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Scijool Hags 3&eb r etorti. 
 
 The two boys were gravely talking. p. 8. 
 
jStJjmrl gap §U&teb; 
 
 OR, 
 
 STOKIES OF SCHOOLBOYS. 
 
 PjHsirdpIjra: 
 
 AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 
 
 No. 316 CHESTNUT ST&EET. 
 
 NEW YORK: No. 147 NASSAU ST BOSTON: No, 9 CORNHILL. 
 
 LOUISVILLE: No. 103 FOURTH ST. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by the 
 
 AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 
 
 in the Cleric's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District cf 
 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 &§* No bool's are published by the American Sunday-School Union 
 without the sanction of the Committee of Publication, consisting of four- 
 teen members, from the following denominations of Christians, viz. Bap- 
 tist, Methodist, Congregational, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Lutheran, and 
 Reformed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can be of the same 
 denomination, and no book can be published to which any member of the 
 Committee shall object. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I- PAGE 
 
 Gold may be Bought too Dear 7 
 
 II. 
 The Young Cumbrian 44 
 
 III. 
 
 Bardour .^r.... 74 
 
 IV. 
 Mansfield 105 
 
 V. 
 
 Temptation and Conquest 119 
 
 VI. 
 The General Illumination 182 
 
 VII. 
 The Busy Boy who was always Idle 147 
 
 VIII. 
 Conclusion..... 163 
 
 *1* 1* 5 
 
 * 
 
SCHOOL DAYS REVIEWED. ■ 
 
 i. 
 
 GOLD MAY BE BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 
 
 "Bother the Latin!" exclaimed George, 
 throwing from him his book in a pet. "I can- 
 not learn it, and I won't. I wish — " 
 
 "And I wish," said one of his schoolfellows, 
 interrupting him, " that you would mind what 
 you are about, George. You very- 7 nearly 
 knocked the inkstand over with your book ; and 
 if you had spilled the ink on my exercise, I 
 wonder who would have written it again ? ' ' 
 
 " George bothers •the Latin, he says," re- 
 marked a demure boy on the opposite side of 
 the desk ; now I think it is the Latin that 
 bothers him." 
 
 The boys laughed, and George laughed too ; 
 and with that laugh his momentary irritation 
 left him. He put out his hand for the of 
 fending book, and — though with no great liking 
 for the task — made another attempt at its 
 translation. 
 
 7 
 
5 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 This was an evening scene. The following 
 morning presented the usual appearance of 
 George at the bottom of the class, or very 
 near it ; his written translation blotted with 
 many marks, and himself listening with im- 
 patience to the rebukes of his patient teacher. 
 
 " It will never do, George. This extreme 
 carelessness of yours, this want of application, 
 if not overcome, will be a plague and a draw- 
 back — yes, and a disgrace to you all the days 
 of your life. Go to your desk, sir, and -correct 
 these egregious blunders ; a mere tyro would 
 be ashamed of them." 
 
 George looked ashamed, — not of his careless- 
 ness, perhaps, but of being lectured, as he 
 afterwards said ; — and obeyed. 
 
 A few hours afterward, George and his (at 
 that time) favourite companion were walking 
 round and round the. playground, over which 
 their schoolfellows were scattered. The two 
 boys were gravely talking. 
 
 "Well, if I were you — " 
 
 "You would be just what I am, and do just 
 what I do." 
 
 " If I were in your place then, George, I 
 would pay more attention. What is the use of 
 your being such an idle fellow as you say you 
 are ? These are your words and not mine, you 
 know. I declare I was ashamed of you to-day, 
 and so I am every day. Do exert yourself. 
 You can if you will." 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. \) 
 
 "I. tell you, Dick," replied George, with 
 some appearance of vexation, " that I am 
 naturally so idle that nothing can rouse me ; 
 and besides, if I could exert myself, as you 
 wisely counsel me, what would be the good of 
 it?" 
 
 " The good of it ! Why, for one thing, you 
 would avoid the disgrace." 
 
 "Not worth the trouble, Dick — decidedly 
 not." 
 
 "And for another thing," continued the 
 wiser boy, " you would be fitter, by and by, 
 to — to — " 
 
 "To do my duty, I suppose you mean," in- 
 terposed George. 
 
 " Just so ; at least it is near enough to what 
 I was going to say," replied Dick. 
 
 "Ah," said the other, "this is all very 
 fine ; but how is all this stuff— Latin now, for 
 instance — to make me fitter? as you say — you 
 won't find such a word in Murray, though, I 
 fancy ; but fitter let it be, if you like — to do 
 my duty, and so on?" 
 
 "Mr. Weston says—" 
 
 " Yes, yes, — I know what Mr. Weston says 
 about Latin, and so you need not trouble 
 yourself to repeat it. It may be all very well 
 for him. But look here, when I leave school, 
 (and the time is not far off, I hope,) of what 
 use will Latin and mathematics, and more 
 than half of the other stupid things we are 
 
10 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 bored with here — I say, of what use will they 
 be to me?" 
 
 " You don't know yet, George." 
 
 " Yes I do : they will be of no use. I am 
 to live with' my rich old uncle, who cares as 
 much /«Jout Latin as one of his horses, and 
 not much more. My time will be tak^n up in 
 riding about the farm with him, or without him, 
 looking after his men, and things of that sort. 
 And after a time when the dear old uncle is 
 gone — not that I shall wish him dead ; but he 
 is old, and cannot live long — then the farm is 
 to come to me, with plenty of money into the 
 bargain, and I shall settle down into a country 
 gentleman ; my mother and sister will live with 
 me, and won't I be happy then ? But as to 
 the Latin and all this school nonsense, it really 
 won't be of any use, Dick, and it is not worth 
 the trouble of cramming my head with it. I 
 wonder my mothSr should wish me to become 
 classical, as she says. Only fancy the idea of 
 a classical farmer ! If I had to work my way 
 in some profession or other, that would be a 
 different thing, eh ?" 
 
 Dick did not carry on the argument which 
 he had introduced. He was but a boy, though 
 a thoughtful one ; and he did not know how to 
 reply to his friend's long vindication of himself, 
 except by saying — 
 
 "I think, George, if your mother wishes it, 
 that ought to be enough." 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 11 
 
 And surely this was one of the best replies 
 Dick could make. 
 
 George did not attempt a rejoinder, but went 
 on talking on a subject that never tired him — 
 his great expectations, and pleasant dcipa- 
 tions. George's mother was a widow, aii.i far 
 from rich ; but she had a kind, old and rather 
 eccentric relative — the same uncle of whom 
 George was frequently making a boast — who 
 was rich, very rich, most of his acquaintance 
 thought ; and he had placed George at one 
 school, and George's sister at another. During 
 the holidays he had them at his house, and 
 petted them ; he promised George to make a 
 farmer and a man of him ; to leave him his 
 farm — a very large one — and the greater part 
 of his fortune ; and, more than this, he nieant 
 to do it. No wonder, therefore, that George 
 was elated with his prospects, and sometimes 
 boasted of them ; neither is it any wonder that 
 he was often thinking of the pleasures of the 
 time when he should be rich, and was building 
 castles in the air, very tall and grand, when he 
 ought to have been working out a sum or a pro- 
 blem, learning a lesson, or writing an exercise. 
 
 " You will come and see me, Dick, when I 
 get to Willow Grove for good, and when you 
 have left school. You shall pay me a long 
 visit — I know uncle will like to have you there ; 
 and we will ride and fish and shoot just as it 
 suits our fancy. Ah ! a wonderful deal better 
 
12 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 that will be than this stupid school work — 
 won't it ?" 
 
 " Thank you, George," said Dick ; " hut I 
 fancy I shall not he able to do that. I have 
 no rich old uncle, you know, to set me up in 
 the world as you have ; and as soon as I leave 
 school I shall have to work at something or 
 other — I do not know what ; but most likely I 
 shall have to be an apprentice; and then there 
 will not be much riding and fishing and shoot- 
 ing for me, I suspect:" and Dick could not 
 help heaving a little sigh as he spoke. He 
 half envied his schoolfellow's bright prospects. 
 "But how silly it is," he continued, "to be 
 worrying one's self with what is to be ! i Suf- 
 ficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' eh, 
 George ? Come, let us have done prosing, and 
 have a good game. See, there goes Morris 
 with the bats and ball, and they can't do with- 
 out us, I know; so come along." And in a 
 few minutes the boys were hard at play. 
 
 "Go to now," says the Apostle James, "ye 
 that say, To-day or to-morrow we will go into 
 such a city, and continue there a year, and 
 buy and sell, and get gain: whereas ye know 
 not what shall be on the morrow. For what is 
 your life ? It is even a vapour, that appeareth 
 for a little time, and then vanisheth away. 
 For that ye ought to say, If the Lord will, we 
 shall live, and do this or that." James iv. 13-15. 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 13 
 
 Schoolboys ! Let the truth conveyed by 
 these words be imprinted on your memories. 
 Take the lesson home to your hearts. You 
 have need to be reminded that the bright 
 hopes of this world may suddenly set in gloom 
 and storm. You have need to prepare yourself 
 for life's uncertainties. Your thoughts and 
 boasts are often, "My mountain stands strong; 
 I shall never be moved" you say; and you lit- 
 tle think that it is but for God to hide his face 
 and you will be troubled. 
 
 "George," said his tutor to him, in a kind 
 and sympathizing tone, the day after that in 
 which he had boasted to his friend Dick of his 
 pleasant prospects in life, — " George, you are 
 to return home to-day." 
 
 "Home! sir," the boy gasped, rather than 
 spoke, for his master's tone and countenance 
 alarmed him. " Is any thing the matter, sir? " 
 and he burst into tears. 
 
 "I had a letter from your mother just 
 now — " 
 
 " She is well then, sir? Oh, I was afraid — " 
 
 " Your mother is well ; but your uncle — he 
 is gone, George. He died suddenly yesterday ; 
 and your mother wishes you to return home 
 for a few days. It 'is quite right. You have 
 lost a dear and kind friend, George." 
 
 " Yes, sir — oh yes, sir ! What shall I do ? 
 Oh, what shall I do ? My dear,*goocl uncle !" 
 
 George was no hypocrite. He really had 
 2 
 
14 GOLD MAT BE 
 
 loved his uncle, or rather his mother's uncle ; 
 and now that he was so suddenly made ac- 
 quainted with his death, the selfish thought of 
 being enriched by the sad event probably did 
 not for a single moment, at that time, enter his 
 mind. Sobbing bitterly, he left the school-room, 
 and in less than an hour, — his eyes still red 
 with weeping, — he stepped into a carriage, and 
 was whirled away toward his home. 
 
 Many a speculating schoolfellow did the 
 afflicted boy leave behind him, to wonder how 
 much money would fall to George's share, and 
 whether he would go at once to live at Willow 
 Grove ; and many an envious sigh was but half 
 suppressed when these conjectures were whis- 
 pered from one to another. 
 
 Two or three weeks passed away, and George 
 returned to school. He was dressed in deep 
 mourning, and he was pale too, and seemed 
 very sad. He said nothing to the boys about 
 the journey he had made, or the events which 
 had taken place ; and, curious as they were to 
 know the extent, of their schoolfellow's " good 
 fortune," as they termed it, they were too shy 
 to put the question, "How much money did 
 your uncle leave you, George?" 
 
 But though they did not find out this secret, 
 they were not long in perceiving a most 
 extraordinary change in George. He became 
 suddenly studious. All his old habits of care- 
 lessness and unconcern were abandoned. He 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 15 
 
 • 
 no longer subjected himself to the disgrace 
 
 of being constantly "lectured" for his want 
 
 of application. It was evident that he could 
 
 be roused to diligence, and that he had been 
 
 thus roused. 
 
 This was not the only alteration which, in 
 this short time, had taken place in the boy. 
 Formerly, he had been careless in his expenses ; 
 the small stock of money which, after every 
 vacation, he had brought with him to school, 
 had been soon exhausted ; and he had, more 
 than once, incurred rebuke for borrowing from 
 his school-fellowS for some unnecessary expen- 
 diture. Now, he began to keep his pockets so 
 closely buttoned, and seemed so reluctant to 
 part with a single penny from his re-filled 
 purse, that he ran a great risk of being set 
 clown as a miser. 
 
 To crown a%, George became so reserved 
 and morose, that, after a few attempts on the 
 part of some of his better-tempered young 
 friends to " draw him out," as they said, after 
 his old fashion, they gave up in despair, de- 
 claring among themselves that it was useless to 
 try to please him ; and that, "if he had lost an 
 old uncle, he need not be everlastingly sulky 
 and cross, as if that would do any good." 
 
 "I do not believe," said one of the boys, 
 one day, "that it is his uncle's death makes 
 him so queer and sulky. No, no ; he is proud 
 of his money, — depend upon it, — and thinks 
 
16 GOLD MAY BE . 
 
 himself above us all because he is well off. I 
 have no patience with such nonsense." 
 
 And no sooner had this new idea possessed 
 the minds of George's school-fellows, than they 
 began to show in many ways their contempt 
 of this pride of wealth in him. Excepting 
 Dick, scarcely one cared afterward to notice 
 him ; and even he was far less friendly than 
 before. Thus the bereaved boy was solitary as 
 well as sad. 
 
 But this seemed very little to move him. 
 He plodded on doggedly and silently with his 
 studies, with every appearance of determina- 
 tion to make up for the time he had lost. And 
 he succeeded. He was no longer in constant 
 disgrace, but often excited the wondering ap- 
 proval of his master by his strange industry 
 and perseverance. What could be the cause 
 of this sudden change, and wdftld it be perma- 
 nent ? 
 
 Yes ; it was permanent. The holidays came 
 and were over, and George, with most of his 
 school-fellows, returned to school. But even 
 during the holidays the boy had not been idle. 
 While the others had, most of them, laid aside 
 their books, and forgotten as much as they 
 could of what they previously learned, and 
 thus had to come up again with great labour 
 and much pains to the point at which they had 
 left off, George had toiled on and reached a 
 position which he had never before attained. 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 17 
 
 "You astonish me, George," said his teacher, 
 "by your determination and industry; nay, I 
 am not sure that you have not worked too hard. 
 We must not forget that the bow never relaxed, 
 will snap. Be prudent, my boy, as well as dili- 
 gent." 
 
 George's eye twinkled with gratified self-ap- 
 probation, and from that time he worked on 
 with still greater ardour. At the same time, 
 his moroseness in part wore away, and he again 
 sought companionship. But there were some 
 subjects of conversation on which he main- 
 tained a stubborn silence : — he could not be led. 
 to speak of his late uncle, nor of Willow Grove, 
 nor of his own bright hopes for the future. 
 There were signs, too, of settled unamiableness 
 in the boy, which had formerly appeared. In 
 the ardour of, competition, he took ungenerous 
 advantages of his competitors ; and did a puz- 
 zled school-fellow need assistance in preparing 
 a lesson, it was not of George that he sought it. 
 
 "You won't keep that place long," said he, 
 with a disagreeable smile, one day when return- 
 ing to his desk, to a class-mate who had "taken 
 him down," and stood at the head of the class. 
 
 "Who is to prevent it?" asked the other, 
 good-humouredly. 
 
 " You will see, by-and-by," retorted George. 
 
 Now, at that time, and in that school, there 
 was a certain sort of dress, which the six fore- 
 most scholars were permitted to wear over their 
 2* 
 
18 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 other garments by way of honourable distinc- 
 tion ; and very dignified and scholastic did this 
 dress make the wearers appear. But as every 
 privilege has its duty, so was it binding on each 
 to wear his dress in the class ; and as laws are 
 useless unless accompanied by a penalty for 
 disobedience, it was ordained that a breach of 
 this law should subject the offender to an igno- 
 minious removal to the bottom of any class of 
 which he was a member. 
 * It is easy to make laws, but not always plea- 
 sant to enforce them. Moreover, sometimes 
 honourable distinctions become burcTensome ; 
 and privileges, when looked upon as duties, are 
 neglected. Thus it came to pass that the dress 
 was more often laid aside than worn in the 
 class ; and the penalty for disregarding the 
 standing rule had not for many a long day been 
 enforced. Nevertheless, the law remained un- 
 repealed. George's class-mate had broken it; 
 and George became an informer. 
 
 " Since I am appealed to," said the kind and 
 wise principal of the school, "I must enforce 
 the law, William, which you acknowledge your- 
 self to have, disobeyed. You will have to work 
 upward from the bottom of each class to-mor- 
 row. As to you, George, had you been a lit- 
 tle more generous, I should, for your sake, 
 have been glad. It is possible, my boy, to be 
 too exact; it would better have pleased me had 
 you suffered your teacher to overlook or to 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 19 
 
 notice the offence, as he might see fit ; and 
 even now it shall be overlooked if you wish it, 
 What do you say?" 
 
 George said nothing, and William lost his 
 standing in the classes. He afterward lost a 
 prize also, which, but for this day's misfortune, 
 would have been his ; and George gained it. 
 
 "What a shame it was of you, George!" 
 remonstrated some of his school-fellows a few 
 hours afterward. " So mean ! So shabby !" 
 
 " Not at all," replied George. " I had a 
 right to tell ; and if you ever catch me without 
 my class-dress — " 
 
 "When you have got one;" — "you have 
 not got one yet," retorted one and another in 
 ridicule. 
 
 — "When I have got one," continued George, 
 calmly, "you may inform against me, and wel- 
 come." 
 
 Another vacation, another terft time, and 
 George was nearly at the head of the school ; 
 he stood second only to Dick, his former friend, 
 and the only school-fellow with whom he still 
 held much intercourse. He had overcome 
 many difficulties by perseverance and applica- 
 tion. He was no longer the "idle fellow" he 
 had once boasted himself to be. But, more 
 unamiable than ever, the announcement that 
 this was his "last term" excited not the least 
 regret. 
 
20 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 It was a busy day, and an exciting one, on 
 which the various marks of each boy were cast 
 up, and the several prizes awarded. Of the 
 twelve to be given, three of the more valu- 
 able had that half year been fairly won by 
 George. He had expected a fourth, and was 
 mortified. 
 
 "You have done famously, George," said 
 Dick, that evening, as the two boys took their 
 once accustomed walk around the play-ground. 
 Dick was in good spirits, for the first prize (a 
 pair of globes) would be his. "You have 
 done famously, George." 
 
 "No, ' I have not," replied George; "I 
 thought I should have had the sixth prize as 
 well." 
 
 "You were very near it; and if you were 
 coming back next term, you would be sure of it 
 then, and the first prize, too." 
 
 " Yes ; what is the good of telling me that, 
 when you kffcow I am not coming back? 'A 
 miss is as bad as a mile,' is it not ?" 
 
 " In your case it is, certainly," replied Dick, 
 laughing ; " however, you will soon be able to 
 console yourself at Willow Grove for the loss 
 of those prizes — eh ?" 
 
 George turned quickly, and stared fiercely 
 at his friend; then, resuming his walk and 
 former look, and without replying to the ques- 
 tion, he went on — 
 
 "It is very provoking to lose that sixth 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 21 
 
 prize. I might have had it if I had worked a 
 little harder." 
 
 " I do not know that, George. If you had 
 worked harder, Parker (the successful boy) 
 might have worked harder too ; and so you 
 would still have been as you are. And besides," 
 continued Dick, "I really think that three 
 prizes at one time ought to satisfy any one. 
 We should think for others as well as for our- 
 selves, you know. It does not do to be selfish, 
 George." 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, I don't believe I am more 
 selfish than you, Dick. I suspect you would 
 rather have your prize than that any one else 
 should have it. And all right, too ; every one 
 for himself, /say. ' Charity begins at home,' 
 you know." 
 
 "Ay, but we have been told that it should 
 not end at home: and there is something in 
 that, I think," replied Dick, gravely; and the 
 boys walked on a few steps in silence. 
 
 It was broken by Dick. " George," said he, 
 "you are strangely altered since we first knew 
 each other — three — ay, nearly four years ago." 
 
 "Ami?" asked George. "How?" 
 
 " Why, you used to be so merry and good- 
 tempered, and now you have become so — 
 so—" 
 
 "So what, Dick?" asked George, sharply. 
 
 "So dull' and cross; excuse my saying so, 
 George." 
 
99 
 
 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 " Cross, eh? I don't know that I am cross, 
 particularly. As to being dull, perhaps I have 
 reason to be. Well, is that all ?" 
 
 "No, not all, certainly. You used to he 
 idle, and to make a sort of boast of it ; and 
 of late no boy in the school has worked so hard 
 as you have." 
 
 "No harm in that, at any rate," replied 
 George. 
 
