to him, "I learn that you some time ago received a large sum of money in gold, to take care of for your friend, and that you now refuse to return it to him. What do you say to the charge?" "I deny it wholly," said Wily. "Well," replied Judge Brown, "let us suppose you innocent; but, in order to convince me of it, write to your wife the letter I am about to dictate to you. She is said to have been a witness to the transaction; and if what you say is true it can be easily shown. Now, sir, write these words." “But, may it please your honour,” said Wily, who was not well pleased at the proposal, "why not let me go home, and bring my wife before you ?" "Allow me to choose my own way," said the judge. "Here are pen, ink, and paper. Write!" "That would be the most direct way of learning what she has to say." Wily looked towards the door, as if he were half inclined to run; but as officers stood near, that plan was not to be thought of. He took up a pen, and at the dictation of the judge wrote these words: "My dear wife, give the bearer the bag of gold belonging to Mr. Frankheart. I am about to restore it to him." The judge carefully examined the letter to see that it contained these words and nothing more. Wily rose to go, hoping he might reach his home in time to explain matters to his wife; but the judge, in a loud stern voice, exclaimed, "Sit down, sir, and wait for the return of my messenger." Trembling at the thought of exposure, Wily sank down on a chair. One of the officers received the letter from the judge and departed. In less than half an hour the officer returned with a bag, which he gave to the judge, who read the label, and then counted the money, and found that it amounted to just one hundred pounds. The wretched Wily threw himself on his knees, confessed his knavery, and begged the judge to forgive him. The judge threw open a door, and, pointing to Frankheart, said to Wily, "Here is the man to whom you must sue for pardon." "I think, judge," said Mr. Frankheart, "that his own conscience will punish him enough." "I am not so sure of that," replied the judge. "But if you refuse to appear against this man I must release him." "I do refuse," said Frankheart, “for I hope he will reform." BAD BOYS MAKE BAD MEN. ANY years ago a little boy lived in ancient Rome who was very cruel to harmless animals. He delighted to torture and kill flies, and would pursue the little creatures hour after hour with a pin, to pierce them through, and see them flutter and die in agony. Do you think that a boy so cruel became a kind, loving man? Not he. As he grew older he exhibited the same cruel disposition towards men. At last he was made Emperor of Rome, and then he advanced in cruelty at a most fearful rate. This man was the bloody Nero, who killed his own wife, and ordered his mother to be assassinated. Nor was this all. He delighted so much in cruel things, that he finally ordered the city to be set on fire, just to see how it would look. And when it was burn ing, he seated himself upon a high tower, and sang, and played upon his lyre. Was this strange? Is not a cruel boy likely to become a cruel man? Killing men in manhood is only a further development of killing flies in childhood. I have seen many a boy, and girl, too, engaged in this cruel sport of tormenting flies, and I say to myself, "Perhaps they are little Neros." An aged sea captain, who had spent a long life upon the ocean, said to a lady, "On ship-board I can tell in a very short time what any sailor was in his boyhood." D It was because "the boy is father to the man." He added, "I find invariably that a bad sailor is made out of a bad boy." When he saw a reckless, profane, vicious "son of the deep," he at once concluded that he was little better when a lad. Now, this is just what might be expected. It is just what is seen in other things. Poor wool or cotton makes poor cloth. Poor cloth makes a poor coat. Poor farms produce poor crops. Poor timber makes a poor house. And so, wicked children make wicked men and women. WATER! BRIGHT o not suppose that wine and beer are indispensable for you. Old people and sick people often fancy they need such drinks; but you are neither old nor sick; your bounding steps and radiant faces, jubilant songs and ringing laughter, plainly tell us that you do not want such things. All nature, in the spring-time of the year, gives you lessons on teetotalism. Would you be beautiful?—what so beautiful as flowers? and they are all teetotallers. Would you be strong?-what so strong as the sturdy oak? and every oak is a thorough-going, steadfast teetotaller. I was lately spending a very happy day at the house of that good old friend of children, Joseph Tucker, Esq., of Pavenham. I went into the grounds, and admired the primroses, twinkling like yellow stars out of the rich verdure of the copse wood. I asked them what they drank to make them so beautiful, and they said they only drank cold water. The periwinkles, as they trailed their purple flowers and glossy leaves over the rocky banks, smiled at me, and said, "We, too, are all teetotallers." Great patches of celandines and daisies were stretching their necks as high as they could, and turning their happy faces to the sun, as if to thank him for drawing up the vapours, and letting ATER! them fall back again in dew and in rain. I asked them whether gin and beer made them so full of merriment, and they said, “Oh no; gin and beer would soon kill us; we only drink cold water." The blackbird was calling to me, with his deep liquid voice, from the wood; the thrush, in the tree above me, was doing her very best to rival the nightingale; and the bonny lark was twinkling, and soaring, and singing, as if his dear little heart would burst from very gladness; and I asked the blackbird, and the thrush, and the lark which side of the question they were on, and they all said, "We've been teetotallers ever since we were hatched." I mounted the beautiful brown mare, Hebe, and went for a ride round the park. She ambled, and she trotted, and she cantered, and she galloped, as if happy to show how perfect were all her paces; and as she frisked along the lawns, and bounded over the banks, and curveted among the trees, I told her how her young mistress who was to ride her was a teetotaller, and I hoped Hebe was a teetotaller too. And Hebe pawed the ground and arched her neck, and said, "Do you think I could carry you as I do if I were not? My young