J !•'K«>M 9BAMBKRS’ JOL'KSAT,.]
“ THEY'RE DEAR HSH TO ME."
A TRUE INCIDENT.
The Farmer’s wife silt at the c.oor,
A pleasant sigh t to see,
And blithesome were tho wee, wee b-Urns
That plnyod around lior knee.
When bending ’uoath lior heavy creel,
A poor fishwife earns by,
And uiruing from tho toilsome road,
Tin to tbo door drew high.
She laid her burden on the green,
And spread its sealy store,
With trembling hands, and pleading words,
She told them o’er and o’er.
But lightly laughed the young guidwife,
“ We’re no sae soared o’ cheer ;
Tak’ up your creel, and gang your ways—
I’ll buy no fish sae dear:”
'Bending beneath her load again,
A weary sight to seo:
- weary sight to seo;
Kight sorely sighed the poor fishwife
“ They’re dear fish to me !
“Oar boat was oot ao fearfu’ night,
And when the storm blew o'er,
My husband, and my three brave sons,
Lay oorpses on the shore.
“I’ve been a wife for thirty years,
A childless widow three.:
I maun,buy them now, to sell again—
They’re dear fish to mo!”
The farmor’a wife turned to the door—
What wa9’t upon her cheek ?
"What was there rising in her breast,
That then she scarce oouki speak ?
She thought upon her ain guidman,
Her lightsome laddies three;
The woman’s words had pierced her heart
“They’re dear fish to me I”
“Come back,” ehe cried with quivering
voice, ’ ,
And pity’s gathering tear ; ■
“ Come in, oome ia, my poor woman,
Ye’re kindly welcome here.
“ I kentna o’ your aching heart,
Your weary lot to dree;
I’ll ne’er forget your sad, sad words
1 They’re dear fish to me !’ ”
Aye, let the happy-hearted learn
To pause ere they deny
The meed of honest toil, and think
How much their gold may buy—
How much of manhood’s wasted strength,
What woman’B misery—
" What breaking hearts might swell the cry
!’ They’re dear fish to me I”
THE MASKERS,
Yesterday night, as latelstrayod
Through tbd orchards mottled'shade, —
Coming to the-moonlit alleys,
■Where the.sweetSouthwind, that dallies
All day, wi|h the Queen-,of Roses,
Ail nfgbt;orf her bFeJastVeposos,—
Drinking’from tbo dewy Blooms,
Silencos, and scented glooms
Of the warm-breathed summer night,
liong, doep draugh ts of pure delight,—
. Quick the shaken foliage parted,
And from out Its shadow; darted
Dwarf-like forma, with hideous facc«,
Cries,ibontortionsfandgrimaoos/
Still I stood beneath the lonely,
Sighing lilacs, saying only,—
“ Littlefriends, you can’t alarm me;
"Woll-I know you would not harm me 1” :
. 0F* 5 B hi Vay .dropped each painted mask,
ewdrd or lath;-and'paper casque,
And-a troop of rosy girls
Ran and kissed me through their curls,
Caught wlthinthoir net of graces,
I looked.around on shining faces.
v Sweetly through ihe moonlit alleys
Rang their laughter’s silver sallies.
Then along the pathway, light ,
"With the white bloom of the night, .
, I went peMefhlipaclngklow,' .
Captive hold, in armß of snow-
Happy maids I of you I, learn
Heavenly maskers to discern!
So, when seeming griefs and barms ;
Rill life’s garden with alarms,
• Through its inner walks enchanted
1 will ever move undaunted.
Dove hath messengers that borrow
Tragic masks of fear and sorrow,
"-i When they bSmetb do’iii-klndness,—
And hut for pur.tears and blindness, '
We should see, through eadh'disguise,
Cherub cheeks and angel eyes.
> —Atlantic Mvnihty.
THE HANDSOME EEBEL.
My. young readers have all heard of
the rebels who are now so wickedly try
ing to overthrow our .government and
destroy the'Union. Perhaps you have
usually heard them spoken of as a
poorly-dressed, uneducated, hard-look
ing set of men. You must not suppose,
however, that this is always true of
rebels. I will tell you of one who was
no less guilty than these Southerners,:
who was neither poorly-dressed nor
rough-looking, neither uneducated nop
ill-bred, bnt the opposite of all these.
