PSALM Vt. Domine, ne in furore Cbasten Die, 0 Lord I but not in anger, Chide me not in Thy displeasure sore, Spent with weeping, wearied out with lan guor. Must I suffer more? " Peace, my ebild, for I, thy loving Father, Smite in love, and never smite in vain ; One by one the children round me gather, Perfected by pain." Every night I lay me down in sorrow, Every morning finds me drowned in tears Endlessly, to-morrow and to-morrow Grow to months and years " Yet through paths as sad, and hearts as ho low, I, thy Lord and Master went before ; My disciple, is it hard to follow With the cross I bore?" No ; but should my spirit fading, dying, Lose that presence, vision wearing , dim, Can I, in the grave's dark chambers lying Even remember him ? " Christian, by that low and narrow portal, Not so sad thy trembling soul should be; By the breath which made that soul lmmor tad, _ He remembers thee." Hush, my heart, the Lord has heard thy weeping, Let Him stay thee as it likes Him hest; None can harm thee now, awake or sleep ing, Laboring or at rest RALPH NORTON. A STORY OF QUEEN MARY'S TIME Col2Cludecl.) For nearly_a year after his father's death Ralph remained at home, assist ing his brother Hubert; but at length he grew weary of his quiet village life. "Mother," he said, suddenly, one day, "I should like to go to London." " Wherefore ?" she asked. "What wild scheme is this ?" "I think I could gain a livelihood better there. Besides," he added, blushing, "I should like to see the great city." " Foolish boy, thou little knowest what risk thou art running. Thou art in danger even in this little village, ever since Queen Mary path forbidden reading the Bible. Bethink thee, if thou art taken in London thou wilt surely be burned." "I will be careful, mother," said the boy, eagerly; "I will hide my Bible, and none shall know that I read it." " Nay, Ralph, I cannot consent. Say no more." A week passed away, and Ralph tried hard to be contented, but in vain. At- length ; -yielding to his repeated entreaties, his mother consented, and a few weeks beheld him fairly installed as apprentice to a London silversmith. It was not long before his frank, winning manners gained the affection of his master and fellow-workmen, and he soon became a general favorite. There was one exception, however. .Ralph shared the same room with a dark-browed youth named Philip, who was also an apprentice. He soon conceived a violent dislike to the new comer, which was increased by the general favor in which Ralph was held, while he himself was feared and disliked by all. He soon found out, from some care less words, that Ralph , favored the Re formed religion, and he instantly de termined upon the poor boy's ruin. Some time passed away, when one day entering suddenly the room which they shared in common, he saw Ralph hastily slip a book into a little recess in the wall, almost concealed by a curtain. He pretended not to notice it ; but no sooner did he find himself alone in the room, than he plunged his hand into the recess and brought forth the Bible. "Ha! ha! Master Ralph, I have thee now," be exclaimed, smiling in triumph. "Here be work for Bishop Bonner, I trow." Carefully replac ing the volume, he left the room. The next morning two men in long black robes suddenly entered the shop where the workmen were engaged. The master started in dismay, for he recognized the officers. thedreaded apparitors, or "Whom seek ye, my good masters?" he asked. We seek," said the foremost, stern ly," a young heretic whom thou hast been harboring, named Ralph Norton." " Ralph !"-echoed the master in as tonishment. "Ralph Norton! a brayer, better boy never lived. Surely thou art mistaken." I tell thee nay,' said the other, " therefore point him out quickly, or it will go ill with thee." "He, is not here; even now he departed to carry home some work for a customer'." "Show me his room, then, and be ware how thou triflest in this matter. Stay, here is one who will assist me," and he turned toward Philip. The latter arose with alacrity, and led the way to the bed-chamber. The chief; apparitor followed, while the other remained inthe shop. Phil ip soon produced the Bible, which he placed in the officer's hands. " Yes, that is the accursed book," he said, with a satisfied smile. "Now produce the young heretic, and Stu• work is done." "Never fear," said Philip, " he will be here anon." " Now, my master, what say'st thou to that ?" asked the officer, handing the book to the silversmith. While the bewildered man was glancing - over the pages, Ralph entered from the street, but stopped short in the doorway on seeing the two officers. "The bird is caged," said the second, quickly stepping behind him and closing the door. "Young man, art thou the owner of this book ?" demanded the other. "I