She fantilg ©ittle.
[For the American Presbyterian.]
THE BETTER LIN'D.
I would be free !
Saviour, I stagger ’ueath this heavy load
Of care and sin, which doth the heart corrode,
And every step removes Thy fair abode
Far, far from me!
Its Heavenly light
In visions oft when slumber seals mine eyes,
Breaks o’er me, and the glories of the skies,
Their golden streets and crystal streams, arise
Before my sight!
I view them (here ;
Those saints, whose garments glistening like the sun,
Have heard the plaudit; Enter thou! Well donet
“ Receive the crown which only those who run
And conquer, wear!"
I hear the sound
Of .music wrung from golden harps, by hands
Long silent here, which in those far-off lands
Have found new life and broken Heath’s strong bands,
Fall soft around.
There is no night;
Such is the radiance of the Saviour’s face,
No sun is needed in that Heavenly place,
But springs there from the very Throne of Grace
Refulgent light!
And not unreal
Is this creation, of disorder’d brain;
For there’s a land where neither woe nor pain,
Nor aught that can afflict shall'come again
. To mar our weal.
In that fair land
Where nothing grieves and nothing can molest;
Within the shelter of the Saviour’s breast;
Where all is quietness and perfect real;
Qh, may I stand!
HOW THE DOG SPITZI HELPED THE
EEFOEMATION—II.
(From Carters’ “ Tales from Alsace.”)
Weary and unstrung did pastor John return
home on that same evening with Father Bernard. *
The negotiations had been long and stormy, and
only alter a sharp contest had the victory, by
God's grace, been nobly won. And now, the pas
tor was, early next morning, to go to Oberstein
brunn, and there, as his duty required, to con
duct Divine worship, it being the Lord’s day.
“ Oh ! do not go !” pleaded Theresa for the first
time, and pouring out her whole soul, she added
as her reason for this unwonted entreaty, the as
surance that truly she trembled for his life, and
well knew to what danger he exposed himself, if
he dared to proclaim the gospel on Austrian ter
ritory. She reminded him that, during the ne
gotiations in the Town-house and in St. Stephen’s
church, the youngsters of the Finninger family
and their comrades had been rioting about St.
Augustine’s Square, throwing stones at the con
vent, launching forth threats against the pastor,
and singing in derision —
“Oh woe! woe 1 woe 1
Hofer must now
To the gallows go! ”
While, since the departure of the ambassadors,
they had, in common with all the evil-disposed,
indulged in loud and triumphant rejoicings at the
oppressed state of the town.
By the way of answer the pastor silently open
ed Idelette’s Bible ; with clasped bands he utter
ed a short prayer, and then slowly and devoutly
he read these words: “He saith unto him the
third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?
Peter was grieved because he said unto him the
third time, Lovest thou me ? And he said unto
him, Lord, thou knowest all things; thou know
est that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed
my sheep. Verily, verily, I say unto thee, when
thou wast young, thou girdedst thyself, and walk
edst whither thou wouldst: but when thou shalt
be old, thou Bhalt stretch forth thy hands, and
another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither
thou wouldst not. This spake he, signifying by
what death he should glorify God. And when
he had spoken this, he saith unto him, Follow
ME ” (John xxi. 17-19).
Thereupon the man of God, folding his wife
in his arms, said, deeply moved “ An ancient
legend relates concerning the death of St. Peter,
that, guided by the brethren, he escaped from
Rome, because the Emperor had commanded that
he should be put to death. After the brethren
had left him, and the apostle was going on his
way alone, a light suddenly appeared around him,
and he saw the Lord pass by. ‘ Lord, whither
goestthou?’ cried Peter, and he fell upon his
knees. Then the Lord turned to His disciple,
and said— 1 1 go unto Rome, there to be crucified.
Follow thou me !’ Dear Theresa, Peter also
had at his home a beloved and cherished wife;
and yet he turned round on the spot and followed
his Lord, and in Rome he suffered martyrdom.
Dost thou now wish that I should not follow the
Lord —should not feed His sheep ? ”
“No 1 oh no, John ! let the, Lord’s will be
mine !” exclaimed Theresa with tears, and she
laid her head on her husband’s shoulder, and
wept long and bitterly. After that both knelt
down to pray together in silence, and Father
Bernard, who had been a silent witness of this af
fecting scene, laid his hands on their heads and
blessed them in the name of God the Father, the
Son, and the Holy Ghost. _
The following morning, in the stillness of the
Sabbath dawn, pastor John rose from his couch,
pressed his wife and children to his heart, com
mended himself and them to the mercy and pro
tection of God, and then, with Spitzi as his faith
ful companion, he started on the road to Ober
steinbrunn, there to fulfil his duties, although an
inner voice told him that he too would soon be
girded by another man and led whither he would
not.