Indeed, he was admitted to be the finest
looking young man-in-the-wbole-country.
Among other, things which people Spe
cially admired about him was his hair,
which was uncommonly thick and heavy.
He wore it, as many dandies now do,
very long meist of the time, for lie had
it ont only onoe a year, when it became
too heavy for him to carry about,; and
then what the barber cut off weighed
some six pounds or more, —enough to
cover forty common heads, and make at
least two down wigs. He had also a
beautiful countenance, a comely form,
and gentlemanly manners. All his
friends were very proud of him, his
father especially.
His father was the ruler of a nation
which then contained several millions of
was the custom among
them, had' been appointed to that office
forlife. He was, himself an excellent
man, but he was "too busy with state
affairs to spend' much time with his
family, and therefore did not look as he
ought after the moral training of his
EOh. I suppose he left him principally
in. charge of his mother. She, unfor
tunately, was not as well fitted as some
mothers to have the sole charge of her
son, for she;-had never received any re
ligipus education. ; She was brought up
in great style, and'ber parents were not
pious people. I. darssay she seldom
corrected or restrained her son, or
taught him to govern his passions, but.
on the contrary indulged him in every
thing. So he grew up, as I said, the
finest looking young man in the coun
try, but selfish, vain, and ambitious.
Soon after he became a man, he
killed one of his brothers, and had to
fly from the country for his life. But
as it was known that he had great pro
vocation from his brother, his father
forgave him, and allowed him to return
after three years. And how do you
think he repaid this kindness? Why,
by plotting to destroy that kind father’s
authority, and to make himself king.
For a long time he carried on his
plot secretly. Being wealthy, he bought
many horses and carriages, and employ
ed a great number of servants. When
he rode out he would sometimes have
as many as fifty men along with him.
Nobody thought anything of this, be
cause he was the son of the king ; and in
this way, the people became accustomed
to see him move about in great pomp,
He also, to gain his end, became very
polite to all classes of tlie people. When
any of them had grievances to present
to the he would' be sure to ‘meet
them early in the morning, before they
could get to the place where the courts
were held, and inqure into the case, and
iialfe sides“withjthjeihi f*Y.es|.’Sie would
say, “you have been much wronged,
and ought to have redress; but,” he
would add, “ there isno use in going to
the court. You will find no judge there
who will listeb to ybu. If I were only
one of the judges, I would have justice
done in every case. Poor, worthy lpen
should not then, plead in vain for their
rights.”
By these means he prejudiced the
people against his father; for they could
not suspect that such a fair spoken,
handsome young man would lie about
his own father. Besides, he was so po
lite to them alb —he would get down
from his nice carriage and shake hands
with everybody, and even kiss them ;
he appeared so very cordial that they
could not help trusting him. Many of.
them began to think that he would make
a better king than, his father.
When he thought everything was ripe
for the rebellion, he went to his native
city, whichhad formerly been the capital
of the nation, and there proclaimed him
self the king. He had previously sent
his emissaries through all the nation,
and charged them to put themselves at
the head of the rebellion at a given sig
nal, He ) had„aJsq, inducqd thc.,shrewd-
ld'S' cabinet to
join the conspiracy.
The old king was unsuspicious and
entirely unprepared for the rebellion,
and had to fly in great baste from his
capital; for the first he knew of it, the
son was: marching against him with a
large army. Ho had barely -time to
with a body-guard of about six
hundred men, and some other small
.companies of troops. ,
It really seemed, then, that the re
bellion would be a complete success.
So confident wore most of, the people,
. that they flocked in great crowds to the
army of the son; and one old political
enemy of the father cursed him to his
.face, -as he marched away .from the cap
ital, and flung dirt and stones at him;
The king, however, only prayed to the
Lord, and bore the. abuse meekly.
The old cabinet-officer, when they
reached the capital and found that the
king was gone, said to the son, “ Left
me have a few thousand men, and I will
go immediately and capture or kill the
old man.”
“Oh, no!” said another member of
the newly-formed cabinet, who .was se
cretly a friend of the father, and who
wanted to gain time, “it will be better
policy to assemble an immense army
and lead it. yourself, and not give?; the
glory of the victory to any of your offi
cers.”