 " To be sure not. But then there is another 
 thing, if you won't be offended, George." 
 
 " Oh no — go on; let me know my faults. 
 'Faithful are the wounds of a friend,' says the 
 wise man." — It was in an unpleasant, sarcastic 
 tone that George said this: but Dick did not 
 choose to notice the tone. 
 
 "Well, then, you have become so stingy and 
 covetous — at least, you seem to be so. What 
 can be the cause ? I should have thought now, 
 that you, of all others, would not have been so 
 sharp after one single prize, and so vexed at 
 not getting it, when you had three already ; 
 that is, I should have thought so of you once." 
 
 "Oh!" said George, coldly; "any thing 
 else, Dick ? Go on, if there is." 
 
 " No ; I won't say any more. You are offend- 
 ed now." 
 
 "Not a bit," said the strange-tempered boy. 
 " Oh no, quite the contrary." 
 
 Another round of the play-ground in silence, 
 broken this time by George. "I am altered, 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 23 
 
 am I ? Well; I suppose I am — in some things. 
 There may be a reason for it, too. I'll tell you, 
 Dick." 
 
 Dick listened, and George went on. 
 
 " You know very well how I used to brag 
 about my rich old uncle, and Willow Grove, 
 and all that sort of thing ?" 
 
 Dick nodded assent. 
 
 " Very well; and you know, too, that he died, 
 and when ?" 
 
 "Yes," Dick said, "he remembered this." 
 
 " I have never mentioned it to any one, and 
 nobody here knows it except our teacher ; but 
 it does not signify who knows it now I am going 
 to leave. When uncle died, it was found out 
 that the. stupid old — " 
 
 "The what! George," exclaimed Dick in 
 amazement. " George !" 
 
 " Well, well, I beg his pardon and yours ; 
 but the long and short of it is, uncle had not 
 made a will. He was always talking about it, 
 but he never did it. You can guess the rest." 
 
 "No I cannot," said Dick; "what diffe- 
 rence did that make to you?" 
 
 " What difference ! That shows how much 
 you know about such things. What difference, 
 indeed ! Why, instead of being rich, as I 
 always thought I should be, I am just little 
 better than a beggar." As the boy said this, 
 his voice became husky with emotion, and his 
 companion pitied him from his heart. 
 
24 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 " Yes, a beggar ! ^here was a nearer rela- 
 tion than my mother or I— my mother's cousin ; 
 and all the property went to him, — every bit 
 of it." 
 
 " Well, I never dreamed of that. It must 
 have been a disappointment. I feel for you, 
 George." 
 
 " My uncle's heir was rich enough before," 
 continued he; "but that did not signify. 
 
 " He took care to keep fast hold of Willow 
 grove, and all the rest ; and here I am/' 
 
 " But did he not give your mother and you 
 any thing?" 
 
 "Ah, — well, — I cannot say that exactly. 
 He was very gracious, and talked very fine ; he 
 pays for my schooling and my sister's, as old 
 uncle did ; and he says he will do something 
 for us when we leave school, and so forth." 
 
 "That is kind in him, is. it not?" asked 
 Dick. "I suppose he need not have done 
 this." 
 
 "Kind ! I don't call it very kind. He might 
 have kept his money all to himself for what I 
 care. And I would not have taken his paltry 
 gifts, nor come back to school again, if I had 
 had my will ; but my mother would have it so." 
 
 " But you are glad you did come back, now, 
 are you not?" 
 
 "Yes, I am," he replied. "At first, I was 
 determined not to learn, but as I was on th* 
 road, I altered my mind." 
 
EOUGfiT TOO DEAH. 25 
 
 "All!" 
 
 "Yes, I did; I thought to myself, I won't 
 let this disappointment beat me. I'll do my 
 best, and make up for lost time, and get the 
 stuff in me to work up by and by ; and I'll 
 take care of number one. There, now, you 
 know it all, Dick. No, not all; I'll tell you 
 something more," he continued, in a low, but 
 determined tone: "Willow Grove shall be mine 
 yet — that is, if I live," he added. "I'll work 
 and scrape and save. I'll make the most of 
 my cousin's help till I can do without it %- and 
 
 then well, never mind ; I know what I have 
 
 to do, and I will do it." 
 
 Once more the boys walked on some minutes 
 in silence ; George perhaps pondering over his 
 resolutions, and Dick wondering at what he had 
 heard, and feeling uneasy, though he scarcely 
 knew why, at the glance he had obtained of the 
 workings of his companion's mind. He could 
 not distinctly see, or seeing, he could not have 
 put into words, the fact that mortified pride 
 and avarice had cast their influence over 
 George's better feelings, and had begun to 
 curdle his affections. Industry he knew was 
 praiseworthy, and resoluteness necessary to 
 success in life ; but, as shown by his friend, 
 even these looked repulsive, if not absolutely^ 
 bad. He turned to another subject for relief. 
 
 "What books will you choose, George, for 
 your three prizes?" 
 
26 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 "I don't know, yet. I do not know that I 
 shall have books at all." 
 
 " What ! Not have books ? What then ?" 
 
 "I have books enough," said George. "I 
 shall not want books. I say, Dick — " 
 
 "Well?" replied Dick, perceiving that his 
 companion hesitated. 
 
 " Look here : my three prizes, you know, 
 come to just twenty-five dollars." 
 
 "Let me see," said Dick, gravely; "yes 7 
 altogether ; that is, twenty-five dollars' worth 
 of books, you know : any books you like — that 
 is, again, if your choice is approved by the 
 higher powers." 
 
 "Just so," said George. "Well, now, what 
 difference would it make to Mr. D , suppos- 
 ing I were to have the money instead of the 
 books ?" 
 
 ".George !" exclaimed his amazed companion ; 
 " I never heard of such a thing — never !" v 
 
 "Perhaps not," said George, coldly; "but 
 I don't see, for all that — " 
 
 " How could such a thought have entered 
 your head, George ? Why, I would not take 
 double the value in money instead of my prize : 
 you must be joking." 
 
 " Joking ! Not at all. I heard a man say, 
 once, that joking is the most foolish thing on 
 earth ; one gets nothing by it. There is good 
 sense in that; and I have given up joking ever 
 since I heard it. No, no : I am serious. And 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 27 
 
 as. to what you would do, or not do, that is not 
 the question. I tell you, that twenty-five dol- 
 lars in money will be a great deal better to me 
 than twenty-five dollars' worth of musty books ; 
 and what will it signify to anybody else ? I 
 have a great mind to ask the master. I will, 
 too. Why not?" 
 
 "What have you to ask the master, George?" 
 was echoed by a pleasant voice near them. 
 The boys knew it to be the voice of their tutor. 
 They were just then close by a thick hedge 
 which formed one of the boundaries of the play- 
 ground, and separated it from the master's 
 garden. ■ j 
 
 " Come in, my boys," he continued, unlock- 
 ing a gate a little farther on, " and let me 
 know what you have to ask. I have not been 
 listening," he added, "and I really do not 
 know what you have been saying ; but I could 
 not help accidentally hearing your last words, 
 George. And if," he went on to say, "your 
 request should be as reasonable as I hope it 
 may be, it shall be gratified. Come in, and let 
 us talk together as friends." 
 
 The two boys were rather confused, but they 
 accepted the invitation. 
 
 It was a beautiful summer's evening, and the 
 
 garden was in fine order. Mr. D was fond 
 
 of flowers, and before he resumed his inquiry 
 he turned into a side-path to show his scholars 
 
28 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 a new variety of some favourite seedling which 
 he himself had raised. 
 
 " And now for your wish, George ; what is 
 it?" 
 
 George, thus taken unawares, found more 
 difficulty in expressing his wish than he had 
 anticipated. He looked somewhat foolish, in 
 fact, and stammered out that it was of no con- 
 sequence. # • 
 
 " Nay," said his tutor, " but you need not be 
 afraid to mention it; you are not ashamed of it, 
 I hope. Your young friend shall put it into 
 words for you, if you please. What is it, Dick?" 
 
 Dick looked at George. George nodded, as 
 much as to say, "Yes, speak for me." 
 
 " George was saying, sir," replied Dick — 
 " it was about the prizes, sir — his prizes ; and 
 he was saying that books will not be of much 
 use to him, he thinks." 
 
 " Eh ? His is a peculiar case, then. Well ?" 
 
 "And so, sir, if you would not mind, he would 
 
 rather have " and Dick made an. awkward 
 
 stop. 
 
 "Don't be afraid," said Mr. D , encou- 
 ragingly. "He would rather have some philo- 
 sophical apparatus, perhaps — an air pump, or 
 an electrical machine, or a galvanic trough ? 
 If so, I will make no objection, though I am 
 not sure that books would not be more useful." 
 
 " No, sir ; that was not it. George wishes 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAE. 29 
 
 to have, or that he might have, the money 
 that the books would cost, — instead of the 
 books." 
 
 "Whew I" said, (or rather breathed) the tutor, 
 in surprise ; and then turning to George with a 
 very grave countenance, asked, " Has Dick 
 rightly explained your wish ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied George, faintly. 
 
 Up the path walked Mr. D slowly and 
 
 silently, and as slowly and silently did he come 
 down again. 
 
 "You have made a mess of it," whispered 
 Dick to his companion. 
 
 " I don't care if I have," rejoined George in 
 the same under-breath, but with lips that 
 quivered a little. "I cannot see why there 
 should be any difficulty about it." 
 
 "I wish I was out of it, at all events," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " My boys," said Mr. D , as he came 
 
 again to the place in which he had left them 
 standing, "I can conceive of such a request, 
 under some circumstances, being not only 
 reasonable, but praiseworthy. Perhaps it may 
 be so in your case, George; and if there be 
 any good reason for the exchange, it shall be 
 made, though it will be a bad precedent. Come, 
 then, tell me why you wish for the money 
 rather than the books." 
 
 •• It will be of more use to me, sir." 
 
 " I am not quite sure of that, George. That 
 3* 
 
30 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 must depend on the use to which it is put. You 
 will not, therefore, think me unreasonable if I 
 ask what immediate and important purpose you 
 have in view for this money ?" 
 
 George was compelled to acknowledge that 
 he had none. 
 
 " I am afraid I understand you, then," said 
 
 Mr. D , after many other questions and 
 
 replies, which need not be repeated — and he 
 spoke seriously and somewhat sadly — " I think 
 I understand you to mean that you value 
 money, not for the proper uses to which it may 
 be put, but for its own sake. You wish to be 
 rich ; you mean — if God will permit it — to be 
 rich ; and you would like to have this certain 
 sum, twenty-five dollars, to lay as a foundation 
 for future accumulations. Am I right ?" 
 
 Yes, so far right that George did not dissent 
 from the way of putting the case. 
 
 " You have been disappointed in your early 
 hopes and prospects ; your young friend here, — 
 — is he aware of this ? 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I have told him all about it." 
 
 " Then I may speak freely before him. I 
 feel for you, George. I have felt very much 
 for you. At first I hoped the disappointment 
 had done you good, in stirring you up to dili- 
 gence and self-dependence. It is well for a 
 young man to feel that, for his success in life ; 
 he must put forth the energies which he has at 
 his command, and use the talents which God has 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 31 
 
 given him. Great expectations from others 
 have too often an injurious effect upon us." 
 
 " And I have worked hard, sir, since then," 
 George replied. 
 
 " I gladly bear witness to this ; and I trust 
 that, after all, I shall not be disappointed in the 
 result. But the result will be disappointment, 
 my young friend, if the attainment of wealth 
 should unhappily be the only or principal object 
 of your diligence, — the end to which all your 
 acquisitions of knowledge are to be the means. 
 6 A man's life,' my boys, ' consisteth not in the 
 abundance of the things which he possesseth.' 
 These are the words of Him who was, in him- 
 self, wisdom and truth. Do not disregard 
 them, I pray you." 
 
 " But money is useful, sir," interposed Dick, 
 (who wished to shield his friend from the im- 
 putation of covetousness ;) " is it not, sir?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Useful ? Yes, Dick, rightly employed. It 
 is useful when we exchange it for bread, pota-* 
 toes, or meat ; coats, hats, or shoes, with com- 
 mon necessaries of a like nature. It is useful 
 when it pays rent, taxes, and service, or when 
 it provides us with fuel. It is useful, too, in a 
 higher degree, when it supplies our intellectual 
 requirements ; in a still higher degree, when it 
 enables its possessor to do good to all men ; 
 and in the highest degree of all, when employed 
 for the glory of its great Giver. But money 
 
32 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 in itself, Dick, is useless! We can neither eat 
 it, nor drink it ; it will neither clothe us, nor 
 warm us, nor defend us. Nay, it is often worse 
 than useless ; it is positively and fearfully in- 
 jurious. When it panders to our evil passions, 
 and purchases for us unhallowed enjoyments ; 
 or when its possession becomes a predominant 
 desire, and we make it our god — sacrificing to it 
 health, integrity, talent, and soul — then money 
 becomes a fearful curse. ' The love of money,' 
 my young friends, ' is the root of all evil' — so 
 says the apostle ; '. which,' he adds, ' while some 
 coveted after, they have erred from the faith, 
 and pierced themselves through with many sor- 
 rows.' It is very sad when this happens, is it 
 not ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Dick; "but people who 
 are rich do not always love their money like 
 that; do they, sir ?" 
 
 " Oh no; there are those who are 'rich in 
 faith,' as well as rich in wealth. But some do ; 
 and let me tell you that those who have riches 
 have many temptations, and that the love of 
 money is a growing and greedy affection — 
 never satisfied. I was told, the other day, of 
 a gentlemen who had a large sum of money 
 left him. Before this he was generous and 
 happy ; afterward he became both miserly and 
 miserable. Can you guess why? I daresay 
 not. I will tell you. He found out that, what 
 with his recently acquired property and what 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 33 
 
 he had before, lie was worth, as he said, only 
 four hundred thousand dollars ; and he wished 
 to be worth five hundred thousand. So, to at- 
 tain this object, he began to deny himself much 
 that he might have enjoyed, and to keep back 
 from all means of doing good with his wealth. 
 ; He could no longer afford to be liberal,' he 
 said." 
 
 George sighed, as he heard this story. 
 
 " Why that sigh, George ?" asked his tutor. 
 
 " Five hundred thousand dollars is a great* 
 deal of money, sir. If I had but fifty thousand, 
 I would not want to be richer." 
 
 "You think so, George, but probably you 
 are mistaken. However, this poor man of 
 whom I was telling you — he died miserably, 
 and confessed at last, what multitudes besides 
 have found to their cost, that 6 Gold may be 
 bought too dear.' " 
 
 "And now, George, to come back to your 
 request : I cannot grant it. You do not really 
 need the money. Your relative's intentions 
 toward you are liberal ; and after you leave 
 school you will be placed in a situation in 
 which your talents and education, combined 
 with industry and honesty, will make honour- 
 able way for you. Your necessary wants will 
 be supplied, and the twenty-five dollars which 
 you covet would either be needlessly spent or 
 selfishly hoarded. I trust you will succeed in 
 life ; and if you should become rich, I trust, 
 
84 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 also, you will be kept from the snares of wealth. 
 But remember, George — remember, both of you, 
 — that even ' gold may be bought too clear' — too 
 clear, if obtained at the cost of health, or hap- 
 piness, or honour, or usefulness ; and, if taken 
 in exchange for eternal life, too dear, infi- 
 nitely TOO DEAR." 
 
 George left the garden dissatisfied and 
 angry. " I don't care," said he to his com- 
 panion, when they were once more by them- 
 selves. " It is all very fine to talk about such 
 things, especially when one has all the talk to 
 one's self, and must not be answered. So, [ gold 
 may be bought too dear,' may it? Of course 
 it may ; but it may be bought cheap, too, if one 
 goes to the right market for it. Well, well ; 
 we shall see." 
 
 Some years ago, a middle-aged person lived 
 at Willow Grove. This was our old school- 
 fellow, George. Willow Grove was his: he 
 had purchased it of a son of his uncle's heir. 
 He was said to be very rich, as well as very 
 miserable ; and these are the outlines of his 
 history, as you might have heard them from 
 the lips of an aged man, his near neighbour : — 
 
 " Yes, sir ; that is George, as we used 
 to call him when the old gentleman, his 
 mother's uncle, was alive; and when the boy, 
 as he was then, came backward and forward 
 from his mother's as he pleased, and spent 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 35 
 
 most of his holiday time at Willow Grove. He 
 was an open, kind-hearted boy then, full of fun ; 
 but he did not like work, they said, and he 
 said so, too. But he made sure of his uncle's 
 estate, and so it was thought not to signify 
 greatly. 
 
 "But ' there's many a slip 'twixt the cup 
 and the lip' — an old proverb, sir, but a true 
 one ; and master George found it out by expe- 
 rience. Ah, you should have seen the way he 
 was in when it was found that the old squire 
 had died without making a will, and that all 
 the property went to the next heir, master 
 George's cousin, or, more properly, his mother's- 
 cousin. However, there was no help for it ; 
 'and the new comer was a straightforward;, 
 honourable man. He did not give up his rights, 
 of course ; but he behaved handsomely to 
 George's mother, and promised to start George 
 and his sister comfortably in the world, and to 
 go on bearing their school expenses, as his 
 uncle had done. 
 
 "Yes, sir, George went to school again ; and 
 when he came home for the holidays, everybody 
 noticed what a difference there was in him. He 
 had lost all his fun, and had turned out to be 
 what they call ' a hard student.' His mother 
 was pleased with this, and so was their cousin : 
 but his altered manners — these did not please 
 them so well ; they had become so gloomy and 
 cold. 
 
GOLD MAY BE 
 
 u 
 
 Well, sir, after a year or two, master 
 George left school and went to the city ; and 
 we saw nothing more of him for a long time, 
 only about once a year he used to come to these 
 parts for a few days to see his mother and sis- 
 ter ; but at last he left this off. We heard a 
 little about him, though, at times, through his 
 mother — an old friend of mine, sir, and a 
 Christian woman, one of the right sort, sir. 
 She used to grieve sorely sometimes about 
 George ; not that he turned out badly altoge- 
 ther ; he was not profligate, nor idle, but he 
 seemed, she said, to have lost his former affec- 
 tion, and shut up his heart, as one may say, 
 against the best things : he was all for money- 
 getting ; up early and late at his business, 
 whatever that might be — and I do not. remem- 
 ber now what it was, nor does it signify- — but 
 he was never satisfied. 
 
 "Time went on, sir, and George became a 
 man ; he had served out his time, and came 
 home a few weeks. I saw a good deal of him 
 then ; he often called in to see me. But all his 
 talk was about money, and what he would do 
 when he got rich ; how Willow Grove should 
 be his, after all. 
 
 I talked a little to him, sir, in my way, and 
 told him that money was not every thing. He 
 laughed at me, and said I put in him mind of 
 a saying of his old school-master, that ' Gold 
 may be bought too dear.' 'And so it may, 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAR. 37 
 
 master George,' I said: but lie did not seem to 
 think so then ; and what he thinks now it 
 would be hard to say. I told him, that c wis- 
 dom is the principal thing;' but he pretended 
 not to understand me. My heart ached for 
 him, for it was plain that he was set upon 
 being rich; nothing else would go down with 
 him. 
 
 "He went back to the city; and his cousin 
 acted nobly in setting him up in business ; and 
 we heard, from time to time, that he was doing; 
 well as regards money-getting, that he was 
 very selfish in business, and very diligent, and 
 that every thing he took in hand prospered ; 
 and nothing more was heard of him, good or 
 bad, until, — perhaps it may be ten years ago, 
 — when his cousin at Willow Grove died, and 
 George's mother and sister lost their chief sup- 
 port. 
 
 "Ah, sir, that was a trial of principle. 
 There were several to come in for shares of 
 the property — the childi^n, you understand, 
 of this cousin ; and they said that as George 
 was now well able to support his mother and 
 sister, they did not see why they should con- 
 tinue the annuity. But George thought diffe- 
 rently, and refused — would you believe it ? — 
 he refused to do any thing for his aged mother, 
 or for his sister ! He could not afford it, he 
 said. Sir, his mother did not ask him twice — 
 not that she was grieved ; ' she knew the excuse 
 4 
 
38 GOLD MAY BIT 
 
 was a bad one, sir. From that time, she and 
 her daughter struggled* on, until the young wo- 
 man was married to a man who knew her worth, 
 and who afterward took care that the aged 
 Christian should not know want. 
 
