—who does not possess in his own heart those
principles and that strength which will lead him to act
rightly, independently of all outward circumstances,
and to resist in the hour of temptation. Each of us
must bear his own burden, and give his own account
to the Judge of all. Strive and pray, I entreat you,
for that grace and light from above—that firm religious
conscientiousness and love to your Creator—which can
alone give you the victory over sudden temptation.”
Frank Henley seemed deeply impressed by Mr.
Harding’s advice, and much distressed at his own mis-
conduct ; but Philip Graham exhibited no emotion!

And here we must take leave of Mr. Harding’s little
community. The diversity of character which we have
seen in it may be found in larger and older communities
all the world over—and each of them answers to some
representation or image, which we find in the Sacred
Scriptures. There are those who fear God and desire
to please and obey him. Their habitual thought is,
“ Thou God seest me ;” and so convinced are they that
to love God and keep his commandments is their
reasonable duty, that they would suffer any reproach or
LAST AND WORST. 85

ridicule rather than disobey them; no matter what.
numbers may be found in the way of evil, nor what
flattering promises of enjoyment may be held out, the
reght or wrong of the thing is first in their thoughts,
Concealment or detection they have nothing to do with,
for there is nothing they wish to conceal or fear to ex-
pose, They are sincere and guileless people. MAvRIcE
GRAY evidently belongs to this group.

And then we have another class, and the world is
full of them. The chief motive which leads them to
do right is that it is more creditable. They oblige
themselves to maintain two opposite characters ; and
while they vainly suppose themselves to be in favour
with the wicked companions whom they despise, and
with the good whom they cannot but respect, they
seldom fail to lose the confidence of both, and to be
exposed and detested as deceivers and hypocrites.
Puitre GRAHAM is a striking example of this class of
persons. The history of both not only illustrates the
worldly proverb, that “honesty is the best policy,” but
the higher and far more comprehensive truth, that “the
fear of the Lord is the BEGINNING OF KNOWLEDGE”
(Prov. i. 7).


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THE STORY OF CARL ADLER.

yg
1.
Che Oaks.

r 6 {HE boys were all gathered under a spreading
: chestnut-tree, not far from which a stone-



ca quarry had been opened, and then left to
srow up with brambles and tufts of grass
and weeds. It is such a cavern as children
love, affording a hundred amusements to those who are
inquisitive, Barry was, for the time, one of the boys.
He sat in the shade of the mighty tree, with book in
hand, but unopened. His eyes were looking over at
the distant hills, and the intermediate landscape
checkered with field and orchard, and seamed with
hedges and brooks. But the noise and antics of his
young companions kept him from musing long on any
one thing. Grave as he might be, it was impossible
for him not to turn his head and smile, when he saw
THE OAKS, 87

the cheery faces and high gambols of these healthy,
happy fellows. Now they are trying to bury the New-
foundland dog in new hay, from which he rises like an
animated hay-cock. Now they are repeating the ex-
periment with Bob Bolton, the biggest and best hum-
oured of the set. Now they turn somersets down the
green side of the quarry ; and now they are off, like a
herd of antelopes, in a race to the foot of the green hill,
where a silver rivulet marks the lowest spot in the ex-
tensive field. |
Timorous parents are sometimes greatly afraid of -
bones being broken or health being endangered in such
sports. But they are ignorant of the safeguards of
Providence, and occasionally interfere to the injury of
their children. It is wonderful how rare such evils
are, among tens of thousands of instances. I think I
_ have observed that in many families the eldest sons are
the most feeble and fearful: when the little flock in-
creases, the sports become more gay, and the adventure
more bold. And home-sports such as these, when un-
accompanied by ill tempers and ill words, are good and
laudable, even though their noise should sometimes jar
on the ear of the nervous. Unless we would rear a
generation of effeminate creatures, we must put up
with some noise, and some soiling and tearing of
raiment.
Barry was almost disposed to join in the sport,
though he half-doubted whether his dignity as an
88 THE OAKS.

usher might not suffer by the condescension. The
scruple was not necessary ; but Barry had not reached
the point in his experience where this is found out.
When the sun began to draw toward his setting, he
rang his little bell, and was instantly surrounded by
the whole company, at least twenty in number. There
they sat or stood around him, red and panting, and
covered with healthful moisture. What sight on earth
is lovelier or more hopeful? Who is happier than a
loving teacher? Barry felt this, and gazed on them
with a new and swelling emotion. What hope, what
joy, what confidence in these countenances! Even two
or three lads, who had been sullen and refractory in the
school-room, were here contented and docile, and clung
to him, with a readiness to do whatever he should
order. |
“ Look yonder, boys,” said Barry, rising as he spoke,
and stretching his hand toward the west. All the boys
turned in the same direction, and their faces were
illuminated with the blush of the setting sun, which
at that instant was just sinking among a clump of dis-
tant trees. ‘Oh, how grand! Oh, how beautiful !”
burst from several, Indeed, the sight was glorious.
“What do you think, boys?” said Barry. “Can
you see anything like that in a show? Can any paint-
ing or any panorama equal that ?” :
Various exclamations were uttered by the more
animated hoys, for the spectacle was uncommonly fine,
JHE OAKS. 689

even in a land where we have to bless God for so.many
brilliant sunsets. Little Carl was silent. His hands
were crossed upon his breast, and his blue eye drank
in the lights of the west, as if none had been present.

“Carl,” said Barry, turning to the little foreigner,
“that is what you call, in Germany, the Abendroth,
and it is a beautiful word.” |

“Yes, sir,” said Carl, and the tears filled his eyes:
he wiped them away with his little checked handker-
chief. The boys were affected: they knew he was
thinking of “Bingen on the Rhine.” —

Burnham, who led the school, turned to Mack, and
said in a low voice, “ Mack, there’s something in the
Dutchman after all; let’s not quiz him so hard !”

A distant bugle-note broke up their sentimental
gazing ; it was the signal for the evening worship.
Barry led the way to the school, and the boys fell into
an irregular procession. It was plain they had received
benefit by even this momentary contemplation of a
great object in nature. Why should it not be a part
of education to draw forth the admiration of youth to-
wards such wonders, and to graft upon them the need-
ful lessons 9

Dr. Newman was not the man to neglect such means
of usefulness. He had been gazing on the same western
sky, as he sat in the portico, holding the hand of his
motherless daughter. Both were in mourning, but
both seemed revived by a transient gleam from the
90 THE OAKS.

sinking luminary. As Dr. Newman led the way into
the little chapel, the lingering rays of the sunset were
just gilding its eastern wall. He rose in the pulpit
and read the beautiful 104th Psalm. At the nineteenth
verse the youthful worshippers all felt, at least for the
moment, the meaning of these words, The sun knoweth
has goung down. They were therefore very attentive
when the doctor began his little address.

“ My dear children,” said he, “I dare say you have
been looking at the beautiful sunset. It is good to do
so. Those lovely curtains of coloured cloud are hung
there to attract our eye. . They are pictures in the
book of nature from God’s own hand.

“See how God directs us to study these works of
creation. It is plainly so in the chapter we have just
read. So also in other places. In the book of Job
(XXxVill., xxxix., xl, xli.,) God speaks out of the whirl-
wind, but all his discourse is concerning the wonders
of creation. |

“We must not confine ourselves to the book of
nature. If we had no other guide, its characters would
be unintelligible. ‘They would speak a strange lan-
guage. ‘Ihe heathen have the book of nature, but they
read it amiss. Blessed be God for this other book,
the book of revelation (and here Dr. Newman laid his
hand on the great folio Bible which lay before him).
Here we learn what brilliant sunsets can never teach
us, that God so loved the world as to give his only be
THE OAKS. 91

gotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should
not perish, but have everlasting life. But after we
have learned this blessed gospel truth from the Serip-
tures, we can come back to the book of nature, with
its beautiful sunsets, and behold in every hue and every
cloud an emblem of God’s love and mercy. Therefore,
my children, believe in God, and then, when you turn
your eyes towards the crimson and gold of the gorge-
ous west, you may say to yourselves, ‘The God who

displays those lovely signs is my Father through Jesus
Christ.’”

Then they joined in singing the following version of
the 19th Psalm :—

**T love the volume of thy Word;
What light and joy those leaves afford
To souls benighted and distressed!
Thy precepts guide my doubtful way,
Thy fear forbids my feet to stray,
Thy promise leads my heart to rest.

Thy threatenings wake my slumbering eyes,
And warn me where my danger lies;

But ‘tis thy blessed gospel, Lord,
That makes my guilty conscience clean,
Converts my soul, subdues my sin,

And gives a free, but large reward.

Who knows the error of his thoughts?
My God, forgive my secret faults,

And from presumptuous sins restrain:
Accept my poor attempts of praise,
That I have read thy book of grace

And book of nature not in vain.”

It is a happy thing for our children when they go
92 THE OAKS.

to a school where religious service is not made a drud
gery, but is connected with pleasing associations. Such
was the case at the Oaks. There was no boy who re-
mained there long who did not love the sound of the
bugle which cailed him to this short but interesting
exercise. Dr. Newman almost always made an address, .
but it was seldom longer than that which has been
given above. It was customary at the Oaks, after tea,
to spend some time in walking, or if the time of year
were forbidding, in athletic games in a large covered
_play-room, called the hippodrome. This was not in-
deed the hour for their regular gymnastic exercise, but
it was spent in this place because of the large space
allowed for walking and running, and for forming
little groups for conversation. However inclement the
weather might be, here the boys found themselves
warm and sheltered; and the recreation was good be-
fore returning to the short tasks of the evening. But
the plan of the school did not admit of much work by
candle-light, for early rising was the order of the day.
Into this hippodrome the large boys went at all times
during play hours, and here they assembled in consider-
able force on the evening in question.

A large lamp of stained glass hung from the centre
of the roof, and cast a pleasant gleam over the space
below. dress, was seen in the inner circle, some leaning on
benches, and some arm-in-arm against the column in
THE OAKS. | 93

the midst. It was evident that some plan was on foot,
for boys are planning creatures, and it is well when
their schemes involve no mischief. I am glad to say
such was now the case. They were talking in a low
tone about the pale German boy, Carl Adler. Carl had
come to school with scarcely any knowledge of English,
and a few months had not sufficed to remove his
oddities of pronunciation. He could not for his life
say, “ Thirty thousand thorns thrust through the thick
of their thumbs.” The attempt to utter this for-
midable formula, which he never refused, used to pro-
duce peals of laughter such as are heard only from a
croup of boys. Few at this age can abstain from
running rigs on a comrade. But Carl, though he used
to redden and hang his head, never lost his temper,
and this won him some favour. Though he could not
talk English well, he was the best Frenchman in the
school; indeed, he spoke the language fluently. Then
he was far before the rest of his age in Latin, He
could swim, wrestle, and fence, and was always ready
to do a favour. That evening the boys had observed
him weeping under the chestnut-tree.

Boys are as sagacious about such things as men:
they knew he was thinking of home, and the word home.
is sweet at a boarding-school. But little Carl’s home
was far over the sea, on the Rhine; and he was an
orphan, and what was more, the boys had learned within
a few days that he was poor, and that his uncle, Mr. |
94 THE OAKS.

Schneckenburg, had written to Dr. Newman that he
must be taken away and put toa trade. Now they began
to regret their ridicule of the stranger, and were busy
contriving some way to help him, for they could not
bear the thought of losing so amiable and clever a
companion.

“Tl tell you what it is,” said Murdock, who was
the son of Captain Murdock of the army, “I'll give all
my pocket-money for the year rather than let the Dutch-
man suffer.”

‘ Dutchman!” cried Merriman, who slept in the same
chamber, “I will tell you he is no Dutchman; he isa
German boy, from Bingen on the Rhine, and his father
was a judge in that town.” |

“Never mind, Merriman,” said Murdock, “ Dutch-
man or German is all one; he is a fine little man if he
does call think sink, and bath bass. Put my name
down for as much as you choose. Dr. Newman has
my money for the quarter, and he says it’s too much
by half.”

“We are all ready,” said Mack, who was a square-
built, rosy-cheeked, brave-looking boy; “I don’t believe
there is a fellow on our side who will refuse to give
something—all he can, but the thing is, how shall we
do it?”

“True enough,” said Burnham, “it will never do to
hurt the little man’s feelings. He is quiet and he is
poor, but then he is very proud; no, not proud exactly ;
THE OAKS. 95

I don’t mean quite that. But he is above begging, and
above being helped; and he never would forgive us if
he knew what we are saying.”

“There is no danger of that,” said Merriman, “for I
left him writing a letter to his sister in those funny
little slanting peaked German letters that we used to
quiz him about. I’m sorry I laughed at him so much,
for once I saw him dropping tears over the sheet so
fast that it must have blotted the paper. He will not
be down for an hour.”

“I tell you,” said Murdock, “we are in danger of
all going wrong unless we take advice, and there is no
better way than to talk it over with Mr. Barry. He
is always ready to help overyponys and he thinks the
world and all of Adler.”

“Good! good!” cried several; “ Barry is the man.”

“Yes,” said Mack; “and what is more, Mr. Barry
has been in Germany, and understands a good deal of
the language. J am glad you thought of it.”

‘So it was agreed to lay the matter before Mr. Barry,
the boys meanwhile determining to be ready with their
contributions. The bell rang, and they went to the
school-room with faces full of earnestness and ani-
mation.











nk, how | to enjoy them, Did you ever know a
healthy youth who did not like to spend
such days out of doors? Especially at large
schools, where they have not their parents to go to,
young persons seek recreation in the fields and woods.
Here they learn a thousand things which are useful to
them in after-life. It is not the least important of
their education. For this reason those schools are
best where the pupils have a wide range of meadow
and grove, pleasant brooks, and safe bathing-places.
This was remarkably true of the Oaks, which was so
called on account of a number of great and ancient
trees, relics of the forest, which were scattered in
clumps upon the hill-side in front of the house. It.
_ had been the seat of an old English family before the
_ Revolution, and bore many characteristic marks of the

aristocratic mansion. The spacious but irregular house
CARI

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ROVE
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY. . 97

was of hewn stone, as were the stables and offices. A
gentle rill stole along the bottom of the declivity, pass-
ing in its course through an old fashioned spring house, |
which was of snowy whiteness, and overshadowed by
a gigantic sycamore. A green lane behind the prin-
cipal dwelling ran off among cherry trees till it was
lost in an extensive wood, and through this shaded -
walk conducted to a stream called by an Indian name
Wicomico.

Upon the bank of this stream several boys were
seated during the noon of a half-holiday. The voice
of Carl Adler might have been heard in pensive but
continued discourse; he was giving an account of his
native town on the Rhine. I will not attempt to
imitate his broken English, for it is not my purpose
to excite a smile at his expense; and what he said was
worthy of no ridicule. He was telling of the rapids
in the Rhine near Bingen, and of the antiquity of this
little town, which is said to have been known to the

Romans. |
“But now,” said he, “I feel quite at home here.
My uncle lives here, and .’ The boys knew what



he meant: his father and mother were dead.

“Yes,” said Merriman, “ you will soon feel as if you
had been born here; and before the year is out you
will lose all the little German burr that is on your
tongue.”

“He is losing it already,” said Burnham. “ Who -

(100) (
98 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY.

could have spoken the address of Antony better than
- Adler did last night?”

Carl smiled, and said, “I am glad you have come
to think better of me. Everybody is kinder to me than
before. For you must know I was beginning to think
I never should open my lips without uttering some-
thing laughable.” |

“Come, come,” said Merriman, laying an arm across
his shoulder, “no more of that. Let by-gones be by-
gones. You can take a joke, and that is the surest way
to avoid one. And if anybody imposes on you, let me
hear of it.” |

“And me,”—“ and me,’—said two or three at once.
It was evident that some remarkable interest had been
awakened in the stranger. Carl however drew himself
up, and said, “I believe you have all found out that
I do not often need help. I’m not fond of quarrels,
but I was taught by my mother not to fear.” 7

“ Where shall you spend the holidays?” asked Mack.

“Heigh-ho! that is more than I can tell,” replied
Carl. “ Probably my holidays will begin rather too
soon.”

“ What do you mean by that, Carl 2”

“Why, I mean that I am going away sooner than I
wished. Instead of going to college, as I hoped, I am
informed by my uncle that I am to be placed as an
apprentice with a mathematical instrument maker.”

There was silence for some minutes, Though all had
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY. 99

expected this news, no one knew what to say. At last
the smallest boy, Frank Shaw, looked‘ up in Carl’s face,
and said, “Carl, it will never do; we can’t let you go.
What can we do to keep you? Can’t we write a long
letter to Mr. Snakebug, and get him to let you stay ?”

“ Schneckenburg is my uncle’s name,” said Carl, with
a smile; “but his mind is made up, and he has good
reasons for what he does.”

“What reasons?” asked Frank, eagerly ; but the
other boys prevented a reply.

“ Never mind about the reasons,” said Merriman ;
“T hope something will turn up to change your uncle’s
purpose. But who are these horsemen ?”’

As he spoke, Dr. Newman rode up, in company with
Mr. Barry. They had been riding out to the neighbour-
ing village, and now paused to chat a few minutes with
the boys. This broke up the conversation for a moment.
The group was dispersed, and presently no one was left
on the bank but Carl, who waited a few moments, and
then began, with a sweet, touching voice, to sing a little
German song, beginning,—

‘* Kennst du das land, wo die citronem bluhn?” *

Presently he walked slowly along the forest-path
leading back to the Oaks. Why did he so often pause

under the green branches? Why did he reverently
lift his cap, and look upwards? Why did the drops

* GoETHE.—Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms?
100 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL*BOY.

twinkle in his eye, while his pale, thin lips moved?
Why did he take that little worn volume from his
bosom, and undo the silver clasp, and kiss the gilded
name upon the cover, and eagerly turn over the pages,
as if in search for some passage? These questions may
' be answered by some readers without my prompting.
The truth was, Carl was a boy of many deep reflections.
He had been brought early into the school of sorrow and
had borne the yoke in his youth (Lam. iii. 27). This
had kept alive in him the instructions of his mother
and his grandfather, now in heaven. Among the
scholars, he found none to sympathize with his serious
feelings. Some of them had even laughed at him when
he would sing his German hymns, and he even began
‘to feel a shyness creeping over him in regard to religious
| things. The only person to whom he dared to open his
mind was Mr. Barry ; for Barry had been in Germany,
and was himself an orphan; and, what was more,
Barry did not conceal his persuasion that religion is
the main thing, and that no one can be happy with- .
out it, It was, therefore, with pleasure that Carl saw,
on leaving the wood, that Barry was walking towards
him, in the green lane, having given his horse to a
Servant. |
“Carl,” said he, with a joyful look, “mein freund,
fassen wir uns kurz: hier sind die Briefe!” (But I
must, give the substance in English.) “ Here, friend
Carl—quick, my boy! Here are the letters!” And
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY. 10]

upon this, he placed in the trembling hand of the boy
~ a couple of sealed papers. He lost not a moment in
tearing them open. As he read, he turned pale and red
by turns, and at length burst into tears.

“Well,” said Barry, “what have you to say
now ?”

“T have to say,” said Carl, looking upward, “ that
God is a hearer of prayer. How soon has he answered
my poor little petitions! See !—see, Mr. Barry—read
for yourself! I’m too happy to tell you! I shall stay,
I shall stay! No leaving school for me! No instru-
ment maker! Uncle says I shall stay! Oh, happy,
happy Carl Adler! Thanks, thanks !”

Barry could not but be affected by the joy of his
little pupil. Boys began to gather around. There are
few secrets at their age. By general request, Mr. Barry
read aloud parts of the letters, by which it appeared
that a grand-aunt of Carl’s, in Darmstadt, had authorized
Mr. Schneckenburg, who was her son, to expend as
much money as should be necessary for the education
of Carl, and his sisters, Charlotte and Ursula.

It is hard to say whether the little commonwealth of
the Oaks was most gratified by the approaching fire-
works, or by the news about Carl. While he was only
“the Dutchman,” he was a butt: for every one’s arrow;
as soon as he became “ poor little Carl,” he grew into a
favourite. ‘There was much shaking of hands and con-
grvatulation ; and, what is worthy of notice, none of the
102 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY.

boys made any allusion to their plans for his relief,
which were now happily frustrated.

Some of the duller and coarser boys thought it odd
that Carl should frequently be caught with wet eyes,
at a time when he had so much cause for joy. They
perhaps learned to understand the thing better when
they grew older. As for Carl himself, I will not under-
take to explain his emotions. It is an effect of early
grief to give the appearance of greater age; and Carl
had, at fifteen, gone through more vicissitudes, seen
more countries, and learnt more lessons, than many a
ivan of forty. Well was it for him that he had a gay,
elastic temper ; and better still, that he had been bred
in the right ways of the Lord. See him, in the dusk
of the evening, in his chamber. The shadow is deepened
by the enormous oak which extends its branches almost
to the eaves of the house. The vociferous sports of the
school below form a contrast to the silence of the
chamber. Carl sits in the window with his arms folded,
while next his bosom he has two miniatures, and a
letter in one of his hands. What can he be thinking
about, if not the blessed days when he sat with his
father and mother under the lime-trees of his native
town? As he mused, he grew sadder and sadder, till
at length he was about to become quite womanish in
his tenderness, when, all of a sudden, a smart blow on
the shoulder woke him from his reverie, and he looked
up to discover that Barry stood over him.
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY. 103

“Come, come, Adler,” said the usher; “this will
never do. There is such a thing as pondering too much
on one’s troubles.”

“Troubles, Mr. Barry! I was thinking of my joys;
how happy I was at home, and how happy I ought to
be now !”

“Yes, you have much to be thankful for—youth,
health, strength, friends, and new prospects of educa-
tion. Don’t mope, don’t give way to melancholy.”

“You mistake me, Mr. Barry. I never was more
brimful of joy in my life, and yet I can’t help thinking
and thinking. And I have just been saying to myself,
Oh how happy would father and mother be, if they
could see me so well off!”

“They are happier where they are, Carl. Heaven
is better than earth. They are, we trust, in Christ’s
presence, where there is fulness of joy ; and the thought
of this ought to lead you to follow their steps. But
come out, and take some exercise: you can never
fulfil your duty in life without strength of body ; and
you will never have strength of body without exercise.”

Down they went, for a long walk upon the highroad,
where there were houses in abundance, and carriages,
and horsemen, and pedestrians enough to break the
_ thread of Carl’s pensive thoughts. This was exactly
what Barry intended ; and he further promoted the same
end, by a constant series of questions about things the
most remote from his companion’s present affairs,
104 TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY.