The vain young man was flattered by
the idea of' commanding a large army
himself, and this wate the plan adopted.
The old politician saw that this would
ruin the cause, and he went home and
hung, himself, to escape being hung by
the king. That plan did ruin the son’s
cause, for the father found it out through
two loyal clergymen, who had stayed un
moiested af the capital', whose soiis were
concealed near byas scouts.. These, by
the qumk rnt of a'womah'who hid them,
narrowly escaped capture, and reached
the king in safety. Th„e. delay of the
the great
river of that country, to gather an army,
organize them, and prepare for battle.
The best; officers on his side, and,
when thfe armies finally met, his gene
rals gained a great victory. Twenty
thousand of the rebels were left dead on
the field. •-
And what do you suppose became of
the chief rebel ? His father was very
anxious that he should be spared. He
reviewed all the troops in person before
the battle, and charged every general in
the hearing of all the soldiers, to let no
body hurt his son. : Hut the poor fellow
was killed after all. His beautiful hair
was the cause of his death. The battle
ground was .an open .woodland, some
what I suppose, like the timbered bar
rens of Illinois or the oak-openings of
Michigan. The son was on the back of
a mule. Whether he had ridden a
mule into the battle at first, or whether
his horse had been killed under him and
he had then hastily jumped upon the
mule, I cannot tell. But the mule ran
away and went under an oak tree which
had thick limbs, and as the animal
rushed under them; they 1 caught the
young man’s long hair that was flying
PT3rn.ATniiT.PHTA, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 1,1864.
in the wind, and held him fast. On
went the mule from under him. His
feet did not reach the ground, and
there lie hung, unable to get up or
down.
One of the loyal soldiers saw him
hanging there, and he went and told
the principal general.
“ Why didn’t you kill him there ?”
said the general. “ I would have given
you five dollars in money and a new belt.”
“ It was contrary to orders,” answered
the soldier, “ and I would not have done
it for five hundred dollars; you would
have court-martialed me yourself if I
had. ‘
The general preferred that the rebel
should die by some : other hand, but
there was need of hast®, so he went and
killed him himself. V
There was no telegraph then to an
nounce the victory toithe king, for he
was not in, the battle.', He had to wait
anxiously for a long tyme after the fate
of the day was decided' till the messen
ger could bring the jjews. At length
one of the scouts came running in all
out of breath, and-told of Ab® victory,
but said nothing aboutlthe death of the
son. Soon after, anotker came in and
told all. : | ''
The king was terribly shocked and,
grieved that his son hid been killed;
, and his grief over the young man for a
time swallowed up all lie joy of the
victory. He blamed tHe general vio
lently for killing him,!wheb he Cpuld
have taken him prison®:. It was sad.
that so handsome a yon rig man should
come to such an end. But, there was
no help for it. The general knew that
the young rebel richly iaeseryed to die ;
that he must die, or the rebellion would
not be suppressed'; He knew, too, that
if he was taken prisoner his fond father
would interpose and si ireen him from
justice, perhaps release him on parole,
and then the troublewotudnot be ended;
for the ungrateful son vjrould soon be
found in arms again.
The event proved that (the general
was right, for as soon as the people saw
that the son was dead, they jill submitted
again to his father, even that cursing
enemy, and he came back ini triumph to
the capital. That severity qf the gene
ral was better for the nation,| and there
fore, in reality, more kind and benevo
lent on the whole, than the leniency of
the king would have been; for it brought
peace sooner. j
I must now ask. you some) questions,
about this story.
.QUESTIONS.
1. What was the name of jthe hand
some rebel ? !
2. Who was his father ?
3. Who was his mother?
4. What brother had he killed ?
5. In wtat foreign Hid' he
live three years ?
6. Of what nation was fiis father
king ?
7. What city was the capital ?
8. In what city did the rebellion break
out ?
9. What cabinet officer was among
the rebels ?
10. What secret friend of the father
was in the son’s cabinet ?
11. What were the names of the two
loyal ministers ?
. 12. What were the names of: the
scouts? ■; . As
13. Who cursed the king ? ’
14. What river was crossed by the,
armies ? " '
15. Where was the battle-field ?
16. Who were the father’s generals ?
17. Who was the son’s chief general ?
18. What general killed the rebel ?
19. When was this rebellion ?
„ 20. Where can we find the record of it ?