 " It was not long after this, that news came 
 of George's marriage. He had waited long, 
 for he seemed to fear that the expenses of mar- 
 ried life would keep him from his darling ob- 
 ject. ' I am not rich enough to think about 
 marrying, was what he had always said. At last^ 
 however, as I was saying, he did marry. He 
 married a woman with a fortune ; a woman for 
 whom, by all accounts, he never had the least 
 love ; but she had money, and that was enough 
 for him. 
 
 " It was soon after this, that George came 
 down here, where he had not been for many 
 long years. He looked old then, — very old 
 and careworn, and melancholy. It was plain 
 that he had parted with health for gold in the 
 •way of business, and it was almost as plain 
 that he had parted with happiness for gold in 
 the way of marriage. This was buying gold 
 pretty dear, I think. 
 
 " Well, he came to look after the Willow 
 Grove estate, which he was determined to have 
 if money would buy it. And money did buy 
 it. So he went back to the city, gave up busi- 
 ness, and brought down his wife. It was soon 
 seen how little comfort poor George had got 
 
BOU-GHT TTOO DEAR. -'39 
 
 with all his money. His wife had a sacl tem- 
 per, and was very proud. His own mother 
 and sister were, so to speak, banished from his 
 house ; for he dared not invite them to see him, 
 had he wished it : — and I believe he did wish 
 it, so long as they did not coaie to him for 
 money ; and this they had no need to do. But, 
 wish it or not, they were soon given to under- 
 stand that they must be strangers at Willow 
 Grove. 
 
 " It was a bad day for the tenants when the 
 estate fell into George's hands. He began at 
 once to raise their rents, and to make them feel 
 in other ways the difference between a conside- 
 rate landlord and a hard one. His workmen 
 dread him — 1^ is so harsh and unfeeling ; and 
 he is shunned by all the neighbourhood as a 
 man who has no kindly feelings, no affection 
 for- any thing but gold. 
 
 "Not that George is a miser, as some people 
 are miserly. He lives within his income, they 
 say; but he has the good things of this world: 
 though as to enjoying them, he seems past that 
 now. If he has any pleasure, it is in scheming 
 to get richer ; for he is not yet satisfied with 
 what he has, though he counts his property by 
 tens of thousands. As to doing good with his 
 money, you may judge that this is far from his 
 thoughts — indeed it is ; he lives to himself. 
 
 "The worst of all is, that poor George seems 
 dead to religion. The gold has entered his 
 
40 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 soul. He knows better — his understanding is 
 informed; he was early trained in the way of 
 piety; one of the first books he ever read was 
 the Bible, and he is acquainted with the gospel 
 of salvation. But, his heart appears hardened 
 against it, and he is angry at the very mention 
 of it. 
 
 " George's mother died some few months ago, 
 after suffering deep distress of mind. on account 
 of her son. She saw him, at last, as she lay 
 dying. What passed in that sad and solemn 
 interview was not known ; but it did seem to 
 take some little hold upon him. Ah ! if he 
 should be brought, at last, to consider those 
 solemn words of our Saviour, 'What is a man 
 profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and 
 lose his own soul ?' and should he give up his love 
 of gold for the love of Christ — what a mercy 
 would that be ! And it is possible : yes, it is ; 
 for with God, you know, nothing is impossible : 
 but ' it is hard for them that trust in riches to 
 enter into the kingdom of God.' " 
 
 So then it seems that our old school-fellow 
 had parted with domestic enjoyments, family 
 affection, health, the high satisfaction of being 
 useful, and was, at least, running a fearful risk 
 of parting at last with eternal blessedness 
 for the lust of w T ealth. Was not this a hard 
 bargain ? And may .not gold be bought too 
 dear? 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAK. 41 
 
 Young reader, even while these pages are 
 being written, the cry of " Gold ! gold ! more 
 gold!" is heard; and thousands have flocked 
 and are still flocking to the gold diggings of 
 California and Australia. We do not say that 
 this is wrong — in itself wrong ; for gold is one 
 of God's good gifts to men, if men will use it 
 rightly : but all is not gold that glitters, and 
 even pure gold may be bought too dear. How 
 many a poor^ despairing wretch, perishing with 
 hunger, thirst, and mortal sickness, and desert- 
 ed by selfish companions in these gold-abound- 
 ing regions, has bewailed his folly in leaving 
 home and all its comforts, that he might join 
 in the scramble for wealth, and "make haste 
 to be rich!" And what .heaps of gold would 
 such a one give, had he them to give, could he 
 be restored to his lost happiness, while he ac- 
 knowledges that " Gold may be bought too 
 dear." But without going to Australia, or 
 California, or elsewhere, and in the common 
 walks of life, we may meet with many who, 
 like our old school-fellow George, have been 
 willing to barter every thing for gold, and find 
 out their mistake when it is too late. 
 
 But what are we to think of those who are 
 willing to part, with Heaven for gold? 
 
 Dear young readers — school-boys now, as we 
 
 were sehool-boys once — remember the Saviour's 
 
 words, in the parable which he spoke when he 
 
 said, " The ground of a certain rjch man brought 
 
 4* 
 
42 GOLD MAY BE 
 
 forth plentifully : and he thought within him- 
 self, saying, What shall I do, because I have 
 no room where to bestow my fruits ? And he 
 said, This will I do : I will pull down my barns, 
 and build greater ; and there will I bestow all 
 my fruits and my goods. And I will say to 
 my soul, Soul, thou hast much goods laid up 
 for many years ; take thine ease, eat, drink, 
 and be merry. But God said unto him, Thou 
 fool, this night thy soul shall be required of 
 thee : then whose shall those things be, which 
 thou hast provided ? So is he that layeth up 
 treasure for himself, and is not rich toward 
 God." Luke xii. 16-21. 
 
 "What, then," do you say, " are we not to 
 try to get money ? — Not to be industrious, fru- 
 gal, persevering ?" 
 
 If we were to say so, we should say what is 
 very foolish and false. On the contrary, be 
 industrious, be frugal, be persevering ; and if 
 industry, frugality, and perseverance, with in- 
 tegrity added to them, get you money — then 
 get money. 
 
 But take care what it costs you besides ; 
 beware of covetousness ; and "seek first the 
 kingdom of God, and his righteousness." Do 
 not neglect your soul for your body; nor part 
 with the hope of heaven for the love of wealth ; 
 nor lay up treasure for yourself, instead of 
 being rich toward* God ; nor set your affec- 
 tions on earthjy riches, despising those which 
 
BOUGHT TOO DEAE. 48 
 
 are heavenly ; for if you do, you will find that 
 you have bought your gold too dear. 
 
 There is a treasure which you cannot buy 
 too dear. He, who though he was rich, yet 
 for ourselves became poor, that we poor and 
 guilty and lost might be made rich, offers par- 
 don and peace and eternal life to all who, on 
 his terms, will accept them. 
 
 Here is mercy and love ! Yes ; " God so 
 loved the world, that he gave his only begotten 
 Son, that whosoever believeth in him should 
 not perish, but have everlasting life." That 
 mercy you need :' for without it, you will be ever- 
 lastingly undone. Seek it, and by the aid of 
 God's Holy Spirit, seeking it so as to obtain it, 
 you will feel compassion for those whose only 
 treasure is on earth ; and this will be the thought 
 of your heart — 
 
 " Go now, and boast of all your stores, 
 And tell how bright they shine : 
 Tour heaps of glittering dust are yours, 
 And my Redeemer's mine." 
 
II. 
 
 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 Of all school-boys whom we ever knew, poor 
 little Tom Smith was as unlikely as any to be- 
 come the hero of a story. His name, his look, 
 his manners, all might seem to forbid the 
 thought. Ah ! but there are many brave, noble, 
 kind, and generous hearts under the plainest 
 forms and commonest names ; and Tom Smith, 
 — our Tom Smith, — was one of them. 
 
 He was about eight years old when he made 
 his first appearance at school, and his counte- 
 nance, at first sight, was far from interesting. 
 He was thin, pale, and stooping, so as to look 
 almost deformed; and all his movements were 
 awkward. When he spoke, he excited the 
 laughter of his school-fellows — that is to say, 
 of many of them ; some had better manners 
 than to laugh outright, though they were 
 amused. His birth-place was in one of the 
 northern counties of England, and he brought 
 with him to school the peculiar dialect of home. 
 Those who laughed did not remember that, had 
 the case been reversed, and had they been sent 
 to Northumberland, or Cumberland, or Dur- 
 44 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 45 
 
 ham, their speech too would there have sounded 
 oddly enough. 
 
 Then poor little Tom — for by that somewhat 
 vulgar diminutive was he always called — was a 
 perfect ignoramus. He had never been to 
 school, and could scarcely spell out a- sentence 
 composed of words of two syllables. In the use 
 of pen or pencil he was as inexperienced and 
 inexpert as an infant. Worse than this, it was 
 soon found that, at that time, he had no great 
 love for learning. He seemed dull of compre- 
 hension, and hated tasks as much as he could 
 hate any thing. ' The confinement of school 
 was, at first, dreadful to him. He was restless 
 as a wild bird newly caught and caged, and 
 fretted sorely over the necessary constraint he 
 had to endure. Ah ! few school-books were 
 ever more blotted and blurred with bitter tears 
 than poor little Tom Smith's. 
 
 And in play hours it was much the same. 
 The ample play-ground seemed to be too strait- 
 ened for our young Cumbrian, as Cumberland 
 people are called ; for, still like the unhappy 
 caged wild bird, which beats its breast maclly 
 against the imprisoning wires, so did the poor 
 boy, day after day, walk round and round, close 
 to the high palings and hedges which shut him 
 in, wishing with all his heart — who can doubt 
 it ? — that he had wings like the dove, that he 
 might fly away and be at rest. 
 
 Weeks passed away from the time of his first 
 
46 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 introduction to school life, and still the little 
 Cumbrian was solitary and sad. No one seem- 
 ed to care for him, except the master, who took 
 kindly notice of him, and strove by gentle en- 
 couragements to reconcile him to his new life. 
 But the poor boy shrunk from notice, and pre- 
 ferred communion with his own lonely and me- 
 lancholy thoughts. 
 
 Little Tom was an orphan. His father had 
 died about three years before the time we first 
 knew him ; his mother scarcely more than as 
 many months. No wonder he was sad. Before 
 his father's death, the child had been healthy 
 and joyous; but afterward, he had drooped and 
 pined like a tender plant deprived of its nutri- 
 ment. None could tell what ailed him; but 
 all foretold that he would not live long on 
 earth ; that his mother would be left alone, for 
 she had no other child. And the mother, be- 
 lieving and fearing this, had petted the weak 
 boy, and permitted him to roam at will over 
 the beautiful hills of his native country, un- 
 trammelled by tasks and books ; and had wait- 
 ed on him with such love as dwells only in a 
 mother's breast. 
 
 The young Cumbrian loved nature ; and na- 
 ture was the book which he had studied under 
 his mother's eye. He had studied it well, too. 
 He knew much about the birds of the air$ their 
 "wood-notes wild," their names, their natures, 
 and their nests ; of the summer 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 47 
 
 and the flowers of the field, and the hill side, 
 and the valley. His mother had been his 
 teacher, as together they daily roamed in 
 search of health and strength — while she had 
 health and strength to roam — over the wild 
 but beautiful country around their pretty cot- 
 tage. Happily for the little orphan and for 
 herself, she could teach other things than these. 
 She was a Christian ; and she knew that, beau- 
 tiful as is nature, and much as it tells of God's 
 power and goodness to create and preserve, and 
 to bless with daily mercies, it is the "gospel 
 alone which tells of his power to save — to save 
 sinners. From her lips, therefore, had the 
 boy heard the gospel, the good news of a Sa- 
 viour ; and God had blessed her teaching and 
 her prayers. Afterward, — months after we 
 first knew him, — the great incentive to learning, 
 with him, was that he might be able to read 
 and diligently study those blessed truths of 
 which, young as he was, he was never ashamed, 
 and which had first entered his heart from the 
 lips of his mother. 
 
 But the oracles, who foreboded the boy's 
 early removal from earth, were mistaken. The 
 mother was taken ; the child- — weakly still, but 
 gaining strength — was left. Ah ! it is a woful 
 stroke, this, to a fond and loving boy, — the 
 death of a fond and loving mother. Surely 
 few things on earth can equal it. But cheer 
 up, orphan child. There is One who is the 
 
48 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 orphan's Friend. Trust in him, and you shall 
 know what these- words mean, "When my fa- 
 ther and my mother forsake me, then the Lord 
 will take me up." Yes, you shall know it: 
 never fear. 
 
 Boys, merry-hearted hoys, who know not 
 what bereavement means, never treat an orphan 
 school-boy unkindly. Think of your own pa- 
 rents as dead, and surely you will not have the 
 heart to do it. Think of the great and glo- 
 rious Jehovah as the "Father of the father- 
 less," the Parent of the parentless, and surely 
 you will not have the courage to do it. 
 
 Yes, it was a mournful stroke to the little 
 Cumbrian : — his father gone, his mother gone, 
 strangers, only strangers around him! . Then 
 came his uncle, his mother's brother, and spoke 
 comforting words to him, and bore him away; 
 and then, after a few weeks, Tom Smith was 
 sent to school. He would be rich, (he was told,) 
 when he should have grown up to be a man, and 
 he must receive a fitting education; but these 
 words had failed to convey joy to his heart, or 
 animation to his mind. 
 
 Time heals many sorrows ; but some sorrows 
 take a long time to heal. It was thus with the 
 •young Cumbrian ; for, too weakly, too unapt, 
 and too shy and shrinking to take part in the 
 boisterous sports of his school-fellows, and too 
 young, perhaps, (at any rate too ignorant,) to 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 49 
 
 join in their more intellectual recreations, he 
 was -in great danger of settling down into me- 
 lancholy mopishness. His love of nature re- 
 scued him from this danger. 
 
 In one of the pleasant country rambles which 
 used to vary the monotony of the school and 
 play-ground, little Tom — his countenance light- 
 ed up and brightened with ecstacy — sprang 
 forward, uttered a cry of delight, and com- 
 menced digging vigorously at the root of a 
 small wild flower which his languid eye had 
 spied in the meadow, through which the school- 
 boys were passing. It was an uncommon flower 
 where found, but' common on the hills of Cum- 
 berland ; and to the boy it seemed like the re- 
 turn of a long absent friend. He carefully 
 removed it and conveyed it home ; procured a 
 pot, and planted it, and thenceforward, day 
 after' day, he visited his new-found treasure, 
 watered and nourished it, and was no longer 
 lonely. 
 
 It was not long after this, as the young 
 Cumbrian, retired to a corner of the play- 
 ground — his corner — was tending, with affec- 
 tionate care, his own dear flower, and rejoicing 
 in the fresh, healthy young buds it was putting 
 forth, that his monitor — who had been just 
 advanced to the oversight of the lowest class — 
 came forward in all the full-blown importance 
 of his new office : — 
 
 " Oh, here you are, you young dunce ! I 
 5 
 
50 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 thought I should find you here with your stupid 
 weed. Do you remember what I told you yes- 
 terday ?" 
 
 " About the multiplication table ?" asked the 
 little fellow, — timidly. 
 
 a Yes, about the multiplication table," re- 
 sponded the young official, mimicking (as we 
 need not mimic here) the dialect and exaggerat- 
 ing the tones of the shrinking boy; "that's 
 just it. Come, do you know it now ?" 
 
 "I don't know: — I am not sure," replied 
 the orphan, with a tear in his eye, and trem- 
 bling at the bullying manner of his school-fel- 
 low. " I am afraid I am not perfect in it yet ; 
 it is very difficult." 
 
 "Nonsense! — difficult? that won't do. I 
 never found it difficult, and I knew it long be- 
 fore I was as old as you are. But difficult or 
 not, you know, I told you to learn it off-hand, 
 and say it to me to-day, if you did not want to 
 catch — you know what. I am not going to 
 have dunces in my class, I can tell you." 
 
 " New brooms sweep clean, they say, Bow- 
 ler," — sarcastically observed a boy who just 
 then was passing. 
 
 " Mind your own business, will you, Mans- 
 field," replied the new monitor, turning angrily 
 to the intruder ; and then again addressing 
 himself to the little Cumbrian — " I shan't let 
 you off. Mr. Weston told me I was to get you 
 on, and drill the table into you ; for it was a 
 
THE YOUNG CTJMBKIAN. 51 
 
 month ago, or more, that you began to learn it.. 
 You know that, don't you?" 
 
 Poor little Tom made no reply; but, still 
 seated on the ground, he hugged his treasure, 
 and looked up imploringly into the face of his 
 monitor. He could read no pity there ; and, 
 looking downward, a big tear-drop or two fell 
 upon the flower. 
 
 " Oh ! blubbering, are you? You little milk- 
 sop. Come, none of that ; now, put down that 
 stupid bit of earthenware, and let us hear what 
 you know. Now then, do you mind ? Put it 
 down, I say, directly." 
 
 The frightened boy did as he was ordered. 
 
 "Now mind," said the young tyrant; "if 
 you don't answer every question, I shall just 
 make an end of that flower you make such a 
 fuss about; do you hear?" And, saying this, 
 he snatched up the flowerpot, and held it in his 
 left hand. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no; pray, pray, Mr. Bowler!" 
 cried the poor child beseechingly, and spring- 
 ing to his feet, " don't, please don't. I will do 
 any thing you tell me, if I can; and I will 
 learn the table directly ; but don't hurt my poor 
 flower. Oh, you don't know how I love it !" 
 
 "Oh, love it, do you? Well, I don't care 
 for that; and you need not think to come over 
 me by calling me mister. I am no. mister yet, 
 but plain Jack ; and I shall do just what I said ; 
 so here goes." 
 
52 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 Mansfield was standing a little way off; and 
 the unhappy young Cumbrian turned his eyes 
 toward him, as much as to say, "Will you not 
 take my part?" But the imploring look was 
 unseen, or unnoticed, and again the boy stood 
 despairingly before his tormentor. He was 
 convinced that he would not be able to answer 
 the questions put to him : he had been for days 
 and weeks labouring at the multiplication table, 
 but in vain ; and the more he had striven, the 
 more confused he had become. 
 
 "Here goes," shouted Bowler, again grasp- 
 ing the flower roughly with his right hand: 
 " Twelve times seven, how many ?" 
 
 " Seventy-two," gasped the poor boy, — after 
 a short pause, and almost unconscious of what 
 he said. 
 
 The next moment the broken flower-pot, and 
 the mould it had contained, were strewed at his 
 feet, and the tyrant was tearing to pieces the 
 flower, root, and branch ! " There, and there, 
 and there !" he shouted exultingly. "*I told 
 you I would do it. Twelve times seven is 
 seventy-two, is it ? Ha, ha !" 
 
 Poor Tom uttered one sorrowful moan, as he 
 looked at the scattered fragments of his pet 
 plant. "My mother, my dear, dear mother!" 
 he sobbed, and turned away. 
 
 "Bowler I I say Bowler ! What have you been 
 doing to the boy?" exclaimed Mansfield angri- 
 ly, his attention at length roused by the loud 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 53 
 
 tones of the one, and the broken, sob of the 
 other. "What have you been doing, I say?" 
 
 " What is that to you ? What business have 
 you to interfere ?" 
 
 " It is something to me ; and I won't stand 
 by and see a little fellow misused, whoever he 
 may be. What has he done to you, Tom ? 
 Did he strike you?" 
 
 " Oh no," sobbed the boy. He' could say 
 no more ; but pointed to the broken pot and 
 ruined flower. 
 
 "Oh, is that all? Never mind. I'll get 
 ,you another flower — pot and all — and let me 
 see if he dare touch that. What is it all about? 
 Come now, tell me." 
 
 "Just you tell me one tiling," shouted Bow- 
 ler, reddening with rage: "Are you monitor 
 of the sixth class, or am I?" 
 
 "You are ; and I am monitor of the third," 
 replied Mansfield. "Well,what then?" 
 
 " Then you have no business to come be- 
 tween me and my boys ; and you shan't 
 either." 
 
 " Gently, Mr. Monitor of the sixth," replied 
 Mansfield coolly. " If I see you ill treating 
 any boy — yours, mine, or anybody else's — I 
 shall interfere. And more than that, you 
 know who else would interfere if I were to 
 choose to tell him that you have been domi- 
 neering. So you had better be quiet." 
 
 For some reason or other, Bowler thought so 
 5* 
 
54 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 too ; and taking the advice, walked away in a 
 silent rage, only muttering to himself that he 
 would have it out of Tom Smith yet, when 
 there should be no one to take his part. 
 
 "Now tell me all about it, Tom," said his 
 self-constituted protector, kindly. 
 