Some people have yet to learn that this is the true
method of quieting disturbed minds and diverting
sickly thoughts. |

But just then a more violent interruption took place.
A horse suddenly appeared, running away with a
carriage, in which two ladies were seated. The driver
had been thrown out; and the vehicle was rapidly
approaching a rude bridge, over which it seemed im-
possible that they should pass unharmed. Barry dis-
engaged himself instantly from Carl, and rushed towards
the frantic animal. What he apprehended really oc-
curred ; the passage was too narrow, the carriage was
overturned into the dry bed of a little summer-brook, and
the horse, entangled in the harness, lay struggling and
kicking in the most alarming manner, while the women,
really in the greatest peril, were shrieking, and unable
to extricate themselves. Barry threw himself on the
floundering horse, and holding his head close to the
ground, prevented his rising, while he rapidly separated
him from the vehicle; all the while shouting to Carl
to take care of the women. It seemed a most dangerous
position for a man no stronger than Barry ; but he
succeeded in separating the horse, which he took out
and made fast to a neighbouring post, and afterwards
repaired to the green bank where Carl had deposited
his charge. One of the women was unhurt, the other
was bruised and bleeding, and shortly the young farmer
who had been thrown from his Seat, came up, more
TRIALS OF THE EMIGRANT SCHOOL-BOY. 105

frightened than hurt, and full of apprehension about
his wife and sister. ee |

As they resumed their walk, Carl said to himself,
“One thing is certain, whatever the fellows may say,
Mr. Barry is far from being a coward: I shall tell this
to Mack and Merriman, the next time they utter such
a slander on our usher.”




IIL







4 \ 3
ANTAL te
NG
de WK
S "ag
~ ug en

we, \ flowers to the gardener. Why should it not

interest as hunting to the huntsman, or

be as interesting to contemplate different
kinds of boys as different kinds of minerals
and plants? Why should we not examine the ways
and habits of girls, as eagerly as those of fish, fowl, and
insects? Next to parents, the persons who get the
clearest insight into children and youth are teachers.
Some of these only teach for a living ; it is a drudgery
to them; they mean presently to leave it and go to
something else: how can such persons be happy
teachers? Others love their work, and ask no better
employment. Hence they always meet their pupils
with a smile, and hear every lesson with animation.
The scholars, in their turn, see this, and are all alive ;
teacher and scholar pull together, and there is more
progress made in a week than at one of the drudging
schools in a month.
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEAQHER 2 107

“ What!” exclaimed Miss Hotchkin, who was on a
visit at the Oaks, “What! take pleasure in teaching
such a set of uncombed colts as those yonder!” And
she pointed with her parasol to the green, over which
the boys, just dismissed for their nooning, were bound-
ing and shouting. “The thing is impossible, Mr.
Barry.” |

“I daresay-you think so,” replied. Barry ; “ yet I say
what I think and feel. It is a positive pleasure to me
to be their teacher. And, then, allow me to speak a
word for the young fellows. They are now in their
summer trim and school-jackets, and you see them just
at the moment of release ; but some of them are already
gentlemen, in every sense of the word, and several of
them are already scholars.”

“ But such a noise, Mr. Barry! And such violence!”

“Noise, madam, is not always amiss. In a sickroom,
at a funeral, during worship or study, noise would be
altogether out of place. But what say you to the noise
of a mill or a cascade! And what say you to a pack
of hounds, a parrot, or an aviary’? It is as much the
nature of growing boys to exert their limbs and lungs,
as for young kids to do the same. It is healthful, it
is unavoidable, and to me it is agreeable.”

“Oh, sir, you shock me! Had I boys under my
charge, they should never be allowed to bellow like
those fellows—nor—” |

“Nor, said Barry, smiling, “to have a torn coat, or
108 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ?

a speck on their shoes; all should be starch and rose-
water. It is not in this planet, however, Miss Hotchkin,
that your ideal seminary can be conducted. The earth
will soil, cloth will wear, and youthful spirits will break
over the brim ; our great task is to keep matters within
bounds, and to prevent ill words and ill tempers.”

“Can you ever persuade me, sir, that those vehement
fellows, who are now so busy in saddling yonder calf,
are fit for study ?” |

“ Among the first boys in the school,” replied Barry,
“and among the best in every sense. You now see
them full of spirit and fun ; you will presently see them
silent, -collected, and studious, as eager to master a
difficulty in algebra or grammar, as yesterday they were
to win at a rowing-match.”

“You amaze me! I thought play and study were
exact opposites.”

“So they are; but the charm of life is made up of
these delightful opposites. It is the transition from
hilarity to seriousness which gives a zest to school-boy
life, never to be forgotten. I sometimes think we might
gain something by carrying the same a little further
into life. It might prevent some wrinkles and gray
hairs, even though it should interrupt us a little in our
~ race after money or office.”

“So you let them do as they please ?” |

“By no means, madam. You see they are this
moment under my supervision : in half an hour I shall
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER? 109

be relieved by Mr. Cole. Let a single step be made
into the field of impropriety or danger, and it becomes
our duty to check them. But why repress the genial
flow of a season which can never return? Even Paul
could say, without a word of disapproval, ‘When I
was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child,
I thought as a child” Dr. Newman often says to the
boys—and I agree with him—‘ Work while you work ;
play while you play, ”

“They are too merry, by half. Just think of the
troubles which await them in life! What a preparation
is this for them !”

“T might answer you in the words of Gray, written
in view of such a scene :—

‘To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;
The tender, for another’s pain, -
The unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies ?
Thought would disturb their paradise.

No more; where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be -wise.*

But,” continued Barry, “I will not rest on the poet’s
answer, which is open to some exception. It is safer
to say, what is unquestionable, that high animal spirits,
and the indulgence in animated boyish sports, is in no
degree inconsistent with the most sober views of life
that are proper in boyhood. Surely you would not:
110 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ?

have a boy to look on his future course with the eyes
of an old man! God never intended it. Attempt to
rear a child on this plan, and you violently and cruelly
resist Providence. No, no! If you would make men
of them, send your boys to a school where they shall
have wide range, free exercise, and where the .teachers
shall not be in perpetual fear lest they break their necks,
If observation teaches me anything, it is, that they will
study all the better for it. But here is my colleague,
Mr. Cole, who takes my seat of inspection, while I go
to correct the Latin exercises.”

Mr. Cole was a tall, raw-boned young man, who had
lately taken the place of second usher in Dr. Newman’s
school, His eyes were deeply set in his head, and he
wore spectacles. His smile was so reluctant and sour,
that the boys used to say he laughed with the wrong
side of his mouth. Yet he was a conscientious and
a learned young man, and had gained a number of prizes
for solving tough problems in mathematics,

He approached the bay-window, in which the visitor
was seated, and made a very angular and jerking bow.
It was well meant, and Miss Hotchkin received it in
good part, though she could not help saying to herself,
“How much some people fail in the graces of life,
by overdoing matters and not letting themselves
alone !”

“This spot,” said Mr. Cole, “is one on which I must
intrude, as it is the only one which commands a view of
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ? 111

my entire field of battle, and it will not do to leave
these outlaws to themselves.”

“Outlaws! do you call them, Mr. Cole? Are
they not scholars? And are they not gentlemen’s
sons ?” |

Mr. Cole smiled in his peculiar way, and said, “ You |
may be sure, madam, they are such that I would not
stay another day among them, if it were not to enable
me to prepare for a professorship of which I have the
offer.”

“Then you do not love teaching !”

“Love it! Talk of loving to drive cattle, or herd
swine! No animal known to me is so annoying as a
half-grown boy.”

And here Mr. Cole picked off from his coat-tail an
impudent label, which he had just discovered, and
which some wag of an urchin had attached to him by
means of a pin.

“Why, Mr. Cole, your estimate of boys is not like
that of Mr. Barry.”

“No, no, indeed it is not. Mr. Barry is a young
man of genius ; especially versed in the modern tongues ;
not bad, I must own, even in the higher mathematics ;
a good fellow, too,—but, but”—

“But what ?” :

“But he is a boy himself; and, therefore, he loves
boys ; loves to teach them, loves to be with them—
strange to say, loves to play with them. He therefore
112 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ?

looks on his situation here with eyes very different from
mine.” And here Mr. Cole wiped his spectacles.

~ “You are very right, Mr. Cole. This way of en-
couraging freedom and mirth in striplings, and letting
them vault over fences, run like wild goats, and bellow
like oxen, is a way I was not brought up to.- And as
to teaching them, I can judge what it is by an attempt
I made to teach a chambermaid of ours to read; my
temper was so curdled by her stupidity, that we never
got beyond the alphabet. But what’ success has Mr.
Barry on his plan ?”

“ Oh, better than I can account for. No classes show
better than his. Indeed, truth forces me to say that
his pupils make extraordinary progress.”

“ Perhaps it is because they like him so much.”

“JT daresay that is it, madam. They will do any-
thing for him, though he is perfectly inexorable as to
his rules and regulations, and, in some respects, is the
strictest man in the house. But he has singular ways
of interesting them in their work. Indeed, he seems
to be actually interested himself, and goes over a
geography lesson with as much zest as if he were the
youngest among them, and were getting the lesson with
them.”

“ That is singular, indeed ; but it shows how light
his labour is.” |

“It does, Miss Hotchkin. And all this is in great
contrast to my case ; for I go into school with the spirit
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER 2 113°

of a turnkey, and come out with a wish not to behold
the face of a lad during the interval.”

“Well, well, Mr. Cole, we all have our weak points
and our strong points ; and it is very plain that neither
you nor I were ever intended to gain eminence as
teachers.”

Mr. Cole reddened, and said, “ Excuse me, madam ;
you do not exactly take my meaning. I would not
have you to suppose that I am deficient as a teacher.
On the contrary, I have the pleasure of believing that
I am as well instructed and as laborious as any man
here. But the truth is, I do my work against my
will.”

“Then, sir, be assured, you do it poorly,” said Miss
Hotchkin, with a shrill laugh, for she loved to say
things which sting. ‘ Yes, you doit poorly. So should
I, but I take good care to shun everything like school-
teaching, and so should you. Good morning, Mr. Cole.”

And here she tripped away, to walk five miles before
| dinner, and to gain spirits for a party in the even-
ing.

Mr. Cole, though somewhat mortified at the turn the
conversation had taken, was led to some new reflections.
Especially was he drawn to consider the secret of his
past troubles as a teacher. These reflections were much

seconded by a remarkable coincidence. It was the day
for him to correct the English compositions of the boys.

Among these was a little one by Carl Adler. Here it
100) 8
114 WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER ?

is, in its corrected form ; for it had numerous violations

of idiom :—
CARL'S COMPOSITION,

Methought I was admitted one evening to a room full
of boys and girls, who had their books before them,
The teacher seemed to be a capable and worthy person,
but still the children did not advance. Some were
careless, some were stupid, and some were cross. The
teacher was concerned, and even vexed. He went first
to one, and then to another. He advised, he threatened,
he even chastised them. Still there was little progress,
and the poor teacher went to bed quite disheartened ;
but before he fell asleep, he offered a prayer that he
might know what it was that he needed.

The next morning, I looked into the same room, and
saw the same teacher, and the same little boys and girls,
getting the same lessons, But what achange! All
were on the alert ; all were diligent; all were delighted.
The frowns and the rod were both laid aside. Joy
played upon all the happy countenances; and the
happiest of all was that of the teacher,

But now I perceived a new inmate in the room.
Wherever the teacher went among his children, a bright
and beautiful form accompanied him, or hovered over
him. It was fair and benignant, and smiled gently on
every part of the work. I approached with diffidence,
and asked the name of this new assistant. With a
WHAT MAKES THE HAPPY TEACHER 9 115

heavenly smile, she turned to me, and -answered,—* I
am Loves.”

It was only one instance, out of many, in which -
scholars instruct their teachers without knowing it.
The lesson was not altogther lost on Mr. Cole, though
he never carried it fully into practice.




IV.

Hessons Out of Doors.



Mg
:



{LARGE garden affords some of the best
zo ” amusements and safeguards of either family
23<5 or school. Not only does it keep the

ey young folks out of mischief, but it benefits
oe “ their health, and teaches them many use-

ful lessons. The garden at the Oaks had
been originally laid out for a gentleman’s estate. The
great greenhouse still remained, the grape vines were
ancient and knotty, and clambering over the largest
trees. The box borders were several feet high, and
made fine hiding places for the boys.
creeper had hung its green mantle over the whole side
of a building which lay on one boundary of the garden.
In the middle stood a stubborn-looking holly, beset
by its prickly palisade, with every leaf separately armed,
—a noble tree both for beauty and for associations.
When a boy came to school he was allowed free
access to this gardén and the tool-house, but it was
LESSONS OUT OF DOORS. 117

not until he had been there a month that he was
allowed to have a plot of ground to cultivate for him-
self. Before this month was out more than half the
young gentlemen threw up the spade and dibble, but
there were always some who continued to till their
little garden. These were separated by narrow gravel
walks, edged with box. The boys were permitted to
choose any sort of cultivation—vegetables, flowers, or
fruits—the only condition being that they must stick

to what they began. |

Donald, the old gardener, was invested with abso-
lute authority in the enforcement of these rules; and
sometimes the young gardeners were on the point of
insurrection. Like other emeutes, however, in larger
governments, these were mostly unsuccessful. Princes —
have smiles as well as frowns, rewards as well as
punishments; and though “King Donald,” as he was
called, had neither blue ribbons nor embassies in his
gift, he had green-gages, seckel-pears, and delicious
grapes and peaches. Hence the latter part of summer
was almost always a time of peace in his government;
there was little work and much fruit, and subjects were
exceedingly quiet.

One day about noon, when everything was radiant
in the sun—it was about the middle of August—
Donald was cleaning and trimming the dead leaves

from a fine pomegranate tree, wheeled out on the north
terrace. The deep green of the foliage contrasting
118 LESSONS OUT OF DOORS.

with the laughing red of the blossoms caused Helen
Newman to break out into admiration. She was in
mourning, for she had lately met with that greatest
less for a child, the loss of a mother. But the sweet
works of creation, it may be observed, do not interfere
with the sacredness of grief. What God has spread
out in the sky and on the earth soothes the ruffled
spirit which would revolt at a gay speech or a boister-
ous jest. The old man pitied the young lady. He
had served her mother many many years, and what was
more, he had been tried with affliction; he knew how
to sympathize with those who suffered. Ile wisely
drew Helen’s attention from one to another beauty of
the garden, till she was entertained and _ refreshed
almost against her will. He showed her how the lady-
slippers flaunted in their parti-coloured coats, and how
the large altheas, from good pruning, were all over
flowers. Tiger-lilies, late roses, and the stately yucca,
were in season. Old Donald pointed out the beauties
of each. But not content with this, he went to a
choice corner of the greenhouse, and brought her a
bouquet of rare and exotic flowers; and his hard,
withered old face softened into a fatherly smile as he
placed it in Helen’s hand. But while she was examin-
ing its colours and enjoying its fragrance, and for a
moment forgetting herself in these flowers of the field,
she was violently interrupted by a rush of the young
gardeners into their place of labour. She could not
LESSONS OUT OF DOORS. 119

but smile when she saw Bolton, Burnham, and Merri-
man, with coats off, and faces flushed with expectation,
pressing around Donald, beseeching him to furnish
them with some strawberry plants to set out in their
beds. It so happened that King Donald was not in
the best humour with them by reason of a trampling
down of his newly sown turnip-beds, he therefore held
out some time against these requests, At length, how-
ever, Carl entered the garden, and joined in the petition,
upon which the’old man instantly relented. |

‘““What is the reason, Donald,” said Helen, “ that
you always seem so partial to the German?”

“Because he 7s a German, miss. I mean, because
he is a foreigner. I was once a new-comer in this land
myself, and I ‘know the heart of a stranger,’ as the
Bible says” (Exod. xxiii. 9),

“T thank you for your kind feeling,” said Carl, “but
indeed I am suffering very few of the troubles of a
foreign boy just now. It was rather different when I
first arrived, but a text in the same good book often
came into my mind when I was walking among the

crowds in the city: ‘The Lord doth execute the judg-
ment of the fatherless and widow, and LOVETH THE
STRANGER in giving him food and raiment’” (Deut.
x. 18),

“Well said, my boy! !” said Donald, smiling and
. patting Carl on the shoulder; “keep up your courage,
and the day will come when you will feel as much at
120 LESSONS OUT OF DOORS.

home here as ever you did on the Rhine. I do, as much
as ever I did at Kelso and Hawick. It is so with trees
and shrubs. See that ailanthus or celestial tree, how
kindly it grows here, though it came from the Moluccas ;
and see this double althea or Hibescus Symaous, which
has forgotten its native Asia.”

“Very well, Donald,” said Carl, “I hope it will be
so. But I see by the knots and marks on this althea
that it has had a good deal of cutting and pruning, and
so have I.” |

“ Look again, my young friend,” said the gardener,
“and you will observe the effects of this cutting and
pruning. The little tree has become more vigorous,
and has put out thicker branches, and is covered with
ten times as many flowers, as if it had never known
affliction. This is one of the lessons of the garden.”

“I see it, I see it!” exclaimed Helen; “and I trust
we shall all profit by the hand of our merciful Lord.”

“Just so, young lady,” replied the old man, with a
benignant smile. “For what says our blessed Master?
‘Every branch that beareth fruit he purgeth it, that it
may bring forth more fruit’”(John xv. 12),










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manly exercises. Not only did the boys
all learn horsemanship as a necessary part
of their education, but the teachers frequently



made little excursions in the same way to
greater distances than they could have reached on foot.
One day the two ushers were seen mounting a couple
of bright sorrel horses belonging to Dr. Newman. The
doctor himself was looking on with satisfaction as s they
set forth.

“There are few things,” said Mr. Barry, “ more exhi-
larating than a ride on a fine horse. It puts the blood
in motion, and agitates the frame; it cheers the spirits
and exercises the courage, it carries one rapidly through
changes of scene, and gives much pleasure at little
expense. What a pity its value is so much unknown
to sedentary men!”

«All true,” said Cole, “provided a man is a good
rider. For my part, you -see, I sit on my horse like a



122 TEACHING AND TRAINING.

pair of compasses. I could see the stable-boys titter-
ing as I rode through the gate.”

“They are severe critics in their own department,
Mr. Cole. But why should you not practise till you
become expert?”

- “T am ready enough to practise, but every one laughs
at my awkwardness. I seem to make no progress.”

“You must have had bad teachers,” said Barry, “ for
you seem to be a willing scholar.”
« Why, do wang scholars always make pro-
ficiency ?”

“Yes, unless meompetent from some natural defect,
and you appear to have all the usual limbs. You must
have had bad training.” |

“TI can’t altogether admit it,” replied Cole, though
with some embarrassment, for his horse showed strong
dispositions to throw him over his head. “I can’t
altogether admit it, for some of them are excellent
riders, and they are every moment pointing out my
faults, and every moment trying to laugh me out of
them.” |

“I have seen that method tried in schools, Mr.
Cole ”—

“T have tried it myself,” said Cole.

“ But I have never seen it succeed, It discourages,
it disheartens, it sours the mind, it disgusts the be-
ginner.”

“What! would you not point out faults?”
TEACHING AND TRAINING. : 123

“T would point out faults, but it is the very smallest
part of the teacher’s work.”

“Suppose, Mr. Barry, you exemplify your rule in
regard to my riding,” said the other with a smile.

‘No sooner said than done. Barry dismounted in
an instant, and, applying himself to the stirrup-leathers,
lengthened them about three inches, _ |

“That is the first step,” said Barry. “No man of
your dimensions can ride either safely or gracefully
when trussed up after that fashion. In the next place,
good sir, allow your heel to withdraw itself a little from ‘
the horse, as every motion makes him feel the spur.
The same means will help you to what is called the
clap, by which you will hold on the better.”

After a few roads had been passed, Cole said, “I feel
much easier already. I think I am improving.”

“Certainly you are, and the reason is worth your
notice: I have given you a little training.”

“You seem to lay an emphasis on that word, Mr.
Barry.”

“TY do, sir. Did you ever consider the difference
between teaching and training? And did you ever
apply it in the school-room?”

“Tam not sure that I take your meaning. But I
am willing to be informed, especially as I have long
observed that you have a knack of bringing on your
pupils, which casts me altogether in the shade.”

“As to that, Mr. Cole, I am not a fit judge, but I
124 TEACHING AND TRAINING.

am persuaded of one thing, namely, that in school-
keeping, in forming habits, in moulding manners, in
everything connected with education, we must not only
teach but train.”

‘“‘ Do not keep me in suspense, Mr. Barry ; pray, what
is your meaning?” .

“ Let me state a case,” replied Barry. “A boy comes
into school who writes a very bad. hand. You laugh
at him, you storm at him, you punish him. You say
a hundred times that he writes ill, that he writes hor-
ribly, that nobody can endure it, and this you consider |
teacheng him. Still he writes as illegibly or as scrawl-
ingly as ever. You think your duty is done, but you
_ have as yet had no effect on him. He pouts, mopes,
flounders, and despairs, but no progress. Ferule, keep-
ing in, black marks, extra tasks, all were tried, and
all fail.”

“Yes,” said Cole, “I know just such a case. But
what remains to be done?”

“Twill tell you, Mr. Cole. It remains that you train
him. Show him, not merely wherein he goes wrong,
but how to go right. Sit down beside the boy. Show
him how to lay his book, and how to hold his pen.
Take his hand in yours, and direct its motion, The
negative part is not enough; give him the positive
part. Pat him on the shoulder, forbear sneers and
threatenings, and show him precisely what he is to do.
Do it before him.. Encourage him. Put him in the
TEACHING AND TRAINING. 125

way, and hold him up in it as you would teach a little
child to walk,”

“ Barry, there is really something in what you ‘say.
Suppose you give me another example.”

“Very well. Take the case of Tom Mowbray. He
had an ugly trick of speaking in a very cross manner
to his little brother. When I began to deal with him
I did nothing but point out his error. This he saw,
but still he was as cross as before. At length Dr.
Newman took him in hand, and in a smiling way said
to him, ‘ Mowbray, I see you disapprove several things
in little James. Now let me advise you to speak to
him thus.’ And then he showed him how to address
his brother, and how to reprove him with a kind
and persuasive tone. After a few days’ training the
whole manner of the youth was altered, Both the
boys improved rapidly, and every one observes the in-
crease of their mutual affection. The doctor brought
him out of the wrong way by putting him into the
right.”

“ But you would tell him of the wrong way too, would
you not?” :

“Certainly,” said Barry; “but this is telling him
only part, and, as I said just now, the lesser part.
The great thing in all training is to lead along in the
right way. Look at old Donald when you return, and
observe how he trains his vines. Just so would I train
a boy to learn his Greek verbs. And allow me to say,
126 TEACHING AND TRAINING.

Mr. Cole, no amount of hard words will drive Greek
verbs into a boy’s head.”