There are in this life-long, dark, dreary days,
in which a black cloud hangs lowering over our
heads, and an indescribable anxiety weighs down
the spirit as with -the burden of Alp on Alp
time creeps on heavily; everything around us
seems pervaded with an element of leaden weight.
Such a long and heavy day did the Sunday prove
to our friend Theresa. After she had set all in
order at home, had wept out her pent-up flood of
tears in the church, and had besought the Lord
to grant help and comfort, she went to the Ger
man Farm where her brother Frank, his Jaco
bea, and old Andrew received her' warmly, and
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, MARCH 11, 1869.
closed round her in a circle of love. They too,
however, were restless, and full of uneasiness
and apprehension. While Theresa sought to
hush the risings of her troubled heart by con
verse with the aged Andrew, Frank silently crept
out, first to the gate, then to the Augustinian
Convent, to see whether pastor John had not yet
returned. When at length evening’s shades had
deepened into night, and the long-expected one
had not yet arrived, the uneasiness became gen
eral, —messengers were despatched to inquire,
and the most conflicting rumors were spread
abroad.
The night was singularly dark ; the sky was
overcast, and soon a violent storm arose. Wind
and rain raged furiously against the round panes
of the Augustinian Convent, in whose ancient
refrectory all the waiting ones had assembled for
united prayer. In that circle was Oswald von
Gamsharst, and his scouts were perpetually com
ing and going. Suddenly Hansli, who had stood
without as a watch, threw open the door with
these words, —“ Spitzi has arrived, but without
my uncle !” Instantly the dog dashed into the
room, dripping, foaming, howling and wailing. It
rushed from one to another, pulled the men by their
trousers, and then hurried back to the door, as
though it meant to summon them to be up and
doing, to rally forth to the rescne. Too evidently
the dreaded misfortune had actually taken place;
but how and where ? On these points truly poor
Spitzi could give no intelligence. At this mo
ment of suspense the malicious face of Michael
Finninger was seen peeping round the edge of
the open door, like an evil spirit, as, chuckling
with diabolical glee, he cried out, —“ They have
him!” He then vanished as swiftly as he had
come, pursued by the etuaged Spitzi, whom Frank
with the greatest difficulty succeeded in catch
ing-
But now came back the mounted town-mes
senger sent out by Herr von Gamsharst to Ober
steinbrunn, bringing the following intelligence :
—Pastor John had, as usual, conducted service,
and preached, made his round of visits among
the sick and from house to house, and tnen, ac
companied by the old forester Vincent, he had
gone on his way homeward : on the road he had
been seized by Austrian soldiers, and taken cap
tive to the safe stronghold, the Castle of Brunn
statt. The whole village of Obersteinbrunn was
roused to the utmost pitch of excitement and
consternation ; indeed, the enemy could not have
hazarded taking the parson prisoner in the midst
of the place itself, which would infallibly have
provoked the rising of the peasantry, pastor
John being universally beloved and revered, not
only on account of his present preaching and care
of the spiritual interests of the flock, but also by
reason of the benefits conferred by him on his
parishioners during the Peasants’ War, during
which all found in him help, counsel and conso
lation, in every case where human aid could be
afforded.
“If he is imprisoned in the Castle of Brunn
statt we cannot set him free !’’exclaimed Oswald
von.Gamsharst with a deep sigh,, “fo’r' long be
fore we could penetrate thither to present our
complaints in the right quarter, and to set ago
ing; negotiations, they would already have exe
cuted him ! We know by experience what short
work of the Ensisheim Government makes, the
trial of our Evangelical ministers! ” ,
“ He is not in the Castle of Brunnstatt yet,"
said Vincent the forester, who had just entered,
thoroughly drenched, and had sunk exhausted
on a chair. “ They want to take him to Ensis
heim through by-paths, to avoid the villages. Up
therefore, ye men, up and hasteu-with a flag to
the Hart as quickly as possible! They-must pass
througVthe forest, and with God’s help you may
succeed in liberating the good pastor from the
grasp of his executioners!" He proceeded to
relate how'he had escorted pastor John, they too
availing themselves of by-paths which he had
formerly pointed out to him for safety’s sake, hut
which unfortunately Michael Finninger had
spied, he having that day followed the man of
God afar off, and thus gained the power of lead
ing the Austrians to form an ambuscade, from
which they rushed out to seize the pastor, bind
him with his face downwards on a horse, and
then hasten off wi,th their victim.