 It was the first time Mansfield had taken 
 any notice of the little fellow, and the kind 
 tone unlocked Tom's heart, and he told his new 
 friend some of his troubles. 
 
 " Well now, cheer up, Tom. I will teach 
 you this dreadful multiplication table, and we 
 will look after another flower for you next 
 time we go out. Come along ;" and Mans- 
 field led his young friend to one of the rustic 
 seats in the play-^ound. "Come, don't be 
 discouraged. I was, though, when I had to 
 learn that table first; but my sister put me up 
 to a good way of remembering nine times and 
 twelve times — they puzzled me most ; and then 
 I soon got over it." 
 
 Mansfield was as good as his word, and bet- 
 ter. He had a grateful scholar, and soon the 
 formidable table was overcome, and manj 
 things beside, which, to the dis-spirited young 
 Cumbrian, had till now seemed almost insur- 
 mountable. Another flower was found, too, 
 and many other flowers; aild Mansfield learned 
 from his little friend many pleasant things 
 about them which he had never dreamed of be- 
 fore. The whole school wondered at this friend- 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 55 
 
 ship, for Mansfield was one of the oldest and 
 brightest of their number; but he let them 
 wonder on. 
 
 Tom Smith was at the sixth class, and Bowler 
 was monitor of the sixth, and Bowler had 
 become Tom's enemy from the day in which 
 Mansfield had become Tom's friend. And 
 many a cruel way he had of making his enmity 
 felt without openly showing it. Ah ! how 
 quick were his eyes to see a misshapen letter, a 
 misspelt word, a mistaken figure, in the little 
 orphan boy's copy, exercise, or sum ; and how 
 ready was his hand to put .down a bad mark 
 for these misdeeds ! How sharp were his ears 
 to catch a premature whisper, before it had half 
 escaped the young Cumbrian's lips ! " Another 
 bad mark for that." How keenly did the 
 monitor of the sixth peer into little Tom Smith's 
 class at nine o'clock in the morning ; and wo 
 to poor Tom if a book had been carelessly 
 thrown in out of true square. " Another bad 
 mark for an untidy desk.'.' Or if a pen or 
 pencil below the legal number were found 
 deficient — "a bad mark for that also." Or if, 
 two minutes after the school-bell had rung, and 
 when the roll was called over, it ever happened 
 that Tom were just entering the schoolroom- 
 door when his name was pronounced, who was 
 ready with a loud "Absent" by way of 
 response ? Why, Bowler, the monitor of the 
 
56 THE YOUNa CUMBRIAN. 
 
 sixtli class. "Another bad mark for that. 
 Master Thomas." 
 
 " It is a shame for you to spite that boy so," 
 said one, and another, and another, when these 
 things happened ; for, in time, by some means 
 or other (especially by the generous counte- 
 nance of Mansfield) the little orphan had 
 become a favourite — so gentle, and loving, and 
 trusting he had proved himself. 
 
 " What do you mean by shame ?" exclaimed 
 the monitor of the sixth, angrily and scornfully : 
 "I have not gone beyond my authority, have I ?" 
 
 "No, Bowler, no; these things were all 
 6 according to law' — the letter of the law, 
 mind you ; but you sadly stopped short of the 
 spirit of that other law, which might have been 
 observed, and the first not disregarded — 
 
 'The new, best law of love.' " 
 « 
 
 Two years passed t away, and the young 
 Cumbrian had made rapid advances — ay, even 
 towards the dignity of the monitor's post. He 
 was no longer dull of comprehension. Though 
 gentle in temper as ever he had been, even to 
 timidity, he had become ardent in the pursuit 
 of knowledge. Many of the boys whom he 
 had seen at his first entering school, had left 
 to return no more. Among them was his friend 
 and protector, Mansfield :* many, however, 
 
 * We snail have more to say of Mansfield, however, in the 
 next and following chapters, and of Bowlor, too. 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 57 
 
 remained, and among these was Bowler, still, 
 — in spite of vacancies above him — the monitor 
 of the sixth class. He seemed a fixture there, 
 for, one after another, younger boys had 
 stepped over his head, and Tom Smith was 
 pressing closely at his heels. 
 
 All the boys loved Smith— all but Bowler, 
 whose old feelings of tyrannical contempt for 
 the little dunce who did not know his multipli- 
 cation table, were deepened into jealous aver^ 
 sion to the bright lad who, though three years 
 younger than himself, and shorter by nearly a 
 head, was constantly taking him down in class, 
 and bade fair, in the way of frank and honour- 
 able emulation, to trip him up entirely. Not 
 that our gentle, little — still little — Tom Smith 
 had any wish to do this ; but that it followed, 
 as a matter of course, for the industrious, 
 persevering, and active-minded to overtake the 
 laggard. It is so everywhere, and it must 
 therefore be so at school. 
 
 A very short time ago we read a beautiful 
 description of another schoolboy. We thought 
 of the young Cumbrian when we read it — it so 
 agrees with our remembrance of him ; and here 
 it is: — 
 
 "At the head of every class he, of course, 
 was found — but no ambition had he to be there ; 
 and like a bee that works among many thousand 
 others in the clover field, heedless of their 
 murmurs, and intent wholly on its own fragrant 
 
58 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 toil ? did he go from task to task — although 
 that was no fitting name for the studious 
 creature's meditations on all he read or wrought 
 — no more a task for him to grow in knowledge 
 ' and in thought than for a lily of the field to 
 lift up its head toward the sun. 
 
 "That child's religion was like all the other 
 parts of his character — as prone to tears as 
 that of other children, when they read of the 
 divine Friend dying for them on the cross : 
 but it was profounder far than theirs, when it 
 shed no tears, and only made the paleness of 
 his countenance more like that which we 
 imagine to be the paleness of a phantom. 
 
 " No one ever saw him angry, complaining, 
 or displeased ; for angelic indeed was his 
 temper, purified, like gold in fire, by suffering. 
 He shunned not the company of other children, 
 but loved all, as by them all he was more than 
 beloved. In few of their plays could he take 
 an active share ; but sitting a little way off, 
 still attached to the merry brotherhood, though 
 in their society he had no part to enact, he 
 read his book on the knoll, or, happy dreamer ! 
 sank away among the visions of his own 
 thoughts." 
 
 Such was "Wee Willie ;" and such also was 
 our little Tom Smith after his mind had, in a 
 measure, become aroused and quickened into 
 energy by his new-born love of learning. Such, 
 in loveliness of character, had he ever been. 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 59 
 
 It was the first of May ; this was one thing. 
 It was the day to change places ; that was 
 another. On the first of every month, every 
 desk was vacated, and each boy was open for 
 advancement to a higher station, or liable to 
 be degraded to a lower, as his number stood in 
 the general casting up of the month's class 
 books. These days were days of excitement 
 to all, of pride and pleasure to some, and of 
 disappointment, shame, and grief to others. 
 By the events of these days were the diligent 
 stimulated to greater diligence to keep steady 
 their standing, and still to rise ; while th^ 
 dilatory were stirred up to exertion to regain 
 the ground they had lost. Whether the moral 
 effect of this constant incentive — this perpetual 
 emulation — was equal to its educational value, 
 or whether the evil passions of envy and malice 
 were excited so as to counterbalance that 
 value^need not be discussed here. 
 
 Hurrah ! Well done, little Tom ! Who would 
 have thought it two years ago ? Actually and 
 absolutely has he — our young Cumbrian — 
 again made progress, one, two, three steps in 
 advance ; he is now the sixth boy in the school, 
 and from this day is he the monitor of the sixth 
 class. The palm to him who deserves it. 
 
 Tom Smith the monitor of the sixth class ! 
 But where was his old tyrant, and more 
 recently his ungenerous rival, Bowler ? Alas 
 for the uncertainty of mortal hqnours ! He had 
 
60 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 lost his office — degraded after being two years 
 a monitor. 
 
 "It is a mistake ;. I am sure it is," exclaimed 
 poor Bowler, greatly agitated — trembling in- 
 deed with vexation and anger, as he heard his 
 doom from the lips of the teacher, who was 
 calling over the names. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the young ' Cumbrian, 
 timidly, and blushing deep red, " I think there 
 must be a mistake. I think the numbers must 
 have been added up wrong, sir." 
 
 " You shall both of you have the books to 
 examine for yourselves after I have called over 
 all the names," said the teacher; "but I 
 believe you will find that we are right." 
 
 But still Bowler kept doggedly seated at his 
 monitorial desk ; and Tom lingered at his old 
 one. 
 
 "You must move your books, Smith, said 
 another boy, as the business of the dajr pro- 
 ceeded. " This is my desk, now." 
 
 Tom knew that, and silently yielded up his 
 desk and seat. 
 
 " Go at once to your new place, Tom, and 
 turn Bowler out ; I would," said one. But 
 Tom would not do that ; and with his books 
 under his arm, he looked like some poor folks 
 we have heard of who were turned out of house 
 and home into the street, unprovided with 
 another, with beds and bedsteads, tables and 
 chairs, pots an$ pans, in wild confusion around 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBKIAN. 61 
 
 them. He had not long to stand, however, in 
 this state of perplexity. Half a dozen desks 
 were speedily opened to receive the goods and 
 chattels." 
 
 "Put them here" — and a here" — and "here 
 — till you have settled your account with 
 Bowler," said as many voices; and Tom was 
 relieved of his burden. 
 
 No ; there was no mistake. The figures 
 were right ; the casting up was right. Bowler 
 could not dispute this ; nor could Tom. 
 
 "Well, are you satisfied?" asked Mr. 
 Weston, the teacher. 
 
 Bowler scowled, and marching sullenly to 
 his old desk — his no longer — commenced 
 emptying it. 
 
 But what ailed the young Cumbrian that he 
 stood stock-still before the great railed-in 
 mahogany desk of the master — the dread 
 tribunal, as it was, to every erring schoolboy ? 
 
 "Well, Tom" — even the teachers called our 
 young friend by the familiar name — " are you 
 not satisfied?" said the usher. 
 
 "If you please, sir," he began, and then 
 blushed a deeper scarlet than ever. His eyes, 
 too, were swimming with tears. 
 
 Mr. Weston smiled encouragingly. It was 
 like .him to do so. A kinder man than he 
 never drew breath. 
 
 "If you please, sir, could not Bowler keep 
 his desk ? I don't wish to take him down, sir ; 
 6 
 
62 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 I don't indeed. I am so sorry this has hap- 
 pened, sir." 
 
 "lam sorry too, Tom, if you are sorry ; but 
 really there is no help for it that I can see." 
 
 " Would you be so kind, sir, as to ask Mr. 
 
 D ? I think he would not mind this once 
 
 — -just this once, you know, sir." 
 
 " I will ask him, certainly, if you wish it ; 
 but it will be useless." 
 
 Yes, quite useless. Tom rose, and Bowler 
 sank. 
 
 " I don't care a fig about it," said Bowler — 
 (he did, though ;) "it was all chance" — (it was 
 not, though;) "and this is my last term at 
 school : but if Smith shows any airs ! — ah, let 
 him if he dare." 
 
 There was little danger of Tom's showing 
 airs. He bore his honours meekly; and, but 
 for an occasional fiery glance of his dark eye, 
 when his rival crossed his path in the play- 
 ground, Bowler seemed almost to have forgotten 
 his defeat. 
 
 The few weeks which intervened between the 
 first of May and the midsummer holidays were 
 soon over, and, full of hope and expectation, 
 every boy was looking forward to the morrow. 
 It was the last day at school, and a long ramble 
 in the fields and woods was to wind up the 
 business of the half year. 
 
 That afternoon, in the thickest part of a 
 shady grove, two boys, seperated from the rest 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 63 
 
 of their schoolfellows, who were widely scattered 
 in groups of twos and threes, suddenly met, 
 and faced each other. Suddenly, but not 
 accidentally, for the smaller and younger, had 
 been, through that whole afternoon's ramble, 
 narrowly watched, and stealthily followed by 
 the older and bigger. 
 
 "Now, Smith," said Bowler — for he it was 
 — "we will just settle our scores before we 
 part." 
 
 If the little fellow had doubted the meaning 
 of the words he heard, he could hardly have 
 misinterpreted the look and tone. He turned 
 away hastily, and would have attempted to 
 escape, but Bowler was too much in earnest to 
 permit it. A few long strides, and the boys 
 were within arm's length of each other. 
 
 " You didn't think to shirk me so, did you, 
 Mr. Monitor?" said the big boy with a sneer. 
 "Take that!" 
 
 The that was a violent blow. 
 
 Poor Smith shrieked with pain and fear. 
 
 " Cry away," said Bowler ; " there is nobody 
 near enough to hear you. I took care of that : 
 now, will you fight or won't you ?" 
 
 "No," replied the abused boy, "I will not 
 fight. I don't know how to fight ; and if I 
 did, I would not. It is like a coward to strike 
 one so much less, and so much weaker than 
 yourself:" and again the boy attempted to 
 escape. 
 
64 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 Vain attempt ! Transported with rage, 
 which had long been pent up— Cain-like — 
 against the innocent cause of his disgrace, the 
 cowardly lad struck the unresisting boy again 
 and again to the ground. 
 
 Evening came ; and the boys, tired — more 
 tired by far with their day's recreation than 
 with the hardest day's work — returned school- 
 ward. It was not till they had reached this 
 destination that one was discovered missing. 
 
 " Where is Bowler ? Who has seen Bowler?" 
 
 No one had seen Bowler since the middle of 
 the afternoon ; and nowhere was Bowler to be 
 found. 
 
 Long and anxious were the inquiries con- 
 cerning him ; and when, at length, it was quite 
 clear that he had either been left behind, or 
 had intentionally absented himself, the young , 
 Cumbrian, who had until then kept as much 
 apart from his companions as he could, was 
 observed by his teacher to be in a sad plight, 
 and on being closely questioned, its cause was 
 ascertained. Poor fellow ! Bruised all over as 
 he was, head, body, and limbs, with the infuri- 
 ated blows of his enemy, his condition excited 
 both compassion and just anger. The mystery 
 was explained — at least the truth was suspected, 
 that, having taken his revenge, Bowler had 
 feared the consequences, and had run away 
 homeward. And so it afterward proved. 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBEIAN. 65 
 
 Many years afterward, when all the boys 
 of that generation had become men — such of 
 them, let us rather say, as yet lived — notices 
 were issued in a large provincial town that a 
 course of lectures on some scientific subjects 
 would be delivered by a stranger, in the assembly- 
 room. Accordingly, a small number purchased 
 tickets, and met together at the appointed time 
 and place. Among these were a stout and 
 pleasant-looking gentleman, one of the principal 
 tradesmen of the town, and, arm-in-arm with 
 him, his friend, thin, pale, and studious, the 
 minister of one of its parishes. They took 
 their seats, and looked around them. 
 
 "A poor speculation, I am afraid," said the 
 former to his friend. 
 
 " I fear so too, Mansfield," replied the other, 
 "if this is to be the extent of the audience." 
 
 In a few minutes the lecturer made his 
 appearance. He also looked round, and it was 
 plain to see that he felt disappointed and 
 anxious. He commenced his lecture, however, 
 and succeeded in pleasing his audience. But, 
 presently an odd change was observed to come 
 over him. He turned red in the face, then 
 pale, his lips quivered, his ideas seemed 
 entangled and confused; he hesitated, he 
 stammered, his voice became husky, and his 
 mouth dry. These distressing symptoms ex- 
 cited the compassion of the lecturer's small 
 audience, and they good-naturedly • clapped 
 6* 
 
66 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 their hands and stamped their feet, by way of 
 commendation and encouragement. Among 
 these clappers none were more energetic than 
 the clergyman and his friend. 
 
 This kind consideration had, in part, the 
 desired effect. The lecturer, though he did 
 not entirely recover his composure, was enabled 
 to go on creditably, though his eyes seemed 
 fixed, as by some fascination, to that particular 
 part of the room where were seated the two 
 gentlemen already mentioned ; and it was an 
 evident relief to him when his lecture was over. 
 
 "Mansfield," said the clergyman to his 
 companion as they quitted the room, " do you 
 know that lecturer ?" 
 
 "No; how should I? And yet," he con- 
 tinued, " there is something in the cast of his 
 eye and the shape of his mouth that puzzled 
 me. I must have seen him before somewhere : 
 but then, you know, I meet so many people 
 who are strangers to me that it is no wonder. 
 But do you know him ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and you knew him once. You went 
 to school with him." 
 
 "No, surely not. Dutton — Dutton — I don't 
 remember a boy of that name." 
 
 "Button is not his name — at least, it was 
 not his name as a school-boy. Why he has 
 chosen to alter it I cannot of course tell, but 
 we knew him as Jack Bowler." 
 
 "Bowler! ah, so it is. How strange I dicf 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 67 
 
 not recognise him ! Bowler — Jack Bowler ! 
 How very odd ! No wonder he was put out 
 of countenance w T hen he saw you — that is, if 
 his eye-sight and memory are as good as yours. 
 What can be the meaning of his turning lec- 
 turer, and changing his name ? Poor fellow ! 
 he looks needy enough, and it serves him right, 
 too, for his treatment of you. Ah, he was an 
 ill-conducted fellow, to say the best of him. 
 Well, you won't go near him to-morrow night, 
 I should think." 
 
 "Why not, Mansfield?" 
 
 "Why not? Oh, for no particular reason," 
 returned Mansfield, laughing ; " only, my dear 
 friend, I should have thought you had had 
 enough of Bowler in days gone by." 
 
 " That was a long time ago ; and you know 
 our old master used to warn us not to stir up- 
 old grievances." 
 
 " True ; but he did not tell us to forget them, 
 that I remember." 
 
 " But the Bible, Mansfield, teaches us some- 
 thing still better. Well, good night," he add- 
 ed, as they reached Mr. Mansfield's door ; " I 
 shall call for you to-morrow evening." 
 
 Before the morrow evening arrived, however, 
 an unexpected stop had been put to the whole 
 business. The lecturer had disappeared, and 
 the sale of tickets had been countermanded. 
 
 " He was afraid to face you again, depend 
 upon it," said Mr. Mansfield to his friend when 
 
68 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 they again met ; and he laughed heartily at 
 the embarrassment into which Mr. Lecturer 
 had been thrown on the former evening by the 
 apparition of "little Tom Smith." 
 
 " I hope I did not drive him away," replied 
 the clergyman, mildly. " I do not look very 
 formidable, I think." 
 
 The story of the little Cumbrian is nearly 
 ended — not quite." 
 
 "Blessings on him, whoever he is," said a 
 sobbing man, holding in his hand an open let- 
 ter, from the folds of which, as he opened it, 
 had dropped a bank-note of some value ; " I 
 did not think we had a friend left in the world, 
 Caroline — not one, at least, who could help us; 
 and to think of this !" 
 
 It was a miserable lodging in a wretched 
 street in one of the poverty-stricken parts of a 
 great city, that these words were spoken. The 
 listener was a wan and seemingly half-starved 
 woman, nursing a feeble infant ; while at her 
 knee, or near it, were two other children, 
 almost unclothed, and crying — perhaps in sym- 
 pathy w r ith their parents. The speaker was 
 the same Jack Bowler ! 
 
 " Has the letter no signature ? — Are you 
 sure ? Has it no post-mark ?" 
 
 No, it had only the post-mark, and no signa- 
 ture. It contained but a few lines of Christian 
 kindness and consolation, and a hope that the 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 69 
 
 enclosed trifle — ah ! it was no trifle to poor 
 Bowler — would assist in relieving his present 
 necessities. 
 
 "Cannot you guess, who this friend is?" 
 asked the wife with excusable curiosity. 
 
 The husband did not immediately reply ; and 
 when he did, it was in a low, troubled, broken 
 tone, and with a burning cheek. 
 
 "I can guess," he said; "and I do. There 
 wa,s a boy at school — a little orphan boy — 
 whom I hated, and — do not despise me, Caro- 
 line, though I despise myself when I think of 
 it — : yes, I hated the poor little orphan, and 
 grievously misused him. Well, when I went 
 on that unfortunate lecturing tour last summer, 
 who should start up before me but this same 
 boy — in company with, as I afterward found, a 
 clergyman. I knew him as soon as I saw him ; 
 and I thought that he knew me too. I was 
 thunder-struck, or conscience-struck, and could 
 scarcely go on. There was I, a poor shabby 
 adventurer, obliged to take a false name for 
 fear of my creditors, while striving to earn a 
 few shillings to keep starvation from our door; 
 and there was he, evidently a prosperous man ! 
 I did not know which way to turn, and nearly 
 broke down in the middle of my lecture ; but 
 he looked kindly — ay, Christianly — upon me, 
 and that encouraged me. But how I got 
 through the rest of the evening I don't know ; 
 and the next day, like a coward, I slipped off. 
 