“Ah, I see your drift! You overheard me berating
Bolton yesterday ; but what should I have done?”

“ Let me tell you what I would have done. I would
have sat down by him half an hour in the verandah
with a Greek grammar, and would have shown him
how to get the lesson. I would have got it with him.
The method thus attained would then be his own for
life. And so of everything else.”

“That reminds me of what we read in the school,
that Julius Cesar did not commonly say to his soldiers,
Go! but Come! For he went before.”

“ Yes, and when he meant to punish them, he ceased
to call them commilitones, or fellow-soldiers. But we
must turn our horses’ heads homeward, and if you are
for a gallop, I will try to suit the action to the word,
and show you how to go over the ground more speedily
than you ever did before.”

“I thank you for your teaching and your training,”
answered Cole. But the words were scarcely audible,
for his hair was soon streaming in the wind, and I know
not but be would have cried to his lively companion
to halt if he had not been restrained by shame. As it
was they reached the Oaks in safety, and were soon
exemplifying their principles amidst the hum and buzz
of a well-filled school-room.




ss me

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ELL UT wor “(. wv

Saray



VI.

Friends of the Stranger.





ve £ HAR the scene of the principal events which
Wy 'g have been related there was a country
3 school, taught by a young woman named
Brewer. It was in a small stone house of
a single story, situated, as country school-
houses love to be, on the edge of a wood,
where the grassy bank was overshadowed by oaks and
maples. Mary Brewer loved the spot because it gratified
her admiration of nature, while it afforded her the oppor-
tunity of improving her mind and at the same time of
supporting her aged parents.

Go by the Maplebank school about noon, and very.
likely you will see Mary Brewer seated under the grape-
vine at the door. It is September, and the purpling
clusters are hanging over her head. The pigeons, that
swell and coo around her, show that they know who is
their friend. But hark! what a jocund shout! It is
the noise of the little boys and girls amusing themselves
at their swing, all fun and frolic, full of health and
128 FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

activity, learning as much from flowers and trees ag
they could possibly do from books. If the swing should
break they would not. have very far to fall, and the
grass is almost as soft as a bed. So, as long as they
do not quarrel, Mary remains contented at her em-
broidery, every now and then stealing a side-look at a
volume which lies open beside her.

The rosy-cheeked girl at Mary’s feet is a little child
whom she has taken to bring up, and whose parents
were carried off by the cholera. You might guess from
the clear red and white of her complexion, the pearly
teeth, and the bright blue eyes, that Hannah is of Irish
blood. But she knows nothing of Ireland except what
is in her geography lesson, and has no thought about
any friend but Miss Mary.

The boy who is entering the little enclosure around the
school-house, and taking off his hat to Mary, is no other
than our friend Carl Adler. His face reveals that he has
had a rapid walk, but Carl is a youth who can bear a
good deal of fatigue and exposure, Perhaps I ought
to tell how he became acquainted with Mary Brewer.
He met her on a visit of mercy to a poor German
family in the neighbourhood of the Oaks. Carl had
been drawn to their assistance by hearing from their
hovel, as he passed one day, the well-known melody of
a German hymn. He first stopped, then opened the
door, and then joined heartily in the chorus. The effect
was instantaneous, The poor woman sprang up from the
FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER. 129

bedside of her husband, and almost clasped Carl in her
arms. No other introduction was needed.

There is something very pleasing in the power of —
Qhristian hymns over the German mind. The Pro-
testant emigrants, who go by thousands to New York
and New Orleans, are seldom without their pocket _
hymn-books, The tunes of their hymns are not so
often changed as ours; many of them are hundreds of
years old, and a hymn is seldom sung to more than
one tune. Hence the associations with certain melo-
dies are very strong. Those who visit German Chris-
tians in humble life should learn their tunes.

Carl was naturally desirous to help his countryman,
who was a worthy joiner, but who had been brought
very low with ship-fever. Often, when no one knew
where Carl had strayed, he was seated by the invalid’s
bed, reading to him from the Bible, or the Hymn-book,
or from Arndt’s “True Christianity,” or Luther's
“ House-Postils.” Blessed employment for a pious |
youth! It educates the heart, and teaches the affec-
tious early to flow in right channels. During one of
these visits Carl was surprised at the entrance of a’
young woman, plainly dressed and much older than
himself, but of comely appearance, and with a face
flushed with exercise, and perhaps with modest con-
fusion at seeing him. She was bringing some little
diet drink for the poor man in a white pitcher, covered

with a still whiter napkin. After a few moments’
(100)
130 FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

rest she was glad to avail herself of Carl as an inter-
preter. Thus the acquaintance began. Miss Brewer
was so much older than Carl that even waggish boys
could not banter him about his intimacy, and the
friendship became a source of mutual advantage. Mary
Brewer was one of those young women in humble life
whom every patriot ought to prize and honour; modest,
but firm and enterprising, first supporting themselves,
and then, in many cases, supporting their aged parents,
or educating their younger brothers for college and the
ministry. My heart warms towards them while I write,
and wishes them every blessing. Mary was well in-
structed, and amply furnished for teaching her little
rustic school ; but her thirst for knowledge was unsated,
and it seemed to her a romantic wonder when she found
there were so many things which she could learn from
a little German emigrant. She caused him to be in-
vited to Farmer Black’s, where she had her abode, and
where he met another visitor in the person of a young
physician, Dr. Smith. Carl had sagacity enough to
discover that this bashful but learned young man was
about to take Mary Brewer as his wife. The doctor
was not only pleased to meet with the bright, fair-
haired boy, but was ready to help him in his studies,
and willing, in his turn, to take lessons in German.
He paid for these by giving instruction to Carl in many
little branches of which, as a foreigner, he was yet
ignorant. He corrected his English, he drilled him in
FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER. 131

grammar and composition, and he even entered him in
chemistry and botany. Carl taught the two young
friends to read musical notes, and diligently brought
them forward in the study of the German Bible, and
some beautiful poems of Schiller and Burger. These
were happy and profitable days for all the three. Carl
began to learn the delights of a truly Christian friend-
ship. He was soon introduced to the Sunday school,
and gathered around him a class of German and Swiss
children from the neighbouring paper-mill. Meanwhile
he became more accurately instructed in the great
principles of Scriptural religion, in which he had been
sincere, but with obscure and puerile notions. Here was
exemplified his own maxim that the great helper in
teaching is Love; and he learned more in a single
evening in autumn at the Cherry Hill farm house than
during a whole day at the Oaks.

What can make up to a loving child the loss of -,
parents? Certainly nothing on earth. Yet, when
father and mother are gone, we may find some relief
in the presence of sincere and affectionate friends.
Carl found the truth of this at Cherry Hill. When
the nights began to grow longer, he was permitted by
Dr. Newman sometimes to spend a long evening at the
farm-house. Then, when the doors were closed, and
the curtains pulled down, the family began to gather
in what they called the “living room.” Mrs. Black
was at her wheel or her knitting. The rosy-cheeked
132 FRIENDS OF THE STEANGER.

girls were busy with their needles, altering winter
clothes for the younger brothers. The brothers them-
selves were playing with Ponto, or trimming sticks for
their kites, or perhaps mending their bridles. The
farmer generally had on his steel-rimmed spectacles,
and was toiling through his newspaper, before reading
in Henry’s Commentary, which he always looked at
before going to bed. Dr. Smith and Mary Brewer had
little chats in the shady part of the room; but when
Carl’s well-known rap was heard at the door, they
usually made a place for him. Then the conversation
was sure to turn on something which might cheer up
the little German, and make him feel at home. There
is a great difference in people as to this. I have
known some who seemed to take a pleasure on always
speaking of those things which tended to revive the
remembrance of sorrows and mortifications. Not so
Smith and Mary. They respected and loved the clever
young Prussian; and they talked with pleasure about
the things which he knew better than they.

Carl, however, was not so entirely engrossed with
these instructions and useful acquirements, as to find
no leisure for the recreations and amusements fitted to
his youth; and it excited no surprise, but only sincere
pleasure in the mind of Mary Brewer, when, on going
down to the river-side with her basket of linen to be
washed in the stream, she found Carl Adler, with fish-
ing-rod in hand, as eagerly watching the dip of the
FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER. 133

float at the end of his line, as ever did the most
accomplished disciple of Isaac Walton the ripples of
the shady pool from which he hoped to tempt the
trout with his fly.

“Come in, Carl,” said Mary, shortly after, “come-in,
and taste some of our grapes;” and she handed him a
fine cluster. “Did you ever see any so fine?”

Carl thanked her, but smiled.

“Ah, Carl, do you pretend to think you have ever
seen finer?” |

“Ah! my dear young miss, if I should tell you all
the thoughts I have about our vineyards, and about
my shady home by the banks of the Rhine, the tears
would run down my cheeks. But you have taught
me that I can be happy here too; for here I have
found friends.”

“Better these than Rhine-vines!” cried the farmer
in his gruff but hearty voice; for he had overheard
the conversation. |

“Oh, yes, sir!” said Carl, ‘better than all the vines,
rocks, and rivers in all Germany; but not—but not
better than—”

“Than what?” said the farmer. “Speak it out, my
Jad.”

Carl did not finish his sentence; and a tear was in
his eye. So, to draw off attention, he seized an old
guitar of Mary’s and struck up a little innocent German ©

ballad.
134 FRIENDS OF THE STRANGER.

Then, seizing his leathern cap, he made a formal
little bow, and dashed away, leaping and singing,
across the low grounds which led to the Oaks. As he
bounded along he felt the blessings of health and
courage, and thanked God inwardly for the blessing of
Christian friends,




VI.

dork and Blay.

WAR. NEWMAN, Mr. Barry, and Mr. Cole had

been talking all one afternoon about the



right way of mixing up amusement with
instruction. They all agreed that the
thing might be carried too far, and that
it would never do to have spelling lessons
in gingerbread, and philosophy in games at cards.
Still the doctor admitted that there was an extreme
on the other side; for, said he, every valley lies between
two hills, and I would not have Jack a dull boy. I
would not keep the pupil always grave, always tense,
always feeling the bit, always in heavy harness. But
my maxim is, When you work, work; when you play,
play. Do not try to variegate your common lessons
too much, because part of the discipline of all education
is to keep the mind at one thing, to hold it in one
place, and to learn to do and to bear things which at
first were disagreeable.

“Would you not,” said Mr. Barry, who was parti-
136 WORK AND PLAY.

cularly fond of lively ways, “would you not enliven
studies by anecdote, and illustration, and experiment?”

“Yes, to be sure I would. For example, it is very
hard to fix in young people’s minds any notion of the
planetary system.”

“T have observed it,” said Cole. “They learn the
names and recite the figures, but have no conceptions
of the relative size of the bodies, or the dimensions of
the orbits.” .

“This is the very thing I mean,” said the doctor;
“and this is a fair case for illustration. Now, do me
the favour to call up the group of fellows whom I see
yonder at the swing; they look as if they were ata
pause for amusement.”

Barry walked towards the swing; which was a great
grape-vine, suspended from an oak; but the boys came
leaping towards him before he came near. Presently
the whole cluster was gathered at the green place under
the bow-window. There were Bob Bolton and Merri-
man, glowing with exercise; there were Burnham
and Mack, ready for mischief; and there was our blue-
eyed Carl, with fair curly hair, looking sad at one
moment, and indescribably merry at another. |

“ Boys,” said Dr. Newman, “how many of you can
tell me the number of the planets?”

All answered pretty well except Burnham, who
seemed to have been asleep ever since there were seven
planets only.
WORK AND PLAY. 137

“T am going,” said Dr. Newman, “to give you some
notion of the size, and distances, and orbits of the
planets, and you must try to imagine the picture as I
draw it. It is the illustration of a great astronomer.* —
Are you ready?”

“ Ready, sir.” |

“Now, suppose yourselves over a great green plain»
or prairie, miles across.” |

“Yes, yes, that is fine; go on, sir.”

“Tet it be very level and smooth, because our
planets must have free room for their rounds. In the
very centre of this plain, imagine a globe, two feet in
diameter. Call this globe the Sun.”

“ Ah! TI see it already,” exclaimed Carl.

“Wait a little, my boy; you don’t see it all yet.
Around this globe, let a grain of mustard-seed go round
and round, in an orbit one hundred and sixty-four feet
in diameter. The mustard-seed is Mercury.”

The boys laughed heartily at little Mercury, and
guessed he could scarcely be seen at that distance. |

“Next place a pea, going round a circle two hundred
and eighty-four feet in diameter. The pea is Venus.”

“T have seen it,” said Bob, “as the evening star.”

“Yes,” said the doctor; “and if you would only rise
a little earlier, you might see it as the morning star.
But we have a great way to travel. Here is pea
number two, which is—”

* Sir John Herschel: ‘ Outlines,” 1849.
138 WORK AND PLAY.

“Our poor little Earth!”

“xen so; this pea is the Earth, on a circle of four
hundred and thirty feet. Then comes Mars, a rather
large pin’s head, on a circle of six hundred and fifty-
four feet. But what have we here? Four grains of
sand, in orbits of from a thousand to twelve- hundred
feet: these are Juno, Ceres, Vesta, and Pallas.”

“T don’t know any of them,” said Bob Burnham.

“Perhaps, then, you will be better pleased with this —
orange, of moderate size, moving in a track nearly half
a mile across: it is named Jupiter. Next comes a
small orange, on a circle of four-fifths of a mile: it is
Saturn.”

“I thought,” said Mack, “that Saturn was larger
than his son.”

“A very common error,” replied the doctor. “But
here we have Uranus, or Herschel, a full-sized cherry,
or small plum, upon the circumference of a circle more
than a mile and a half. Lastly, Neptune, a good-sized
plum, on a circle two miles and a half in diameter.”

“T thought, sir,” said Burnham, “that Neptune was
the god of the sea ;” and the good-natured boy scratched
his head in much perplexity.

This was a signal for an outbreak of pent-up fun.
All broke out together on Burnham; and even Carl
could not help saying, “And now you find him omy a
good-sized plum—eh ?” :

“No, no,” replied Burnham, with an air of injured
WORK AND PLAY. 139

pride. “ What I mean is this, young gentlemen: N ep-
tune, to my thinking, is a heathen god, the son of—of
—of—”

“Never mind his father and mother,” said Bob
Bolton, “T see your perplexity: you thought he was
a water-god, and you wonder at his being in the sky.”

This little badinage led Dr. Newman and Barry to
explain to the boys the whole subject of the constella-
- tions and their names. And when the beautiful clear
night came on, all the boys were assembled at that
part of the portico where a glass-door extended to the
floor, A large celestial globe was placed within the
window, so as to be under shelter; while the little
company looked abroad upon the vault of heaven.
Teachers should all make themselves acquainted with
this easy and delightful branch of science. Nothing
is more interesting to youth; nothing is more elevating.
It connects itself with the higher parts of astronomy,
with history, mythology, and poetry; and, above all,
with religion and the Word of God.

After they had satisfied themselves with star-gazing,
Mr. Cole said, with animation, “ Well, I must acknow-
ledge, here is high entertainment mingled with high
instruction. I hope to be a wiser and happier teacher
in consequence of this lesson.”

“Do you love teaching?” said Carl to Mr. Cole.

The assistant paused, remembering the composition ;
but seeing that Carl was innocent in his question, he
140 WORK AND PLAY.

replied, “Not so much as some—Mr. Barry, for
instance—but more than I did. But why do you
ask?” | :

“Because I have been thinking myselt of trying to
teach.”

“You, Carl! I thought you were going to college.”

“Ah!” replied Carl, “I should like to do so, indeed,
but—”

“Ah! my good fellow, I see how it is. You want
to make an honourable support. es angusta domi,*
and so forth. I know how to feel fcr you.”

4 Then,” said Carl, brightly, “you have had the
same experience.”

“Yes, indeed, like many other boys, of whom hun-
dreds, if not thousands, have begun life in this way.
And I am not ashamed to say my father was a poor
man, who brought up a family of five sons and a
daughter, on a farm of thirty-five acres. Three of
us have been to college, and have all made our way
by teaching. Perhaps we may comfort the old age of
our parents, and keep our sister from hard work. I
only wish I had the same liking for the work which I
observe in Mr, Barry.”

“T know I shall like it,” said Carl, warmly. “1
always loved to tend and rear plants and flowers, and ~
these are living, thinking, immortal plants and flowers!”

“You grow poetical, Carl.”

* Straitened circumstances.
WORK AND PLAY. 141

“So the boys are always saying to me,” answered
Carl. “But how can I help it? I think our German
blood runs faster than that of the English.”

“At any rate,” said Mr. Cole, “you let your feelings
overflow more readily in words. When you are much
moved, your only rule seems to be, owt with t¢/”

“Very well,” said Carl, with a smile, “that will be
all the better in a school-master; for how can we teach
much unless we express something? And how can we
teach pleasantly unless we are in earnest? I always
find I learn most with an animated teacher.”

Mr. Cole looked grave, “I know,” said he, “you~
do not mean to reprove me; but I am touched by the
truth you have spoken. Dull and drowsy teaching is
heavy work to both parties.” a

“Certainly, Mr. Cole, I did not mean you in what I
said. And let me tell you one thing: all the boys
have observed how much more we learn from you than
we did a month ago.”

Mr. Cole retired to his chamber with pleasanter
thoughts than he had indulged for a long time.


































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Ghe Emigrant Pouth Advancing to
alanhoov.

oF T is not necessary to dwell on every link in
the chain of Carl’s history, as if we were
writing a chronicle. Already has the
reader been informed that the young Ger-



man had formed the plan of setting up a
school for himself. Let us hasten to the
accomplishment of the purpose, leaping over the years
which intervened between the point where this narra-
tive began, and the day of Carl’s instalment at the
little school of Sunnyside. Suppose I try to sketch
the scene: it is one worthy of a better pencil than
mine. |

Among the numerous little coves which indent the
island-beach near to the city of New York, there is one
of singular beauty, not far from the turbulent passage
from the East River into the Sound. The boiling
torrent dashes fearfully against the rocks, which are
often covered with foam, and smooth from the dash of
THE EMIGRANT YOUTH, ETC. 143

the waves for ages past. But, above this rocky girdle,
the land slopes with a gentle curve, and is covered with
the richest verdure. Just beyond this natural lawn,
the remains ofthe forest overshadow the green, and
give retirement to many a strolling fisherman and
fowler ; as in former days the mightier groves protected
the Indian, before these waters were ever entered by
Hendrick Hudson and his crews. |

From some points, the steeples of the great city, not
many miles distant, may be clearly seen, and, at most
times, a heavy cloud from the smoke of chimneys and
furnaces overhangs the spot. The wide river, or arm
of the sea, is frequented by craft of every description,
from the enormous steamboat, winding through those
difficult rocks and whirlpools towards the Sound and
the Atlantic, to the pretty skiff, in which city-boys too
often venture their lives. This makes the view from
Sunnyside a perpetual panorama; and it went to the
heart of Carl with a thrill of delight, when he first sat
and viewed it from the door of his humble school-
house.

Humble, indeed, it was; but it was on a site which
~ made up for all defects. The little edifice was of stone,
and had been cast, by the whim of the builder, into
the shape of an octagon, The door and chimney
occupied two sides, and there was a window in each of
_ the remaining six. One room took up all the space;
and it was well that the school was small, for you
144 | | THE EMIGRANT YOUTH

might almost have leaped from the threshold to the
hearth. But without, the landscape was enchanting.
The background was massy foliage and black receggeg
of shade among the old trunks and scattered rocks,
In front was, first the gentle, grassy bank, and then
the moving waters ; while, beyond, the eye rested on
the farms and villages of the adjacent country. The
school-house was precisely at the right spot for combin-
ing all these beauties, being just where the last trees of
the wood knotted their roots together among vines and
moss. The well which supplied the school was under
the shadow of immense buttonwood-trees.

How many scholars, think you, formed the corps of
our young leader at this romantic spot? Do not smile,
nor despise the humble beginnings, There were only
nine; but Carl felt that his hands were full. Most of
them were quite small children; but one was fifteen,
and one, strange to say, was twenty! He was a
German and a Roman Catholic, and had been drawn
to the place by love of his native language, and by the
opportunity of learning English. The scholars were
mostly collected by the kind offices of young Dr. Smith
and his wife, who had come to live near the neighbour- -
ing carpet factory of Black and Bedloe. This lady, as
the reader will have conjectured, was no other than
Mary Brewer, already mentioned. It is a kind Provi-
dence, thought Carl, which brings me so near a Chris-
tian friend and a good physician. More favours still,
ADVANCING TO MANHOOD. 145

however, were in store for the lowly boy. Smith and
his kind-hearted Mary insisted that Carl should be a
boarder in their cottage; and their secret intention
was, that he should pay nothing for it, any more than
if he were their own brother. True, his chamber was
very near the roof, and had but one window; but then,
it was almost smothered in honeysuckles, and a blue-
bird held his little mimic house-keeping exactly opposite,
in a box fixed to the maple-tree.

Carl did not complain that his pupils were too few.
Indeed, he wondered” how he should ever get along
with somany. Out of nine boys, he had to make five
classes, if that can be called a class which contains but
one, as did two of his ; for the big boy and man could
not be put with any companion, and his largest group
contained just three. He managed, however, to make
some little array at Scripture-reading, in which the
whole seminary stood up together, not excepting Lud-
wig Ewald, who read very comically indeed.

You must not think, because the institution was
small, that the teacher did not feel some little import-
ance. It would be surprising to relate how many little
paper books he prepared ; how he set down their names
in order; how he ruled lines in black and red ink; and
how he engrossed the rules in printing letters, with a
flourishing head in German text.- These innocent pre-
parations showed the zeal with which he set out.

Other people have done the like ; and those have not
(100)
146 THE EMIGRANT YOUTH.

been the worst teachers who have most anxiously
settled their preliminaries. I must not conceal that,
on the first evening, about twilight, our young school-
master walked very gravely into the meadows, and
returned with two very smooth birchen rods, the
use of which he never communicated. But; as he
trimmed off the ends of these wands and put them into
his desk, it is said that he smiled. No president of a
college ever felt more weighty responsibilities.

Carl was glad that his pupils were all boys. The
management of little girls would"have given him some
embarrassment. His German accent had not wholly
forsaken him ; but he was at an age when peculiarities
of this sort wear away rapidly; and it is not every one
who would have detected his foreign origin. Now and
then, a stray farmer or labouring-man would look in at
the door, with or without reason ; and this was slightly
embarrassing to the young preceptor: but his mind
was more and more taken up with the responsible
business of teaching. Pens were to be made and
mended. Sums, as the children call all arithmetical
questions, were to be set or examined ; paper-chickens,
fly-traps, and apples were to be seized upon ; untidy
faces and hands were to be sent out to the well. Then
was the common round of reading, spelling, geography,
and grammar; the common adjudication of cases
Tespecting crooked pins and scourging ; and the com-
mon rebukes of idle or quarrelsome children. Not a
ADVANCING TO MANHOOD. 147

little difficult was it to still the convulsions of the little
laughers, when poor Ludwig undertook to read aloud
his English lesson.