Spitzi, whom the soldiery were seeking also to
put to death, took to flight, after vainly endeav
oring to defend his master, and he, Vincent, con
cealed himself in the thicket, and there over
heard their decision regarding the road by which
they should carry away their prisoner.
With the circumspection and quiet presence of
mind for which he was so remarkable, Oswald
von Gamsharst immediately took all the steps
necessary for hasting to the rescue of the captive
minister. To escape all notice, Frank was to
drive off silently with his woodman’s cart to the
forest of the Hart. Herr von Gamsharst and
several armed men were to ride with him in the
cart; several others, armed and forming no in
considerable force, were to ride out after them
by separate paths: they were to effect a junction
at the forester’s hut in the Hart, from whence
the town-clerk himself was to direct the whole
expedition. In the town meanwhile the walls
were to be garrisoned, a strong guard was to be
set to watch the hftuse of the Finningers and
other suspicious parties, and the sentries at the
gates were to be strictly enjoined not to allow
any one to pass in or out who was not provided
with the pass word, —“ God form.” “And so,”
exclaimed Herr von Gamsharst with enthusiasm,
as he grasped Theresa’s hand for a paternal fare
well, “and so let us go forth in God’s name, with
His almighty aid, and in His strength only! ”
Theresa, who had sat there motionless and
deadly pale like a marble statue, since the dread
ful tidings had been brought, rose quickly as he
uttered these words, and said, “Take Spitzi with
you, noble friend ! He can, more safely than any
guide, lead to his master’s track; and may the
Lord guide and protect you all! ’’
“Well said! and I too may go with you!”
cried Hansli, as, suiting the action to the word,
he leapt with the dog at a single bound, into the
cart, which had already stood some time waiting
before the convent gate. Oswald von Gamsharst
was inclined to refuse the boy admission, but
Frank urged him to take him, pleading that- he
was acquainted with every little path and track
in the forest, and that he and Spitzi could per
haps render the most effectual service by spying
out the road along which the prisoner was to be
carried through the Hart. Father . Bernard and
Vincent the forester mounted the cart also, and
amid rolling thunder, flashinglightning and pour-
ing rain, they all started in solemn silence, yet
strong and of good courage, trusting in the Lord
who is mighty to help and to deliver.
(to be continued.)
IMPEISONED SUNBEAMS,
It was seven o’clock, almost Fannie’s
bedtime. She was sleepy and tired, and
had waited.quite long enough, she thought,
for her father —-who was quietly taking his
after-dinner nap—to wake up and tell her
the usual good-night Btory.
She fidgetted about a long time, trying
to keep still, but really making a great
noise. First she made a doll out of her
handkerchief. But it hadn’t any face, and
its arms would stick out in such an absurd
ly straight manner that it was quite dis
agreeable to play with; so poor dolly had
to turn back into a little square of hem
stitched linen.
Then she made a ball of the same bit of
cambric. But, being very soft, it wouldn’t
bound an atom ; and we all know there is
no fun in throwing ball and having to
run to pick it up again.
All at once a thought came into her dis
consolate, little mind, and, rushing across
the room to her father, she seized the hand
kerchief which covered his face, just where
his nose made a slight elevation in its sur
face.
“ Papa," cried she, “ wake up, wake up,
and tell me what made gas.”
Papa had been thoroughly roused by the
not very gentle twitch Fannie gave his
nose when she palled off the handkerchief;
and, laughingly seating her on his knee,
asked, “Why do you want to know, puss?”
“ Well, I guess—l ’spect it’s ’cause I do.”
“ Quite a little woman’s answer,” said her
father, and began his story.
“ One day, millions of years ago—longer
ago than we can even guess at, before there
were any men or women or boys or girls in
the world—(the sun shone very brightly
and warmly for that time, for the sun didn’t
shine so much then as it does now) a group
of little sunbeams got lodged in a tree.
“ The trees that grew in those days were
not our great oaks and stately poplars, but
seemed more like ferns grown to a gigantic
stature. And all the vegetable growth of
that time was such as we call now tropical.