—Front New Stones from an Old Booh.
“ Old Israel turned out of house and
home. I declare that’s too-had !”
Thus said a gentleman who was talk
ing about the. failure of Seaford & Co.,
that made such a stir some years ago.
Old Israel Benton was worthy of his
name. A dignified, white-haired mai£
with a calm, and sweet countenance,
who, with regard to rnoral probity, had
lived in the courts of the Lord all the
days of his life..
Everything was taken belonging to
Seaford & Co. Hot even the little house
where Israel Benton had lived in com
fort with his aged wife, was spared.
For twenty years he had been connected
with Seaford & Co., had done his duty
with unflagging spirits and unfailing reg
ularity. It had seemed to him as if he
was to die in their .honored employ.
John Seaford had often said to him—
“ Israel, don’t tax yourself too hard:
rest when you will, old friend; and if
the time comes that you must lay by,
why, remember that you and your wife are
provided for.” And so he had compla
cently looked upon himself as cared for
up to the end of his good and honorable
life.
The shock fell with added "freight
because the wife had for some time been
ailing. Seaford & Co. were stricken as
terribly as men could he for they failed
through the dishonesty of Others. They
were true men both of them, men', who
followed the Bible precepts, and sudden
ly heaven had smitten them. ,
Israel came back from the store on
that sad morning, not utterly cast d'pwn,
but very heavy-hearted. It had been
his custom for alongtimetogo outatsix,
and come back at seven for his break
fast and family worship. Here he was
on the threshold no longer his. The
words of the elder Seaford rang in his
ears:—
“ Israel, I wish we could have s^ved
ISEAEL BENTOFS BLESSING.
your little home. It tries us very much
that we cannot.” He could answer no
thing, for it was hard at sixty-nine to
be homeless.
He could look into the pleasant tea
room, where Martha sat waiting for
him, the little loaf on the table, the
bright tin tea-pot, the snowy cloth, for
whatever passed through Martha’s hands
came forth whiter and better, if that
were possible.
“ I can’t bear to go in,” he thought
to himself, as he bustled about, hanging
up his hat,;brushing his silvery-glisten
ing locks back from a broad forebead.
There were two glass panes set in the
door, and through thorn he saw the
room, Martha’s pale, gentle face, the
sun streaming over the picture of Wash
ington, and falling down to the faded
lounge. At last he cried manfully unto
hIS SOul,; ‘
“Why art thou cast down; 0 my soul?
Why art thou disquieted within ihe?
Hope thou jn/God;” andib.He v|as for
tified to go in, even; to tell .Martha,.after,
they had eaten. <
“ I thoiight you made a small break
fast, ’’' was ncr 'qmef rc]jly, but the tears
were struggling up nevertheless. And
again she said, as she moved her chair
back,
“ Well, Israel,, wq arc old, and have
never wanted. Some way will be open T
ed for ns.”
At the moment there was a bustle at
the;,door., A manly fellow of 1 thirty
came in, much excited; his hat in liis
band. .
“0, father, it can’t be true!” he.
cried; breathlessly; “I heard it down
'town.” ' ‘’ •
“Wait a little, John;” and the old
man placed his tremulous hand on the
sinewy arm, “ we’re going to read now.
Sit down" and calm yourself} my son,*
and we’ll talk of this afterwards. ”
John fell into a chair, but the troubled
look remained all through the .reading
of the Psalm, and possibly,'while Israel;
prayed to his God.
“ Teach us to bow humbly, my Fa
ther. 0, teach us to say, Thy will be
done!” was the last sentence of the
child-like prayer of the faithful old man,
“ Now, John,” said Israel, smiling, as
he arose. Martha, still sad, cleared,the
table softly, stopping every little while
to listen. ■ w ’
“ What in the world will you do, fa
ther?” -
“ 1 haven’t had time to think,” said
the old man, sighing, in spite of himself,
“butiwc shall get along.” •
John shook the foot that hung over
his knee, and his face grew darker and
darker.. He Was thinking- how impos
sible it would be for him to help his old
father. He had married young, some
said imprudently, but it Was not so in
the, main, for he had foimn a cheerful,
industrious/ wife. .. His onlyi trouble was
want of means—not absolutely want—
but he received a very small salary, and
his family was increasing. He already
had four children,: and only house room
enough for them.