It was a relief to Carl to go out under the fine trees,
or among the rocks of the shore, at the interval of
noon, A favourite spot with the youngsters was a
spring half a mile inland, at the bottom of a small but
deep basin, in the pasture-ground. Here they secreted
their jugs of milk, and here they opened their little
dinner-baskets, and ate with a zest unknown at city
feasts ; often exchanging the varieties of the different
families, and joying in the superior cakes of other
mothers and aunts. These simple cares and simple
pleasures make up much of an humble teacher’s life.
Perhaps, in later days, he inclines to suspect that more
ambitious vexations and delights involve the same
principles, teach the same lessons, and reveal the same
frailties. The heart of the child is very much like the
heart of the man.




N a safe and secluded cove, Carl Adler some-
times gave lessons in a branch of education
not common in all schools: I mean swim-
ming. He was both a bold and expert
swimmer, and under his directions every
one of his young pupils learned this healthful
and necessary exercise. He used to tell them of the
daring adventures of his countrymen on the Rhine.
He gave them, in English, Schiller’s celebrated story
of the Diver and the Golden Cup. He informed them
that the Romans, in order to describe a person of ex-
treme ignorance, said that he could neither read nor
swim. He read to them what Horace says about
swimming over the Tiber. He helped them to repeat
Dr. Franklin’s experiment about floating and the kite.
He showed them, on the map, the strait of Hellespont,
and related in part the tale of Hero and Leander, adding
Lord Byron’s great feat at the same spot, as a comment.
He read to them, out of missionary books, an account
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL- KEEPING, 149

of the Sandwich Isles, and of the surf-boards, and of
the almost incredibly early age at which the infants
can take care of themselves in the water. When the
tide made it safe, and the weather was favourable, this
was a chief recreation of Carl and his boys. |

Among the entertainments of odd hours, he formed
the purpose of teaching all the school to sing, as he
had himself been taught in Germany. The thing is
much more easily accomplished than is commonly
thought. Most of the difficulty complained of resides
in what is not always detected, the utter inability of
the teacher to sing.

One fine summer evening, the whole company was
gathered under one of the shadiest trees, on a knoll
directly over the river The sun had set, and a re-
freshing breeze was rippling the water, without, how-
ever, interrupting the calm that everywhere prevailed.
It was a favourable moment for impressions from
sacred song, and the school let out all their voices with
right good will, as people are apt to do who sing in
the open air. Carl and Ludwig added a very good
accompaniment, in certain parts, on the flute and violon-
cello. Such a volume of sweet sounds did not fail to
reach those who were passing in boats, and among the
rest a family party, who had come out from the city
for an airing. Turning the head of the boat towards
Sunnyside cove, they made directly for the land. Two
boys, aged about sixteen and fourteen, leaped ashore
150 © FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

and made fast the little vessel. A plank was run out,
and two ladies, one old and one young, stepped ashore.
Several children followed ; a servant came out last, with
two large hampers. The old lady addressed herself very
politely to Ludwig, believing him to be the principal per-
sonage, and then to Carl, when she had learned-her mis-
take. She asked leave to join their party, and declared _
her fondness for good music to be such that she could
scarcely refrain from this act of seeming forwardness,

Carl made all the courteous speeches that he
could muster up for the occasion. He said his pupils
were very young, and that they were beginners. He
proceeded, however, with modest confidence, to lead
them in an evening hymn, and wound up with a German
song about the Rhine, in which Ludwig joined both with
voice and instrument. Mrs. Grayson (such was the
lady’s name) and her children were highly pleased, and
next day sent from her greenhouse and garden a basket
of flowers and a profusion of grapes, which Carl said
put him in mind of Germany.

- But all the visits which the young preceptor received
were not equally agreeable. One morning, as Carl,
with one or two of the boys, sat just in the door, en-
gaged upon some lessons, a buggy, or light chaise,
suddenly stopped in the road, and a young man, highly
dressed and foppish in his manners, jumped out. “It
ain’t possible! Sure, this is not the Dutchman? Why,
Adler, is it really you?”
RwAg"

2



COVE

SUNN YS EOE



m

frelwys
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING, 151

“It is I, Burnham,” answered Carl; “and I am
here teaching a little school.”

“School! school!” shouted Burnham, in a high
state of amusement ; and then turning to his companion,
“ Here, Murdock, get out quick, and see the Dutchman
and his school. Who'd a-thought it! Come now, and
‘ let one of the brats hold the horse, while Murdock and
I examine.” °

The two young dandies, who had been a drive out
of town, and had taken wine at the ferryhouse, now
proceeded, in a way which Carl found to be highly
insulting, to make him the object of their stupid jests.
Carl was resolved, at any cost, to avoid sacrificing his
proper authority in his own school. He ordered the
little boy who stood at the horse’s head to come in-
stantly into the house. The horse would have escaped
if Murdock had not taken his place, and the animal
was so restive that the young fellow found himself
sufficiently occupied in keeping him quiet. Burnham
meanwhile pretended to examine the boys, addressing
their teacher by the name of Dutchman and other
contemptuous terms. At length, casting his eye on
Ludwig, he cried out, “ Well, grand-daddy, and are
you teacher or scholar ?”

Ludwig replied, in broken English, but with great
warmth, “I am the man what will put you there out
into the street ;” and seizing the overgrown but lubberly
fellow by the nape of theneck, he gently but effectually
152 FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

placed him by his conveyance, into which he was very
willing to get, with a sneaking look, and a dreadful
rent in his fashionable coat. His companion gave him
small consolation, saying, “ Served you right, you
chicken-hearted booby ! I saw from the start that you
would make a fool of yourself,” And he gave-whip to
his horse, as angry drivers are prone to do, and was
soon out of sight. |

- During this unusual scene, the little scholars appeared
much frightened , and huddled together like a flock of
sheep before a strange dog. But when they observed
that their young teacher was quite collected, and when
they saw the big insolent intruder give way in such
a cowardly manner before the resolute German, they
plucked up courage, and’ were almost ready to give
three cheers.

Carl soon won the love as well as the respect of his
pupils, This will always be the case where the teacher
really loves his little flock. Hig labour will then be a
pleasure, and his tasks will prove almost an entertain-
ment. Instead of repining at his seclusion, and com-
plaining about the wearisome business of spending so
many hours with idle or disobedient children, he will
experience a satisfaction not unlike that of a parent.
The best maxim for a teacher is, Love your scholars.
It contributes equally to comfort and success. Love
will suggest a hundred expedients which never could
be learned from the ablest treatises, or under the greatest
FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING. 153

professors. It will take the place of many a punish-
ment. It will fix attention and shorten toil. Tt will
win the froward and melt the stubborn. In a word, it
will, in almost every instance, insure a good school. |
Fondness for the company of the children led Carl
to pass many of his hours with them when they were
not at their tasks. He could not indeed, like some
teachers, give them any expensive entertainments.
Poor fellow, it was as much as he could do to pro-
cure food and raiment; and but for the generous friend-
ship of the Smiths, he would have felt the pinching of
want, But his inventive mind led him to a number of
cheap means for communicating pleasure. Sometimes,
on a Saturday afternoon, they would stroll together
over the woods and meadows, and come home laden
with flowers and minerals, which Dr. Smith taught
Carl to arrange. Lessons in natural history were turned
to account at odd hours; and there is no pursuit which
is more inviting to youth, none which exercises their
faculties in a safer way, and none which admits of more
ready connection with divine truth. Carl often amused
the listening group with pleasant stories out of the
Greek and Latin books which he was studying; which
he found to have a good effect in fixing in his own
memory what he had been reading. ‘The very youngest
of them soon became acquainted with Cyrus and the
Persians, and could tell the anecdote of the two coats,
as related by Xenophon. They could point out Troy
154 - FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING.

and Rome upon the map, and talked familiarly of
Anchises, Aineas, Dido, and the little Ascanius. They
loved to hear the sounding lines of Greek which de-
scribe the noise of the ocean, and the twanging of
Apollo’s silver bow, even though they could not tell
the meaning of a word. In like manner they learned
a pretty long German ballad, which they sung in parts,
Carl further amused himself by drilling them in the
questions and answers with which French conversation
commonly begins. Harmless games and riddles, and
puzzles in arithmetic, added to their holiday sports.
But, after all, it was not the particular thing which he
did, as the cheerful, loving manner in which he did
it, that gained them over. In this way they were
drawn towards him, as a friend who had their real
welfare at heart, so that there was scarcely anything
which they would not have done to please him. And
this was the more remarkable, because he did not at-
tempt to turn their regular study into play. He re-
membered Dr. Newman’s maxim, When you work,
work; and when you play, play. So that when they
were at their books it was a serious business, and they
soon found that no allowance was granted to idleness,
inattention, or impatience.

In such a school as this, children learn fast, Every
day leaves its mark. Parents found it out, and at the
end of the first quarter five new scholars were offered,
two of whom were elder brothers of a child already
_ FIRST LESSONS IN SCHOOL-KEEPING. 155

there. One little fellow had been two quarters at a
district school, and yet had not learned to read. The
first pages of his spelling-book had been so thumbed
and so worn by his chin and elbows, that the letters
were almost illegible. By a little special attention,
Carl carried him through the book in a few months.
His father, who was a fisherman, and who had no
learning himself, was so much gratified that he sent
the teacher a bushel of oysters as a token of his regard.
Though Carl smiled at the donation, he received it in
good part, and was glad of the means thus afforded for
increasing the good cheer at the doctor’s cottage. But
he was rather more pleased when James Donald, the
smallest boy of all, son of a Scotch gardener, came to
him on Monday morning with two pots of mignonette
and a number of hyacinth bulbs.

‘“T have one more than a baker’s dozen,” said Carl
to his friend Mrs. Smith, one winter evening as they
sat over a bright hickory fire.

“T wish it was a hundred, for your sake,” said Mary.

“Oh, not a hundred, my love,” exclaimed the doctor.
“That would be almost a college, and our young pre-
sident would have to employ professors.”

“ Very well,” said she, gaily, “ stranger things have
happened; and I don’t despair of seeing our little Carl
a learned professor yet.”
PROV. 10. BHO 10.6,

Neat AS ELESSINGE_ ARE UPON THE HEAD OF THE JUST.



Glimpse of w Christian Pome in a
Sirange Hand.

es ve such may not be found. True religion is



a “Ya power which draws together and holds
united ‘those who would otherwise be strangers, As
we go on in the pilgrimage of this world, we have more
and more reason to admire the unexpected ways in
which Providence brings us acquainted with those who
have done us the most good. Often the meeting is
without any endeavour of our own, and yet the results
are momentous. Some such thoughts as these passed
through the mind of our young schoolmaster on the
evening which followed his introduction to Mr. Mill.

The Rev. Fredrick Mill was the pastor of the little
church which Carl Adler attended; for you may be
sure he did not allow himself to lack the blessed advan-
tages of public worship. As a stranger he had taken
GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME, ETC. (157

an humble seat in the gallery, until the rich tones of
his voice drew the attention of the clergyinan, who, in-
deed, had too few persons gifted in this way. His
eye often turned on Carl, whom he found always intent
on what was said, or devoutly joining in the acts of
worship. As good ministers of Christ are used to do,
Mr. Mill took an early occasion to learn the name of
this punctual attendant, and at length detained him at
the close of the service, and drew from him some par-
ticulars of his history. The interview was not without
tears ; for Carl found that Mr. Mill had been in Europe,
and had even visited his native region. From this it
was an easy transition to visit at the parsonage, which
was on a hill-side, about three miles from school. The
times which he chose for these visits were at the close
of the week’s work, and, when he became better known,
he was often invited to remain until Monday morning.
The Smiths did not fail to rally him in regard to this,
and. to repeat the name of Matilda Mill in a sly, good-
humoured way; but Carl maintained, with a pensive
earnestness, that for him the charm of the house was
in the excellent pastor. | |
Spring Hill, the residence of this pious and acom-
_ plished family, was named from a bold fountain which
broke out from the side of a little mount among rocks
and vines, and dashed away over the banks to join a
rivulet which coursed through the meadows below.
The house was old, but spacious, commanding a view
158 GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME

of neighbouring bays and islands, with intervening fields
and groves. The walls were overgrown with vines ;
and honeysuckles and sweet-briars clambered about the
windows. Within, everything bespoke competency,
ease, and comfort, rather than display or novelty. The
chief room was the library, which was surrounded with |
valuable books, on which the eye of Carl rested with
admiration and almost envy.

But that which most affected him was the religious
atmosphere of the place. He had been in Christian
families before, but never in one like this. The father,
the mother, the only daughter, Matilda, and the three
little boys, nay, the very domestics, seemed to be under
the power of a religious training. The Scriptures,
without any violence or any affectation, were evidently
the rule of the house, as they were the topic of daily
but natural remark. Mutual improvement and gentle
affection breathed over all the little society, and all their
words and acts. Doubtless there was much of human
_ imperfection and sin, but it was in a great degree hidden
from the partial eyes of Carl.

The first Saturday evening which he spent at Spring
Hill was long remembered by him. They combined to
rid the diffident stranger of those feelings of restraint
which he could not, all at once, shake off. As they sat
on the broad portico, which overlooked a grassy hill-
side, the younger ones gambolled over the velvet turf,
in sight of the placid father, The mother and daughter
IN A STRANGE LAND. 159

were seated together, turning over the pages of a large
book of plates, which Mr. Mill had just brought from
the city. At a well-known signal all the company re-
paired to the table, where the best of rural cheer was
spread beforethem. The meal was not hasty, as meals —
are apt to be where the family gathering is only for
the purpose of satisfying the cravings of nature. There
was much delightful conversation, and Carl found that
such a union at the domestic board may be madea
class for high instruction. More than one choice
passage from the poets was called for and repeated ;
more than one hard question was answered, and many
religious precepts were inculcated from the Word of
God. By easy methods all were reminded of the ap-
proaching day of holy rest; and questions were asked,
to make sure that the week’s business had been fairly
closed up. |
The few hours which followed, before retiring for the
night, convinced Carl that he had never before known
what was meant by the union of intelligence and piety
in a family circle. He had seen one, and he had seen
the other, but here they were both together. Was it
books? It looked to him as if a fortune had been ex-
pended on the costly volumes around the apartments,
though in this he made the blunder of inexperience.
The talk was natural, diversified, and playful, yet it was
on the very subjects which Carl had hardly ever heard

* c e °
talked of. But above all was he delighted with the
160 GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME

prominence given to the things of God. When the
hour for evening worship came (and it was early, so as
to suit the young ones}, Mr. Mill, as master and father,
opened the Word of God, and read that noble Psalm,
the 138th, which he followed by a fewremarks. Then
how passing sweet was the evening hymn, in which the
music was led by Miss Mill, while every child and
servant joimed, except a gray-haired African, who was
past the age of singing. Solemn, united prayer closed
the short service. Carl could not but say to himself,
as with moistened eyes he rose from his knees,—
| ‘When soon or late, you reach that coast,
O’er life’s rough ocean driven,

May you rejoice, no wanderer lost,
A family in heaven!”

When the affectionate salutations of the evening had
been exchanged, Mr. Mill beckoned to his young visitor
to take a seat beside him on the sofa.

“Mr, Adler,” said he, “I am older than you, and I
have, like you, been a schoolmaster.” |

“Is it possible?” said Carl, with animation. “Then,”
sir, you are the very person whom I need, for I have a
thousand things on which to get your advice.”

“ All that I can give shall be yours, my young friend.
I have observed your interest in divine things, and
allow me to say I perceive in you a capacity for better
acquisitions (here Carl’s clear complexion became sud,
denly crimson), so that I feel peculiar interest in trying to
IN A STRANGE LAND. i6l

put you on the right path. But, first, tell me, do you
mean to make teaching your profession for life?”

Here Carl explained to Mr. Mill the events which
led him to engage in this little enterprise, adding that
his views had undergone some change, and that he found
such an unexpected pleasure in teaching boys that he
was half inclined to look on it as a regular business.

“Tam not sorry to hear you say so. We want such
teachers in America,—I mean such as are willing to
spend their lives in the work. Most of our school-
masters spend only two or three years in the work.
Some of them are seeking means to enter college, some
employ themselves thus during the very time they are
in college in long vacations. More commonly they are
persons who have taken their first degree, and are in-
tending to be physicians, ministers, or lawyers. From
this course great evils arise to the character of our
education.” —

“T had not thought of any ill consequences,” said
Carl, “though I have certainly observed the fact.”

“The evils are these,” said Mr. Mill; “and I speak
with some knowledge, for I have been such a teacher
myself. The young man so employed is only half-
hearted in the work. He may be conscientious and
punctual, but he has no enthusiasm.”

“Ah! I see,” said Carl; “nothing can be well done
without some fire.” |

“ True; and there is seldom any ardour in such a
"100) ll |
162 GLIMPSE OF A CHRISTIAN HOME

ease. It is not the business of life. The man looks
one way and rows another. His eye is on the bar or
the pulpit, and to this he directs his wishes and his
efforts. Then there is no attainment of experience,
Teaching is an art, and one of the noblest and most
difficult. Itis not to be acquired in a year or two years,
Thus it often happens that, just at the moment the
teacher begins to feel his strength, reeover from his
mishaps, and mature his methods, he breaks off from
the work, and transfers the pupils to another.”

“ And so, perhaps, a school may be for years together
under the hand of novices.” |

“Exactly. Indeed this is the case with a majority
of our country schools.”

“ But how, sir, is this evil to be remedied ?”

“ Just as you have remedied it in Prussia, where the
profession of teaching is as distinct and as honourable
as most others.”

“But allow me to ask yet further, why is it that
young men even of promise and learning are unwilling
to stay at their post and teach as long as they live?”

“You are coming to the very point,” answered Mr.
Mill. “The reasons are many, but they resolve them-
selves into one comprehensive reason. The work of
instruction is not high enough in the esteem of our
people,”

“Ah! TI thought no people made so much of educa-
tion.”
IN A STRANGE LAND. 163

“We have many schools, many pupils, and many
zealous writings and speeches about the subject; but
what I say is still true. The very word schoolmaster
is used by many with a sneer. The cry is for chean
teaching. Parents, of whom you would hope better
things, grudge the pittance they bestow on the teacher,
and almost think it an alms. I have farmers in my
parish who lay out more on a breed of swine or a
thrashing-machine than all they have ever given for
their children’s schooling put together. Half-starved
instructors lose the stimulus of hope and grow weary.”

Carl smiled, but said nothing.

“T honour the instructor of my children,” continued
the pastor, “as much as the doctor who cures my body,
or the lawyer who attends to my estate. But this is
not the common feeling; and the lower down you go
in the scale of intelligence and culture, the more you
find people undervaluing the schoolmaster. But, my -
dear fellow, the night is wearing away, and I must
show you to your chamber. May the blessed morning
find you refreshed for its sacred work!”








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tom of making the breakfast a cheerful and
leisurely meal, There is something delight-
ful in the assemblage of a whole family at
a bountiful repast, and such repasts are



common in our favoured and fertile country.
The morning prayer and praise have ascended to hea-
ven, and if there is grace in the heart, the rays of holy
contentment and mutual affection are reflected from
every face. On the day of joy, the resurrection day,
the first and best day of the week, such gatherings
take place in ten thousand Christian families of our
country ; and thus it was at the Spring Hill parsonage.

“As I mean you shall return to spend the day
with us,” said Mr. Mill to Carl, “I shall mount you
upon Nero, the riding-horse of my son Fred, who is at
college. But we must be on the alert, for Sunday
school opens at nine.”

A long, light waggon, with two horses, carried the
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD. 165

family, with the exception of the servants, who walked,
and Mr. Mill, who accompanied Carl on horseback. ~
The church was four miles off, and according to a well
established custom, they did not return between ser-_
vices, but took with them a frugal collation.

After the usual services, and such greetings as are
common between a good minister and his family with
many of the people, they all returned to the parsonage.
And here the evening hours were spent in a manner
quite new to Carl. After early tea the whole house-
hold assembled in the large sitting-room. Even the
servants were there as soon as they had supped, and,
what is unusual, they retained their seats after evening
prayers.

“T love,” said Mr. Mill, “to see my family around
me, and on no day do I love it more than on the Sab-
bath. Why should not our domestics come in for a
portion of the children’s bread ?”

Books were distributed, and an hour was spent in
singing hymns, interspersed with occasional comments
and an occasional anecdote. Even Mrs. Mill, though
a meek and retiring invalid, made bold to relate an
incident of her youth concerning her grandfather, an
officer of the Revolution, and a pious man. Encou-
raged by such beginnings, Carl found his mouth opened,
and after a little embarrassment, and in reply to several
interrogatories, proceeded to give a narrative, which
may be thus abridged,—
166 #REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD.

“You must not expect much of a story, my good
friends; I am hardly more than a boy yet, though
sometimes, when I think how many places I have lived
in, and how many people I have seen, I am ready to
think myself quite old. When you were all engaged
just now in repeating the Catechism of your Church, it
carried me back to Bingen on the Rhine.”

“Oh, did you use to say the Catechism there?”
asked Tom,—a bright child of eleven, who had already
found his way to Carl’s knee, |

“Yes, but not the same that you know. It was Dr.
Luther’s Catechism, which has been used these three
hundred years and more.”

“It contains the same precious doctrine,” said Mr.
Mill; “but go on.”

“ We were brought up in the old German way, which,
I am sorry to say, has gone very much out of fashion.
As the custom of the country is to have commonly but
one church-service, we had Sunday afternoon and even-
ing much to ourselves. Many people used to spend it
in sauntering, and worse, but we were generally taken
to the house of my dear mother’s father. My grand-
father was wealthier and more learned than any of my
kindred. He lived in an ancient stone house, among
the vineyards. It had been in the family no one knows
how many hundred years, and had carvings on the
gables and ends of the oaken beams, which none of us
could understand. The windows were narrow, some of
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD. 167

them being like slits cut in the thick walls. Musty
old volumes stood in the heavy shelves, mostly in vel-
lum, and some of them were fastened with clasps of
brass, which we youngsters often tried in vain to undo.