am," answered Ralph, calmly. "You hear," said the officer, turning to the frightened workmen, " he admits his guilt. Young man, you are my prisoner." „Ralph saw that resistance would be in vain, so he quietly submitted, and the officer, producing some cord, proceeded to bind his wrists tightly to gether. The pain was severe, for the slender cord cut into the flesh ; but Ralph, compressing his lips, bore it bravely. So they passed out into the street, out into the bright October sunshine, which pierced through even the smoke and fog of London. Ralph's cheeks glowed with shame, as he passed through the well-known streets, for he knew that many a familiar face was looking at him from door and window. Then a sudden thought came to com fort him. " They bound Jesus and led him away.' Shall Ibe ashamed to follow in my Lord's footsteps ?" and he even smiled, forgetting his aching wrists. At length they reached the prison, and the dark doors, which seemed to shut out all hope, were closed upon him. Several weeks passed drearily away, broken only by a hurried trial. Philip testified against him, and he was speedily found guilty and sen tenced to death. Many of the bystanders exchanged pitying glances as they noticed his youth, but the cruel Bishop Bonner, who acted as judge, remarked with a brutal laugh, "Burning is too good for the heretics; they ought to be roasted before a slow fire." Back again in the dreary prison cell. It was a cold, dismal day in No vember. Ralph shivered, for there was no fire in the room, and the stone floor seemed even more damp and chilly than usual. " So thou art cold, my pretty bird," said the brutal jailer, laughing as he set down the prisoner's evening meal. " Thou wilt be warm enough soon, I trow. In two days there will be a grand bonfire at Smithfield for thee and a dozen other heretics. How dost thou like the prospect?" Do not wonder that poor Ralph pushed aside his coarse bread untastect that night. He had never feared to die, for he had learned with -Paul that "to depart and be with Christ is far _better.' But he was young, and life seemed very fair and beautiful just then ; he remembered his mother, whom he loved so fondly, his gentle brother Hubert, and the two brave boys, Guy and Geoffrey;never had his heart so clung to that tillage home as now. Then, too, the awful death he was to die ; should he be able to glori fy God by bearing it bravely ? Sud denly he remembered his father's dy ing words, and throwing birnself upon his knees, he sent up a despairing cry to God for help. His prayer was answered. The holy peace of God fell upon his troubled spirit, and when at length exhausted he threw himself upon the heap of straw which served for a bed, he slept >as sweetly as a tired child. It was late in the following day when he awoke. A dense, damp fog' had crept in through the narrow, barred window, and the few dim rays of light which entered seemed unable to contend with the darkness. Earnestly did Ralph pray that morn pig, for he remembered ,what the mor row would bring forth, and quietly, calmly he sat down to wait. His be loved Bible, had been taken away, but many sweet texts which he had learned in childhood came back to comfort him in the silence and gloom. Suddenly, as if with one accord, all the bells in the city began ringing a merry peal. The sound penetrated even the thick walls of the prison, and Ralph'started up to listen. Then he heard shouts, faint and indistinct °at first, but gradually swelling into a sound like the roar of many waters. Nearer and nearer it came, till at length he could distinguish the words " Long-live Queen Elizabeth!" It was some moments before he could realize, in his bewildernient, that the bloody Queen Mary was dead, and that the new queen reigned in her place. He knew that the Princess Elizabeth had- always been a Protest ant, and hope once more sprang up in his heart. The afternoon grew darker, but, to his great wonder, no jailer appeared with his evening meal. Happily he bad saved a part of his dinner, with which he now satisfied his hunger, and, after, giving God thanks, lay down to rest. Early in the morning the door of his cell was thrown open, and a new jailer announced to Ralph that he was free. He had no sooner gained the street than he was caught up by the noisy, rejoicing- throng, among whom were many of his fellow-workmen, and borne in triumph to the shop. Philip in the confusion had suddenly disappeared, and' was never heard of again. THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1866. Reynolds never appears more in his glory than in his representation of children. In spite of the host of affec tions which gather round the young, the distinctiveness of their ways, and the attractiveness of nature fresh and unsophisticated, this singularly win