70 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 I dreaded to see him again. You know the 
 rest, Caroline, for that was my last attempt at 
 lecturing. I had not the heart to try else- 
 where, and that brought me home." 
 
 " And do you think that this — this letter 
 came from him ?"-- 
 
 " It did ; I am sure of it." 
 
 Bowler was right ; and it was but one of a 
 long series of acts of kindness which he and 
 his, thereafter, received from the young Cum- 
 brian, who had not learned in vain the lessons 
 of Him who said — who says to all — " Ye have 
 heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love 
 thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I 
 say unto you, Love you enemies, bless them 
 that curse you, do good to them that hate you, 
 and pray for them which despitefully use you, 
 and persecute you ; that ye may be the child- 
 ren of your Father which is in heaven : for he 
 maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the 
 good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the 
 unjust. For if ye love them which love you, 
 what reward have ye ? Do not even the publi- 
 cans the same ? And if ye salute your breth- 
 ren only, what do ye more than others ? Do not 
 even the publicans so ?' Be ye therefore per- 
 fect, even as your Father which is in heaven is 
 perfect." Matt. v. 43-48. 
 
 And did Bowler profit by the lesson he thus 
 learned? Yes, he did. 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 71 
 
 And now, young reader, what do you think 
 of our little Tom Smith ? Or rather, what dc 
 you think of the principles by which he was 
 actuated ? 
 
 "Ah," do you say, "it is all very fine — this 
 forgiveness of injuries, and loving our ene- 
 mies, and overcoming evil with good; but — " 
 
 Yes, yes; we know there is a "but" and 
 what it is. "But," you would say, "it goes 
 against the grain to put up with bad usage, and 
 to do good to them that have done us all the 
 mischief which was in their power." 
 
 Yes, it does go very much against the grain, 
 as you would say ; that is, it goes against our 
 natural tempers and dispositions. But " they 
 that are Christ's" you know, have another 
 rule to go by ; and that rule teaches them to 
 do what otherwise they would not do, and could 
 not sincerely and from the heart do. " The 
 fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suf- 
 fering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, 
 temperance :" and this fruit springs up, and 
 grows, and ripens in the heart where Jesus 
 Christ reigns. 
 
 Dear young friends, if the Lord Jesus Christ 
 had not loved his enemies, and forgiven the 
 severest injuries inflicted on him as a man ; and 
 if he had not, as " God over all, blessed for 
 ever," done this and more, what would have 
 become of us, rebels and sinners as we are ? 
 " But God commendeth his love toward us> in 
 
72 THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 
 
 that, while we were jet sinners, Christ died for 
 us." " He," yon know, " did no sin, neither was 
 guile found in his mouth : when he was reviled, 
 he reviled not again; when he suffered, he 
 threatened not ; hut committed himself to him 
 that judgeth righteously." In all this he has 
 left us " an example, that we should follow his 
 steps;" and just in proportion as we are like 
 Christ, " all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, 
 and clamour, and evil speaking," will be "put 
 away, with all malice," and we shall " be kind 
 one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one 
 another, even as God for Christ's sake hath 
 forgiven us." 
 
 Now, our young Cumbrian had been made 
 "wise unto salvation through faith which is in 
 Christ Jesus;" he had learned of Him who was 
 "meek and lowly of heart ;" and this was the 
 secret of his forgiving and loving temper. 
 
 Yes, indeed ; and the BiKbe had, as he told 
 his friend Mansfield, taught him "something 
 better" than to stir up old grievances : it had 
 taught him freely to forgive, as he had been 
 freely forgiven ; it had taught him, too, not to 
 be overcome of evil, but to overcome evil with 
 good. And this is the temper we must all of 
 us cherish, if we would be like Christ. 
 
 And if we are not like Christ — ah ! what an 
 if that is ! 
 
 Are you ever persecuted by some overgrown, 
 ill-natured schoolfellow, who, you think and say, 
 
THE YOUNG CUMBRIAN. 73 
 
 has a spite against you ? And does your heart 
 swell with anger against him ? Be like Christ ; 
 forgive ! Think of Him who endured such 
 contradiction of sinners against himself; do 
 not render evil for evil, or railing for railing, 
 but contrariwise, blessing. Do you think you 
 have no friend to take your part, and that it is 
 hard to bear the spite and malice of another ? 
 "Well, but you have a Friend, if you will make 
 him your friend — " a Friend that sticketh 
 closer than a brother ;" and he encourages you 
 to come boldly to the throne of grace, that you 
 may obtain mercy, and find grace to help m 
 every time of need. Cast your burden on him, 
 and he will sustain you. 
 
 But do you say you don't know how to do 
 this ; it is not what you are used to, to go to 
 God by Jesus Christ ; and you don't think he 
 is your Friend ? 
 
 Then it is high time for you to go to him, 
 seeking, by the help of the Holy Spirit, pardon 
 for your sin and rebellion against him. You 
 are encouraged to do this by his word ; and in 
 receiving his forgiveness, you will learn also 
 how to forgive. 
 
III. 
 
 BARDOUR. 
 
 About the time that Mansfield was good- 
 naturedly beginning to help the little Cumbrian 
 out of his difficulties connected with the multi- 
 plication table, a "new boy" made his appear- 
 ance at school ; and something like the following 
 conversation took place in the school-room 
 -during play hours. 
 
 " Have you seen Johnny Newcomb, yet ?" 
 
 "No. Who is he?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know his name — that is, I 
 forget it, for Mr. Harpur told me. Barton, is 
 it ? — Barlow ? No — Bar something, however ; 
 but that does not signify. But he is a dashing 
 sort of fellow, they say. He came this morn- 
 ing, in a grand carriage of some sort or other, 
 along with his father or his uncle — his uncle, I 
 think ; and they say he is the son of a gover- 
 nor, or judge, or something of that kind." 
 
 "Whom do you mean by 'he?' Is it the 
 new boy, or his uncle ?" 
 
 "Why, his uncle, of course. He is the 
 Honourable Somebody Something, they say." 
 
 " You have a strange way of expressing your 
 74 
 
BARDOUm. lb 
 
 meaning this afternoon, friend Willy ; or your 
 no meaning, rather," said Mansfield, who was 
 one of the speakers. 4 ' You call a boy whose 
 name you do not know ' Johnny Newcome ;' 
 you speak of a gentleman being of a certain 
 4 kind,' and you tell me that ' they say' this 
 and that. Who are the f they !' " 
 
 " Oh, never mind; if I were to tell you that 
 James told me all about it — except what Mr. 
 Harpur said — you would say it is against the 
 rule to be talking with the servants ; as if we 
 could be always minding our p's and q's. But 
 about this new boy — Bar — Bar — Bardour ; ay, 
 that is his name — Bardour : I shan't like him, 
 i know ; shall you ?" 
 
 " Beally, said Mansfield, laughing, " I do not 
 know; how should I, when I have not even 
 seen him ? And how do you know that you 
 shall not like him !" 
 
 "Why, of course, he will be proud, and very 
 likely won't speak to any of us, because his 
 uncle is so grand." 
 
 " I don't see that exactly, Willy : but if it 
 should be so, we shall not be obliged to say 
 much to him ; so we shall be even so far." 
 
 " No, that is very true ; bu1» it is so dis- 
 agreeable to have people about who think so 
 much of themselves, and all that." 
 
 " There, you are talking nonsense again, 
 Willy," said Mansfield, good-humouredly ; 
 " what does c all that' mean ? and how do you 
 
76 ^ARDOIJR. 
 
 know that this Bardour thinks much of him- 
 self? or if he should, how can you make him 
 out to be 'people?' " 
 
 " You are as bad as Mr. Weston, Mansfield," 
 replied Willy ; " you know very well what I 
 mean. But never mind Bardour ; that is not 
 what I was going to say principally — about 
 him, I mean ; I wish you would just do that 
 horrid sum for me that I got such a scolding 
 about from Mr. Harpur to-day. You will, 
 won't you?" 
 
 " I cannot exactly do it for you, Willy ; I 
 must not, you know; but — " 
 
 "You can if you like, only you are so 
 particular; but I know what I know for all 
 that." 
 
 "You must be very famous, then, Willy," 
 replied Mansfield, still good-humouredly : "and 
 what is it that you know that you know?" 
 
 " About Tom Smith : ah, you know. You 
 do all his sums for him." 
 
 " Who tells you so, Willy ?" 
 
 " Bowler says so ; and he says he shall 
 complain of you for interfering with the boys 
 at his desk. If Smith had asked you to do 
 a sum for him, you would have done it in a 
 minute. You may as well do it for me ; you 
 have known me longer than you have him." 
 
 "Bowler says what is not correct; and he 
 knows it," said Mansfield, quietly; "and he 
 is quite welcome to complain if he pleases. I 
 
BARDOTJR. 77 
 
 have clone no more for Smith than I am -willing 
 to do for you ; and if you will bring your book 
 and slate, I will try to put you in the way of 
 understanding the sum." 
 
 Willy went to his desk for his book and slate; 
 and for a quarter of an hour or more Mansfield 
 was good-naturedly attemping to explain the 
 rule which puzzled his school-fellow. But Willy 
 was, on that particular occasion, dull of com- 
 prehension. He wanted to be at play ; and, 
 every moment, his mind was wandering from 
 what he was doing. In truth, he wanted nof 
 to be helped to work, but to have his work 
 done for him. At length, after Mansfield, 
 for the third time, was going over the same 
 ground, Willy impatiently snatched away the 
 book. 
 
 "It ft of no use," said he, "and I won't 
 try; and I think it is very ill-natured of you 
 not to do the sum, when you could help me out 
 of this hobble in a minute :" and he put away 
 the slate and book, and went sulkily into the 
 play-ground. 
 
 The next day Willy was "kept in" for the 
 unfinished sum. 
 
 He was leaning sullenly on his elbow, play- 
 ing with himself on his slate at "fox and geese," 
 when some one looked over his shoulder ; and 
 turning quickly round, Willy saw that the ob- 
 server was no other than Bardour, — the new 
 boy. 
 
78 BARDOUR. 
 
 " So, so, Mr. What's-your-name, that is how 
 you do your work, is it ?" 
 
 Willy answered with a kind of sound be- 
 tween a groan of impatience and a grunt of 
 dissatisfaction. 
 
 "What is that to me, you would say," con- 
 tinued Bardour. " Well, never mind ; do you 
 want any help ?" 
 
 "Not at fox and geese," said Willy. 
 
 "Pho ! Shall I do your gum for you ?" 
 
 "Yes, if you like," replied the other. 
 
 " Well, I do like, then, for once in a way. 
 It is dreadfully dull ; you seem to be such a 
 queer set here. I want somebody to talk to, 
 and you are the best-looking of the lot, though 
 I can't say much for your beauty. However, 
 you may do; so let me see what you are stick- 
 ing at. Oh, is that all ? Here go^, then ; 
 give me your pencil." 
 
 " But you must not be seen doing the sum 
 for me," said Willy. 
 
 "Must not ! Who says I must not ?" 
 
 * Mr. Harpur won't let me off so." 
 
 "Mr. Harpur may do what he likes. What 
 do I care for Mr. Harpur ? However, I'll do 
 the sum on my own slate, at my own -desk. 
 Mr. Harpur can't hinder me from that, I sup- 
 pose ; and you can do as you like about copy- 
 ing it afterward." 
 
 Willy was not over-scrupulous ; and when, a 
 little while afterward, Bardour laid before him 
 
EARDOUR. 79 
 
 the slate half covered with figures, he copied 
 them upon his own, which he took up to the 
 teacher's desk. The sum was correct, and 
 Willy was released. 
 
 " Gome now," said Bardour, "let us go out, 
 and you shall tell me all about these fellows, 
 and the masters." 
 
 We will not follow the boys into the play- 
 ground, for their conversation there was not 
 particularly edifying. Let us take a passing 
 glance at their characters. 
 
 Willy was one of a numerous class. He was 
 not a genius — few boys are geniuses — nor was 
 he a block-head ; neither was he very indolent, 
 when his mind or his body could be roused to 
 exertion — otherwise he was. We have seen 
 that he preferred that another should do his 
 sum rather than be at the trouble of taxing his 
 own brains, and that he had no objection that 
 a law should be broken in the process. This 
 was but a specimen of his general conduct. 
 Like a person who, having good sound legs of 
 his own, should choose to use a crutch until a 
 crutch would be almost necessary to his moving ; 
 so Willy had weakened and crippled his powers 
 of mind by thinking and acting, not as his con- 
 science dictated, nor after independent and due 
 reflection, but in imitation of others, and lazily 
 yielding to the stronger or more active mind 
 of some one who might happen to be about 
 him. Thus, though one of the oldest in the 
 
80 BAEDOUR. 
 
 school, "Willy was not a very bright scholar, 
 nor was he, at any time, to be greatly depend- 
 ed upon for steadfastness in a right course. 
 Like " a wave of the sea," he was " driven of 
 the wind and tossed." 
 
 The new boy, Bar dour, was a different sort 
 of character altogether. He was a bold, 
 daring, but unprincipled lad ; quick at mischief 
 and deceit; quick, also, to learn. His training 
 had been unfavourable to his moral character, 
 so had been the circumstances of his early life; 
 and, thus far, he was to be pitied. His parents 
 were dead ; and he had been brought up in the 
 house of his uncle, under the instruction of a 
 private tutor. The uncle cared much about 
 horses and dogs, and thought little about his 
 nephew : the tutor cared much for his salary, 
 and therefore had not neglected his pupil's 
 head ; but he had done nothing in the right- 
 education of his heart. It was not likely that 
 he should have done much in this way, for he 
 was secretly an infidel and a profligate man, 
 though a good scholar. This sad deficiency in 
 the most important part of the boy's education 
 had not been supplied from any other quarter. 
 His companions had been chosen from the 
 stable-yard, where he had readily imbibed 
 much that was vicious — nothing that was cre- 
 ditable or useful, unless we may except the 
 knowledge of how to manage a horse, or to 
 train a puppy. 
 
BARDOUR. 81 
 
 In consequence of some discreditable trans- 
 action, in which both Bardour and his private 
 tutor were involved, the latter had been dis- 
 missed in disgrace, and the former was "packed 
 off," as his uncle expressed it, to school, where 
 he would be more strictly looked after. But, 
 unhappily, the uncle had not thought it neces- 
 sary to put the school-master on his guard, for 
 he said, (or thought if he did not say,) " It is 
 the master's business to find out what the boy 
 is made of, and not mine to be speaking against 
 my own nephew." Besides this, it is probable 
 that the uncle did not really know much of his 
 nephew's character, or did not attach much' 
 importance to what was wrong in it. Without 
 warning, therefore, and without any extraordi- 
 nary caution, an adept in low vice was intro- 
 duced into the school, the play-ground and the 
 sleeping-room. 
 
 As to Willy, the unexpected condescension 
 of the new boy, whose uncle, being " a judge, 
 or a governor, or something of that kind," was 
 consequently, in his estimation, very great and 
 grand, took him by surprise, and absolutely 
 charmed him. He quite forgot his predetermi- 
 nation not to like him, and strutted with new- 
 found importance by Bardour's side through the 
 play-ground. 
 
 Mansfield smiled to see it; but for a few 
 minutes, he joined the two boys. 
 
 "I shall not like him," thought he to him- 
 
82 BAKDOUR. 
 
 self, as he walked away ; " Willy was right 
 there." 
 
 "Who is that prig?" asked Bardour of his 
 companion, when Mansfield was out of hearing. 
 
 "It is Mansfield; he is a great favourite with 
 the master." 
 
 "Oh, he is, is he ? He will be no favourite 
 with we, I suspect. But what sort of a fellow 
 is he?" 
 
 Willy replied, by telling how Mansfield had 
 refused to help him out of his trouble with the 
 "horrid sum." 
 
 " Indeed ! Ah ! he is one of the right 
 honourables, I see. He won't do for me, 
 then," said Bardour. 
 
 And thus he went on. In one hour, many 
 injurious impressions had been made upon 
 Willy's very susceptible mind ; and it was pre- 
 pared to receive more. 
 
 " Evil communications corrupt good man- 
 ners." Bardour had not been many weeks at 
 school before a very perceptible change had 
 taken place in many of the scholars. A spirit 
 of in subordination had sprung up, and habits 
 of determined indolence or laziness seemed to 
 have been suddenly formed. Quarrels, too, 
 were more frequent : the school was broken 
 into small bands or parties, which were con- 
 stantly at a feud with each other ; and, amon 
 
 o 
 
EAUDOTJK. SC 
 
 one set especially, there was a sad deterioration 
 of morals. 
 
 This state of affairs was very uncomfortable 
 to all, and it must have been very harassing 
 and perplexing to the kind-tempered and con- 
 scientious ma*ster and his assistants : the more 
 so, that they could not exactly discover the 
 cause of the mischief which was too certainly 
 going on. Indeed, they were not aware of the 
 extent of it ; and hoped that it was merely a 
 temporary estrangement from right feeling, 
 which would soon subside if not too particularly 
 noticed. If they suspected Bardour as th# 
 fomenter of these new and unusual troubles, 
 they had no particular grounds for suspicion. 
 He seemed innocent enough. 
 
 In no boy was the alteration more visible 
 than in Willy. Formerly, when under the 
 influence of Mansfield, his conduct had been 
 free from any gross misbehaviour ; but now that 
 his allegiance was transferred to a new leader, 
 he was constantly rebellious, sullen, and in 
 disgrace. 
 
 Between Mansfield and Bardour there seemed 
 to be a strange antipathy ; not openly shown, 
 indeed, in disputes and violent altercations, but 
 not the less complete. They avoided each 
 other, rarely speaking together, and never 
 joining in kindred amusements. In fact, they 
 had no kindred amusements. Mansfield was 
 a thorough hearty player ; he could throw all 
 
84 BARBOUR. 
 
 his' energies into any game — cricket, football, 
 or even marbles. Bardour sneered at this : he 
 never played. 
 
 "What a big baby that Mansfield is !" said 
 he, as he sauntered across the playground, 
 accompanied by Willy and anothef satellite or 
 two; "what a baby! Look at him, playing 
 at marbles with Robinson and a lot of little 
 fellows, and as eager at it as if it was the best 
 thing in life. Bah ! it makes me sick." 
 
 Willy tried to imitate the sneer; but he 
 could not manage it with a good grace. Had 
 %e truth been told, he liked a game of marbles 
 too, and he envied Mansfield's playfellows. 
 There was a time when he would gladly have 
 asked to join them : but it would have been 
 treason against his leader to do so now, so he 
 sauntered on. 
 
 But though Bardour pretended to feel con- 
 tempt for Mansfield, he could not despise him, 
 however much he might try to do it. He 
 therefore kept aloof from him, and contented 
 himself with reviling him at a safe distance, 
 and with endeavouring to weaken his influence. 
 In this he succeeded, and though Willy perhaps 
 felt it to be both ungenerous and ungrateful to 
 join in this cabal, he did not the less join in it. 
 What could he do ? He must have some one 
 to look up to, admire, and imitate. If he kept 
 on good terms with Mansfield, he must break 
 with Bardour ; and, upon the whole, it was 
 
BARDOUR, 85 
 
 more convenient to be Bardour's friend than 
 Mansfield's. He made his choice accordingly, 
 and kept to it. 
 
 And thus, amid confusion, discomfort, sus- 
 picions, and jealousies, of which no one could 
 trace the exact cause, the school broke up for 
 the holidays. All were unusually glad to get 
 away ; and the puzzled teachers could only 
 hope that at the close of the vacation a new 
 leaf would be turned. 
 
 The holidays were over, and most of the 
 boys returned to school. Bardour and Willy 
 were still close companions ; by day they 
 walked together, and talked together, generally 
 apart from their school-fellows. They occupied 
 the same room by night; and to them the 
 remainder of this story will principally relate. 
 
 " What nonsense all this is !" said Bardour, 
 as, one summer's evening, after prayer-time, 
 the boys took a customary stroll in the play- 
 ground, before going to bed. 
 
 "What is nonsense ?" Willy asked. 
 
 " What ? Why, these prayers. Prayers at 
 morning, prayers at night, with long chapters : 
 then there is church twice every Sunday, and 
 a long lecture in the school-room into the 
 bargain. 
 