“My grandfather dressed in antique style; indeed,
he seemed to pride himself on old customs. At certain
feasts, such as Easter and Michaelmas, he took. great
pains to have certain flowers stuck up which bloomed
about those times of the year. At the winter holidays
he always secured a Christmas-tree, which reached to
the very beams of the vaulted hall, and was laden on
every branch with trinkets, toys, confectionery, and
tapers. It has made a deep impression on my memory.
The good old gentleman carried a grave face to most
people, and was thought to be cross, but I believe this
was more from his gout than anything else. To us he
was always as gentle as could be; and we longed for
Sunday to come round that we might dine at grand-
papa’s, and look at the pictures in the old books. Of
these he had a great store, and I remember as if it were
yesterday how he would sit in his great carved arm-
chair, in what he called his book-closet, which was a
small room cut off from his office. Placing me by his
side, he would open one after another of those pon-
derous volumes, and descant upon the cuts, which were
from designs of Albert Durer and Hans Holbein. One
of these books I now possess. It was printed at Nur-
emburg in the year 1608. But this was by no means
168 REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD.

the oldest of them. In these things he took the more
pleasure because he was himself an author, and had
published a work on heraldry, in which he used to
show me the painted coats of arms, with many strange
pictures of lions rampant, griffins, and the like. But
most of all, he loved to show me the pictures of the
reformers and the martyrs. ‘There, grandson,’ he
would say, ‘thou seest (in Germany it is always thee
and thow to children) Dr. Martin Luther at the Diet of
Worms, and there thou seest him on his deathbed.
Print it on thy soul, child; rather die a thousand deaths
than give up the faith of thy fathers. Presently I shall
be gone, and who knows what changes may happen!
Thy poor father, the judge, has no knack at keeping
the gold pieces together. Perhaps thou mayest wan-
der over sea. Well, God will guide, but mind this, go
‘where thou mayest, contend for the faith once de-
livered to the saints! I never look on the volume or
the portrait of Luther without calling the scene and
the words to my memory.”

“TI hope,” said Mr. Mill, “ that they will bring forth
fruit in you as long ag you live, JI daresay you could
sing us one of the fine old hymns of Germany.”

“With pleasure,” said Carl. “But our hymns are
not heard to advantage when sung by a single voice.
The slow and stately ancient tunes require the full
organ and the great congregation. But I will do my
best with a hymn of Paul Gerhardt’s.” : |
REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD. 169

Carl then sung the closing stanzas of the famous
Advent Hymn, Wie soll ich dich empfangen, which may
be thus imitated in English :—

“Why should you be detained

In trouble day and night,

As though he must be gained
By arm of human might?

He comes, he comes, all willing, |
All full of grace and love,

Those woes and troubles stilling
Well known to him above.

Nor need ye tremble over
The guilt that gives distress:
No! Jesus all will cover
With grace and righteousness,
He comes, he comes, procuring
The peace of sin forgiven,
To all God’s sons securing
Their part and lot in heaven.

Why heed ye then the crying
Of crafty foemen nigh?

Your Lord shall send them flying
In twinkling of an eye.

He comes, he comes, for ever
A king, and earth's fell band

Shall prove in the endeavour

- Too feeble to withstand.”

All the company were gratified with the graceful
performance of Carl, who sang with more than common
ability, and who took the precaution to furnish an
English version of the words before he began. He ex-
plained to them the methods taken in Germany to train
the whole population in sacred music ; and promised
170 REMINISCENCES OF GERMAN CHILDHOOD.

to show them a sixpenny pamphlet, one of many issued
for youth, like tracts, with all the common tunes used
in the churches. It contains sixty-three tunes in one
part, and twenty in three parts.

“You have made a fine beginning in your school,”
said Mr. Mill; “and my good friend, Mrs. Grayson, is
so much pleased with what she heard on Saturday
evening on the bank, that she is going to lend you her
pianoforte, to accompany the hymns and songs.”

“Bravo !” cried Tom, who was almost ready to beg
that he might become a pupil at the little octagon
school-house. But his father repressed this little burst,
by calling for a volume, which soon engaged the atten-
tion of all present. It was the “Life of Luther,” by
the Rev. Dr. Sears, himself a zealous admirer of the
mighty German, and a labourer in the cause of educa-
tion. The hour soon arrived for the departure of the
younger children to bed; after which, a few words of
religious conversation closed the day, and each retired
to the private exercises of his own chamber,




XIT,.

Dromotion and Surprises.



(#(ARL did not leave the friendly mansion of
< ‘Mr. Mill without a suspicion that some plan
ie was on foot for his benefit. The questions
had been too close and searching to have
proceeded from simple curiosity. Some plan
must be on foot for his benefit. Why did the pastor
inquire so particularly as to his residence at the Oaks?
Why did he take down the name of Dr. Newman and
Mr. Barry? Why did he inquire for the residence of
each boy in the school? Carl was therefore less sur-
prised at receiving a note from Mr. Mill, inviting him
to accompany him, during the approaching fortnight
of vacation, in a jaunt up the North River. To relieve
him from all anxiety about expenses, this excellent
gentleman asked, as a favour, that Carl would act as
his amanuensis, in recording certain matters which he
was collecting towards a volume in the press. It was
both benevolent and delicate in Mr. Mill, and it went
to Carl’s heart more than a munificent gift could have
172 PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

done, if unaccompanied by such considerate regard for
his feelings.

The boys were dismissed for the brief holidays, the
poor little quarter-bills were paid, except in the case of
one stingy, dishonest guardian, who was willing to
cheat the schoolmaster : and this man was the richest
among them all. On a beautiful August morning, the
travellers rose long before day, in order to be in time
for the Albany boat. |

It may be safely said that there is no river scenery
in America which, in all respects, equals that of the
Hudson. - Single traits of beauty or grandeur may in-
deed be found.as striking on other streams, but no-
where else is the combination so rich and varied. Our
young traveller admired the breadth, and depth, and
clearness of the river ; the massy foliage of the woods
and verdure of the corn-fields ; the incomparable pano-
rama of mountains, some blue in the distance, like the
Catskills, and some boldly reaching to the water's edge,
as in the Highlands ; the multitude of vessels which
they passed or met, and the endless succession of towns
and country-seats along the banks.

On arriving at Albany, Mr. Mill procured a light
conveyance, and spent some days in excursions among
the towns and villages on both sides of the river, above
and below the capital. At the fine little city of Hud-
son they dismissed their hired carriage and servant,
and employed the public conveyances to carry them
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES. 173

over the mountains into Massachusetts. It was Carl’s
first sight of New England, and he was not slow to
catch the beauties, both natural and artificial, of Berk-
shire county. At one time he was struck with the
picturesque scenery of the mountains and valleys, and
wild pellucid streams ; at another he was charmed with
the advancement visible in agriculture, the neatness-of
enclosures, and the quiet snugness of the farm-houses ;
at another, he stood in admiration at the fresh and
shining villages; which seemed to have sprung up in a
night, so unlike were they to the hoary, irregular piles.
of European cities ; and at every turn he was im-
pressed with the appearance of the people, who, almost
without exception, bore the marks of education and
morality.

After a short sojourn in Boston, Hartford, and New
Haven, they found themselves at home, much refreshed
by exercise and change of air, and welcomed by a circle
of affectionate friends. On leaving the steamboat which
carried them from New York, they found all the Smiths
and all the Mills on the wharf. Here Carl had the
pleasure of being made acquainted with Frederick Mill
the younger, who had returned from college, a young
man of genius and fine appearance, but of exuberant
spirits, and not exempt from some of those infelicities
of manner which grow up in college life. But he was
both kind and courteous to Carl, whom he looked upon
with the more respect on account of his French and
174 P:.\UMOTION AND SURPRISES.

German knowledge, which, among the young gentlemen
of our colleges, is more prized than formerly. The
talk was soon about Goethe, Schiller, and Jean Paul ;
and Carl might have paid back some of the laughter
spent on his early attempts at English, by amusing
himself at Frederick’s pronunciation of German. |

Arrived at Spring Hill, the travellers took their
favourite seats among the shrubbery, in sight of the
dashing spring. Then it was that Mr. Mill beckoned
Carl into his study. What was his astonishment to
meet there his first warm American friend !

‘Mr. Barry !” cried he; “can it be possible? And
how came you here ?”

“ By coach and steamboat, Adler,” said Barry, smil-
ing.

“Oh, yes, of course; but what has brought you into
these parts ? and to Spring Hill?”

“Why, my dear fellow, do you think nobody has a
right to holidays and jaunts but yourself? But how
nobly you have grown.”

A hundred topics were broached, and question fol-
lowed question, till all obvious matters concerning their
school-days at the Oaks had been exhausted. During
this interview, Mr. Mill had left them alone. But at
length he entered, and with a grave and affectionate
air took Carl by the hand, and said,—

“My dear Mr. Adler, I will no longer keep you in
suspense. All our recent movements, however mysteri-
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES. 175

ous, have been tending towards a result which, I hope,
will prove agreeable to you. Your good friends, Dr
and Mrs. Smith, are in the secret; and last, but not
least, we have introduced Mr. Barry. But there is
still another party in the affair, whom you do not know.”

“ Leave that to me,” said Barry; and throwing open
the door which separated them from the parlour, he
said, “I must have the pleasure of presenting you to
Mrs. Barry.” |

Carl saw a graceful lady rising to meet him, without
at first discerning her features ; great was his amaze-
ment to recognise in her, after a moment, Helen New-
man, the daughter of his late preceptor.

“It is surprise upon surprise,” exclaimed Carl, quite
bewildered with these inexplicable proceedings. “I
scarcely know where to begin, or what to inquire.”

“Let the truth come out at once, then,” said Mr.
Mill) “The plan is really my wife’s, though’ with my
hearty concurrence. You are no longer to be the prin-
cipal of the octagon school, Mr. Adler. We have
secured a promotion for you. The new academy, near
our church, has been several months in preparation.
An adjoining house is very suitable for the reception
of boarders. The company of gentlemen who set up the
school have fixed on Mr. Barry and yourself as teachers,
We shall give you a week or two of preparation ; and
the academy will open on the first day of October.
Now, the secret is fully out.”
176 PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

Let us cast a veil over the ingenuous confusion and
grateful surprise of Carl, upon receiving this shower of
news. He was so overwhelmed that he did not even
urge his inquiries about the beautiful building and the
friendly arrangements. He was even absent in mind
during a part of the evening, and often retired to the
large bow-window, as.if to conceal his emotions.
When, at length, his considerate host conducted him
to the retirement of his chamber, he closed the door,
and cast himself on his knees before God. Tears
streamed from his eyes, and more by groans and sobs
than articulate words, he poured out his thanksgivings
toward that heavenly Father, who had been his Helper
in a strange land, and had made his cup to overflow
with unexpected blessings. Blessed. religion of the
gospel! which cherishes even in the young those sacred
and generous emotions, such as were altogether wanting
in the greatest heroes of antiquity. This youthful
emigrant felt the enlargement of soul produced by the
belief that the God of his fathers was making him His
special care, and that He who had guided Jacob, and
delivered David, and glorified Josiah, would be his God
also, even unto death.

As Carl turned over the pages of his dear mother’s
Bible, it was long before he could tear himself away, to
throw himself on the bed for the night, The sacred
volume seemed as if it had been made for just such a
case as his. Among them were such as these :-—
PROMOTION AND SURPRISES. 47

“And Jacob vowed a vow, saying, If God will be
with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and
will give me bread to eat, and raiment to put on, so
that I come again unto my father’s house in peace ;
then shall Jehovah be my God: and this stone, which
I have set for a pillar, shall be God’s house: and of
all that thou shalt give me, I will surely give the tenth
unto thee” (Gen. xxviii, 20-22).

“The blessings of thy father have prevailed above
the blessings of my progenitors unto the utmost bound
of the everlasting hills ; they shall be on the head of
Joseph, and on the crown of the head of him that was
separate from his brethren” (Gen. xlix. 26),

“Who am I, O Lord God? and what is my house,
that thou has brought me hitherto? And this was yet
a small thing in thy sight, O Lord God; but thou hast
spoken also of thy servant’s house for a great while to
come. And is this the manner of man, O Lord God ?”
(2 Sam. vii. 18),

“What shall I render unto the Lord for all his
benefits toward me? I will take the cup of salvation
and calf upon the name of the Lord. I will pay my
vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all his
people” (Ps. cxvi. 12-14). ,

“QO Lord, I know that the way of man is not in
himself: it is not in man that walketh to direct his
steps” (Jer. x. 23).

“Let your conversation be without covetousness ;

(100) | 12
178 | PROMOTION AND SURPRISES.

and be content with such things as ye have: for he
hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee”
(Heb. xiii. 5).

The last verse was designated in the well-worn
volume, by a distinct line drawn under it in red ink—
as Carl doubted not, by the beloved hand which was
now in the grave. Deeply did he revolve in his mind
those sacred words of promise, ICH WILL DICH NICHT
VERLASSEN NOCH VERSAUMEN. He called to mind also
the observation which Dr. Newman had made, and
which he found in his interleaved Greek Testament,
that the original is much more expressive, having five
negatives, which could be represented in English only
by some such language as this, “I will never, never
leave thee, and never, never, never forsake thee !”

Led thus from one thought to another, Carl remem-
bered his hymn-book, and closed the evening with sing-
ing those familiar lines, which he had first learned from
the voice of Matilda Mill,—

‘‘ In every condition, in sickness, in health,
In poverty’s vale, or abounding in wealth,
At home and abroad, on the land, on the sea,
As thy days shall demand, so thy succour shall be,

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,

I will not, I cannot desert to his foes;

That soul, though all hell should endeavour to shake,
I'll never, no never, no NEVER forsake !”
A malik inn NS
ff . \

eS C§F THE LORD is Tp ‘a 4,



XIII.

Shadows im the Picture.

ae , a mariner is seldom favoured with fair



winds and summer weather during the
whole of his voyage, so the servant of God,
in passing over the ocean of life, must
expect to encounter some adversities. The
teaching of Scripture is very plain on this
subject : “ Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and
scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.” The ways
of chastening are various, but all are visited with some
admonitions, and those are blessed who turn them to
good account. Afflictions in early life are thought by
experienced believers to have a happy influence in
forming the character. So the Scriptures seem also to.
teach : “ It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in
his youth. He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, be-
cause he hath borne it upon him. He putteth his
mouth in the dust, if so be there may be hope”
(Lam. iii, 27-29).

- The cup of Carl Adler seemed to be running over

»
180 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

the brim, and now that all-wise Governor of human
affairs, who doth not afflict willingly, but chastens for
profit, and to make men partakers of his holiness, saw —
fit to add some bitter drops. Carl had been tried with
one class of afflictions; he was now to experience
another. He had been left an orphan ; he had become
an exile; he had been subjected to annoyance and
scorn ; he had been pinched by want, and he had been
cut short in his career of education: the time was come
when he must be Jaid on a bed of illness.

Having left Spring Hill in fine spirits, he accompanied .
Dr. Smith and Mary to their sweet cottage, and sat
himself down at his fragrant window. The dahlias in
the garden stood in a gorgeous show, and the grapes
hung in heavy clusters over the arbour. Myriads of
bees hummed in the trees, and summer-birds sailed in
circles around the elms. Carl was placid, but not
altogether at ease. An unusual languor weighed on his
limbs ; and while all was warm around him, he felt
himself shivering with cold. His strength and appetite
forsook him, and when the evening meal was announced,
Dr. Smith found him stretched upon his bed, flushed,
and full of pain. His disease soon proved to be a
violent fever. It was a kind providence that he was
in the house of an intelligent and conscientious phy-
sician, who was at the same time his good friend, and
that he was consigned to such nursing as that of Mary
Smith, He needed these attentions, for the malady
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE, — 181

which assaulted him was violent and obstinate. For
a week he may be said to have taken no nourishment,
and his strength and flesh declined under the violence
of the fever. At times he was scarcely in his right
mind, and during the intervals of comparative relief, he
was restive, harassed, and unfit for settled thought.
One lesson he learned in this room, which is of great
importance, namely, that a sick-bed is no place to make
preparation for the eternal world. The pain, uneasiness,
and languor of disease absorb the thoughts and deaden
the sensibilities. The patient finds it next to impossible
to turn his mind to anything but what concerns his own
case. If he has neglected religion until this time, it is
not unlikely that he yields no additional attention to
its claims. This was made singularly manifest to Carl,
as he tossed in burning heats on his couch. The things
of God and of eternity came much before his mind ;
but when he tried to think fixedly, fancies and images
and dreamy musings would come between, and spoil
his devotions. It was often the most he could do to
hear a single verse of the Bible from the sweet voice of
Mary Smith, or to join in a prayer of two sentences,
offered by Mr. Mill. Neither he nor they could tell
whether he should recover. At one time, when his
delirium was great, the case looked dark even to the
sanguine physician. For one whole night he insisted
on talking in German ; the case is not uncommon in
diseases of this kind. If not prevented, he would have
182 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

sung German songs which he had heard in the nursery,
and repeated lessons which he had learned at school.
But at length the prospect began to clear away. The
doctor was able to pronounce him free from fever, and
now every means must be employed to raise up the
wan and haggard youth from the infantile imbecility
of frame in which the disease had left him prostrate.

The steps of recovery from a fever are not interest-
ing, and they are familiar. It is best to hasten on to
the time when Carl was so far reinstated as to make
a short excursion for change of air. This had the ex-
pected result, and he came home with the indescribable
glow and exultation of restored health. Then it was
that he felt how good God had been to him, in making
all his bed in his sickness, and sparing a life that
seemed to him so unprofitable. He could read with
new emotions the 116th Psalm, and sing with under- ©
standing those verses of the German hymn, which
begins :— |

‘Tis sweet to me that God, my help,
So faithful stands by me.” *

And he chose this as the most fit occasion for sur-
rendering himself to God, in a complete and unreserved
dedication ; especially as this deliverance concurred
with so remarkable an interposition in behalf of his -
temporal support.

* Das ist mir lieb, dass Gott, mein Hort,
So treulich bei mir steht,
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE. 183

The Ashdell Academy had been opened a few days
before Carl’s return, under the direction of Mr. Barry,
who was named principal. Besides other assistants, he
was to have the aid of Carl, who was able to teach
several branches of mathematics, and to render service
in regard to German, French, and music. The school
was to be visited at least once a week by Mr. Mill, who
acted as its rector and chief patron. Every Monday
morning, in particular, he engaged to be present, to
give religious instruction, The edifice, having been
built for the purpose, was admirably suited to the wants
of the institution. The school-rooms were spacious and
numerous, so that there was no necessity for crowding.
They were well lighted, and, what is quite as important,
well ventilated. No one cause operates so disastrously
on the health of teacher and scholars as corrupt. air.
In schools innumerable the atmosphere is perpetually
foul, if it may not rather be called pestilential. This
particular had been well cared for by Mr. Mill and Dr.
Smith ; and in this they had the hearty concurrence —
of Mr. Barry, who had had experience of the ill conse-
quences of a few hogsheads of air breathed over and
over. He told them the story of the Black Hole of
Calcutta, and declared that in many school-rooms the
greatest favour one could do would be to knock out
two or three panes of glass,

I will not deny that Carl felt a glow of some kind,
when he first saw the printed “ Circular and Prospectus
184 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

of the Ashdell Academy.” It was concise and modest,
but it contained, in very conspicuous capitals, the name
of “Mr. Carl Adler, Assistant, and Instructor in the
French and German Languages.” There are moments
when trifles like this weigh as much in the scale as
legacies, or prizes in lotteries. Carl had the comfort of
reflecting that this honourable advancement, which was
certainly considerable in the case of a youth, had been
unsought by him: and he was earnestly desirous to
inake it contribute to the good of his fellow-creatures.
And what situation is there in life, I desire to ask, in
which this hope may be more reasonably entertained,
than that of an instructor of youth 2

Every one of Carl’s scholars at the octagon was
present as a pupil at the opening of the academy.
This had been matter of special arrangement by Mr.
Mill But these nine had now increased to thirty-
five! As they sat at their separate desks, on the cast-
iron rotary seats, which had then just come into use,
they appeared to Carl like a little army, of which he
was in some sort the commander. And he wrote to
his elder sister Charlotte a letter, of which the following
is an extract :—

“You must not think me exalted, dear Lotte; my
illness has done something to prevent this ; but still
more, I trust, am I kept humble by a sense of my daily
and hourly shortcomings. Yet there is something not

unlike elation, when I find myself admitted to such
SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE. 185 ©

trusts. More than thirty boys are partly under my
control. Some of them are advanced scholars, even in
branches which I have not studied; but my task is
well defined. The higher Greek and Latin classics are
taught by Barry, and the whole domestic charge falls
to his share. Oh, I wish you knew him! He is just
such a man as you could not but admire and love: so
self-forgetting, so many-sided in his tastes, so noble, so
fervid. If I ever think the Americans cold, it is not
when I am with Barry. From him it was that I first
caught the idea of what it was to be a teacher. I had
thought it dull, mechanical, and even irksome. He
made me see it to be a noble art—more noble than our
darling music—more noble than painting, sculpture,
and architecture. These work with dead materials, but
the hand of the teacher moulds the plastic soul. The
noblest cultivation of fields and gardens rears only
vegetable life ; but the teacher watches the development
of a life which is spiritual and immortal.

“ Often, dearest Lotte, have I unbosomed myself to
you about the church. You know I have sometimes
thought- seriously of being a minister of the gospel—
unworthy as I am—and, indeed, I sometimes think of
it still. But is not this also a kind of ministry? May
I not serve our blessed Redeemer, even if I pass my
life in feeding his lambs? Thus I regard it. I would
not learn to regard it otherwise. Some people here
think religion ought to be kept out of schools! Do not
186 SHADOWS IN THE PICTURE.

laugh at the suggestion. They even attempt to put it
into practice. Is it not like opening an hospital with-
out medicine? or sowing fields with everything except
grain? You may be sure neither Barry nor I would
come into any such schools as these. The principal
thing which a child needs to learn, and that which he
must learn now or never, shall always have a chief place
in all instructions of mine. But hold! I catch myself
talking large, and remember that I am only an usher,
and not, a president (as Mary Smith prophesies I shall
be) ; yet am I ever and ever your loving, loving brother,
CARL.”




XTYV,



4 GOME, come! Oh, fellows, come!” cried a
apy cS little, piping, shrill voice, from the great

a field back of the churchyard ; “come and
W see the kite that Bill Sunbury has got up!
I’m sure it’s a mile high !”

“ N ot quite,” said Carl, “and besides this, you have
forgotten the rule, Charles. No boy is to make any
acquaintances out of the school ; and Bill Sunbury is a
youth whom we cannot admit on our premises till he
amends his bad language.” |

“Mother thinks you tie us up rather tight, Mr.
Adler,” said Charles.

“Wait a little, my fine fellow,” said Carl, drawing
the curly-headed child to his side ; “wait a little, and
you will see how wise and how kind the regulation is.
Sit by me here a few minutes till I finish this sketch
of the old church. See, I am just at the steeple, and
presently I shall dash off that clambering ivy.”
188 SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

“ Don’t you think I could learn to draw and paint,
Mr. Adler ?”