ning and picturesque stage of life had been almost overlooked by preceding masters. The painters of religious subjects.represented children as sera phic beings, and the painters of por traits represented them with the formal air which they wore when they sat for their pictures. The happy idea oc curred to Reynolds of representing them as they are seen in their daily doings, when animated by the emo tions which typify their lives to us. The fondest parent could not observe them 'more closely, or take a keener delight in their dawning traits and en gaging simplicity. He said " that all their gestures were graceful, and that the reign of distortion and unnatural attitudes commenced with the dancing master." He has recorded on convas the whole round of boyish and girlish existence. He presents them to us in their games, their pursuits, their glee, and their gravity. Their archness and their artlessness, their spirit and their shyness, the seriousness with which they engage in their little occupations, and the sweet and holy innocence which is common to the majority of the young, are all embodied with unrivalled feli city. No class of his works abounds equally with examples of that tran sient expression which, he said, " lasts less than a moment, and must be painted in as little time." He called it "shooting flying," and considered that the power of fixing these passing emotions was " the greatest effort of the art." Northcote truly asserts that " there never was a painter who gave them so completely as Reyiblds him self."—Landon Quarterly Review. Ralph became a prosperous silver smith ; and his little ones, clustered round his knee in the winter evenings, never wearied of hearing the tale of his sad imprisonment and strange re lease.—Little Pilgrim. THOUGHTLESSNESS, "Henry, cease making that noise; it disturbs your mother." So called out Henry's father to his little boy. Henry's mother had been quite sick for several weeks, and it was extremely important for her to be kept perfectly quiet. . Henry was, in the main, an excellent boy. He was ordinarily very kind and obedient to his parents, had very few evil habits, and was liked greatly by all his playmates for his amiability and obligingness. But there was one thing Henry had not yet learned. It was to think ; that is, to be considerate in regard to the bearings and consequences of what he did. Hence he often, without any bad motives, did things which were annoying to those around him, and made his presence much legs welcome than it had otherwise been. On the present occasion, Henry was sitting, with two little boys of his own age, on the door-step at the back of his house, busily engaged in playing "jack-stones." Of course these bits of iron, as they struck each other, gave out a sharp, clicking sound. Henry at once ceased making this noise when he heard his fatherls words, and sat conversing with his little friends in a. low tone of voice. But gradually the impression of his father's command faded from his recollection. Soon, without any intention whateVer to annoy his mother or disobey his father, the clicking sound went up to the sick-chamber as before. A mo ment after, Henry's father appeared. He dismissed the other boys to their homes; then, taking Henry by the hand, led them to an apartment where they were entirely alone. "Henry," said he, "did you design edly disobey me, by making that noise again after I had forbidden you to do so ?" "No, father," said Henry; "I did not. When you spoke, I laid my jack-stones at once aside, and they began to go again while I was talking, and only because I did not think. I did not mean to disobey you." " I fully believe you, my son. But I wish to impress your mind now with this idea, that a failure to think is not a good excuse for doing what we ought not to do, or for not doing what We ought to do. God has given us thinking :faculties. Every one is bound to use those faculties_ That we fail to think, is no excuse which either God or an can accept. No human law would accept it. Should you light a match and unthinkingly throw it where it would set fire to your neigh bor's house, the law would require you to pay the damages. Multitudes of sinners die in impenitence and per ish forever in hell because they will not consider.' Now, my boy, try to remember hereafter that it is your duty to think; to consider the nature, and quality, and probable consequences of your actions. If, through thoughtless ness, yon do what may result in injury either to yourself or others, that fact will never furnish a satisfactory excuse either to your own conscience to your fellow-men, or to God." Boys, learn to think.