 Willy had heard such things before from his 
 companion, and he was past being shocked 
 now : still he felt uncomfortable, for he had 
 
86 BAEDOUK. 
 
 been trained to respect, at least, the outward 
 observances of religion. It would have been 
 well for him if he had had firmness and 
 independence of mind and thought to turn 
 from such communications when they were first 
 offered. He might then have been kept from 
 that rapid and fearful progress which, com- 
 mencing with " walking in the counsel of the 
 ungodly," leads on to "sitting in the seat of 
 the scornful," and brings the soul nearer and 
 nearer the verge of eternal ruin. But even 
 firmness and independence of mind, though 
 combined with respect for the outward forms 
 of godliness, are but poor safeguards against 
 temptation when the power of godliness is 
 wanting, and dependence upon Christ for help 
 in time of need is unthought of. 
 
 How happy are they who have obeyed the 
 heavenly injunction, " My son, give ME thine 
 heart;" who have cried earnestly to a holy 
 and gracious God, " Create in me a clean 
 heart, and renew a right spirit within me;" 
 who have experienced the purifying influences 
 of the atoning blood which cleanseth from all 
 sin, and the sanctifying power of the Spirit 
 of God ! 
 
 Yes, and how safe are such, compared with 
 those who have desired and felt no such trans- 
 forming power. Give your heart to Christ, 
 then, young friend — schoolboy though you be. 
 You need such a Protector and Guide— ay, 
 
BARDOUR. 87 
 
 and Saviour also — as only he can be to you. 
 Without him, his salvation and his help, your 
 wisdom, strength, firmness, and independence 
 of mind, are folly and weakness. Yourself a 
 rebel against his government and his claims, 
 how will you be prepared to resist the importu- 
 nities of your fellow-rebels — differing from you 
 in this only, that they are a little older — to go 
 on from one step to another in iniquity, until, 
 like them, you have learned to glory in your 
 shame ? Give your heart to Christ, then ; lay 
 hold of his strength ; make him your refuge — 
 his salvation your song — his law your delight : 
 then, and then only, will you be safe. 
 
 Willy had never thought much of these 
 things, and — the truth may as well be told — 
 like a very great number of school-boys, he 
 cared for none of them. He did not particu- 
 larly wish or intend to be very wicked ; nay, 
 probably he thought religion to be a very good 
 thing for those who liked it, for older people 
 especially ; but as for himself, why he did well 
 enough without it, for the present. 
 
 We need not continue the dialogue we have 
 interrupted, nor repeat the wicked folly and 
 ribaldry uttered by Bardour, who avowed him- 
 self to be an infidel, and that he had been mis- 
 led by his tutor. 
 
 The confession shocked Willy, who made 
 some feeble efforts on the side of truth ; but 
 Bardour ridiculed him, and told him that he 
 
88 BARDOUR. 
 
 would lend him a book that would soon con- 
 vince him, but which he must not let anybody 
 see. Just then the evening bell rang. 
 
 " There's the bell ! We must go in now," 
 said Willy, in a sort of mental stupor. "It is 
 bed-time." 
 
 In another minute the play-ground was de- 
 serted, and the boys retired ; some of them, in 
 simple faith and child-like trust — may we not 
 believe ? — to commit themselves to God, through 
 Christ, in hope of pardon, peace, and sanc- 
 tification ; some of them, it may be, to hurry 
 through a form of devotion, ere closing their 
 eyes in sleep ; and some caring but little about 
 either the form or the spirit of prayer. 
 
 Among these last was Willy. Ever since he 
 had been the chamber-companion of Bardour, 
 he had been ashamed to be seen bending be- 
 fore the God of all his mercies. 
 
 He went to bed, however, somewhat dis- 
 turbed in mind. Bardour had never gone so far 
 before ; and to Willy there was, after all, some- 
 thing rather awful in the character which his* 
 friend had assumed, and boasted of. An infi- 
 del ! He, a boy, and yet an infidel ! Well, 
 he would think about it. 
 
 And then there was the book : he did not 
 think he shoald read it. He did not particu- 
 larly v ant to be an infidel. To be sure, it was 
 very troublesome to be always making a sort 
 of fuss about religion, or to be always thinking 
 
BARDOUR. 89 
 
 about it ; but then — and then — and then he 
 fell asleep. 
 
 The morning found Willy refreshed, and the 
 gloomy chill about his heart gone. "What 
 nonsense Bardour did talk last night, to be 
 sure," thought he, as he put on his clothes. 
 " He was joking, no doubt." 
 
 No, he was not ; he was never in more 
 serious earnest. It may seem strange, but it 
 is nevertheless true, that this boy Bardour, 
 shrewd, bold, and daring, yet cunning, had, 
 under the vile tuition of a base, designing man, 
 been led to fancy himself a disbeliever of the 
 Bible. When he had taken the trouble to read 
 it, he had 
 
 "Read to„doubt, or read to scorn;" 
 
 and when he heard it, it was with a mind 
 steeped in prejudice and dislike. 
 
 Not that he understood what he was talking 
 about when he took upon himself to pass his 
 judgment upon it ; but this was of little mo- 
 ment to him. He could talk ; and he fancied 
 he talked very wisely : this was enough. 
 
 Besides, it was very convenient for him to 
 think he had no faith in a book which con- 
 stantly condemned his thoughts and practices. 
 Moreover, there would be some gratification to 
 his mind — some credit to himself — if he could 
 make a convert. He was quite serious, there- 
 fore, in his attempt upon his young companion. 
 
90 BARDOUR. 
 
 Satan, the great adversary of God and man, 
 xias a good many agents in the world ; and this 
 boy was one of them. 
 
 " Here is the book I spoke to you about," 
 said he to Willy the next day. "Keep it close. 
 They don't pry much into what we read here, 
 that's one comfort." 
 
 Willy took the book. He -did not 'wish — 
 nay, so much was he in the habit of submitting 
 to the mind and will of another, that he hardly 
 dared — to refuse it. "I need not read it," 
 thought he. 
 
 But he did read it. At first, the daring pro- 
 faneness it contained made him feel uneasy ; 
 but these feelings soon went off, and, by little 
 and little, as he could do it unobserved, Willy 
 read the book through, and was vain of having 
 done so. Thenceforward he could listen to 
 Bardour's frothy declamations against the 
 Bible, and the religion of the Bible, unmoved. 
 He could even join with him in jeering at ho- 
 liness, and in mimicking the solemn language 
 of devotion. Still all this was a secret be- 
 tween the two boys ; and so well did they keep 
 the secret that, though they revelled in their 
 sin, they were, yet undetected. 
 
 This was not all. We have spoken of one 
 book of Bardour's. He had others — vile and 
 polluting to the imagination — and these, one 
 by one, he cautiously put into the hands of his 
 weak-minded associate. 
 
BAEDOUR. 91 
 
 Boys, dear boys, happy are you if you carry 
 in your looks — whatever may be your com- 
 plexion or form of features — so calm, placid, 
 and outspoken a love of purity and regard for 
 decency, as to compel the shameless to be 
 silent in your presence. Happy are you still, 
 if — should the word be spoken — your honest 
 indignation rises at the insulting impurity, and 
 causes the "vile person," whoever he may be, 
 to feel himself "contemned," and to shrink 
 abashed into the concealment of his own pol- 
 luted mind. Be it ever so with you. Beware 
 of tampering with such a snare to your soul as 
 is to be found in "filthy conversation," and in 
 the pages of many a book. Be assured that 
 no yirtuous friendship can be formed with a 
 school-fellow, whatever may be his talents or 
 acquirements, who can venture to introduce the 
 former ; and that no book is safe for you to 
 read which you would hide from a mother's or 
 a sister's eye. "Be sober, be vigilant," young 
 friends ; and put far from you " the instruction 
 that causeth to err." It rests much with your- 
 selves whether or not you will be contaminated 
 by corrupt communications and bad books. If 
 you will but set your heart and your face like 
 a rock against them, not forgetting to seek — 
 but, above all things, seeking — that pure wis- 
 dom which cometh from above, and making 
 God, through Jesus Christ, your refuge and 
 
92 BARDOUR. 
 
 your strength, you may walk unharmed through 
 even worse dangers than these : — 
 
 " Thrice happy youth ! thy Maker's care 
 Shall keep thee from the fowler's snare : 
 Satan the fowler, who betrays 
 Unguarded souls a thousand ways." 
 
 But if you do not thus act, and, on the con- 
 trary, invite the evil communications of those 
 who are far advanced in shamelessness, you 
 will not, it may be, have far to seek, nor will 
 all the vigilance of teachers or parents shut 
 them out. The poison will do its work ; the 
 ear and the eye will load the memory with de- 
 filement, and the stain will not come out — no, 
 it will not. Well did the wise king of Israel 
 know this when he wrote, "Enter not into the 
 path of the wicked, and go not in the way of 
 evil men. Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from 
 it, and pass away." Prov. iv. 14, 15. 
 
 But, once more and again, we earnestly 
 counsel you to seek the pardon of your own 
 sins, through the great atonement of the Lord 
 Jesus Christ, and the influences of God's Holy 
 Spirit to sanctify the soul. Without these, you 
 have no safeguard. With these, you will be 
 strong, (though with a strength not your own,) 
 to resist the allurements of vice and vicious 
 companions. Remember always WHO it is that 
 is " able to keep you from falling." Trust 
 Him, young friends — trust Him. 
 
BAHDOUR. Ud 
 
 About two miles from the school was a vil- 
 lage notorious for the ignorance and depravity 
 of its inhabitants, and also for a large fair an- 
 nually held in it, which was equally notorious 
 for its scenes of profligacy and vice. Many 
 attempts to abolish this fair had been made, 
 but unavailingly. 
 
 Boys are not very wise in such matters. 
 Year after year, as the fair time drew near, 
 some of the schoolfellows of whom we write 
 were apt to become discontented. They thought 
 it hard to be kept shut up in school while so 
 many were enjoying liberty and fun. They 
 could see no such great harm in going to a fair 
 once in a while^ and considered it " too bad" 
 that their master should be so particular. 
 I He might as well give us one day out of the 
 three," said they, as regularly as the year 
 rolled round ; "we would not get into any mis- 
 chief. Where is the good of being so strict?" 
 
 It is almost needless to say, that if such 
 complaints and longings as these reached the 
 ears of the master, they did not move him in 
 the wished-for direction. He was inexorable, 
 and took no notice of them. The fair, indeed ! 
 Go to the fair ! 
 
 A few days before the fair, in the year of 
 Bardour's pupilage, the annual restlessness 
 commenced. It was more than usually strong, 
 for the spirit of insubordination of which we 
 have spoken gave it life and activity. 
 
94 BARDOUR. 
 
 Around B ardour was gathered a group of 
 the repining ones. He was now the acknow- 
 ledged leader in any thing denoting rebellion, 
 though still he carried on his opposition to 
 authority with an air of a good-natured dash, 
 which made it sometimes difficult for his 
 teachers to be very angry with him. They 
 did not know the worst part of his character. 
 
 "All nonsense, Bowler; I tell you we will 
 go — we must; I would not lose the fun for 
 anything. You have no idea what sport we 
 could have." 
 
 " No doubt of it, if we could get there ; but 
 what is the use of talking about it ? We can't 
 go, you know, and — " 
 
 " Nonsense ! — can't go ! I say again, the 
 master will let us go if we ask him." 
 
 "No, no, no !" exclaimed half a dozen voices 
 at once. 
 
 "Was he ever asked?" inquired Bar dour. 
 
 No, never, certainly — all were sure of that ; 
 
 it was too well known what Mr. D 's 
 
 sentiments about the fair were. 
 
 "Why," said one, "he was one that tried, 
 two or three years ago, to get it put down. 
 The idea of asking him to let us go !" 
 
 "Well, for all that, I don't,see any thing so 
 preposterous in the idea," said Bardour; "and 
 I vote for asking leave." 
 
 "All very fine," replied Bowler; "but 
 who'll 'bell the cat?'" 
 
BARDOUR. 95 
 
 * " Oh, we will all go in a string ; or what dc 
 you say to a round robin ?" • 
 
 No, no, oh dear no : all hung back in alarm 
 at the very mention of it. 
 
 "What a set of cowards you all are ! What 
 is there to be afraid of?. Well, if you 
 won't I will — I and friend Willy here. We 
 will go at once and ask for the holiday — eh, 
 Willy ?" 
 
 Willy would gladly have retreated from such 
 undesirable pre-eminence ; but from being 
 Bardour's companion he had become almost his 
 slave. He dared not refuse. He tried, how- 
 ever, to express his dissent. " What will be 
 the use?" he began to ask. 
 
 " We'll see," replied his bolder companion. 
 " Come along, he's just gone into school — 
 come;" and he half dragged his friend along 
 over the playground. 
 
 They soon returned to the half-scared* boys. 
 Willy looked very sheepish ; Bardour very 
 furious; and he applied some opprobrious 
 names to the head-master in a not very subdued 
 tone, as he mingled with the rest. 
 
 "I told you it would be of no use," said Willy ; 
 i and you have only got me into a scrape — you 
 have." 
 
 " What did he say ? — what ? — what ?" asked 
 the gaping group, of their deputation. 
 
 u Say !" repeated Bardour, fiercely : "go and 
 ask yourselves if you want to know. If you 
 
96 BARDOUR. 
 
 had not been a pack of cowards you would 
 have Iftiown without being told." 
 
 "No more a coward than you," said one of 
 the bojs thus taunted ; and a quarrel ensued, 
 which almost ended in blows. But it passe* 
 off, and very little more was said about the 
 fair : the subject seemed to be dropped by 
 common consent. It was noticed, however, 
 and afterward remembered, that during the 
 succeeding days Bardour and Willy kept almost 
 aloof from their companions ; that they were 
 constantly in close private confabulation ; and 
 that Bardour especially was remarkable gleeful.- 
 Some great secret seemed to exist between 
 them. 
 
 Oxe day — it was the third day of the fair — - 
 as the boys were about to leave the breakfast- 
 room, *they were requested to remain. The 
 teachers looked grave ; and the scholars, 
 catching the infection of gravity, looked so too, 
 though why they knew not. 
 
 Presently, the master entered. The boys 
 had seen him before, when they had met for 
 morning prayers, and the change that had 
 taken place was almost alarming — quite alarm- 
 ing to guilty consciences, if any were there. 
 Accompanying the master was a stranger, 
 p3habbily dressed, dirty, unshorn, and otherwise 
 ill-looking. 
 
Scijool Sags KebfetoetJ. 
 
 Accompanying the master was a stranger. p. 96. 
 
B ARDOUR. « 97 
 
 '•What's the matter now?" whispered one 
 boy to his neighbour. 
 
 " Hallo," said another, in an equally sub- 
 dued tone, "look at Willy. Why, he is as 
 pale as a turnip, and trembles like a leaf; what 
 is the meaning of all this ?" 
 
 This was bye-play. Meanwhile Mr. D 
 
 looked sorrowfully around, then turned to the 
 man, who stood a little nearer the door — 
 " Have the kindness, my friend, to point them 
 out to me," said he. 
 
 "Them! — point them out," repeated one 
 wondering boy to his next companion as the 
 man turned his inflamed eyes from one face to 
 another. 
 
 What could it mean ? Well, in this case 
 ignorance was bliss. 
 
 The man was not long in his survey. 
 " Them's them," he said, pointing with one 
 hand to Bardour, with the other to Willy. It 
 scarcely needed this, for their looks condemned 
 the two boys — Willy especially. Bardour tried 
 to brave out the accusation, whatever it might 
 be, and to put on a look of innocence. But it 
 was a poor attempt. 
 
 " Come with me, you two," said Mr. D . 
 
 •"Why, sir? What have I done?" asked 
 Bardour : but the words seemed to die away 
 on his lips, and without waiting for a reply he 
 slowly left the room, accompanied by Willy. 
 
 " The boys may go into school now, Mr. 
 9 
 
98 # BARDOUR. 
 
 Weston," said the master, before he withdrew : 
 and they went accordingly. 
 
 " What is it all about, Mr. Weston ?" asked 
 one, as they went : but Mr. Weston could not 
 or would not say. 
 
 The head-master did not enter the school- 
 room that morning, nor did Bardour, nor Willy ; 
 and lessons were not very perfectly repeated, 
 nor sums very correctly or expeditiously 
 worked, nor copies and exercises very neatly 
 written. In the afternoon a half-holiday was 
 given, and a long walk taken. Bardour and 
 Willy were still absent, and the boys wearied 
 themselves in vain in striving to fathom the 
 mystery. 
 
 Day after day passed, and still no fresh light 
 was thrown upon the subject, except that it 
 was known that the two boys — whatever had 
 been their offence— were removed from their 
 former bedroom, and were seperately confined 
 in two of the topmost chambers of the house, 
 and that they took their meals and continued 
 their studies thus in solitude. What could they 
 have done ? 
 
 The holidays came, and the two prisoners- 
 had not been seen. The holidays were over ; 
 and when the boys — those who had not done 
 with school — returned, Willy was among the 
 number, and he took his former place at his 
 desk, as though nothing had happened. Bar- 
 dour was no more seen. 
 
BARDOUR. 99 
 
 Willy's old companions were generous. 
 Much as they burned to know the secret, they 
 forbore to ask it of him. He was generally 
 silent ; and gradually the remembrance of his 
 separation and presumed disgrace died away. 
 But, after all, the mystery was not completely 
 hidden ; and some such tradition as this long 
 hung about the place, and was handed down 
 from one set of boys to the next : — 
 
 " Bardour — ah ! he was a sad fellow : he did 
 net stay long; but whether he was taken away 
 or turned away, no one knows but the head- 
 master — at least none of the boys ever knew. 
 
 " There was a strange piece of work one fair 
 time. Bardour wanted to go to the fair, and 
 of course he was refused. So what did he do 
 but persuade another of the boys, who slept 
 with him in the little room that overlooks the 
 playground, to get out of the window at night 
 (the window is safely barred up now) and start 
 off to the fair ; and this was how they managed 
 it : — Just before the fair time, a young fellow 
 who had been a groom, or something of that 
 kind, at Bardour's uncle's, came to live near 
 the school, and to work at the livery stables ; 
 and he used to come. at night over the fence 
 into the playground, and help the boys to get 
 down, and then went with them to the fair. 
 They followed this plan two nights. • 
 
 " And pretty pranks they played there — 
 dancing in the booths, gambling, and drinking, 
 
100 BARDOUR. 
 
 and more than that till two or three o'clock in 
 the morning, and then getting back to bed. 
 But it was found out in this way. The groom 
 passed some bad money at one of the booths ; 
 and after they had left, the man to whom he 
 gave it made the discovery, and followed the 
 three all the way to the playground, and saw 
 the two boys go in at the window. This was 
 enough for him ; so the next morning he came 
 and made his complaint. He knew the two 
 boys at once, and they were kept away f»om 
 the others all the rest of that half year. 
 
 " And this was not all. The boy who went 
 with Bardour was horribly frightened at what 
 he had done, and turned evidence against him; 
 and a shocking tale he told. Bardour's boxes 
 were examined, and several books were found 
 — such books ! Bardour declared they were 
 not his, that he knew nothing about them, and 
 that somebody else must have put 'them there ; 
 but of course that would not go down with the 
 master. 
 
 "Willy, — Bardour's companion, — came back 
 the next half year, and nothing more was said 
 or done to him ; only the master kept a sharp 
 look-out after him, till, he left school ; and so 
 he did after the rest of the boys, especially the 
 bigger ones. And as to Willy, he was not 
 very fond of talking about Bardour ; but one 
 way or other, a bit at a time, thus much of the 
 story came out." 
 
BARDOUR. 101 
 
 This legend conned over occasionally, for 
 want of other subjects of conversation, or by 
 way of change, is not probably far from the 
 truth, though it conveys not " the whole truth." 
 Indeed, poor Willy's experience of the fearful 
 consequences of yielding to temptation, and 
 the folly of being led into " almost all evil" by 
 the example and persuasion of a strong-minded 
 sinner, was sufficiently vivid, one would suppose, 
 to teach him a lesson for life. It is to be hoped 
 he profited by it. But though he might be 
 sorry — though he might even sorrow " after a 
 godly sort" for what he had done, and for the 
 wickedness into which he had been led, he could 
 never unlearn .what he had learned, nor be 
 "simple concerning evil." 
 
 It is well, dear young reader, to be brought 
 back from our wanderings : but is it not better, 
 tiring you, never to wander at all from the paths 
 of purity and true wisdom ? If our old school- 
 fellow Willy became penitent, and afterward 
 loathed the sins into which he had once been 
 led, I am sure he has often blushed with shame, 
 and has despised himself when he has thought 
 of his weakness in yielding to temptation, and 
 the avidity with which he became a partaker in 
 another's guilt ; and would be able to give a sad 
 and solemn answer to the question, "What fruit 
 had ye then in those things whereof ye are now 
 ashamed? for the end of those things is death." 
 