“Certainly, Charles ; that is, Gf you have eyes, hands,
and a good deal of patience,”

Charles laughed, and said, “I believe I have as many
hands and eyes as other folks, but I am a little afraid
about the patience.”

“ Wait a little, then ; it is one of the things we shall
try to teach you.” |

“What, sir! teach patience ?”

“Why not? Is it not a good thing .”

“QO yes, sir, it is a very good thing. I wish I had
more of it ; but who ever heard of teaching it! You
must be quizzing me.”

‘‘ No, indeed,” said Carl; “Iam in earnest, These
things are not set down in our programme of studies ;
but why did your parents send you here 2”

“To learn reading and writing, and arithmetic, and
geography, and Latin, and French ; not to learn pa-
tience, and such like.” |

“If you inquire of your dear mother, you will find
that she desires and intends more for you than what
you have said. For, suppose you should go home to
Brooklyn, two years hence, full of Greek and Latin,
but cursing, swearing, and drinking—”

“Oh, dreadful, sir!” said the little boy, interrupting
his teacher, who had by this time folded his portfolio,
and taken the child on his knee. “That would be
SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS, 189

wretchedness. My mother would not have me learn
such things for the world. But what can you mean, sir?”
_ “T mean, Charles, that if you would avoid learning
such evil things, you must not put yourself under evil
teachers.”

Charles, “Teachers, sir! I never heard of a school
for teaching those things you mentioned. What
teachers are there, I wonder, to teach drunkenness
and lying, and swearing 2?”

Adler, “Too many, too many. Suppose I should let
you and your brother Edward go every night, or when-
ever you chose, to the tavern at the ferry.”

Charles, “T should be afraid to go. Mr. Barry s: says,
those who go there learn to drink rum.” _

Adler, “True enough ; and many other bad things,
such as playing cards, talking wickedly, and taking
God’s holy name in vain. But suppose I should allow
you and Edward to play every day with a person who
curses horribly—”

Charles, “Then I suppose we should be in danger of
learning to do the like.”

_ Adler, “ Would not such a person, then, be your
teacher ?” :

Charles, “ Yes, sir.”

Adler. “ And would not he be a teacher of wicked-
ness?”

Charles, “T see, see! You have been meaning Bill
Sunbury all along.”
190 SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

Adler. “Yes, to tell you truly, I have meant Bill
Sunbury. He is a profane and wicked lad, and I feel
it my duty to warn you against him. But this is not

enough. Don’t you know that you and Edward are
| nothing but little inexperienced boys, and that you are
not old enough or wise enough to choose your own
companions ?”

Charles, (Putting his arm around Carl’s shoulder.)
“Yes, I daresay it is so; and I am willing to do what
you advise me; and I will not complain of the rules
any more.”

Adler. “Now you speak like a noble-hearted boy.
Love your parents and teachers ; trust in them ; sub-
mit to their regulations, even when you do not see all
the reasons. After a while, you will thank them for
the very things which seemed strict to you before.”

Charles. “But you have not yet explained to me
about patience, and how any one can learn to be
patient.” |

Adter, “T am glad you keep it in mind, for I am
coming to that in a roundabout way. Patience, my
Charlie, is a great thing in all learning. To learn to
draw, you must be patient. To learn to write, you
must be patient. To learn geography, you must be
patient. ‘To be a great man, or a good man, you must
be patient.”

Charles, “Yes, I know, I know ; but how to learn it —
how to learn to be patient ?”
SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS. - 191

Adler, “ Just see how little patience you have! You
must wait a little, to learn; for patience is only a kind
of waiting. And you are taking a lesson in it now, if
you did but know it. Patience is learned by practising
patience. How did you learn to swim? By trying to |
swim. How did you learn to play ball? By trying
to play. How did you learn to cut the figure 6 on the
ice? By trying and trying again. Tell me, then, how
you are to learn patience 2?”

Charles, “ By trying to be patient.” |

Adler. “Very well. You are an apt scholar, Charles.
Now, observe, half the things we give you to do are

_ helping you to learn this very thing.”

Charles. “How so, sir? Does getting my Latin verb
teach me patience? Stop—you needn’t answer. I see
it myself. For I grow very tired of my verbs some-
times ; and then John Grose says, ‘ With patience and
perseverance one may open an oyster with a rolling-
> §$o I turn to my book again, and at last I know
my verb.” |

pin.

Adler, “Very good, indeed ; though John’s comical ~
proverb-is new to me, it is true. All your hard tasks,
which seem so tedious, are helping you to govern
yourself. If you live to be a man, you will find the.
use of this. Impatient people can never do much
good in the world. But some day you will be able to
say to yourself, “Oh, how glad I am that Mr. Barry
kept me closely to work! It taught me not only
192 | SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

what was set down in the books, but it taught me to
keep long at the same thing without getting tired ; to
repeat the same task a hundred times, if needful ; to
sum up the same figures, and keep my thoughts in the
same channel. It taught me patience.’ Come, now,
and I will give you a lesson in drawing.” 4
Charles, “Thank you, sir; I will try to be patient.”
~The conversation reported above is a very humble
specimen of what is daily occurring between every
faithful teacher and his pupils. ‘There are, indeed,
instructors who feel the toil of teaching to be such a
burden, that in hours of release they try to forget
there is such a thing as a school. Not so the zealous
and successful educator, Every moment he is the
teacher. It is his honour and his delight. He loves
to feel the pliable mass under his beneficent touch all
the day long; and it is not wonderful if he dreams of
it by night. In addition to this specimen of dialogue
with one of the youngest, the following may serve as
an example of talk out of school with one of the oldest
scholars. | oe
The scene is laid in Heron’s Bay, and the persons
are Carl Adler, Gregory Beale, and two fishermen who
manage the boat. The time is Saturday evening, and
the waters are reddened with the blush of the western
skies, The parties are wearied with pulling the oar
all the afternoon, and have turned the head of their —
boat towards the point where the graceful spire of
SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS. 193



Church rises above the trees, as a conspicuous
landmark.

Furst Fisherman. Yes, yes, Mr. Adler, you speak
English as well as German; but here am I, twenty
years out of Hamburg, and yet everybody notices the
burr on my tongue.

Second Fisherman, Fritz, you talk plainer now than
when you used to take the bottle with you in the boat.
I wondered, sometimes, whether the black-fish under-
stood German, for we didn’t take half so many as we
do in these temperance days.

Adler, Let us forget past faults. Our old friend
Fritz has repented of his evil ways. I will sing a
hymn which he remembers.

Carl then poured out, in his clear manly voice, the
Seaman’s Evening Hymn :—

‘‘ Thanks be to thee, Almighty God,
Whose arm has been our guard,’* &c.

The two men listened with admiration, and the old
German occasionally added his voice to the familiar
tune, though he could not always hit the words ; but
he understood and felt them, and frequently put up
his red sleeve to wipe the falling drops.

First Fisherman, Thank you, sir; it brings all the
old days back fresh upon me. But do tell me, Master
Adler, have you got the whole hymn-book by heart ?

* Dank sey dir, O du starker Gott,

Dess Schutz uns heut umfangen.

100) 18
194 SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

Adler, No, no, my good fellow, far from it ; but I
remember a good many hymns and songs which were
taught me by my grandfather and my sainted mother. —
And I have to thank them for many little snatches of

knowledge, which will stick to me wherever I wander.
Luther’s little prayer, at the end of the Catechism, is as
familiar to me as my alphabet. You remember it,

Fritz 2

Fritz. Yes, indeed, and say it over every night.

Gregory. I think, Mr, Adler, the German boys must
commit more to memory than we in America, |

Adler, I have sometimes thought so myself. My
cousins, who were older than I, were full of verses out
of Virgil and Horace, as well as hundreds of stanzas
from our own poets.

Gregory. Mr. Poole, who teaches the Polymathic
Inductive High School, makes a boast that no scholar
_ ever commits a single sentence to memory, verbatim.

Adler. What! not the rules in grammar ¢

Gregory. Not one.

Adler, Nor the paradigms ?

Gregory. Not one.

Adler, Nor the multiplication table ?

Gregory. Ah! that and the A B C, we all happened to
know before we went to the High School at Basedo Hill.

Adler, Do the boys learn no passages from Il Pen-
seroso, the Seasons, the Task, or other poems ?

Gregory. None, I assure you. Mr. Poole lectures
SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS, 195

on all these things; but he says the other way is
obsolete ; that it turns the boys into parrots, and that
the grand object is to understand, and not.to remember,

Adler. He would be a better philosopher if his.
maxim was, “to understand AND to remember.” Our
Creator has given us memory as well as understanding,
and we are to cultivate both.

Gregory. Mr. Poole says, that boys who learn other
people’s words get nothing but words; and that they
fill their heads with what they do not understand.

Adler, It is true of some, just as it is true that some
people have gilt frames without any pictures in them;
but why not have both ?

Gregory. I think I know boys who have only the
frames,

Adler, But the frames may contain pictures. And
if you have both frames and pictures, your frames help
to keep your pictures. So, if you retain the very
words, they help to keep the thoughts.

Gregory. What use is there in remembering the very
words ?

Adler. It is not. always desirable, but sometimes it
is highly so. In the first place, if you change the
words, you generally change the thoughts, Thus you
may recall to your mind something quite different
from what you have learned.

Gregory. I have observed this in the texts of the
propositions in Euclid.
196 SCHOOL-CHAT IN PLAY-HOURS.

Adler, This makes it very desirable that, in ele-
mentary matters, and in rules, and in forms, the very
words should be remembered. Secondly, there are
cases in which the value of a passage depends on the
very words. This is true of all poetry and all eloquence.
What were the lines you repeated in your declamation

this morning ?
Gregory. They were from Denham :—
‘‘Oh could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o’erflowing full.”

Adler. Now please to give me the substance of these
lines, as one might remember them who had caught
their general meaning, without the words.

Gregory. O sir, it would be folly for me to attempt it!

Adler. Then you admit the value of memory as to
poetic words.

Gregory. Certainly. You could not change a single
word without losing a beauty.

Adler. It is equally true of a thousand things,
especially of Scripture. And it is important to practise
this in childhood, because that is the spring-tide of
memory. It is a faculty sooner developed than that
of reasoning, and it sooner decays; therefore we should
seize its brief time of bloom for purposes of education.
As to abuses and excesses, here, as everywhere,
“ Wisdom is profitable to direct.”





i
_ Les My ee
} ey! YY AT NX,
PD \

7 (yA
Bi WS

Heligton in School.

religion is all-important to mankind, and if it
is most deeply impressed on the soul in
childhood and youth, then it ought un-
questionably to form a part of every system



of education. Shall we teach our children
all worldly things, and never inculcate
the principles which are necessary to save their
souls? Every reasonable Christian parent admits the
duty of teaching his children the words of life.
But teachers take the place of parents in the matter
of education. In many thousands of instances, at
large schools, the pupils are so much separated from
their parents that they see them only for a few weeks
in every year, during a considerable portion of early
life. It would be a monstrous absurdity to hold that
such children ought to be left without religious in-
struction from their teachers. This is a very simple
statement of the question concerning Christian educa-
tion. None but an unwise or a wicked parent will



198 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

place his beloved offspring, for several years together,
in the hands of those who have no fear of God before
their eyes, or who teach errors in religion, or who omit
the teaching of religion altogether.

Carl Adler had entered on the work of instruction
with an humble and devout mind. Often did he pray
to God that he might be guided and enabled to pursue
the right path. Though he was not a minister of the gos-
pel, he felt that, in a certain sense, precious immortal
souls were committed to his charge. The children
whom hetaught might, with God’s blessing on his labours,
be kept from manifold vices, and even led into the right
ways of the Lord; or they might, through his influence
and neglect, grow up to be little better than heathen.
These thoughts made him ask divine wisdom to conduct
him in the performance of his duty to their souls,

An attempt has been made by Roman Catholics and
infidels to banish the Bible from the common schools,
If it should ever succeed, the result is quite easily pre-
dicted. Our country will become popish or infidel,
But the best schools continue to give a high place to
the Word of God; and this agrees with the views of
those who founded the Ashdell Academy.

It is Monday morning—a time when school-boys are
tresh and in good trim, with bright, shining faces.
Who does not remember the healthful exhilaration of
a Monday morning at school? The room itself is in
uncommon order. Teachers and pupils look happy.
RELIGION IN SCHOOL, _ 199

The little preliminary hum has ceased, for. the good
pastor, Mr, Mill, is entering from a private door behind
the platform of desks. He takes his place behind the
principal desk, where the teachers have made room for
him. At this hour of the week, M. Mill always visits
the school, opens its religious services, and gives the
first lesson of the week. It is a lesson in Scripture,
which the boys have learned on the preceding day.
It is always a time of quiet, order, and pleasant looks.
When Mr, Mill has large maps or plates to exhibit, he
calls Mr. Barry and Carl to his assistance. The wall,
back of the platform, is hardened like slate, to serve
the purposes of a black board. On this Barry draws
outline maps of Palestine, or the sea of Cinneroth ; and
Carl gives rapid sketches of oriental antiquities. This,
you may be sure, enlivens the lesson, and makes the hour
one of the most delightful in all the week.

“There is a recess of half an hour, for conversation
and amusement every forenoon. On Monday, it takes
place after the Bible-lesson, and, of course, the pastor
has an opportunity of being present. One day they
had been engaged upon the 127th section of Robinson’s
Harmony, in which there is much about the Mount of
Olives (Matt. xxiv. 1-14; Mark xii. 1-13; Luke xxi.
5-19). The little lecture had taken hold of the boys,
as a good lecture always does. The upper class had
much of it down in their note-books. Several clever
boys had taken rapid copies on their slates of the out-
200 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

line sketch which Carl had drawn large on the black
surface. There was a good deal of chat under the trees
about olives and figs, and the Mount and Bethany.

Christopher Longworth. (A pale but handsome lad,
whose father is a painter.) My father has been in the
Holy Land. |

Mr, Mill, That is good. When we know people
who have travelled in Palestine, it makes the scenes of
sacred history more real to us. Perhaps you may re-
member something that he reported.

Christopher. Yes, sir. My father says he saw old olive-
trees at the spot which is thought to be Gethsemane,

Mr. Mill. A sacred spot, my dear young friends ;
though we must. not regard those places with the
superstitious veneration of the Papists and Orientals,

Carl. The modern garden of Gethsemane, as it is
called, is of small extent, being, perhaps, only a portion
of what was there in old times. The site, however,
agrees very well with all the accounts. I am told the
trees are supposed to be lineal descendants of the grove
which stood there eighteen hundred years ago.

Christopher. My father brought me an olive-branch,
carefully pressed and dried, and a folder, or paper-knife,
made of wood from the Mount of Olives,

Barry. You must bring them with you, Christopher.
_ We will not venerate them as relics, but they are
valuable as testimonials,

A little boy. Mr. Barry, may I speak? There was a
RELIGION IN SCHOOL, 201

_ French gentleman at our boarding-house at N ewport,
who said, at table, that he did not believe the stories
about Jesus and the apostles were true; or that there
were ever any such people as Christ and the apostles.

Several boys. Oh, dreadful !

Mr, Mill. Yes, indeed ; dreadful impiety, and dread-
ful folly. French infidelity of this sort used to be
more in fashion than it is now.

Christopher. But there are infidels now—are there
not, sir ?

Mr, Mil, Yes, there are; but the fashion of infi-
delity changes. So foolish and ignorant are the op-
posers of God’s truth, that they are always confuted.
But, as fast as one kind of infidelity is answered, an-
other kind is invented. Volney had his day, and several
after him; but the New Testament still abides.

Barry. Can any boy remember the figure which al-
ludes to this, in last week’s poetry-lesson ?

George Mulligan. The rock beaten by the waves.

Barry. Right. Who can apply it?

George Mulligan. The waves continually come and
break against the rock in the sea; one wave comes and
dashes, and is driven away, and another and another
follow; but the rock is unhurt. I imagine the rock
is Holy Scripture, and the angry waves are the differ-
ent sets of infidels,

Mr Mill. Very well said. With Mr. Barry’s leave,
I will give you this for a theme.
202 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

Barry. Willingly. Let the class in composition try
their hands upon this subject for Wednesday.

After some talk about verbenas, geraniums, and the
painting of sticks to support the dahlias, as well as some
inspection of butterflies emerging from their wintry
coffins or cradles, and some peeping through microscopes
the school went in again, at the tinkle of a bell, to hard
work at Greek, Latin, and mathematics.

Where the conductors of a school are truly pious,
they are every day making religious impressions on the
young, without any constraint or violent effort. They
cannot help doing so; and the scholars imperceptibly,
but surely, receive a large amount of religious knowledge.
This is very unlike the sour, hypocritical, or sancti-:
monious method, which ungodly people ascribe to
evangelical schools. Religious truth, interspersed
among the common studies of every day, is so far from
making youth dull and unhappy, that it elevates and
cheers them as truly as it protects and purifies them.
But there are also more stated means, which promote
the religious training of a school. A few of these may
be mentioned. |

Secret devotion is too sacred and delicate a matter to
be managed by school regulations, yet it is too impor-
tant to be neglected. A boy had better never go to
any school than go to one where he shall lose the habit
of secret devotion. Mr. Barry neglects no good oppor-
tunity of inculcating this duty in the short lectures, of
RELIGION IN SCHOOL. 203

five minutes each, which he makes in the prayer-room,
at evening prayers. Then he takes care that everybody
shall have time and place for suitable retirement, every
morning and every evening. Especially on the Lord’s
day, a large portion of time is afforded for these holy
employments ; and there are times when many of the
scholars seem to be availing themselves of these oppor-
tunities. |

Social devotion of the whole school, including teachers,
ladies, scholars, servants, and visitors, is a daily obser-
vance. It is very short, but very delightful. The
Scriptures are always read ; sacred music is added; and
prayer to God opens and closes the day.

The Lord’s day is wholly spent in a religious manner,
in public or private worship—in the reading of good
books—in Scriptural lessons—in Sunday-school services
(for some of the older boys begin to teach)—in practis-
ing the praise of God—and in serious, but pleasing,
conversation. Such Sabbaths are not wearisome, but
altogether a delight. The parlours are thrown open at
proper hours, and the boys feel as if the family of
their teacher is the next thing to their own beloved
homes, _ |
_ Good books, from the well-chosen library, contain
proper reading, not only for Sunday, but for other days,
when right-minded youth feel the need of spiritual
improvement. No school-day ever passes without a
short exercise on something connected with divine truth, |
204 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

which is additional to the Monday morning instructions
of the pastor. |

Religious conversation, such as a faithful parent
would have at his own fireside, is attempted in a natural,
unobtrusive way, with each scholar in private. Let me
give one example, out of a thousand.

John Marshall is a quick-witted little fellow, from
Newark, and a hopeful scholar, but rather too full of
curiosity. One day Carl Adler found him seated on
the rustic bridge, under the shade of the willows, very
busy over a large volume, which contained plates, As
his teacher approached, John turned red, and hastily
seated himself upon the book. With much gentleness,
Carl took the volume, and perceived that it was not a
proper work for so young a child,

Carl, There are persons, John, for whom this book
is very useful, but it is not the book for you.

John. I did not know it was a bad book, sir.

Adler, It is not a bad book in proper hands, yet it
may be bad for you. A razor is not a bad tool in
proper hands, yet you would not give little Fan your
father’s case of razors to play with. This volume is
excellent and necessary for Dr. Smith, who, I suppose,
left it here, when he was visiting a patient; but what
could lead you to pore over it ?

John. I hardly know, Mr. Adler, I suppose—I
suppose—it is that I am inquisitive ; it is curiosity.

Adler. I believe you, John; you have made a frank
RELIGION IN SCHOOL. 205

answer. It was curiosity—vain curiosity—a source of
many errors and many vices, (Here the tears came in-
to John’s eyes.) Do not go away, my little friend, IT
am glad of the occasion to put you on your guard.
You are young, and without experience. You do not
know Satan’s devices. Now, let me give you a lesson
for life, here in this pleasant shade, where nobody is
near us.

John, Indeed, indeed, sir, I did not know I was about
anything wrong; I only thought I should like to
know—- |

Adler, Yes; but there are many things which you
should not like to know. There are many things which
you had better know ten years hence. And there are
some things which you and I had tetter not know at
all, Fix it in your mind, John, that vain curiosity, or
inquisitiveness about things which do not concern us,
is the door at which Satan enters.

John. Please to explain, sir. |

Adler, Are there not some things which your father
and mother never mention to you at all ? |

John. O yes, sir.

Adler, Yet these things are in some books ?

John. Yes, sir.

Adler, And these things are talked about in your
hearing ?

John. Yes, sir.

Adler. And you listen with eagerness ?
206 RELIGION IN SCHOOL.

John. I believe it is so.

Adler, Then understand me. The less you listen to
- such things the better. The less you ask about them
the better. The less you read about them the better.
Always talk, read, and think, as if your dear mother
and sisters knew all that employs you, or rather as in
the presence of One who reads your thoughts. And
now, go and read how Satan gained an advantage over
the vain curiosity of our mother Eve.







BLESSINGS ARE U

XVI.

? m4 s) America. Some of my readers will remember
éj tN that pair of old ladies, Miss Sally Martin and
| Miss Phebe Davis, who taught in the village
of my boyhood, and whose scholars fill the pulpit, the
army, and the senate. They pursued their good work
till they were old.

‘‘ Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield ;
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the field;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,
With dark distrust and sad repentance filled;
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind."

But the modern ‘school-teacher is a lighter, gayer
personage, and is almost always young. Mary Brewer

may be taken as the type of such; and now, as Mrs.
Smith, she still retained a fondness for her former



208 POETRY AND SCHOOLS.

tasks, and loved to renew the old associations, by
surrounding herself with little folks. It was for this
reason that she gave the strawberry feast on the 10th
of June; and it was for this reason that she invited all
the Academy teachers, as well as Dr. Newman, who
was there on a visit. Carl, of course, was there ; and
in a retired part of the lawn sat a grave, but arch
personage, surveying the scene with gray, twinkling
eyes, who was none other than King Donald. He
could not refrain from asking leave to visit Mrs. Barry,
or “the young mistress,” as he named her, and the
doctor could not find it in his heart to refuse him.
Let us leave the boys at their gambols on the broad
grassy lawn behind the cottage, while we listen to the
talk of the elder group under the vines. They have
books on the garden-table, and seem to be turning up
pages which apply to the matters under discussion.
This is not seldom the case, even in rural interviews,
with bookish people. Dr. Newman, especially, was a
great quoter of poetry, both Latin and English ; and
knew how to hit the nail on the head with an apt
citation.