—S. S. Visitor. REYNOLDS AS A PAINTER OF CHIL- DREN. THE WREN'S NEST. I took the wren's nest—:- 'lleaven forgive me Its merry architects so small Had scarcely finished their wee hall,, That, empty still, and neat and fair, Hup,g idly in the slimmer air. The mossy walls, 'the dainty door, k • Where Love should'enter and explore, And Love sit carolling 6utside, And Love within chirp multiplied ; I took the wren's nest— Heaven:forgive me I - How many hours of happy pains Through early frosts and April rains, How many songs at eve and morn O'er springing grass and greening corn, What labors hai'd through sun and shade Before the pretty house was Made! One little minute only one, And she'll fly back, and find it—gone I I took the wren's nest: _ . _ Bird, forgive me I Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, Ye have before you all the year, And every wood holds nooks for you, In which to sing and build and woo ; One piteous cry of birdish pain— And ye'll begin your life again, And quite forget the lost, lost home In many a busy hour to come. But I--your wee house keep I must Until it crumble into dust. I took the wren's nest: God forgive me I TABLE MANNERS; OR, HOW TO DEAL WITH UNRULY CHILDREN Little Ella Edmands came one morn- ing to breakfast in a very cross state of feeling: She felt quarrelsome, and so she quarreled with her bread and butter. She glanced round the table with a disgusted air, and rudely said, "I don't want any of this breakfast." " 0, yes, my dear, you do," said her father, who always liked to get easily over difficulties ; " here is a nice piece of toast." "I don't want it. I hate toast," was the ungracious answer to her kind father. "See," added her father, not noticing Ella's disrespectful words, "how good it is. Try this little piece," and he laid the dantiest bit on her plate. "I shan't eat it if you put it there," 'returned Ella; "I don't want, it, an I won't have it ;" and her blue eyes were so altered by bad temper, that they looked really ugly; and her mouth, which was just big enough when she was pleasant, was now pout ed out big enough for two. " Ella,' said her mother, " have I not forbidden you to say you do not like this or that which, you find on the table ?" " Well,. I don't want toast." " Then take a piece of bread and butter. You need not eat what you do not like ; but when a thing is offered, you are simply to say, No, I thank you,' if you do not wish for it." " I don't want any -breakfast.;" and a - terrible pout swelled -her lips. "You may leave the table. Is it for a child like you to say you will not eat the food prepared for the fami ly, and to say it in that impertinent manner 7" Ella moved not. She felt impudent, and she meant to act impudently. Her brother and sister glanced at this youngest child of the family, and remembered that they were not allow ed to act and speak as Ella dared to do. A: young cousin seemed very much astonished. A lady, who was visiting the house, could not help wondering how Mrs. Edmands could sit so quiet ly.. But Mrs. Edmand's quiet was that of stern resolve. She poured the cof fee, helped every one at table to toast and eggs, while Ella sat sullenly look- ing on. At last she began kicking , against the leg of the table. Now this was a positive insult to every one at the table, and every one felt indignant, with the exception of good Mr. Ed monds. He only wished Ella would not do it, and gently said "Ella_, Ella dear, don't do so." When Mrs. Edmands had attended to her family group, she rose from her seat, turned Ella's chair from the table, dislodged the child by a resolute grasp, and marched her with a quick step into the next room, and. closed the door uppn her. Just as this was going on a girl epic in,, bringing a plate of . Ella's favorite fried cakes. " 0 ! I want some flied cakes !" screamed Ella, as the door closed on her voice. Mrs. Edmonds quickly resumed her table duties, and requested that no one would notice Ella. She would attend to her after breakfast. Mr. Edmands remarked that he guessed. Ella would be good now, as she liked these cakes so much. - "She shall not taste them this morn ing," quietly answered Mrs. Edmands. " It seems to me I would not be so particular this morning. These cakes would make Ella a good girl right off, without any more trouble." Mrs. Edmands laughingly remarked, " Without any more trouble to you, perhaps ; but I should be all day in conflict with a little rebel who had carried her point.