“ We can now imagine how the beautiful
soft, green mosses grew as tall as you, and
how they waved backward and forward in
the wind and whispered among themselves;
and how the splendid tree-like ferns bent
and tossed in the breeze; and that over
them hung graceful vines, which looped
themselves from branch to branch and
swung in unison. We can imagine all this,
I say; for there were no books written
to hind down to us to tell us of that time.
“ And the only way we can guess what
kind, of things grew then is by fossils, of
which I will tell you presently.
“ Why those little rays of light should
have caught in that particular tree I never
could understand; but they did, or I should
have" no Btbry to teH.
“ There they lived, making the tree warm
and bright till it grew old and died; and
leaf after leaf fell off, and branch after
branch broke down, and at last all that was
left of that once stately fern was a poor
old stump, which soon decayed also.
“ Now, any one would have supposed that
the sunbeams, finding their home a ruin
would have glanced off to seek a pleasanter
place. But no, they preferred to be buried
in the ground with what had been their
dear old home in the tree-top. The longer
they staid there the deeper they became
imbedded in the earth; and finally they
found they couldn't get out at all.
“ So they slept there year after year, till
nobody knowß how much time had passed.
More trees grew up, and died, ana were
buried like them; and after a while rocks
began to form over them, and press them
in deeper and deeper and harder and harder:
and the poor little sunbeams said: ‘We
shall never get out any more ! How much
better it would have been had we only staid
on the surface, instead of being constantly
thrust further into the earth.’
“ Years ago—and not such a very great
many, either, when we think of the time
that had passed since our tree first died—
some wise men found, in certain spots in
mountains and other places, the hard, black
substance which we call coal. But it was
really the decayed wood made by those
treeß and plants which died like the one our
sunbeam lived in, ages ago, and which had
been pressed so hard and so long by those
rocks and other formations that had gather
ed above them that it had become solid and
black.
“ Now, in the coal are found what are
called fossils—that is, the figures of leaves
and the bark of trees impressed on the
coal They are beautiful carvings, only
finer than any carving could be.
“You have seen skeleton leaves and
flowers ?
“ Well, they are like them in delicacy.
They are the skeleton flowers Nature makes,
only they are black.
“ There are other kinds of fossils, too—
such as bones of animals, shells, fish, and
others ; but they are not found in coal, be
cause no animals existed at the time when
the coal formed.
“ I once saw a fossilized fern; and it
seemed as if it must have been cut with a
diamond, so fine was it.
“ Coal-miners often find these beautiful
things in the course of their excavations.
Only think how pleasant it jnust be, when
they are among that dirty black stuff, and
are soiled with the dust themselves, sud
denly to find what might be called one of
Nature’s photographs right before them.
“Not the only good thing about these
pictures is their beauty. They serve to
tell us what kind of a growth there was in
the time when the wood was becoming coal.
Of course, when we find' nothing but grace
ful ferns, and pretty, mosses, and plants
that are similar to them, we know that
there was no other kind at that rime. They
are the illustrations in Nature’s guide
books.
“Well, these wise men found this black
substance and they wondered what it was.
And, being wise, as I have told you, they
tried experiments with it, and found that it
would burn and give out heat; and so they
used it for fuel."
“Yes; but, papa,” interrupted Fannie,
“ this story you are telling is about coal—
not gas, as I wanted ?”
“ Wait patiently, little girl, and we’ll Boon
come to the gas,” replied her father, and
went on.
“ So these wise men, who are never satis
fied with finding one use for a thing, but
must make it a means to a great many
ends, thought, ‘ This burns so well why
shouldn’t it be applied in some form as
a light ?’ And, when they had once thought
of it, they couldn’t let it alone, till by nu
merous experiments they found that a part
of it could be converted into that invisible
thing we call gas, and carried through
miles of tubes and pipes, and be brought
into people’s houses, to light them up bril
liantly. Well, one day, when men were
digging out coal to make gas of, they came
to a very large, smooth, glossy piece, with
two pretty ferns traced upon it. This they
took out, and put with a quantity which
was coming to this great city of New York,
Now it happened that this particular piece
of coal was made of the tree with which
our sunbeams were buried so long ago.