Mrs. Smith, Some of Gray’s verse I never could
enjoy ; but how often have I looked upon such a group
as that near us, and found myself repeating, —

‘‘ Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possessed ;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast.
POETRY AND SCHOOLS. | 209

Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigour born;
Fhe thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.”
Mrs. Barry. All good, Mary ; but how fearfully dark
are the stanzas which follow! T can scarcely read that

famous ode without a pang,

Dr, Newman. Have you ever observed how fond our
poets are of school scenes? It is so from Chaucer
down to Crabbe.

Mrs. Barry. Every one remembers Goldsmith’s
schoolmaster.

Barry. Yet no one ever wearies of it :-—

‘* Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in faults
The village all declared how much he knew;
"Twas certain he could write and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For even though vanquished, he could argue still.”

Mr. Mill. Stop there, Mr. Barry, for I am ready to
admit the description to be just.

Barry. Wait till we try our powers in an argument,
sir. Meanwhile, I beg leave, as lately belonging to the
class, to read from this volume Lloyd’s account of a
school-usher. You will remember Lloyd as a friend of
Cowper at Westminster school :—

‘* Were I at once empowered to show,
My utmost vengeance on my foe,

(100) 14
210 POETRY AND SCHOOLS.

To punish with extremest rigour,

I could inflict no penance bigger

Than, using him as learning’s tool,

To make him usher of a school.

‘_______. Yet, still he’s on the road, you say,
Of learning.’ Why, perhaps, he may;

But turns, like horses in a mill,

Nor getting on, nor standing still;

For little way his learning reaches

Who learns no more than what he teaches."

Dz, Newman, Too severe by half; and like most
highly-coloured pictures, untrue. The last couplet is,
however, good indeed, though full of latent sarcasm.

Mrs. Barry. Father, you will surely not forget
Lloyd’s friend, the gentle Cowper, and his “Tirocinium,”
which is all about education, from beginning to end.

Dr, Newman. Hush, hush, my dear! Don’t you
see that our craft is ruined if you cry up the “ Tiro-
cinlum? For what is it, but a defence of private
education ? |

Mrs, Barry, If itis, it nevertheless is full of whole-
some and delightful truths. |

Dr, Newman. Let us admit it, Helen, as we safely do,
without yielding the advantage of good public schools.

Dr, Smith. Here are a number of schools and school-
folk described to the life in Crabbe’s “ Borough,” and
other tales.

Dr. Newman, Yes ; and, as in all his descriptions,
he has given pictures which have an accuracy like that
of the daguerreotype.
POETRY AND SCHOOLS. 211

Carl. May I ask, sir, how it happens that schools
occupy so large a place in the poets ?

Dr. Newman. We have only dipped into the poets
yet, Adler; this is but a taste. In regard to your
question, however, many reasons might be given. The
value and importance, and the universality of schools, is
one. Almost all educated persons, as poets generally
are, went to school in their youth. The recollections
of schoolboy days are among the greenest spots in the
retrospect of memory. Add to this, that hundreds of
literary men and women have been themselves in-
structors. This is remarkably the case in America.
All which goes to dignify the occupation of the
teacher.

Carl. Perhaps the seclusion and quiet of a rural
school-life tends to foster poetic musings. Am I right,
sir 4

Dr. Newman, You are not without some ground for
your conjecture, my young friend. But you probably
reason from your own temper and experience. Ah! is
it so? You blush, Adler. I must insist on your
confession.

Mrs. Smith. I shall have to turn informer. I have
in my basket two morsels of German poetry by our
young friend, written at his school-desk.

Adler. And one of them, I am forced to say; has
been translated by Mary. :

Dr. Smith. Mary is fairly caught; and as some of
212 POETRY AND SCHOOLS.

us read no German, we must insist on her producing
the English. |

Mrs. Barry. I will spare Mary the confusion of
reading her own verses, which I find here enclosed in
the other papers; so here they are—we can have them
before the strawberries are served :—

‘* Ye unseen powers that ever stand and wait
Upon the heavenly Majesty, in love,
Say, do ye ever flag upon the wing,
And sink, like us, when ye should lightly move?
Or doth the sacred power that, flowing in,
Guides all ‘your impulses, so lift you high,
That ye are ever active, ever glad?
Ah, woe is me! I would be angel too;
But the flesh drags, and I am scarcely man!
Sink then I will, since I am slow to rise,
And bending, plunge me in my nothingness,
_ Content in humble thought that Christ is all.’

After the reading of the verses, which were pro-
nounced respectable by the critics, King Donald came
forward with the information that he was about to
honour the anniversary of Mary’s marriage with a
specimen of strawberries, which he had brought with
great care from the garden at the Oaks. These being
of superior kinds, were added to the stores from Dr.
Smith’s little beds. A table, spread under the elms,
had a pastoral look, which became almost Arcadian,
when heaps of the ruddy fruit were seen to alternate
with pitchers of cream. The conversation soon turned
on the case in hand, and learned opinions were expressed
POETRY AND SCHOOLS, _ 213

as to the comparative excellence of the Dundee straw-
berry (Donald’s pride), the Black Prince, to which Mrs.
Smith gave the palm, Hovey’s Seedling, a giant kind,
_ and the several Hautbois and Alpines. The boys were
in raptures, and their elders, if more quiet, were scarcely
less gratified. Christopher remembered a Latin saying,
and declared the day should be “marked with a white
stone.”




arrival of Emigrants.

ah (> LETTER was delivered to Carl at the
‘G{ breakfast-table, which made it necessary
for him to repair at once to the city. vessel from Hamburg had just come in,
with several hundred German emigrants,
among whom was an old man named Wolf,
who had been a tenant of his grandfather, and who
was about to settle with a numerous family in Missouri.
The arrival of an emigrant ship presents a bustling
scene of varied interest. The small steamboat which
brought the passengers from the Lower Bay was
crowded with men, women, and children. Soon after
they disembarked, amidst hundreds of boxes, bags, and
piles of household furniture and kitchen utensils,
greetings and earnest conversations began on the wharf,
and along the streets, and in the German taverns near
the North River, and even in the carts which conveyed
them to the appointed lodgings. Carl almost imagined
himself in his fatherland, On every side he heard the


ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS, 215

language of his country. Here were the same dresses ;
the same hearty, sun-browned faces ; the women with
uncovered heads; the men with pipes and blouses.
He felt at home among the blue-eyed, yellow-haired
children of the Elbe and the Rhine. Some of the
number soon became too merry, and jugs of lager-bier
circulated with painful frequency; but most of the
emigrants were sober and discreet, and none more so
than the circle around the venerable Gottfried Wolf.
Carl directed the way of this worthy family to the
retired lodging-house recommended by the consul.
Here the conversation became first lively and then
affecting, as name after name of those most dear to him
was mentioned, and as letters, books, and other tokens
were produced. Wolf gave an account of the em-
barkation, and put into Carl’s hand a little poem of
Freiligrath, sent to him by his sister, of which the
following is a translation :—

‘* T cannot leave the busy strand!
I gaze upon you, standing there,
And giving to the sailor’s hand
Your household furniture and ware ;

Men, from their shoulders lifting down
Baskets of bread, with careful hand,
Prepared from German corn, and brown
From the old hearth in Fatherland;

Black-forest maids, with sunburnt faces,
Slim forms, and neatly braided hair,

Come, each within the shallop piaces
Her jugs and pitchers all with care.
216 ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS,

The pitchers, carried oft to fill
At the familiar village spring;
When by Missouri all is still,
Visions of home will round them cling.

The rustic well, with stones girt round,
The low stone-wall they bended o’er,
The hearth upon the family ground,
The mantelpiece, with all its store: | .

All will be dear, when, in the West,
These pitchers deck the lone log-hut,

Or when reached down, that some brown guest
May quench his thirst and travel on.

Tired in the chase the Cherokees
Will drink from them on hunting-ground ;
No more from glad grape-gleaning these
Shall come, with German vine-leaves crowned.

Why, wanderers, must you leave your land?
The Neckar-vale has wine and corn;

Tall firs in our Black Forest stand ;
In Spessart sounds the Alper’s horn.

Mid foreign woods you'll long in vain
For your paternal mountains green,
For Deutschland’s yellow fields of grain,
And hill of vines with purple sheen.

The vision of your olden time,
Of all you leave so far behind,
Like some old legendary rhyme,
Will rise in dreams and haunt your mind.

The boatman calls—depart in peace!
God keep you, man, and wife, and child!
Joy dwell with you! and fast increase
Your rice and maize in yonder wild.”

Carl smiled at the little slips of the poet, about
Cherokees and rice on the Missouri; and thought it
ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS. , 217

would not be hard to write another poem, of a corre-
sponding character, on the arrival of emigrants in
America; but his mind was turned to more immediate
duties. As he looked on the gray-haired father, the
meekly-patient but anxious mother, the three hardy
young men, whose appearance betokened resolution and
strength, and the younger ones of the party, who were
alldaughters, he was moved at the thought of the long
journey yet before them, and the unexpected trials
through which they might have to pass. Young as he
was, he found it to be his plain duty to become their
adviser. He put them on their guard against the
sharpers who lie in wait for foreigners, and the infidel
seducers who betray hundreds. He besought them
from the beginning to reverence God, and cling to the
Christian principles of their forefathers. He even
offered to go with them to church, where they might
join in their own service and sing their own beloved
hymns. And he advised them to make no tarrying in
the great city, but to hasten towards their Western
home, which was to be in a beautiful section of the state
of Missouri. There, as he informed them, they would
find a large settlement of German Protestants, and
would have a welcome among their own people. He
explained to them the danger of giving themselves up
exclusively to labour and gain, and recommended early
and constant attention to the worship of God and the
education of the little ones. And before he left them
218 | ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS.

he gave them letters to Mr. Spalding, a pious and
learned schoolmaster in Missouri.

A. day of much excitement was followed by a de-
lightful return on board the little steamboat, which -
leaves New York every few hours, and lands its pas-
sengers near Sunnyside. The waves were calm, but
speckled with craft of all dimensions. As the sun
went down over Haarlem, gay boats, with parties of
pleasure, and sometimes with music, passed and re-
passed. The shores on either side were one mass of
green, broken only by hamlets, villas, and mansions,
such as every year more and more adorn the edges of
these rivers and bays. The south-west wind breathed
freshly over the vessel, as if sent to cool the youthful
brow, not a little fevered by the warm emotions of a
long and busy day. The hour seemed short, therefore,
when Carl began to find himself among the boiling



eddies near —— Island, and at length caught a glimpse
of the octagon school-house, where he entered on ear-
nest life, and the dark rocks and nodding groves be- ©
hind it. The school-waggon was in waiting for him,
and a rapid drive conveyed him to the academy before
it was entirely dark. But then he hastened to his soli-
tary chamber, to tear open the letters which Wolf had
brought from Germany.

The first was from his elder sister, Charlotte, and it
enclosed another for little Ursula, who was living with
her uncle Schneckenberg, in Baltimore. It told him
ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS, 219

of deaths and other changes; and made him laugh and

cry by turns, when it named one after another of his
boyish comrades, and related anecdotes of comical old
friends still surviving at Bingen, intermingled with
allusions to sacred hours, when the family circle was
yet unbroken. With all the gentle love of a faithful
elder sister, Charlotte expressed her joy at his promo-
tion and prospects, and poured out wishes and advices |
about Ursula. “We three,” said she, “ dearest Carl,
are all that remain of that once large happy household
on the White Hill. Let us be true to one another ;
and in order to this, let us pray to be kept true to our
Lord! You cannot know how anxious I was for you,
until I learned that you were living a decidedly re-
ligious life. Now Iamat peace. I believe the prayers
of our dear parents are about to be answered for their
children, Perhaps we may yet see you serving the
Lord in his ministry. But if not, you are doing the
next best thing, by caring for his lambs.” Then in a
hurried postscript, with many erasures, and many in-
junctions of secresy, she confides to her brother the
intimation that her hand has been given by solemn
betrothal to a young civil engineer named Falck. And
then, naming the marriage-day, she added, “ After which
we expect to sail for Boston in the good ship Jrene,
hoping to spend our days in America!” .

Is Carl dreaming, or is he out of his head? He lays
his forehead on the desk; he- paces the floor; he
220 ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS.

stretches out his arms toward the heavens; he kneels
and weeps. These are only the signs of a tumultuous
feeling, awakened by the sudden news of such a favour.
“Surely,” cried he, “goodness and mercy shall follow
me all the days of my life!” (Ps. xxiii. 6).

The gathering of friends, and reunion of families,
after years of separation, may be ranked among the
most.affecting circumstances of that emigration which
is now so common. Not a vessel passes the ocean
which does not carry some message or some person
connected with these touching scenes. Sometimes the
children precede, and, after a while, are followed by
- their aged parents. Sometimesa young husband comes
over, explores and prepares, and then returns, or sends
for his wife and little ones. When the union is com-
plete, and a whole family meets in the new home, in
the rich wheat lands of New York and Pennsylvania,
or the prairies of the West, and the hymn of praise
goes up from the domestic choir, amidst the indescrib-
able beauties and glories of nature, the cup of Christian
happiness, for:a little while at least, runs over the
brim; and hearts flow together and praise God in a
full, irrepressible torrent of thankful love,




XVIII.

Mocendo DMirscimus.



T, p (HE partnership of Barry and Adler, in teach-

‘Whe ing, was productive of many agreeable re-
4° * sults. In all essential qualities of body and
| mind, they were alike; good sense, good
temper, good manners, and good principles
they had in common. But still they differed, as good
people may differ; and it is likely the difference was
an advantage to both. Barry was more inclined to
out-of-door labour. He was what is called a practical
man. He had, withal, a great hilarity and a sanguine
temperament in regard to all his projects. He was
kind-hearted, but not prone to undue pity. There was
very little fancy or sentimentality in his character, and
much more prose than poetry. Carl was equally robust,
and more trained in gymnastic exercises, but his turn
was pensive and poetical. He often walked alone, at
sunset or in twilight, along the sounding beach. Such
poems as Beattie’s “ Minstrel” not only gained his at-
tention, but expressed his character. |
922 DOCENDO DISCIMUS.

Both were fond of teaching, but they succeeded in
different ways. Carl had owed to Barry some of his
best thoughts about school management; but now he
began to improve upon them, and strike out some
paths for himself. Barry’s remarkable turn for natural
history led him to undertake extensive pedestrian
tours; and he spent almost a whole summer in the
swamps and pines of New Jersey, and along the sea-
‘shore, collecting the plants of those rich localities,
During this time the government of the academy fell
almost entirely into Carl’s hands. He always had,
indeed, his excellent friend, Mr. Mill, to fall back upon,
in case of any doubt or difficulty.

There is nothing which brings out a young man’s
powers more than responsibility; and there are few
persons by whom this is more painfully or more early
felt than young schoolmasters. This discipline makes
men of them. It is one of the reasons why teaching
is so extensively the road to success and promotion.
Carl found this to be the case. He often paced the
floor in anxiety when some new study was to come on,
or when some arrogant boy braved his authority, or
when some perverse parent took the side of a rebellious
child; but most of all was he filled with anxiety when
habits of idleness or vice threatened any one of his —
school. Yet all these things together made him feel
his accountability, and his need of divine aid. From
day to day he had a sort of modest feeling that he was
DOCENDO DISCIMUS, 223

getting stronger and stronger. While it was far from
his nature to put on any airs of command, or seek
authority over his lads by looking big, Carl perceived
that they respected him, and gradually felt his strength.
A hundred little experiments in teaching or govern-
ment, which he would once have shrunk from, he now
felt free to undertake, As his confidence and skill in-
ereased, he took the same lively and indescribable in-
terest in managing his boys which a dexterous driver
has in controlling and guiding spirited horses, four or
six in hand. Or, to use his own figure in hig journal,
“the same pleasure which a sculptor feels, as the statue
comes into shape and beauty under his chisel.”

“WE LEARN BY TEACHING,” says a Latin proverb.*
Carl met with this remark in an old writer: “I seem
to myself to have no accurate knowledge of a subject
until I have tried to teach somebody else.” There is
nothing which gives such exactness of knowledge as
endeavouring to communicate it. “It is,” said Mr.
Mill, “a benignant provision of our adorable Creator,
who thus, as it were, puts a bounty upon what might
otherwise be a task and a drudgery.” This was
exemplified in the lessons which Carl gave in his own
language. If there was one thing which he thought he
_ knew above all things else, it was German; yet, when.
he came to teach a class of the higher boys, he found
that they put questions to him which he could not an-

* Docendo discimus.
294 DOCENDO DISCIMUS.

swer. Then he was driven to study them out. In
trying to give rules for particular cases, he learned to .
express himself with clearness, precision, and brevity.
It is one of the best results of education.

So it was in the lessons of his Bible-class in the
Sunday-school: Carl learned while he taught, and in-
structed himself in more than he gave his pupils.
Then he was led on to further attainments. If a child’s
question opened a new path, he was not content to an-
swer it; he pursued the track into other unknown
fields. Thus was he led to draft an outline map of
Palestine, and to reduce to a table all the kings of
Israel and Judah. He wrote a little memoir of the
apostle John, and borrowed books of Mr. Mill in order
to learn what the ancient writers add to the New Testa-
ment history of the beloved disciple.

Teaching young men of promise stimulates the teacher
more than the scholar. Carl had three boys who were
at surveying. It was easy to keep up with all that
they required; but he went further, and he did so with
animation and delight. He made himself better
acquainted with logarithms and geometrical problems.
He gained a minute knowledge of the theodolite and .
the sextant, and took the boys out into the fields to
‘Survey with the compass, constructing the figure in the
field, or registering the observations for subsequent
- plans: He even peeped into the volumes of Biot and -
Puisant. Carl was wide awake. His motto was,
DOCENDO DISCIMUsS. | 995

OnwarD! To be a useful Christian teacher was the
great wish and purpose of his life; and he exercised
himself with this in view, just as one who means to.be
a great general exercises himself in military exercises,
This made his labour light, and turned work into play.
Instead of groaning under his daily burden, he made
school pursuits his recreation and delight,

Carl and Ludwig were seated in the back piazza of
the academy, trying to keep cool, on a midsummer
morning. ‘The earth was covered with its fullest green.
The air was scented with the Bermuda grape, and
valerian, and roses. Pinks and verbenas sparkled in
the borders. A colony of martins kept all in a chatter
about their mimic house. The two young emigrants
were talking over their plans; for Ludwig had now
caught the prevailing enthusiasm to be a teacher,

“Continue, Mr. Adler, if you please,” said Ludwig,
“the account you were giving me of young Sybel, out
of the German volume which Mademoiselle Ursula
sent you.”

Carl went to his room for the volume, and proceeded
as follows :—



(100) 15


XIX,

Sobel, the German Ceacher.

pou must remember,” said Carl, “that Sybel
died in 1838, at the age of thirty-four, at
Luckenwalde.”

Ludurg. Did he not live once at Pots-



dam ?

Carl, He did. He was connected with
a school there ; but it was before he came out fully and
clearly as an evangelical believer. And do you know,
Ludwig, I think a man must be crippled in his teaching
who is not a true Christian 2

Ludwig. You have taught me to think so, my dear
friend ; but how blind was I, when you took me up!
Though nominally a Catholic, I had ceased to believe
in the divinity of our Lord!

Carl. Neither did Sybel believe it at first. But let
me recur to his boyhood. You know how dreadful was
the war of 1813, 1814, 1815.

Ludwig. Ah, my father was killed in it!

Carl. You know, the whole of our countrymen |
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER. 227

seemed to start from the long sleep of every-day life
to a romantic interest, which we can scarcely compre-
hend. This inspiration was wonderfully breathed into
the youth of the country. Arnold Sybel, at ten
years of age, already longed to be a soldier, and wrote
patriotic verses. To understand what. follows, it is
necessary to refer to the associations of the Turnleben,
as it was called. These institutions were intended to
revive the spirit of chivalry, in a fanciful connection
with patriotism, manly vigour, and religion: a truly
German conception, which resulted in much good and
much evil. They stimulated the youthful mind in an
unexampled degree, raising it to a seriousness, ardour,
and precocious heroism, which had extraordinary fasci-
nations, At twelve years of age, Sybel began to visit
these earnest and awakening meetings, which were
spread over a large part of Germany, under the influ-
ence of Jahn, who was a type of German enthusiasm.
Here boys were trained to sacrifice everything on the
altar of the Katherland ; and, after serving in the army
against the invader, many of them returned to the Turn-
platz, to throw fresh warmth into the circulation. It
was a part of this beautiful dream, to restore the
national integrity, to revive old German simplicity and
valour, to cherish a tender brotherhood, and to connect
all this with a sort of religion, which, however latitu-
dinarian in tenets, was full of passion. The -youth was
introduced to a band of ardent associates; to a series
228 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

of the most athletic exercises ; to self-denials of the
severest sort; and to songs and music which inflamed
the soul. No wonder that they were frequented by
multitudes, and that they absorbed all juvenile sports
in their vortex. All distinctions of rank were levelled.
They were met, according to Jahn’s idea, to rescue and
elevate their dismembered and endangered country. It
is impossible to comprehend the character of Sybel,
unless we remember that it was formed in this unusual
school. A Spartan discipline was brought in, to cure the
effeminacy of luxurious ease, and this was accompanied
by all possible appliances of poetry and art. One trait
of this scheme is peculiar. It made war against the
voluptuous curiosity and heats of adolescence, and in-
culcated a virginal chastity, in language, demeanour,
and life. If it were seemly, we might give striking
proofs of the extent to which this prevailed. Under
the harangues of Jahn, and the Tyrtcean songs of
Koerner, Schenkendorf, and Arndt, the youthful
assemblies were borne up to an extraordinary height of
animation. It was the call of God, as they said, that
they should save their country. Little armies of these
youth, under their leaders, with chorus and music,
traversed whole provinces and states on their expedi-
tions. The effect may be imagined, which such stimu-
lants would produce in a mind susceptible -as that of —
Sybel, when, at fifteen, he joined in such an expedition
through Thuringia and the Hartz, and when, at dawn,
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER: ga9

from a mountain-top, he opened his eyes on the glorious
prospect, amidst the swell of hundreds of voices, united
inthe morning-hymn. At this period, Sybel is described
as a boy of lovely form and aspect. His complexion
was fair and ruddy, and his blonde hair flowed grace-
fully over a high and ample forehead, while a light blue
eye spoke out the fresh and jocund eartnestness of his
nature. The murder of Kotzebue, by Sand, and the
animadversion of the government on Jahn, put an end
to the patriotic associations, and left Sybel to the
ordinary influences of domestic and academic life.
He was already a poet, and he was rapidly advancing
in his classical career. Between the age of seventeen
and twenty, we find him agitated with religious emotion ;
though, as he afterwards found, this was more the
religion of poetical mysticism than of the gospel. Yet
it tended to form his peculiar character ; and, though
remote from what we see at home, it is not uninterest-
ing as a study. His biographer admits that “ Christ
was still in the background of the picture.” After
being confirmed and admitted to the communion,
according to the Lutheran rite, the ardent youth thus
writes: “ Brother, itis done! The Lord has blessed
me! With godly sorrow and deep emotion, I have
received the blessing, and rendered to the Lord my vow.
By the grace of our Father, I received the holy Supper
on Sunday, with reverent awe, and espoused myself
entirely to Jesus. My dear friend, the Church has now
230 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

bound us together, and our tie has become stronger,
holier, and more significant.” The hymns and other
sacred effusions of this period are numerous. What
follows gives a glimpse of his studies and temper in
1821 :—* Yesterday I had to go to Schonfeld, to work
with him at Virgil: for this, I laid down my pen and
tore myself from you. How far he makes up for your
absence, is more than I can express. What above all
attracts me, is his profound, noble feeling for piety,
love, and Fatherland. We labour together almost
every day, and provoke one another to study and to
virtue. I am now content with my pursuits. Cicero’s
Orations are not hard, and the style pleases me; but
Virgil is not so much to my mind, as I read it along
with Homer; otherwise I find it easy. Homer is my
favourite, as Siebenhaar expounds him, This, and the
religious lessons with Spilleke, please me most. The
Anabasis, on the contrary, where speeches are to be
translated, is more difficult than the Iliad, Spilleke and
Siebenhaar are my dearest and most honoured teachers.
My love for them does not decrease; nay, every day,
every hour, it grows on me; and it is only in this class
that I have begun fairly to penetrate their interior spirit.”