- Only think what a discomfited general I should be. I am dete_imined that this fault shall never be repeated without being pun ished. Repeated forgiveness has failed; other measures are now necessary." "What will you do next ?" inquired the indignant father, who had hated stringent measures. - He was soon to retire to his office, and would suffer no annoyance from the neglected faults of ill-managed children, never thinking that mother must suffer their manners the live-long day, and that the interruption or su x'rvision of her house plans was quite as --rious an evil to her as the disaz- rallgeAnt of his business papu.s could I do \ not em-tctly knoNc;' Y 'eplied P °ssibl. Y . " to him. - his wife ;‘ lam settled only --on one Point- T 6( great fault of ippliienee shall be mot \b y measures until severer and..se\erer it is corrected," "She is nothi lg must remember. \ ' but a ch'ild, jou " There is m y gi(t encouragement. I can control her now\ The power is in my hands. Her happiness is com mitted to me, a sacred tkpt. But let her will rule a few year more ; let her feel sure that her .pouti , crying, impertinence and pertinacit an con quer us, and our power is g 9 c , con sequently her respect and love r us. Her evil habits will have strengttcned beyond our ability to control, am: 17e shall have a little mistress in the hou.* ( hold, who will rule us all with des ; potic power, and secure her own wretchedness for life."—S. S. Times. —Miss Mulock. Mr. Spurgeon, in a Sabbath-school address, justly criticizes a style of speaking to children which we fear is not confined to Scotland : I have heard, with both surprise and sorrow, from some Sunday-school teachers, addresses which seemed to me to be this : Dear children, be good boys and girls, remember the Sabbath day, obey your parents, and so on, and you will go to heaven. Now, I venture to say that if such teaching were to be pronounced in the pulpit it would be regarded as atrociously legal and utterly unscriptural ; and why should such talk be given to children? The same Gospel that will save the adults will save the children ; but to dilute the Gospel and keep down its doctrines seems to render the Sunday school a mere name and farce, and in deed to educate children in a false system of faith. - If a child be saved it is not by obedience to parents—excel lent and necessary as this is—but by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Why not give the child, though in a differ ent language, the same truth you give to the parent ? I noticed on a door as I came along, "Mangling done here." I am afraid it is often done in the Sunday-school classes. That is to say, the whole truth is not brought forth. It really should not be so. You would not like your children to be fed on the refuse of what has been, given to an other ; why, then, should the refuse of doctrine be left to the children? "What are the principal produc tions ' 'tort-err asks he t an}, er-of-ti geography class. . "Thunder and lightning, earth quakes and volcanic eruptions," confi dently speaks up Robert, who, in per forming the difficult feat of peeping in his book to count out his question, and catch the leading words of the an swer has stolen the wrong paragraph. enumeration of productions is eut short by the general laugh which runs round the school-room. Now, the teacher has enacted some injudiciously stringent laws respecting "no laughing," in view of which he sternly commands, "All who laughed come out into the floor." Nobody stirs., The teacher looks cross, and the scholars glance timidly and questioningly, one upon another, and. wait. The room is very still. You can hear the tick-tick, tick-tick of the clock; but you cannot-hear the great conflict—which God and the angels are watching—the silent con flict between the good and evil in the heart of the youngest, little five-years old Freddie. He knows that he laughed, that he is acting a lie by sitting still; yet, poor little one, it is his first week at school. He has known only love at home, and fears the stern, eold " master." Then why should he move, when all the rest, so much older and wiser, are still? So pleads the voice of evil; but the good triumphs, and _ little Freddie walks resolutely up to the tea - oiler's desk alone. "So it was only Fred who laughed," says the teacher, in- a tone of bitter irony, his eyes upon the school. Poor little Fred trembles at the bitter tones, which he thinks• are for him, yet he •looks up through his tears, and whispers, with White lips, "Yes, sir; I lsughed." • "YOu have tidone bravely, little Fred,". says the teacher, with a burst of unwonted enthusiasm. " Turn round and show the school a noble boy, and may the sight shame them as it ought. I shall set down Robert's name and the names of all those who have add ed disobedience and falsehood to the offence of laughing at him,and settle accounts with them after school ; but you, my honest little Freddie, are ex cused from all blame." How happy now is yred; how wretched are the others! .vSo it ever is, ever must be, dear children. All manner of deceit generallk brings its own speedy punishment, even here. Yet that is not the end, or the worst of it; for our kind Heavenly Father, who has prepared a beautiful home for those - who love him, says, "There shall in no wise enter into it anything that maketh a lie." Now, my little friends,, o won't you do me the favor to look out the refer ences, and answer the folloyin - • g ques tions?;-- FALSE TEACHING. „FREDDIE'S TRIUMPH. Who cannot lie ? Titus i. 2 Who cannot tell the truth ? John viii. 44. Where will all liars forever dwell? Rev. xxi. 8. =Who will be their father ? John viii. 44. Who will be their companions ? Rev. xxii. 15. When you have answered these questions, I am sure you will be ready to say, "The lip of truth shall be established forever; but a lying tongu e is but for a monaent."