And, after it had been through all the neces
sary processes, the gas was conveyed in
pipes from the gas-works, which 1 have
often pointed out to you, to this street and
into this very house and room. And one
tiny sunbeam rushed up and shone so
brightly at the end of the pipe that it'caused
my little daughter to ask, 'What made
gas V And I tell her for reply that the
light she sees is one of those little rays
which lay buried for ages, but which shines
forth again to show that it is long.' past
Fannie’s bedtime, and that the sand-man
has gotten into her winking eyes.”
“Ah ! but papa,” cried Fannie, now open
ing her blue eyes very wide “do you believe
all that?”
But her father only kissed her good-night,
and smiling said:
“Don’t you Independent.
HOW COMMON WINDOW GLASS IS MADE.
BT J. T. TROWBRIDGE,
“There is another process,” continued the
gaffer, “by which our common window
glass is made. By the way, if ever you
visit Pittsburg, in Pennsylvania, you must
go into the window-glass factories there;
you will find them very curious. Their fur
nace, in the first place, is built in the ancient
style: it has no chimney, and the smoke
from the bituminous coal which they burn,
pours out in a cloud into the room. There
are openings in the roof for it to escape
through, and a continual draught of air
from the do.ors .carries, it upward, so that it
is not so bad for the workmen as one would
think. Besides, they do not begin to blow
until the smoke is all burnt off.
“ There are five pots on each side of the
furnace; and you will see five men in a
row, blowing all at once,, with the regular
ity of a file of soldiers exercising. Each
gathers thirty or forty pounds of metal on
his pipe, which is very long and strong.
They stand on platforms, to get room to
swing the glass, as they blow it.. Tho five
men begin to blow and swing all together.
Each blows a great globe of glass, which is
stretched out gradually by the swinging
motion into a cylinder, or roller, as it is
called, five feet long. Then the five rollers
are swung up towards the furnace-holes,
ana five other soldiers spring forward with
their guns—which in this case are iron
bars, that they set upright under the five
blowing pipes to support them while the
rollers are being re-heated in the necks of
the pots. The blowers blow in the necks
of the pipes with all their might, .then clap
their thumbs over the holes to prevent the
air from rushing out again; in the mean
while the end of the roller is softened, so
that at last the air, forced in and expanded
by the heat, bursts it outwards. The glass
is then a cylinder, open at one end. It is
whirled in the heat until the edges become
true, then brought away—the five iron
supports dropping to the ground with a
simultaneous clang. The cylinders are laid
on tables, where the imperfect Bpherical
end about the blowing-pipe is cracked off
fro na the rest by a stripe of melted glass
drawn around it. The cylinder is then
cracked from end to end on one side by
means of a red-hot iron passed through it.
“In an adjoining building is what is
called the flattening oven. The cylinders
brought there are lifted on the end of a
lever, passed in through a circular opening
just large enough to admit them, and laid
on flattening stones on the oven bottom,
with the crack uppermost. The oven bot
tom is circular, and it revolves horizontally.
As the glass softens, it separates at the
crack, and lays itself down gently and gra
dually on the stone. The long cylinder is
then a flat sheet, three feet wide and nearly
five feet in length. There pre four openings
around the sides of the oven ; at one the
glass is put in, through another a workman
sweeps the stone for it, a third workman
smooths it, down with a block as it comes
round to him, and a fourth, at the last
opening, which is close to the one at which
it was put in, lifts the sheet—partly cooled
by this time —upon a carriage in the oven.
This he does by means of a lever furnished
with sharp, broad blades at the end, which
he works in under the glass. When the
carriage is full, it is run through an anneal
ing oven beyond.
“ The opposite end of the annealing oven
opens into the cutting-room. There the
carriages are pushed along a central track
arid unloaded at 'the' stalls of the cutters
The cutter has a table blfdrri him, with
measure-marks on its edges. He lifts one
of the sheets, lays it on the table, and com
mences ruling it faster than a school-boy
rules his slate. His ruler is a wooden rod,
five feet long, and his pencil-point is a dia
mond. Every stroke is a cut. Not that he
cuts the glass quite apart; indeed, he seems
scarcely to make a scratch. Yet that
scratch has the effect of cracking the glass
quite through, so that it breaks clean off at
the slightest pressure. In this way the
sheets are cut up into panes of the requisite
size.”
“ I should think the diamonds would
wear out,” said Lawrence.
“I remember," replied the gaffer, “one
workman told me that a single diamond
would last him two or three years. It has
fifteen or sixteen different edges, and when
one edge is worn out he uses another.
South American diamonds, such as he used,
cost, he told me, from six to thirty dollars
each ; and, when they are worn out for his
purpose, he sells them for jewels to be put
into watches.”—Otib Young Folks.