Ludwig. There is something in this letter which may
afford a lesson to young academics in America.

Carl, In 1824 and 1825, Sybel was at the Univer-
sity of Bonn; afterwards, for two years, at Berlin. He
then took charge of a female seminary, at Charlotten-
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER, 231

burg, for one year, at the same time preparing for the
ministry, and for the rigid examination to which, you
know, teachers in Germany are subjected. He then
became an instructor in Berlin, where he remained till
the spring of 1831. It was the period in which he
became acquainted with Bertha Kirstenmacher, who was
afterwards his wife.

Ludwig. I have heard of the love of Sybel’s pupils
for him. It confirms your maxim, Love begets love.

Carl. Yes, a young man, who was long his pupil at
Berlin, says of him: “The love of all his pupils for
him was touching. It was increased by the walks
which he took with us every week. When he left us
for Potsdam, and was driving through the Kochstrasse,
a hundred scholars accompanied the carriage with
cheers, till at length he dismounted and walked along
with them.

Ludwig. This would look odd in America.

Carl. But why should it? If we were as full of
heart in our teaching as was Arnold Sybel, we should
win the same affectionate enthusiasm. Sybel lived and
moved in school-teaching and school-training, as his
element. It was a darling idea of his, to bring the
teachers of Germany into nearer fellowship, as a pro-
fession. This was perhaps encouraged by his remem-
brances of the gymnastic associations of the Turnleben.

Ludwig. Did he still practise the exercises !

Carl, Let his own words answer: “T[ feel the need
939 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

of a public gymnasium (Turnplatz), where I may, at
any time, run and take bodily exercise. I use one of
my vacant hours, from two to three, for this, as it is
unsuited for work; but alas! I doit alone. Thus far,
they have been mostly running, especially up hill.
Now, I am adding motions of the arms. I gather
stones, and cast them right and left, far into the air, or
at a mark. To-day I have practised with some pretty
large stones, upon a somewhat steep hill) After such
exertion, I feel quite fresh and joyous.” By the side
of his desk, where he spent so many hours of study and
prayer, he kept a pair of dumb-bells, for strengthening
the chest. In his walks, he often carried in his pocket
a cord, which he would use among the forest trees in
swinging and vaulting exercises.

Ludwig. I love this lively temper.

Carl. It was equally manifest in his whole career.
He encouraged himself amidst discouragements by
Christian hopes, and no men need such cheering more
than teachers. In one of his letters, he writes thus :—

“ The schoolmaster must not be too intent on gather-
ung the fruit. The seed ripens slowly. One waters,
another harvests. Some may even pull up the seed —
sown unless it be well-rooted. And how much falls
by the wayside? And how often might the very way-
side have become good soil, if the husbandman had only
put in his plough with strength, and begun at the right

place ! ”
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER. 233

Ludwig. It was good to be the pupil of so earnest a
preceptor. |

Carl. He always worked with his boys around him.
In this he resembled the great Dr. Arnold of Rugby.
Before he sat down, he allotted to each his employment,
so as to escape needless interruption. Yet he was
always ready to assist. When the day’s work was over,
everything must be put into its place, for he was strictly
observant of neatness and order. Every week there
was an inspection of the desks and other repositories,
and every gross neglect incurred a trifling fine, which
went into the poor’s box. He was constant in accom-
panying squads of the boys in rambles and visits to
works of art. In this way, it was a main object of his
to cultivate gentle affection between the youth.

Ludwig. Had Sybel any children of his own ?

Carl. He had, but they were left orphans by his
early death. As you might suppose, he was a tender
and a Christian parent. In 1833 he thus wrote con-
cerning one of them :—

“The dear babe is somewhat recovered. Oh, what
joy! Dear Albert, at this season I have once more
learned how great a weapon prayer is. I was able to
think with cheerfulness of giving up my child. I
should like to know what you think of prayer. It 1s
a point in which I think we are much divided. Yor
instance, in this, that I pray to Christ, in which you
will acknowledge no difference. If so, it must be the
234 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

same to you, and therefore you must pray to him. For
my part, I talk with him as the disciples talked with him
during his bodily presence, and cast myself on his promise
that he is with me and hears me. I pour out my heart
to him just as it is, with all its joy and all its grief.”

Ludwig. Oh, Mr. Adler, have you no more letters
of the same kind ?

Carl, Here are numbers of them in this volume.
Try this one,—“ B.’s letter has done me good. I agree
with that faith of his which demands a formula, and
only inquire whether he will agree with mein my for-
mula, which says with Luther’s Catechism,— I believe
that Jesus Christ, very God, begotten of the Father in
eternity, and also very man, born of the Virgin Mary,
is my Lord, who has redeemed, delivered, and won
from all sin, death, and the devil’s power (now comes
a capital point) me, a lost and condemned sinner ; not
with gold and silver, but with his holy, dear blood,
and with his innocent sufferings and death, that I
should be his own, to live under him in his kingdom,
and to serve him in eternal righteousness, innocence,
and happiness; likewise, he has arisen from the dead,
and lives and reigns evermore. This is assuredly true.
So speaks Luther; and I have written it here as fear-_
ing it might be unknown to B., as within a few years
it was unknown to me,’

Ludwig. And to me/ But let me hear a word or
two concerning his death,
SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER, 235

Carl. In November 1838 Sybel was seized with what
seemed to be the influenza. He had been preaching a
series of sermons, and was preparing one on the kingly
office of Christ. Writing to his dear friend, the Rev.
Mr. Karbe, he says,—“ Above all I have this blessed
experience, that I am his own, and live as a subject in
his kingdom. He is the vine, we the branches. How
precious, to be Aes branches!” Meanwhile he looked
to the building of a parsonage, the planting of vines,
and the planning of a little garden. “I wish yet,” he
writes to a Christian lady in Potsdam, “to plant three
fruit trees,—an apple-tree, which is to be named John;
a pear-tree, named Martin; and a heart cherry-tree,
named Mary.” Soon after, he preached his last sermon.
On the 15th of November he took to his bed, which
he occasionally exchanged for the sofa. Though often
disqualified by the violence of fever from saying any-
thing as he wished to do, he sometimes exclaimed with
earnestness, ‘Oh, dear Lord, grant that by means of
my suffering and death some one soul at least may be
gained for thee and thy kingdom!” Even after he was
thought to be sunk in delirium he revived, and cried
aloud, “The Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Lord, will —
‘conquer; I am already happy! I am already happy! —
-Halleluiah!” On recovering his usual clearness of
mind, he said, “ Oh, thou who art my life! thou Prince _
of Peace, thou mine Emmanuel, thou Rose of Sharon, ©
my fairest one, thou brightness of glories 1? And again,
236 SYBEL, THE GERMAN TEACHER.

“T have fought a good fight, I have kept the faith, I
am saved! This is my deathbed; let me sleep a little,
and then I am ready to die.” ‘To his children: “ The
blessing of Abraham, the blessing of Isaac, and the
blessing of Jacob come upon you.” Again and again
he said to his beloved Bertha, “ Bear thy suffering like
a Christian woman when I am dead; seek Jesus and
his help, there is no help anywhere else.” He prayed
and sang as long as his strength held out. Among his
papers one was found requesting that his funeral ser-
mon should be on the words, “ This is a faithful saying,
and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came
nto the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief.”

Ludwig. You have given me the history of so good
a man and so noble-hearted a teacher, that I would
gladly learn more of him. :

Carl, Then you had better take the volume with
you. It was printed at Berlin in 1841, and is by the
Rev. Dr. Liebetrut, an intimate friend of Sybel.











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Aa . this narrative. Yet, if the vote had been
ip A ( a wy . .
eZ ye taken among all the people in and about

Ashdell, the voice of highest approval
would probably have been for Matilda.
Advantages of person were joined with
sound understanding, delicate taste, and accomplished
education; and these were crowned by that which

WS

<

Solomon says is the chief praise of the sex (Prov. xxxi.
30). But so retiring was she that many who saw her
every day had no suspicion of her attainments or her
force of character; and some in her vicinity were even
unaware of her existence. During the feeble and de-
clining health of her father she was the manager of his
domestic affairs, and the guide and example of her
little brothers. It was her graceful hospitality and
intelligent conversation which formed the principal
charm of the Spring’ Hill parsonage.

The intimacy was very natural which sprang up
238 SCHOOL FESTIVITIES.

between Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Barry, and Miss Mill. Un-
like in many things, they were united in the love of
knowledge and in true religion. Their plans were often
concerted together, and this occurred in respect to the
examination festivities which were approaching, and
which it fell to Mrs. Barry to provide for.

Examinations are often hollow and unprofitable. At
Ashdell it was determined to turn them to account.
Two ends were held in view, first, to give a fair account
of what the school had accomplished in the way of
teaching and learning ; and, secondly, to afford a grand
entertainment to the boys and their friends. A plea-
sant season of the year was chosen. Preparations were
elaborately made, not only in the school, but out of it.
The ladies had to prepare accommodations and refresh-
ments for numerous guests, including the parents of
the pupils. It was a time of high enjoyment, and the
little exhibition of declamations and dialogues on the
evening of the closing day was the grandest time of
all, when the boys were at the top of their glee, in their
best clothes and most shining faces, while mothers and
sisters were looking on and listening with indescribable
anxiety.

Matilda Mill assumed under Mrs. Barry the charge |
of the minor arrangements. She selected the music
and drew up the programmes, and decorated the school-
room with green branches and flowers, It was she
who gathered those stores of apples, pears, peaches,
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES. 939

apricots, nectarines, plums, and grapes and melons,
which loaded the table on the lawn; and every visitor
remembered the dainty richness of the cream which she
poured from her liberal pitchers.

Why should I describe the wonders of an examina-
tion, and the delightful hopes of approaching holidays?
Every one can recall the loud conferences under trees
and in play-grounds, the rehearsal of dialogues, the
billets to friends, and the inquisitive scanning of ar-
rivals, Farmer Black of Cherry Hill was the earliest
visitor, in a newly painted waggon, with white canvass
top; he brought two grandsons to school, and a copy
of Henry’s Commentary for the library, also a well
trained horse for the riding classes. You would have
thought that Carl and Matilda had been his own chil-
dren. Of course he had his quarters at the doctor's.
The farmer had now become a rich man, and had two
sons married in New York. Next came the Rev. Mr.
Cole, no longer a schoolmaster, but a professor in the
north-west, as awkward and honest as ever, and full
of admiration at seeing in Mr. Carl Adler the little
German boy of former days. He inquired of Matilda
Mill whether Carl was married yet, which brought the
colour into that young lady’s countenance. Mrs. Gray-
son, the same old lady who had been attracted by the
singing of Carl and his boys on the beach, gave notice
of her own approach by the sending of a pianoforte for
the use of the academy: her little boys were already
240 SCHOOL FESTIVITIES.

members of the school. Fred Mill, now a dashing
young doctor, appeared in due time, with a brother
physician fresh from Paris, in whom Carl recognised
Burnham, the head boy of former days, who had so
often taken his part at the Oaks. That venerable
establishment, be it observed, was now given. up, and
the excellent Dr. Newman being infirm with years, and
having no other children, had come to reside with his
beloved Helen until further plans should perhaps re-
move them all to New York. The company was
becoming large, but the parsonage was ample Mr.
Barrow’s accommodations were adjusted to just such
gatherings, and Dr. Smith, considering himself one of
the group, insisted on having Drs. Mill and Burnham
at the cottage, as he said, to help in taking care of
Farmer Black, who cried out in reply that he had never
been ill a day in his life.

For some reason or other the boys were in uncom-
mon good humour, and seemed to have a secret among
them, which was very much hushed up. King Donald,
however, who had accompanied Dr. N ewman, and was
now head gardener, took part in their secret plans. On
the gravelled walk near the spring, where a thicket of
shrubbery surmounts each side of the craggy pass (the
boys called it Thermopyle, though the spring was not
warm, but exceedingly cold) great preparations were in
progress fora sort of triumphalarch. Thewind had blown
it down twice, but Donald cheered the boys, and even
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES, 24]

sang part of Burns’s lines to the Mouse, whose nest was
turned up by his plough :—
“* But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,*
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes 0’ mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,t
And leave us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.”’.

It was finally, however, completed, with beautiful
wreaths of myrtle, and two fine cyphers of initials, which
were carefully covered from curious eyes. Carl espe-
cially was forbidden to"approach that darkened avenue
near the cascade; and the small boys took a peculiar
arch satisfaction in barring out the master from his
own grounds. Christopher Longworth, the painter’s
son, brought two large canvass banners, executed in
the manner usual in scenes, so as to look well at a dis-
tance. They were happily placed near the spring. Of
these more hereafter. There was great practising of
a German glee, and Ludwig was the leader of the
orchestra. Charles and Edward Lowe, with John
Marshall, being little boys, were drilled as pages to
scatter flowers at the proper places in a grand proces-
sion. Gregory Beale brought a note from his uncle,
the great confectioner, offering a number of pyramids
of ice-cream; and the neighbouring florists sent in
baskets of bouquets. In all this part of the preparations
it was observed that Matilda Mill took no part. She

* Not alone. t Awry, off the line,

(100) 16
242 SCHOOL FESTIVITIES.

was busy at times about other matters, but was often
pensive and solitary in her work, and sometimes came
weeping out of her mother’s chamber of languishing.

The first day of examination passed off well. The.
neighbouring ladies and gentlemen who favoured the
school returned home at night, but numbers remained
to share the rural but abundant hospitalities, and to
attend a concert of sacred music, and hear an address
from Dr. Newman. When the second and closing day
of the solemnities was drawing to a close, and the sun
was near setting, a carriage drove up to the gate. Four
persons approached, two gentlemen, a young lady, and
a little girl, The quick eye of Carl detected in the
lady his beloved sister Charlotte! She had just arrived
in the steamer Hermann. The embrace of a brother
and sister so long separated need not be described,
The foreign gentleman was Captain Falck, Charlotte’s
husband. The youngest was Ursula. They were ac-
companied by Mr. Schneckenberg. |

Happy, happy meeting at such an auspicious mo-
ment, There are many such conjunctures afforded by
an all-loving providence if we would but observe them.
very man, woman, and child at Ashdell seemed to
sympathize in the delight and gratitude of Carl. After
evening worship, which was attended by quite a con-—
gregation, the friends retired to a shady arbour, asking
and answering questions of affection, and recounting
the marvellous lovingkindness of the Lord. Here Car]
SCHOOL FESTIVITIES. 243

confided to his dear friends a secret of his life, which
the reader has only guessed.

An hour was spent in listening to the speeches of the .
boys, which were accompanied by music of their own.
The day closed with pleasing anticipations of the mor-
row, when the boys were to go home for the vacation.
But there was to be another event, which may properly
be made known in another chapter. |


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XXI,

Conclusion.

~
9,

(eit fs this little book is far from being a love
(iyeaSX story, it might very properly end without
283 a marriage. N othing has been said about
Carl’s courtship, but it is nevertheless true
{"~y that his wedding-day has arrived, and that

he is about to be married to Matilda
Mill. If intelligence, education, and piety can fit
a young lady to be the ornament and blessing of a
household, Miss Mill was so fitted. It was universally
pleasing to all concerned, and to none more so than to
Charlotte and Ursula, who loved Matilda at first sight,

and found it hard to keep down some worldly pride as




they looked around on the prospects of their once des-
pondent brother.

There was not a boy in the school, nor a servant in
the establishment, who did not fleel a glow of pleasure
at the happiness of Carl Adler, They knew that he
was soon to be principal of the academy, as Mr. Barry
had accepted a more prominent situation in New York.
CONCLUSION, DAB

Confidence and affectionate respect are the natural
consequence and sure reward of diligence, punctuality,
and Christian love. A gay procession of youth moved
along the serpentine walk towards the spring, and at —
the shady spot called Thermopyle the festive arch
presented itself, with the initials of the bridegroom and
bride in letters ingeniously wreathed of evergreens and
flowers. In a rustic framework of the same were dis-
played the two pictures, representing—one, Bingen on
the Rhine, and on the other, the Oaks.

“Ah, my young master,” said King Donald, “ Did I
not tell you in the old garden that the day would come
when you would feel as much at home in 1 this country
as ever-you did on the Rhine?” )

Just then Ludwig’s trained company of musicians
broke out in the strains of the famous German song of
Arndt’s, Was «st des Deutschen Vaterland.

Their pronunciation was tolerable, and their execu-
tion admirable. At the closing stanzas tears were in
the eyes of all the Germans present, and Charlotte and
Ursula could scarcely cease weeping for joy. The verses
alluded to may be thus imitated :—

‘‘ Where, therefore, lies the German land?
Name now at last that mighty land!
Where’er resounds the German tongue,
Where German hymns to God are sung,
There, gallant brother, take thy stand!
That is the German’s fatherland.

That is the land, the land of lands,
Where vows bind less than clasped hands,
246 CONCLUSION.

Where valour lights the flashing eye,
Where love and truth in deep hearts lie,
And zeal enkindles freedom’s band,— |
There is the German's fatherland!

That is the German’s fatherland!

Great God! look down and bless that land!
And give her noble children-souls

To cherish while existence rolls,

And love with heart and aid with hand
Their universal fatherland!”

There was a solitary hour of twilight, in which Carl
looked abroad over the beautiful expanse of land and
water from the green knoll beyond the spring. A whole
lifetime seemed to press for admittance into his burst-
ing heart, and his soul went forth to God in thankfulness
and praise. The God of the orphan and the stranger
had been his God. United to the believing daughter
of a devoted minister of Christ, he acknowledged the
weight of tender obligation. His memory recurred to
passages in the life of Sybel, his model of a Christian
teacher, who was so happy in his married life, Espe-_
cially did he recall the page in the memoir which
relates that, about a year before Sybel’s call to the
High School at Potsdam, he ascended the eminence of
Brauhausberg, and pointed out to his affianced Bertha
the beautiful country around, which was new to her,
As they stood long in silent contemplation, Sybel said,
“ Ah, my Bertha, if you and I were ever to live in such
a country, do you think we could sustain so great a
happiness? And before long he was called to that
CONCLUSION. . 947

very place, carrying his bride thither in the spring of
the following year. As the party entered Potsdam, the
chime of the bells was playing the familiar melody of |
the hymn,—
"' Praise the Lord, the King of Glory,”

which had been sung at the time of their betrothing.
Remembering these passages, Carl adopted as a motto
for himself and Matilda the verse given to Sybel on a
like occasion by his early and constant friend, Professor
Pischon,—“ Be thou faithful unto death, and I will
gwe thee a crown of life” (Rev. ii. 10).

Here the history of Carl Adler may properly end.
Of his varied experience in joy and sorrow, and his
increasing usefulness and piety, this is not the place to
speak. The reader who has had patience to bear us
company thus far will have observed the serious lessons
which a simple and sometimes playful narrative is in-
tended to convey. Ifa scholar, he will have read some |
things to encourage him to diligence, fidelity, and the
fear of the Lord; if a teacher, he will have recognised
the importance, and dignity, and delightfulness of the
office, and the power there is in zealous regard for youth
and unfeigned operative love.



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Missionaries,” &c. With Coloured Frontispiece and Vignette, and
Twenty Illustrations. Royal 18mo, cloth. Price 1s. 6d.
ITTLE LILY’S TRAVELS. With Coloured Frontis-
piece and Vignette, and Twenty-two Illustrations. Royal 18mo,
cloth. Price 1s. 6d. |
LD ROBIN AND HIS PROVERB; or, With the Lowly
is Wisdom. By Mrs. Henry F. Brock. With Coloured Fron-
tispiece and Vignette, and Sixteen Illustrations. Royal18mo. Price 1s.
Oy FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN. A Story
Illustrating the Lord’s Prayer. By a CLERGYMAN’s WIDow.
With Coloured Frontispiece and Vignette, and Twenty Illustrations.
Royal 18mo, cloth. Price 1s.
HE STORY OF A PIN ; or, The Changes and Chances
of an Eventful Life. By E. M.S. With Coloured Frontispiece
and Vignette. Royal 18mo, cloth. Price Is. 6d.
IBLE STORIES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. By M.
Jones. With Thirty-Two Engravings. Roval 18mo, cloth extra,
gilt edges. Price Is. 6d.
ESSONS ON THE LIFE OF CHRIST FOR THE
LITTLE ONES AT HOME. By the Author of “Hymns from
the Land of Luther.” With Coloured Frontispiece and Vignette, and
Thirty Engravings. Royal 18mo, cloth. Price 1s. 6d.
ARION’S SUNDAYS; or, Stories on the Command-
ments. With Tinted Frontispiece and Vignette, and Three
Ijtustrations. Royal 18mo, cloth. Price 1s. 6d.

Instructibe Series of Shilling Wooks.

Each with Coloured Frontispiece and Vignette,
and Numerous Engravings.

| WONDERS OF CREATION. —Volecanoes and their Phenomena.
NATURE’S WONDERS.—Pictures of Remarkable Scenes in Foreign
Lands.
WONDERS OF THE VEGETABLE WORLD.
SCENES OF WONDER IN MANY LANDS. Being Descriptions
- of Rapids, Cascades, Waterfalls, dc.







T NELSON AND SONS, LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK.
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