“If I had a place, father, you should
come right with me. 0, What a curse
it is to be poor!”
* ‘-‘-Hush, John, don't let me hea'r
such language' from your lips. God
has appointed.us each his,share of sor-
XQW- I' have been comfortable all my
life; -perhaps mine is coming now! and
John, if it is, thereil ' be p|dy a Shorter
stiife, ffpr theoldmanis almost seventy.
One or two tears fell down Martha’s
pale cheeks* but she Was very patient;
she said nothing. Y
“If ’Biel Was only; like any , other
man*” said John, starting up angrily,-
“it wouldn’t matter 5 but think of your
son and my brother being such a skin
flint. I hope he ,will be poor before he
dies.” ,Y .
“o,John !” cried Martha,reprovingly.
“ I am- sorry to see that spirit my
son,” said Israel, “it hurts me more
than all my trouble;”
“Well, father,' don’t think of it.
I’m wrong, of course, and hasty, but I
do wish, for your sake and mother’s,
that I had all ‘Biel’s wealth. That
don’t mend matters, however. I’m go
ing down the street. I’ll call in to-day
or to-morrow,” and off he went, hastily.
Walking himself into a perspiration,;
he suddenly confronted a tall, keen-look
ing man, just leaving a broker’s office.
“Come back, ’Biel,” ho said, “I
want to speak to you.”
“ It’s only a minute, about father,”
exclaimed John, impatiently.
“ Well, I’li give you five;” said the
broker, and went back'into his office.
“ You’ve heard of the-Seaford’s fail-
“Of course I,.have,” answered the
broker.
“Arid that father is turned out of
house and home.” *’• 1
“Well, no, -I didn’t hear of that,” re
plied the brother, knitting his brows
slightly.
“ Well, it’s so. They haven’t saved
a cent. Even the poor little house must
go. Now, what’s to be done for fa
ther?”
“ Why, can’t you take him home?”
asked the broker, calmly.
tl Me ?" John’s brow flushed hotly to
the edge of his hair.
“Why, yes. Father’d be contented
with you. He loves children, and I
haven’t any. Mother and my wife never
could get along together. Besides we
have leased the house and are going to
board.”
“ You own half a dozen houses,” cried
John, angrily.
“Well, what of it? The best of
them are well rented. I couldn’t turn
good tenants out! and the worst of them
—of course I wouldn’t let him live there,
among foreigners.”
John stood still; his blood boiling.
He was as impulsive as he was honest,
and his hands tingled to shake his heart
less brother, of whom he was ashamed.
“ ’Biel, what will you do ?” ho asked,
controlling his wrath.
“Well, I’ll give two dollars a week
tojrards his support, if you will give
two.
John could no longer, restrain himself.
“ ’Biel,” he cried, “ as Heaven is my
witness, I am sorry that one drop of my
blood runs in your veins; miserly and
nnfilial as you are. You roll in wealth,
you know it, a,nd you thrust a burden
upon a poor man like me. Don't smile.
I’ve not come here to beg for myself,
no, nor father, cither. .'He’d blush if
he even knew I had cpine to you. No
—not to beg for old Israel Benton, but
to demand the right you would withhold.
How ungrudgingly he has spent his lit
tle gains for your benefit; slaved to
give yon, an education, and now, when
poverty has come, and helplessness, you
offer to give.him'‘two-dollars a week.
Shame on you!”
„, Y;Ypu dbii’t hettci T yp.ur cause by such
langnagc, ’’ sneered’ the elder brother.
,; “My cause ?” cried John again, hotlyj
my cause ?, ’Biel Benton, do you dis
own the old man \yho gave you being!
Is he not your father as , well as mine ?
But I see 'there is no use in pleading
with you. lam a poor man, but I’ll
deny myself even bread and water, and
live in one room, but what my father
and mother, since you throw their sup
port upon me, shall be lodged aud fed.”
“I insist on contributing two dollars
a week,” said the broker, opening his
pocket-book. “Here’s the money for
two months. At the end of that time
I’ll send another instalment for two
months.”