 But perhaps Willy did not really regret his 
 
102 BARDOUR. 
 
 past folly. It may be th at he never truly re- 
 pented of having given way to the seductions 
 of vice. It is not a thing improbable that the 
 vile books he had been tempted to read, and 
 the scenes of sin he had been drawn in to 
 witness, and in which he had been induced to 
 share, produced effects which clung to his soul 
 like an awful disease ; and that at length he 
 found in his own bitter experience, that u when 
 lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin : and 
 sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." 
 (James i. 15.) It is not long since we saw one 
 who, like Willy, had been drawn away and en- 
 ticed, when a school-boy, into shameful wicked- 
 ness. Pale, haggard, worn and feeble, he is 
 old before his time, and seems hastening to an 
 early grave. Is he ashamed ? Does he mourn 
 his folly ? Has he repented and sought mercy ? 
 It may be that he has not ; but that, on the 
 contrary, his heart is hardened, and his con- 
 science "seared with a hot iron." Take care, 
 young reader, how you venture to disregard 
 the first intimations of your conscience that you 
 are going wrong, for nothing is more true than 
 that, generally, • 
 
 " Sinners that grow old in sin 
 Are hardened in their crimes." 
 
 It may be that you have given way to the 
 seductions of some bad, bold companion. Is 
 it so ? Listen, then, to the voice that calls you 
 
BARDOUR. 103 
 
 to return — the voice of Divine mercy and com- 
 passion : " Come now, and let us reason together, 
 saith the Lord : though your sins be as scarlet, 
 they shall be as white as snow ; though they 
 be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." — 
 "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive 
 ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we 
 confess our sins, He is faithful and just to for- 
 give us our sins, and to cleanse us from all 
 unrighteousness;" and "the blood of Jesus 
 Christ, God's dear Son, cleanseth us from all 
 sin." Isa. i. 18 : 1 John i. 7-9. 
 
 " Return then, wanderer, to thy home, 
 Thy Father calls for thee j 
 No longer now an exile roam, 
 In guilt and misery : 
 
 Return ! return ! 
 
 "Return, wanderer, to thy home, 
 'Tis Jesus calls for thee ; 
 The Spirit and the bride say, Come. 
 Oh, now for refuge flee : 
 
 Return ! return ! 
 
 " Return, wanderer, to thy home, 
 'Tis madness to delay; 
 There are no pardons in the tomb, 
 And brief is mercy's day : 
 
 Return ! return I" 
 
 And Bardour — what became of him ? This 
 became of him : he soon cast off every remain- 
 ing restraint, banished every virtuous affection, 
 and became a slave to his own vices. In his 
 future life was shown the baneful effects of 
 
104 
 
 BARDOTJR. 
 
 those principles of •which, in youthful vanity, 
 he had boasted, which "leaving nothing above 
 us to excite awe, nor around us to awaken ten- 
 derness, wage war with heaven and with earth 
 — whose first object is to dethrone God, whose 
 next is to destroy man." 
 
IV. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Mansfield, the young Cumbrian's friend, 
 was a noble boy, though by no means faultless. 
 Perhaps he did not, in every respect and at all 
 times, seem amiable, for his manners were now 
 and then rough, and his temper was occasion- 
 ally uncertain. He was ardent ; his ardour 
 made him sometimes impetuous, and his impetu- 
 osity sometimes also, (not generally,) led him 
 to disregard — no, not to disregard, but to lose 
 sight, for a moment, of the feelings of others, 
 and drove him from the right line of propriety. 
 Nevertheless, Mansfield was a noble fellow. 
 He was, probably, guilty of more foolish 
 actions, openly and undisguisedly, than many 
 of his school-fellows ; but never was he known 
 to be guilty of a mean one. His folly, such as 
 it was, might involve him in difficulties, but he 
 never tried to get out of them by unworthy 
 means. 
 
 In nothing did Mansfield's character more 
 brightly and steadily shine than in his utter 
 contempt of falsehood. " I have known him 
 and watched him during the last seven years," 
 
 105 
 
106 MANSFIELD. 
 
 said his master, after the boy had left school, 
 " and I never knew him, by word or action, 
 attempt to deceive me." Another fine tr^it 
 in Mansfield's character was generosity ; that 
 generosity which acknowledges and makes 
 amends for a fault, protects the weaker from 
 the oppression of the stronger, and gives up 
 the wish or the will of self to gratify the wish 
 or will of another. Mansfield never seemed 
 to think, or to act upon the thought, " I must 
 take care of number one;" but he did often 
 take care of number two, three, four, or five, 
 as the case might be. 
 
 A boy who dares always to speak the truth, 
 to take the part of the oppressed, and to deny 
 himself, must have a great deal of moral cour- 
 age, and well deserves to be called noble. Do 
 you not think so, young reader ? 
 
 Yes, yes, you cannot doubt it; and you 
 think — come, a penny for your thoughts, as 
 you sometimes say to your school-fellows — 
 perhaps — 
 
 A penny ! Ah, you cannot sell them so 
 cheap. Well, let us guess them. 
 
 You think that you yourself have in you 
 some of the stuff of which heroes are made ; 
 and that you, too, on any fitting occasion, could 
 act very nobly in the way of speaking the truth 
 fearlessly, enduring patiently, forgiving inju- 
 ries generously, and protecting the injured 
 bravely. Only such opportunities of distin- 
 
MANSFIELD. 107 
 
 guishing yourself do not often happen, and it 
 is "a great bore" to be always looking out for 
 them ; so that, when they do present them- 
 selves, they slip by unawares, and leave you as 
 they found you— much like all the rest of your 
 school-fellows. 
 
 Come now, be honest. Would you not like 
 to be a young hero if you had the chance ? 
 And do you not sometimes regret that you 
 never had it in your power to do some great 
 thing to prove your right to that title ? 
 
 Ah, young friend, you will never be a hero 
 if you think after this manner. No one is a 
 true hero, or truly noble, who seeks to be so 
 only for the sake of distinguishing himself. 
 Nor is it in great deeds only that true heroism 
 is shown. ' No, no ; there are every-day heroes 
 who have never dreamed of being heroes at all ; 
 and among the most truly noble are some who 
 had not the least idea of having ever done any 
 thing to deserve so honourable a title. 
 
 Do you not remember the words of our Lord, 
 I If any man will come after me, let him deny 
 himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow 
 me?" Those who do this in a right spirit are 
 the true heroes, after all; and to them every 
 day brings with it some fresh test of heroism. 
 
 If, in our daily course, our mind 
 Be set to hallow all we find, 
 New treasures still, of countlees price, 
 God will provide for sacrifice. 
 
108 MANSFIELD. 
 
 " Such is the bliss of souls serene, 
 When they have sworn, and steadfast meats? 
 Counting the cost, in all to espy 
 Their God — in all themselves deny. 
 
 " Oh could we learn that sacrifice, 
 What lights would all around us rise ! 
 How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
 Along life's dullest, dreariest walk ! 
 
 " The trivial round, the common task, 
 Would furnish all we ought to ask ; 
 Room to deny ourselves ; a road 
 To bring us, daily, nearer God." 
 
 Ay, it is in " the trivial round and common 
 task" that boys, as well as men, are generally 
 called upon to show true heroism ; and unless 
 they prove themselves noble in these little 
 matters, when there is no fame nor praise to 
 be got by it, they may never do it all, since 
 they may wait in vain for those great occasions 
 of which they sometimes dream — even at mid- 
 day. 
 
 We cannot tell how far our old school-fellow, 
 Mansfield, was influenced by a right spirit in 
 all that he did amiably and lovelily. In after 
 years, I think, he would look back with sorrow 
 even on that part of his life which had appeared 
 to those around him to be the least faulty, and 
 feel that he had then, perhaps, been proud of his 
 generosity, moral courage, and self-government, 
 like the Pharisee, of whom we read that he 
 thanked God he was not as other men. He 
 would be very likely to remember that then he 
 
MANSFIELD. 109 
 
 sought and valued the praise and good opinion 
 of his parents and teachers and school-fellows, 
 and thought much more of that than he did 
 about pleasing God. 
 
 No, we cannot tell, for it is God alone who 
 searches the heart. Mansfield had been trained 
 by Christian parents to admire and to imitate 
 Christian virtues ; he had had set before him 
 Christian examples ; and so far had this been 
 of service to him that he did not depart from 
 the way in which it was right he should go — < 
 that is, in his outward conduct. And assuredly 
 he had reason to bless God as long as he lived 
 for the pains which had been taken with him 
 while young, and for the prayers to God for 
 him which had accompanied every precept and 
 effort. In after years, by the powerful teach- 
 ing of God's Holy Spirit, he came to see more 
 and more clearly that no virtue of our own can 
 make us perfect and accepted before God ; but 
 that the breach of a single law of the holy and 
 just God requires a sacrifice for sin, such as 
 none but He could provide, and such as he has 
 provided in the death and righteousness of his 
 dear Son. And then, if Mansfield had ever 
 before relied on his own good deeds, he gladly 
 and eagerly cast away such a false hope of 
 mercy and eternal life, to lay hold of the hope 
 set before us in the gospel. 
 
 No, we cannot tell how it was, in this matter, 
 with Mansfield, when he was a boy ; nor perhaps 
 10 
 
110 MANSFIELD, 
 
 could he, at that time, have told how it was 
 with himself There were motives, no doubt, 
 of which he might not be entirely aware, which 
 led him generally to do what was right and 
 honourable. But it is likely that these were 
 not the best, and highest, and holiest motives. 
 There are persons in the world, sometimes to 
 be met with, who do much that seems right 
 and good, but whose motives are far from being 
 holy, and whose hearts are really at enmity 
 against God. Their pride rises against Him, 
 and they turn away in scorn or dislike from 
 his love and mercy as revealed to us in the 
 gospel. They will not yield themselves to his 
 perfect law, and his gracious plan of salvation. 
 
 This is a fearful state to be in, young reader ; 
 and let us warn all our friends against the 
 fatal error of believing that any lovely and 
 amiable traits of character which may appear 
 in them will serve them instead of faith in the 
 Lord Jesus Christ, as the only and all-sufficient 
 Saviour. If we had never sinned, we might 
 indeed be very bold. Then we would not need 
 mercy. But we have sinned, and for sinners 
 only one way of mercy is provided. "He that 
 believeth on the Son of God hath everlasting 
 life : and he that believeth not the Son shall 
 not see life ; but the wrath of God abideth on 
 him." 
 
 While, therefore, to act justly and kindly, 
 and honourably and nobly toward our fellow- 
 
MANSFIELD. Ill 
 
 creatures should ever be our earnest desire and 
 endeavour — and while neglecting this we give 
 sad proof of a depraved nature and an un- 
 changed, unsanctified heart — it is nevertheless 
 a fatal mistake to rest satisfied there. 
 
 Well then, youn§ reader, we would have you 
 to be heroic and magnanimous and noble; 
 but we would have you to be so on good, firm, 
 Christian principles, and from right Christian 
 motives. Every thing will be unsatisfactory 
 without these principles and motives. It was 
 so at this time with Mansfield. 
 
 "It is too bad ! I say it is rank favouritism," 
 said Mansfield, impetuously ; " and I won't 
 bear it. I don't care about losing my place in 
 the class, but I do not like being served in this 
 way." 
 
 "A bad mark for Mansfield!" said the 
 teacher, quietly, to the monitor who, that day, 
 kept the mark book. 
 
 " A bad mark, sir ! Why am I to have a bad 
 mark, Mr. Harpur?" asked Mansfield, with 
 still increased impetuosity. 
 
 " For behaving improperly and speaking 
 disrespectfully: now go to your desk." 
 
 The boy obeyed ; but a flame of resentment 
 was lighted up in his eye which was not 
 immediately to subside. He fancied he had 
 been unjustly treated. 
 
112 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Half an hour afterward the head-master 
 entered the school-room, and, very quickly, 
 Mansfield was standing before him. His cheek 
 was still burning with indignation. 
 
 "If you please, sir, I wfsh to speak to you, 
 if you are not busy." 
 
 "By all means, Mansfield: what have you 
 to say?" 
 
 " Mr. Harpur, sir, has treated me very 
 unjustly," said the boy, almost passionately. 
 
 " Indeed ! I am surprised to hear that," 
 
 replied Mr. D , gravely ; " but, from your 
 
 present appearance and manner of address, I 
 doubt whether you can properly judge of this 
 matter. But let me hear your complaint." 
 
 " It was in the writing class, sir," said 
 Mansfield, commencing his explanation, but 
 in a more subdued and respectful tone ; " and 
 my copy was better written than most in the 
 class ; — at least, sir," — hesitating a little, "I am 
 sure it was as well written as any ; but Mr. 
 Harpur had me put down all but at the bottom, 
 sir, — last but one." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " And when I complained of the injustice, 
 sir, he gave me a bad mark." 
 
 "Well, Mansfield," the master repeated 
 drily, " any thing more ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; only I am sure Mr. Harpur did 
 it out of spite to me ; and — and — " continued 
 Mansfield, warming afresh, " he snatched the 
 
MANSFIELD. 113 
 
 book away from me, as if — as if — like a dog, 
 
 sir." 
 
 ' " Did Mr. Harpur take the book from you 
 
 with his mouth, Mansfield?" 
 
 "No, sir, I did not mean that; but — but, 
 sir, he did it very rudely." 
 
 "Mansfield," said Mr. D gravely, "I 
 
 perceive you are in a very ill temper — an 
 unusually ill temper for you ; and you are not, 
 at present, capable either of thinking or speak- 
 ing correctly. If you were in this mood in the 
 class, I do not wonder that Mr. Harpur placed 
 a bad mark against your name. I only wonder 
 that you had not two. You may go now, I 
 will speak to you again presently." 
 
 Mansfield went very disconsolately to his 
 desk ; and presently he was called up again. 
 
 "Now, Mansfield," said his tutor, "you are, 
 I trust, a little cooler, and can speak rationally. 
 Be so good as to re-state your grievance." 
 
 The boy did so. 
 
 "And what do you wish me to do ?" 
 
 " If you would be so kind, sir, as to look at 
 the copies, and see if I deserved to be put so 
 low in the class." 
 
 "Most assuredly I shall not do that, sir," 
 replied Mr. D— — . " You ask me to insult a 
 gentleman, after having yourself insulted him 
 by your ebullition of temper." 
 
 " It is wrong, sir, in Mr. Harpur to say that 
 I insulted him." 
 
 - 10* 
 
114 MANSFIELP, 
 
 " Mr. Harpur does not say so. I have not 
 spoken to him on the subject. I judge by 
 your own showing that you did so. If I had 
 not confidence in Mr. Harpur, or if I could 
 think him capable of exercising the spite of 
 which you have very improperly accused him, 
 he would not be your teacher : but my confi- 
 dence in that gentleman is not to be shaken by 
 the petulance of a boy. As to your appeal to 
 me to revise Mr. Harpur's decision, why, if I 
 were to submit myself thus to the direction of 
 my pupils, and encourage them to set up their 
 judgment against that of properly qualified 
 teachers, I should have enough to do. You 
 forget your position, and that you should not 
 presume to dictate to them in this manner. 
 
 "You have forgotten yourself strangely, 
 
 Mansfield," continued Mr. D , ".and shown 
 
 great disrespect to Mr. Harpur. Had any one 
 told me, an hour ago, that you would have 
 shown such bad temper, I should not have 
 believed it ; and when you have recovered your 
 senses you will be ashamed of yourself. Go 
 now to your work, and let me see no more of 
 this spirit in you." 
 
 Mansfield withdrew ; but he still thought 
 himself ill used, and, through all the morn- 
 ing, he was sullen and disrespectful. Noon 
 came, and a group of friends gathered around 
 him. 
 
 " Your's was the best copy in the class, or 
 
MANSFIELD. 115 
 
 one of the best," said one, " and it was spite 
 in Mr. Harpur." 
 
 " It was a shame in Mr. D to take Mr. 
 
 Harpur 's part as he did," said another. 
 
 " Never mind, Mansfield," said a third; "I 
 am glad you showed such spirit." 
 
 Mansfield said nothing ; but walked toward 
 the farther part of the spacious playground. 
 
 " Mansfield, you will play with us, won't 
 you?" was shouted from a party in the centre 
 of the ground, who wanted one to make up the 
 right number. 
 
 " I cannot just now," replied he, and passed 
 on. 
 
 " Mansfield, do help me with this horrid 
 Caesar," said another, in a doleful tone, from 
 one of the benches, as he passed. " I have 
 got fifty lines to translate before Saturday, 
 and I am stuck fast : a stupid old freebooter, 
 with his commentaries !" 
 
 " I am busy just now, William. I'll help 
 you this evening, if you want any help then." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, that will do ; but, I say, 
 I'll tell you how you may be even with old 
 Harpur — and serve him right, too." 
 
 " Oh, never mind about that. I cannot wait 
 now." 
 
 " Mansfield," cried out a third, when he had 
 advanced a little farther, " I have got to write 
 home to day." 
 
 "Well, Harry, what then?" 
 
116 MANSFIELD. 
 
 " Oh, you know how I hate letter- writing ; 
 do come and give me a few notions — I know 
 you will." 
 
 " Another time, another time ; come to me 
 after school this afternoon, and we will talk it 
 over." 
 
 " Mansfield — Mansfield :" everybody seemed 
 to want Mansfield at that moment ; but at last 
 he found himself alone. 
 
 Mansfield was in the habit, occasionally, of 
 communing with his own heart ; and he did so 
 now. Walking to and fro, apart and out of 
 sight, he struggled, wrestled, and gained a 
 victory over himself; the noblest victory man 
 or boy can obtain. Who shall say how painful 
 was the conflict ? 
 
 The afternoon work had begun — the master 
 at his desk, the teachers at their's, the boys at 
 their's. Again and again Mansfield glanced 
 his eye toward the former. Will he have 
 courage to carry out his intention ? 
 
 " It must be done, and it shall be done." 
 The resolution was formed, and the next minute 
 he was standing by the master. 
 
 " What do you say, Mansfield ?" asked Mr. 
 D , looking rather coldly at him. 
 
 "Sir," said Mansfield, "I behaved very 
 badly this morning, and I wisji to ask your 
 pardon, and Mr. Harpur's." 
 
 Well done, Mansfield ! Noble Mansfield ! It 
 cost him an effort, though ; and the tear in his 
 
MANSFIELD. 117 
 
 • 
 eye, and the lip that trembled in spite of his 
 brave tone and words, told of it. 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so, Mansfield/' 
 said the master, looking pleased, and shaking 
 hands cordially with him. " I was sure you 
 would think better of it, though I could scarcely 
 expect this, even from you. And I can answer 
 for Mr. Harpur. Go to him, he wants to see 
 you ; and he will explain why he placed you 
 so low in tbe class this morning. He would 
 have told you at the time had you not been so 
 impetuous." 
 
 " What a sneaking fellow !" said one of the 
 boys afterward ; — " what a sneaking fellow, 
 that Mansfield ! — to go creeping up the master's 
 sleeve in that way. I should be ashamed to 
 curry favour so." 
 
 " What a noodle !" said another ; " what a 
 noodle — that Mansfield ! Would I have turned 
 tail in that sort of way ? I thought he had 
 more spirit than to go confessing and begging 
 pardon and such stuff !— all his own doing, too. 
 They will never catch me making such an ass 
 of myself." 
 
 " What a noble fellow is that Mansfield !" 
 said Mr. Harpur to Mr. Weston, on the same 
 day. " There are few boys who would have 
 submitted to such self-mortification as he has. 
 He is a noble fellow." 
 
 " What a fuss about nothing !" says a 
 modern schoolboy. " Call this a story ? Would 
 
118 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 I have read it if I had known what it would be 
 about ! I call it ' much ado about nothing.' 
 And Mansfield was noble, was he, because he 
 was put out of temper, and afterward confessed 
 it, and begged pardon ? Why, any boy could 
 have done that." 
 
 Stop, young friend. Would every boy have 
 done it ? Would you ? Well, the next time 
 you commit a fault, or are guilty of a folly — 
 
 TRY. 
 

 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 
 
 Mansfield left school, passed through an 
 apprenticeship, and at twenty-five years of age, 
 or thereabouts, was the proprietor of a small 
 business in the country town in which, at a 
 later period of his life we have spoken of him 
 as a prosperous tradesman. 
 