—Cerigregation a list. BE HONEST. AN INCIDENT AT A DECENT EIRE. A few days after one of the large fires which have been .4) frequent in our land during the past few months, -a gentleman who had kept a, hat store, which had been burned, was accosted I in the street by a boy, who said : " M r . H—, I have got a whole armful of hats that belong to you. I carried them home the day of the fire so that no one should steal them. If you will tell me where to bring them I will go right home and get them." The gentleman appointed a place, and the boy ran away toward his home. Soon he appeared with his hats, and sure enough, he had all that his two arms could hold. When he had lain them down, the gentleman began to try first one and then another on his head. When h e found one that fitted him he said, " There, my little man, that is yours." He was a poor boy, and a Mee new hat that was "just the fit" wa s a greater treat to him than to many boys. When the little fellow fully realized that the hat was his own he began to caper about and cried, " See, see, I have got a new hat, and didn't steal it either. I know another boy that has got an armful of hats, and I don't think he means to bring them back at all." The boy that wears that hat car. hold his head up straight, and look every one in the face, because he is an honest boy. But 0, that other boy ! There must be a hard spot somewhere in his heart, that must feel very heavy when he thinks .of those hats. Man may not know, but God sees; and when he looks down on that heart he sees THIEF written there. My little readers, which boy will you In like ? Remember " Thou God seest me," and do not let. Him ever see thief written on your heart.—Evang6- list. LOSING THE HAPPY OUT Or THE HEART A mother, who was leaving her home on a visit, told her little boy and girl not to go through a gate at the bottom of their garden, which opened into the woods. The children were very happy for a long time after their mother had gone, but at last, in their play, having reached the gate through which they were not to pass, the little boy began to feel an earnest desire to go into the woods. He persuaded his sister to follow him. Nothing appear ed to disturb them, and after some rambling and playing about, they re turned, having concluded not to tell their mother where they had been, unless she asked them; she had not ex pected them to disobey her, and never thought of inquiring. Notwithstand ing this, the little boy did not feel comfortable. He knew he had done wrong, and he could not help feeling unhappy. When Sunday night came, and the little boy had been washed for bed, he and his mother commenced to have a nice talk, as they usually lila at that time. James could not keep his sad secret any longer from his kind mo ther, so he told her what he and his sister had done; and then in some sort to show that her command was need less, he said that nothing had happened to them. The mother let him know that something did befall them, and that they had lost something, and urg ed her little boy to think what it could be. Perhaps she meant they had lost the habit of obedience, and would be easily led to do wrong again - , or perhaps she meant they had lost her confidence. The little boy could not think for a long time of anything he had lost. He knew that he .had left his ball safe, that his knife was in his pocket, and that his slate-peneu was at hand when he wished to use it. But as he 'continued to think, he re membered how uneasy and uncom fortable he had been all the week, and at last, in a low, sorrowful voice, he said, " Mother, I did lose something in the wood, I did—l lost the happy 00 : of my heart." DRINKING BY THE ACRE. " Come in, and take a drink, eh ?- said Tim Mcltoran to John Nokes, as the latter was returning weary and wornirom his day's labor. "No," replied Nokes; "I've inade up my mind. that I can do better with land than to drink it." " Who's asked you to drink land, I'd like to know ?" " Well, I find that every tiro, drink sixpence worth of liquor, I droll. more than a good square yard of 124 worth three hundred dollars an acre.
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