John’s cheek turned deadly white.
He took the money and made a motion
as if he would tear it in pieces;! then
a better impulse moved aim. In bis
poverty he had no right to throw away
even this mean and- grudged gift. He
bestowed TsSe"J&bk on his brother, that,
hard as he was, made him quail, took his
hat and left the office.
The old man it all with tingling
jeheeks, for tell-it as delicately as John
might, it could not be softened. ,
“ Don’t feel so about it, John,” he said,
kindly, £ ‘ very good in’Biel ; at least
it mll pay myYittle rent. I shall stay
here, John—it’s all arranged. The
creditors arcvery good about it; and
since morning I’ve got a situation.”
“4- situation !” cried John incredu
lous.
• “ I know it will be too much for him*”
murmured Martha, looking up from her
knitting. YY.-Y Y , ;
“ No, no, Martha, there’s more
strength in me than you think. It’s
tolerable pay, too; at least it will give
us what little we want. I’ve taken a
porter’s situation in Harrison’s, dear,”
he added, looking- up, his lip quivering
a little.
“A porter? Oh, father!” John
laid his arms on the table; his head on
them, and burst into tears. He had al
ways admired his father, had been proud
qf seeing him in his clerkly capacity,—
for- the old gentleman had done a deal of
writing for the Seafords,—in that great
handsome office with its mahogany desks
and chairsbe sp.gentlcmanly with liis
white hair and ;pale, refined,face,-*; How,
to carry heavy paokageS- that old ; mail;
to be subject to the’; whirns qf under
clerks, it was too horrible, and John
sobbed as if his heart would break.
‘“Why Jphnny, my boy, Johnny, my
.good brave boy that you always were!”
bxclaimed.tne old man, patting him on
the shoulder, trying to smile through the
heavy tears that were rolling oyer his
own cheeks, while poor Martha had
turned her dim eyes away, and hidden
them in her handkerchief*
“ I—l can’t help it, father. 0, why
am’.l poor ?”
The old man went daily after that to
his new business, but he had, overrated
his strength. One day John was
hastily sent for, so was Abiel Benton.
The latter looked up from the click of
hard gold to hear the message, Israel,
his father, was dying. The former left
his sick babe and weary wife, weary
with work arid constant care, and the
two brothers met at the solemn deaths
bed. Israel Benton had burst a blood
vossel, lifting some heavy weight, and
now, 'calm, 1 white and. serene, he was
: “ oidy waitihg.” j ,
“John,” he said, with a smile, and as
John knelt down, he laid his hand on his
boy’s brown curls. ; “ Godhlcss you, my
boy,” he said, softly: ; V
<“ Abiel, come here,” he whispered as
his life ebbed. ’ The conscience-stricken
“an came : f6irward, fell on his knees, too
wretched to speak.
“ May God Almighty bless you, my
sop;” ! exclaimed the old man, with fef
vehit emphasis.
, “0, father, forgive!” He but spoke
to clay. With Israel Benton’s last
words consciousness had departed.
And ’Biel Benton went his way, but
0, that blessing ! It met. him every
where. It embittered : every cup of joy.
Strange to say, it seeined to him that
the .blessing was changed into a curse.
And bo it was while he kept his greed
for gold. So it was while he felt that
it was through his own Wretched parsi
mony that his father had perished and
his brother might perish. So it was till
he came tp John one day in the midst
of his toiling, a haggard, suffering man,
and holding out gold, title deeds, cried
in his anguish—
“Here, if you wouldjflawe a perisj
soul, share with me; help me to d-; I
tie with the demon that is drawing]
very life out of my life. John. ],
your miserable business that is kill
you; share with me if you would }l
me to my father’s blessing, f&r
seems instead a curse that is killing
And ever after when he saw'J oht
and John's babes; smil
in his childless face, and Jokh’&fWife e
ing him the saviour of her husband’s!
a tremulous hand seemed laid upon
bowed head, a sweet, unsteady v
seemed saying- , .
“ May God Almighty. bleb's you,
son.”— Watchman and Reflector.
DHULEEP SISGH.