HOW TO TALK—CONFESS IGNORANCE,
BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
You are both so young that you cannot
yet conceive of the amount of treasure that
will yet be poured in upon you, by all sorts
of people, if you do not go about professing
that you have all you want already. You
know the story of the two school-girls on
the Central Railroad. They were dead
faint with hunger, having ridden all day
without food, but, on consulting together,
agreed that they did not dare to get out at
any station to buy. A modest old doctor
of divinity, who was coming home from a
meeting of the “ American Board,” over
heard their talk, got some sponge-cake, and
pleasantly and civilly offered it to them as
he might have done to his grandchildren.
But poor Sybil, who was nervous and anx
ious, said, “No, thank you,” and so Sarah
thought she must say “No, thank you,”
too; and so they were nearly dead when
they reached the Delavan House. Now
just that same thing happens, whenever
you pretend, either from pride or from shy
ness, that you know the thing you do not
know. If you go on in that way, you will
be starved before long, and the coroner's
jury will bring in a verdict, “Served you
right." I could have brayed a girl, whom
I will call Jane Smith, last nighty at'Mrs.
Pollexfen’s party, only I remembered,
“ Though thou bray a fool in mortar, his
foolishness will not depart from him,” and
that much the same may be said of fools of
the other sex. I could have brayed her, I
say, when I saw how she was constantly de
frauding herself by cutting off that fine
Major Andrew, who was talking to her, or
trying to. Really, no instances give you
any idea of it. From a silly boarding-school
habit, I think, she kept saying “ Yes,” as if
she would be disgraced bv acknowledging
ignorance. “You know,”'said he, “what
General Taylor said to Santa Anna, when
they brought him in?” “Yes,” simpered
poor Jane, though in fact she did not know,
and I do not suppose five people in the
world do. But poor Andrew, simple as a
soldier, believed her and did not tell the
story, but went on alluding to it, and they
got at once into helpless confusion. Still,
he did not know what the matter was, and
before long, when they were speaking of
the Muhlbach novels, he said, “ Did you
think of the resemblance between the wind
ing up and Redgauntlet?” “ O yes,” sim
pered poor Jane again, though, as it proved,
and as she had to explain in two or three
minutes, she had never read a word of Red
gauntlet. She had merely said “ Yes,” and
“ Yes,” and “ Yes,” not with a distinct no
tion of fraud, but from an impression that
it helps conversation on if you forever as
sent to what is said. This is an utter mistake;
for, as I hope you see by this time, conver
sation really depends on the acknowledg
ment of ignorance,—being indeed, the pro
vidential appointment of God for the easy
removal of such ignorance.
TRUE COURAGE,
“ Coward 1 coward 1” said James Eawson
to Edward Wilkins, as he pointed his finger
at him. 6
Edward’s face turned very red, and then
the tears started to his eyes aB he said:
“ James Eawson, don’t call me coward.”
“ Why don’t you fight John Taylor, then,
when he dares you ? I would not be dared
by any boy.”
“ He is afraid,” said Charles Jones, as he
put his finger in his eye, and pretended to
cry.
“ I am not afraid,” said Edward, and he
looked almost ready to give up, for John
Taylor came forward and said: “ Come on
then, and show that you are not afraid.” ’
A gentleman passing by said: “ Why do
yon not fight the boy? Tell me the rea
son.”
The boys all stood still, while Edward
said: I will not do a wicked thing, sir, if
they do call me a coward.”
“Thats right, my noble boy,” said tbe
gentieman. “Ifyou fight with that hoy
you will really disgrace yourself, and will
show that you are more afraid of the laugh
and ridicule of your friends than of break
ing the commandments of your Maker. It
is more honorable to bear an insult with
meekness, than to fight about it. Beasts
and brutes, which have no reason, know of
v r a y avenge themselves. Though
H be hard to be called a coward, and snbmit
to the indignity and insult, yet remember
the words of the wise man: “He that ruleth
his spirit is greater than he that taketh a
city. Many a poor, deluded man has been
arawn m to accept a challenge and fight a
1 l hiß braver y> a » d thus display
to all that he was a miserable coward, who
was afraid of the sneer and laugh of his
companions. Rather follow the elample of
that brave soldier who, when he was chal
lenged to-fight said: ‘I dp hot fear the can
non s mouth, butlfear God.”’—Juvenile Be
former.