mistress shall never be ashamed of me for breaking my pledge." Then I went to dinner; and a very merry dinner it was; for the decanters were all filled with bright teetotal water. And then I went to the public meeting in the village schoolroom, and told what the flowers, and the birds, and Hebe had said to me. At the close of the meeting, a man remarked that he should have liked my speech better if I had not told so many fibs. Now, I am surprised that any man did not understand my meaning. You understand me. Yes, you know that all nature, though it does not speak with words like ours, has a voice, which utters the praises of temperance, and tells you that you will be stronger, happier, better, if you avoid intoxicating drinks. But chiefly I ask you to be teetotallers that you may be safe from the temptation to a great and prevailing sin; and that you may help us in saving those who are already its victims. But you must not be satisfied with teetotalism; this alone will not fit you for God and heaven. We want you to be true Christians, and, by the help of the Holy Spirit, to resist every sort of evil; we want you to love Jesus, and, because you love Him, to try, like Him, to be always going about doing good. And I am sure that amongst many other ways of doing good there is not one. which, at the present time, is more important than persuading old people and young people to abstain from intoxicating drinks. NEWMAN HALL. THE BURNING SHIP. ONG ago, a fine ship, with some five hundred passengers on board, was nearing the harbour whither she was bound, when it was discovered she had taken fire, and that only great skill could save the lives of those on board. The captain was sadly distressed, and said to himself: "There's only one man can pilot this ship into port, and that is John Maynard; but how can he stand the fire, which is worst at the end where the wheel is! Now may God help us, for vain is the help of man. I'll ask John." John was asked; the value of those five hundred lives was pictured to him, and he was told what he already knew, "how hard it was to perish within half-an-hour of land," and he was asked, would he risk his life, and stand the scorching of the furious flames, for the sake of the crew? John said, "Yes," and went to the wheel, where the wind blew the hot flames right across his face, and the smoke almost blinded him. After a few minutes the captain's voice reached him, "John Maynard, can you hold Still the fire gains ground, and it seems very doubtful if they can resist it for halfan-hour longer, and poor John's hands are almost unable to turn the burning wheel. Again the captain cries out: "John Maynard, can you hold on ten minutes longer?" "Aye, aye, master," comes the reply through the smoke, but feebler than before. At last they are five minutes from land, and in an agony the captain shouts: "John Maynard, can you hold on five minutes longer?" Very feebly this time comes the same answer, "Aye, aye, master." The burning ship is saved; she shoots into the harbour, over five hundred passengers are SAVED; but John Maynard is little better than a cinder. Brave old John Maynard! all honour to thee; would that more of our Johns and Jacks were like thee. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." Dear little friends! One from the foreign 66 port of heaven came to our shores 1876 years since, to take a large number of passengers back with Him, but He found very contrary winds down here, and dangers and sorrows beset Him on every side, and at last a dreadful death stared Him in the face. He could have gone back to heaven, and left His company to die; but no, He loved them, and, like John Maynard, He held on." He was poor and despised, but He held on." He was insulted by His enemies, but He "held on." He was betrayed by His friends, but He "held on." At last He came to a garden, where the thought of the dreadful death awaiting Him made Him cry to God His Father, if it were "possible," to spare Him, but it was impossible, and He "held on." Then He came to Calvary and to the bitter cross, where they nailed His hands and His feet, and even then He could have come down from the cross and saved Himself, but He loved you and me, and He "held on." Dreadful darkness crept over the earth as He hung there, and God hid His face from Him, because He was bearing our sins; but still He "held on," determined at the cost of His life-blood to land as many as would go in the port of heaven. And He died "holding on." Oh! Jesus, Jesus, Thy love "passeth knowledge." I am sure you would not expect to find that anyone on board that ship ever spoke lightly of or ever forgot John Maynard, not even the youngest child. They would say, "Oh! he died for me!" and as the infants grew up to understand the solemn story, they would believe it, and in their little baby prayers say, "Thank God for John Maynard, who kept my father and mother from being burnt." O children, what do you think of JESUS? how do you treat Jesus, who loved you, and gave Himself for you? "Behold a Stranger at the door; He gently knocks, has knocked before; JOHN HOWARD VISITING A PRISON. was in prison, and ye came unto Me." These are words which the Saviour spoke. They mean that kindness to the sick, the poor, the hungry and thirsty, the stranger and the prisoner, is a service done to Himself, which He will acknowledge and reward at the last day. Yet how often do we forget the captive, while we rejoice in freedom; the naked, while we are comfortably clothed; the hungry, while we have abundance, and are satisfied; the sick and desponding, while the bloom of health is on our cheek, and hope buoyantly fills our own breasts. No more sure evidence is there of our being like Christ, and no more delightful way of securing an "abundant entrance" into His everlasting kingdom, than to imitate Him in going about and doing good to the poor, the sick, and the distressed. Even people who have done wrong, and for their faults are shut up in prison, should have our pity and compassion. Perhaps their crimes have been committed in the midst of great misfortunes, and very possibly we should have found it hard to do right, if we had been placed in their circumstances of trial and temptation. Even the most guilty have a claim upon our charity; and they may be restored to the favour of God, and often to an honourable place among their fellow-men, if only we set about teaching and helping them in the proper way. |