Have you: heard 'of r 'the intere:;
romance connected with thiso Ind.
prince.? JT we remfembe&K aright, y
the Mahara-jah of the .-Sikhs* and he a
his .mother were- taken ■ae hostages j
England-same years; agb-i '-where* he j
only beeameaGhristi- a* Jo name bu;
truly : converted!-mam. '.--oThedaßegi
never changed her religion/
an idolater and as such diedinEnglai
According to a -promise made to h
relatives idYase, of 6uqh }
body was to be delivered up to them to
burned, and*we believe, it was 'in ful
meet of this promise thaf/th£|Maha
jah was permitted togptalnduitocai
the remains of his mothers t v.o
On his way there he passedjfhrouj
Cairo, and visited the ,sch<&lh;inMer tu
superintendence of the ; I
the American Presbyterian^Board. In
was deeplyjntere6ted in what he saw I
the good work there, and-of-the-progrea
made by the pupils, butswas especial]
struck with the appearance of ;xi youw
girl of sixteen, who was au-.-agsista!]
teacher of Miss Dales. He made marJ
inquiries about her and learned: that s
was of a poor butworthyfamilyYCopi
wc believe;) the little educationhhe hi
she had received from the Mission Schc
and there ker chief study had Jaeen i
Bible, of which she was a diligent a
earnest student, -
It was thought that Maharajah wii
ed to obtain this young lady teacl
for his peoplo, but no ; after he left Caii
he sent her an offer of marriage,
said that wealth and rank were'not!
to him; he had enough for both of thi
if, as he had heard, she possessed 1
“ pearl of great-price,” that was all
wanted; he had been praying for th:
years that God would give him-#, tn
Christian wife, and he believed.-that 1
right one had at last been showji hiir.
Would she have him ?
On first hearing of this unexpectei
proposal,.the young girl felt that sk
could not give up her place in the school.
She said she knew 6he could d° some
good there, and she wished to be where
she cOuld* .be the l3 most'useffll He:
father told her a higher; sphere (iff use
fulness was now open to her, But he
would leave her to decide whether to ac
cept-it or not.
. After several- days spent irt prayer
>over the subject, she gave her consent,
and her! acceptance was sent, to the Ma
harajah.;; This happened in February:
by last accounts, Prince
was again, in Cairo, waiting for the five
weeks to elapse-before he could be law
fully married,; he meanwhile devoting
himself to the, study of Arabic, and she
to -that of English, that so they may be
able to converse a little together; He
is leading her with pearls, and diamonds
enough to turn a girl’s bead.; but under
ail the attentions she receives‘from him
and others, she seems is modest'a's ever.
! The English in Egypt
Btand at all-how the Mahai ajsEK',-who is
a favorite of the Queen and the English
court and who might have
any lady of rank for the asking,-jhould
seek a wife of such humble birth..’ They
insist she will not be received at court.
The Prince has large estates ih En
gland, and an income of eome c 3KNhr 50,-
000 pounds' sterling. In personal ap
pearance he is short and stout, but has
fine features. He speaks English well
and has scarcely any foreign accent.
Better than all, he seems an earnest
Christian. We hope he will not ho pre
vented from marrying this young and
interesting girl. God bless their 'union
to themselves and to their people. It is
a strange affair altogether.— -N. F. Ob
server. .:. ~
All Love is Good. —The attachment
of anything in this cold, calculating
world is, worth something. The isaresß
of a dog—the mute expression pf wel
come iri the bright, full eye of a favorite
■horse—the purr of a eommoh hoiiße-cat
—are links in our .chain of; sympathies,
and help to .soften and enlarge our
hearts. ,
Carry yourselves submissively towards
your superiors ; friendly towards your
equals;; condescendingly towards your
inferiors; generously towards your ene
mies:; and lovingly towards all.
As they, who for. every slight infirmity
take physic to repair their health, do
.father 1 it; !S q they, who for gery
tnfle are eager to vnujicate their charac
ter do rather weaken it. "
Though few theire be that care to be
virtuous, yet fewer there be that would
not 'desire to be counted so.
Never thrust upon another the bur
den you cannot carry, yourself.
i"Nothing but whafc ia God’s dishonor
should be our shame.
no?Iad heerfUl ’ bUt QO6 TOli<3 ’ bwt