 At this time, however, his circumstances 
 were far from prosperous. He had embarked 
 the very limited capital he possessed in a busi- 
 ness which sadly disappointed his hopes, 
 though, happily, it did not damp his energy. It 
 is a wearing, harassing occupation for an active 
 young man to stand, day after day, behind the 
 counter, waiting for customers who will not 
 come, and tossing about merchandise which he 
 cannot dispose of; feeling himself, all the 
 while, entangled in responsibilities which daily 
 accumulate, and out of which he can see no 
 mode of extrication. This was Mansfield's 
 position. 
 
 "Hope on, hope ever;" "Hope humbly, 
 hope always;" "Never despair:" these are 
 good mottoes in their way ; and Mansfield tried 
 
 119 
 
120 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 
 
 to make the best of them. He would not 
 despair ; he would hope ; but he could not keep 
 his heart from aching, when, night after night, 
 after his shop shutters were put up, he sat tired 
 with doing nothing in his scantily furnished 
 parlour, or retired to his bed-room, sadly pon- 
 dering over his gloomy and uncertain prospects. 
 Mansfield's situation was all the more irk- 
 some from the fact of his being almost a 
 stranger in the place. He had lived but a 
 little while in the town, and had made but few 
 acquaintances, — to say nothing of friendships, 
 which the reader may perhaps know are very 
 different things. He had, therefore, no one to 
 advise him, or to encourage him, excepting 
 Rachel — dear Rachel. 
 
 'Rachel was Mansfield's sister, the same who 
 had helped him in his boyhood to learn the 
 multiplication table, and who now — his house- 
 keeper and only companion — helped him to 
 persevere and struggle on. Sometimes, when 
 poor Mansfield's spirits were most drooping, 
 Rachel would persuade him to leave his shop 
 in the care of his only assistant, and walk with 
 her quite away into the fields, or by the river 
 side. And then, forgetting his troubles for a 
 little while, Mansfield would be induced to talk 
 of the days of his childhood, or of old school 
 times, and of other things besides, and returned 
 refreshed and strengthened. 
 
 It was in itself no pleasant change for Rachel 
 
TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 121 
 
 Mansfield to take up her abode in a close and 
 somewhat dark dwelling, in a narrow, crowded 
 street, in a town where she and her brother 
 were so little known, instead of living in the 
 country, and being surrounded by old and 
 loving friends. But had it been still more 
 irksome to her, she w T ould willingly have borne 
 it for her brother's sake, and to be useful to 
 him. Ah ! these kind and self-denying sisters 
 are great blessings in the world. 
 
 Mansfield was grateful to his sister ; and his 
 gratitude was shown in many little matters 
 which some young men would never have 
 thought of. Sometimes, too, when hop # e was at 
 its highest, after a particularly encouraging 
 day of business, perhaps, he would lay many a, 
 plan for rewarding, in future days, the care 
 and goodness of his sister Rachel. 
 
 There was something else, however, which, 
 in addition to these alleviations, and more than 
 any thing besides, enabled Mansfield to keep 
 up a good degree of courage amid all his dis- 
 couragements : he loved the Bible, and he 
 loved prayer. He had the true recipe for 
 cheerfulness — he was a christian. Some 
 years before he knew much about the cares of 
 business, Mansfield had been dissatisfied with 
 himself, with his pleasures, and with all the 
 world. And yet, some might have said, he 
 had much with which he might have been 
 satisfied. The approbation of the wise; the 
 11 
 
122 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 
 
 love of the good ; cheerful companions ; in- 
 dustrious and persevering habits ; health and 
 moderation; a business training -which suited 
 his inclination — all these, with many other 
 helps to happiness, were his. But still he was 
 dissatisfied. One thing more was wanting; 
 and that one thing was " the love of God shed 
 abroad in his heart." 
 
 For a time, he neglected the invitations of 
 God's word, and the gentle but powerful 
 strivings of tfre Holy Spirit, and his uneasiness 
 increased. But, at length, by the grace and 
 mercy of God, he was enabled to yield, and he 
 gave his. heart, his affections, to Christ ; took 
 Christ's "yoke" upon him, and learned of Him. 
 Then his disquietude vanished. From that time, 
 Mansfield had known much, and enjoyed much, 
 of the spirit of that most faithful declaration, 
 " Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose 
 mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in 
 thee." Isa. xxvi. 3. 
 
 Not that Mansfield expected, because he was 
 a Christian, to pass through life without trouble 
 of some kind or other ; he knew better than 
 this : but he did expect, he trusted, he believed, 
 that even trials would be sanctified and made 
 blessings ; and he rested upon the promise of 
 God, who says of every child of his, " Because 
 he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I 
 deliver him : I will set him on high, because 
 he hath known my name. He shall call upon 
 

 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 123 
 
 me, and I will answer him : I will be with him 
 in trouble ; I will deliver him, and honour him." 
 Ps. xci. 14, 15. It was this trust in God 
 which gave courage to Mansfield, as it has 
 done to thousands besides, to face his difficulties 
 cheerfully and without murmuring. And to 
 you, readers — schoolboys as you are now, but 
 men as you will be soon, should your lives be 
 spared, and men struggling, perhaps, with life's 
 difficulties — to you do we say, " Oh taste and 
 see that the Lord is good : blessed is the man 
 that trusteth in him." Ps. xxxiv. 8. 
 
 At a time when Mansfield's difficulties in 
 business seemed to gather fast, and when his 
 hopes were at the lowest, an event occurred 
 which promised to change the current of affairs. 
 An old lady, his relation, to whom Mansfield 
 was what is called heir-at-law, died suddenly, 
 and no will could be found. Now Mrs. 
 Simmons — cousin Jane, as she was familiarly 
 called — was a strange-tempered old lady ; and, 
 having taken offence at something said or done 
 by her relations, she had rejected all further 
 communication with them, and declared that 
 none of the Mansfields should ever inherit any 
 part of her property. At the same time it was 
 known that she did cause a will to be made 
 which was duly signed, and by which her whole 
 property was left to a stranger who had 
 recently made her acquaintance ; and had, as 
 was believed, persuaded her to this unkind and 
 
124 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 
 
 wrong course, and kept up in her mind those 
 bitter feelings. 
 
 Nevertheless, when cousin Jane died, greatly 
 to the surprise of all concerned, no will could 
 be found ; and, after many a strict and per- 
 severing but vain search, from cellar to garret, 
 of the large old farm house in which she had 
 lived, it was concluded that, in a moment of 
 repentance, the old maiden lady had destroyed 
 the unjust will, with the intention, perhaps, of 
 making another, which intention she had not 
 found time nor opportunity to fulfil. 
 
 Very much enraged was Mr. Thomson, the 
 expectant legatee, at this disappointment of his 
 hopes : but there was no help for it ; and, as 
 Mansfield was really the best entitled to the 
 inheritance, he very properly and righteously 
 entered into its possession. 
 
 It was, doubtless, a great relief to Mansfield's 
 mind, whatever degree of regret he felt at the 
 death of his relation, to find himself thus un- 
 expectedly released from the cares and anxieties 
 of an unsuccessful business. But he did not 
 act ungenerously toward the disappointed 
 expectant ; or rather, he behaved very gene- 
 rously , for it was to be considered that Mr. 
 Thomson had no natural claim to the property 
 of " cousin Jane." 
 
 Not to puzzle the reader with a long ex- 
 planation of the distinction which is made in 
 law between what is called real property and 
 
TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 125 
 
 personal property, we need only say that, by the 
 law in force there, all of the former description, 
 of which there was much, belonged to Mansfield, 
 as heir-at-law; and that all of the latter, of 
 which there was little, had to be shared between 
 himself and his sister Rachel. This was 
 accordingly done ; and after some needful 
 delay, and when all legal forms had been ob- 
 served, the* brother and sister took possession 
 of what they and everybody else believed to be 
 righteously and lawfully their own. 
 
 A eew months afterwards, Mansfield's cir- 
 cumstances were greatly improved. He had 
 removed from his former house into larger and 
 more desirable business-premises in another 
 part of the town ; and his business was greatly 
 increased, so that he had no longer any temp- 
 tation to fret at the absence of customers. 
 Rachel remained with him "as housekeeper ; 
 but a new prospect had opened to them both, 
 against which they had previously, with strong 
 resolution, shut their eyes — they each looked 
 forward to marriage. 
 
 Mansfield's accession to property, and the 
 change in his position, had introduced him to 
 new connections : he could no longer regret 
 being unknown and uncompanioned. Wealth 
 draws many friends. 
 
 As to his recently acquired inheritance, as 
 Mansfield had wisely determined not to relin- 
 11* 
 
126 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 
 
 quish a business to which he had been brought 
 up, he had arranged to let the farm, and -was 
 on the point of doing so, having previously sold 
 by auction much of the stock and furniture 
 which had descended jointly to himself and 
 his sister. Thus far, then, all was smiling; 
 the sunshine of prosperity was full upon him. 
 
 One evening, a countryman entered Mans- 
 field's shop, and, saying that he wanted a word 
 in private, was ushered into the counting-house. 
 
 "Well, my friend," said Mansfield, "what 
 may be your business ?" 
 
 The man took from his pocket a small parcel, 
 and laid it down. "You don't know me, I dare 
 say," said he; "but that is no matter. I 
 bought some things at old Madam Simmon's 
 sale." 
 
 " Yes, I think I remember you now. I hope 
 jou were satisfied with your bargain." 
 
 " Oh yes ; as to that, I need not complain. 
 I bought a bed and bedstead, and a lot of 
 crockery, and some chairs, and so on ; and an 
 old — I don't know justly what to call it ; it 
 was a set of drawers, like — very old-fashioned." 
 
 " Yes, I recollect : it was a cabinet." 
 
 "Ay, that's what it was called on the bill. 
 Well, sir, the long and short of it is, when 
 we were getting the things home, this cabinet 
 got a smash, and was knocked pretty near all 
 to bits ; and in putting it together again, this 
 dropped out. Where it came from I can't 
 
Sctjool JBays HebietoeTi. 
 
 Mansfield opened it— it was the will. p. 127. 
 
TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 127 
 
 say ; for I could have been positive there was 
 nothing in the drawers when I bought the bit 
 of goods. However^ here it is ; and as it was 
 no part of my bargain, and did not concern 
 me, I thought I might as well bring it up here." 
 So saying, the man pushed the packet toward 
 Mansfield. 
 
 Mansfield opened it — glanced at it : it was 
 the will. 
 
 With what feelings the young tradesman 
 discovered the nature of this communication it 
 is not necessary to surmise : our business is 
 not with what he felt, but with what he did. 
 
 "Do you know what this paper is?" he 
 asked of the man, as calmly as he was able. 
 
 " No, sir : to tell the truth, I am not much 
 of a scholar, and can't read writing at all ; and 
 then I thought it was no business of mine, so I 
 did not look into it." 
 
 "And have you shown it to any one else ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, sir. Nobody has seen it." 
 
 "You probably, however, guess what it 
 contains ?" 
 
 "I may have my own thoughts about it," 
 said the man ; " but that's neither here nor 
 there. If the paper, whatever it is, is of any 
 use to you, you are welcome to it : if you like 
 to pay me for my trouble of bringing it, well 
 and good ; and if it is of no use, why, you can 
 put it in the fire at once, and there will be an 
 end of it." 
 
128 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 
 
 " I will get you to wait a little while, my 
 friend," said Mansfield, still calmly : " this is a 
 matter which cannot be disposed of by us two." 
 Thus saying, he wrote two hasty notes, dis- 
 patched them, and then invited the countryman 
 into his parlour. In a few minutes a neighbour, 
 w r ith Mansfield's sister and his solicitor, were 
 added to the conference. 
 
 In a few days, it was rumoured, and the 
 rumour soon became a certainty, that Mansfield 
 had lost the inheritance to which he had suc- 
 ceeded, and that he was a ruined man. And — 
 
 " Did you ever hear of such a piece of 
 Quixotism?" asked one townsman of another, 
 during the prevalence of the " nine days' won- 
 der." "Why, as I have been told, Mansfield 
 no sooner set his eyes on the will — which, by 
 the way, he might have destroyed if he had 
 pleased, and nobody w r ould have been the 
 wiser — than he called in his lawyer, and . they 
 together sent off, post haste, to old Thomson, 
 to let him know all about it. At any rate, I 
 would have taken care of myself, and made a 
 good bargain of it, before giving up the will. 
 And, as to that, there would not have been 
 much harm, in my way of thinking, if the will 
 had gone into the fire. Who has the best right 
 to the property, I should like to know ? But 
 Mansfield is one of the queer ones, they say; 
 and so is his sister : and if people will be fools, 
 they must." 
 
TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 129 
 
 Many such speeches were uttered, and some 
 blamed, some laughed, some sighed, and some 
 praised. Meanwhile, quietly and peacefully, 
 though it may be with some natural depression 
 of spirits, Mansfield and his sister went on their 
 course. They gave up, at once, their late 
 possessions according to the tenor of " cousin 
 Jane's" will ; and were ungenerously harassed 
 by the new owner on account of that part of it 
 which had been sold, or otherwise expended. 
 As far as they were able, they met his demands : 
 but not satisfied with this, he threatened them 
 with law. Then came the breaking up of 
 Mansfield's business, and the utter, frustration 
 of his hopes of conjugal happiness. He had to 
 begin the world afresh, " and that with nothing 
 — no, not a penny of his own :" so said his 
 neighbour ; but this was a mistake. 
 
 Not with nothing ! He had great riches — 
 peace of mind, a conscience void of offence, 
 and God's love and approbation. Are these 
 nothing, young reader ? 
 
 And he prospered. Worldly prosperity 
 often brings a load of trouble with it : but it 
 brought none to Mansfield, for it was ac- 
 companied by that "blessing which maketh 
 rich," and to which God " addeth no sorrow." 
 Prov. x. 22. 
 
 Young friend, if you would have God's 
 blessing, you, too, must be prepared to hold fast 
 
130 TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 
 
 integrity and a good conscience at all cost. 
 Probably, indeed, you will never be exposed to 
 a trial so severe as that of which you have just 
 read ; but you will not pass through life, — 
 depend upon it, — without having your honest 
 and honourable principles put to the test. How 
 do you think you will be able to stand it ? 
 
 Ah, perhaps you say, it will be time enough 
 to find out that when the time comes. 
 
 Well, time enough to find it out may be, but 
 not time enough to prepare for the trial. No, 
 no : you must prepare for that novj. If you 
 are not heroic and courageous enough now to 
 do what is. right because it is right, what can 
 be expected of you when the stern and hard 
 trials and temptations of life come on ? Why, 
 this is to be expected — you will fall before them. 
 
 Christian principle ! — that is the best and 
 only true safeguard against every kind of 
 temptation ; the only armour that is proof. 
 " Take unto you," then, young readers, "the 
 whole armour of God, that ye may be able to 
 withstand in the evil day, and having done all, 
 to stand." 
 
 Do you ask what this armour is ? Why, 
 there is the breastplate of righteousness, and 
 the shield of faith, the girdle of truth, and the 
 helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit, 
 which is the word of God, and prayer, and 
 watchfulness, and peace. Eph.. vi. 11 — 18. 
 This is the armour in which, by the help of 
 
TEMPTATION AND CONQUEST. 131 
 
 God's Holy Spirit, you will be u able to stand 
 against the wiles of the devil," and the strong 
 temptations which may assail you. 
 
 We do not know what our old school-fellow 
 Mansfield would have done without this armour ; 
 but we do know that life abounds with circum- 
 stances calculated to manifest what are the real 
 principles of most persons ; and wherever there 
 is a desire of glorifying God, the transactions 
 of every day will yield opportunity for doing 
 so ; as they will also afford means for serving 
 self and the world. 
 
 Christian principle ! — but how to get Chris- 
 tian principle ? Is that your question, young 
 friend? Listen, then, to Him who says, and 
 says to you, " Learn of me ; for I am meek 
 and lowly in heart." Learn of me. 
 
 Yes, learn of Jesus, and then one simple and 
 all-sufficient reason will urge you on, and 
 strengthen you for a continuance in well-doing, 
 and brace you in every unexpected emergency : 
 I cannot do this wrong ; I must not do this 
 wrong; by God's help, I will not do this 
 wrong ; for I " serve the Lord Christ." 
 
VI. 
 THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 
 
 An i]lumination and a holiday — an illumina- 
 tion in the town, and a holiday at school ! 
 Cause and effect ; the effect, however, pre- 
 ceding the cause : there was a holiday at 
 school in the day, because there was to be a 
 grand illumination in the town at night. Why 
 there was to be an illumination is but of little 
 consequence ; it might have been an occasion 
 of a political triumph, or some other public 
 event. 
 
 "A long walk after breakfast ; then, after din- 
 ner, marbles in the playground, for marbles were 
 in. We might wish that some other game more 
 athletic and attended with fewer evil associa- 
 tions and effects had been chosen. But per- 
 haps our young friends had some way of avoid- 
 ing what is objectionable and securing only a 
 healthful excitement. 
 
 Of all the marble play*ers of that day, Ro- 
 binson was the best shot. He could single 
 out a marble from the ring, or strike, with un- 
 erring aim, the taw of an opponent at a dis- 
 tance of three paces ; and at six he rarely 
 132 
 
THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 133 
 
 missed On that particular afternoon, his skill 
 shone more conspicuously than ever, and- he 
 was proportionably elated. 
 
 Superior ability, however, whether in the 
 games of schoolboys or the more important 
 pursuits of manhood, has its disadvantages; 
 and Robinson's opponents dropped off, one by 
 one, tired of being perpetually beaten. " It 
 is of no use to play with him," said they ; 
 u there is no chance of winning a single game." 
 At length, he was left alone in his glory. 
 
 Robinson was modest. He disclaimed all 
 personal excellence, and depreciated his own 
 skilful performances. It was not that he could 
 shoot with a marble better than any other boy; 
 this was not the cause of his winning every 
 game, be said : but he had the happiness of 
 possessing a most valuable " blood alley ;" and 
 all the merit was in his alley, and not in him- 
 self. It was a perfect sphere, this same alley, 
 he said, and therefore it went so straight to 
 the mark ; it was also the exact size which 
 suited his knuckle. According to his account 
 of it, this alley seemed almost to be endowed 
 with consciousness, and to act in concert with 
 the mind and will of its owner. Besides all 
 this, "it was a perfect beauty, quite a love of a 
 marble, so regularly veined, and so delicately 
 tinted. It was a real blood, too." This was 
 his style of talking about his alley. 
 
 " How much will you take for your alley ?" 
 12 
 
134 THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 
 
 was asked once and again by one and another, 
 who half believed in its vaunted and peculiar 
 virtues. 
 
 How much! Scores of common every-day 
 alleys would not, that afternoon, have pur- 
 chased Robinson's " little fairy," as he called it. 
 
 Thus much for the holiday ; now for the 
 illumination. 
 
 It was a fine evening, and hundreds were 
 thronging the streets, to see what was to be 
 seen. Before the sun had set, each house- 
 holder was busy in preparing the lamps or 
 candles with which his dwelling, outside or in, 
 was to be enlightened and enlivened. Pre- 
 sently, as the dusk of evening increased, lights 
 were rapidly applied to turpentined wicks, 
 until soon every street sparkled, from end to 
 end, with brilliancy. On one house shone a 
 magnificent pure white star; on another, a 
 crown of many-coloured lamps. Here were 
 gigantic initial letters of flame, shining through 
 purple and gold ; and there a wonderful trans- 
 parency, emblematic of the event which had 
 given rise to the general rejoicing. Some 
 householders had contented themselves with 
 decorating their window sills, externally, with 
 tallow candles in candlesticks of clay, which 
 flared and flamed and wasted (the candles, not 
 the candlesticks) in the evening breeze. Others, 
 more prudent and economical, illuminated their 
 windows withinside. 
 
THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 135 
 
 It was a profitable evening, that, for oil 
 merchants and tallow chandlers : even the poor 
 wood sawyer, who could scarcely earn enough 
 money to buy daily bread ; the mechanic out 
 of work ; the widowed wash-woman, with a 
 large young family to support — these, and 
 dozens besides, while sorely grudging the 
 waste, added, by their rows of lighted candles, 
 to the splendour of that general illumination. 
 
 The excited schoolboys, however, (who ac- 
 companied by one of their teachers, lest they 
 should get into mischief, increased the throng 
 of street-gazers that night,) had little thought 
 for such matters, and found enough to admire 
 in every bright and shining device that met 
 their eyes. 
 
 Presently, turning the corner of a street, 
 our schoolboys found themselves in a thicker 
 crowd, facing a large house which was not 
 lighted up. Very gloomy and frowning seemed 
 that mansion amidst its gay and brilliant neigh- 
 bours ; and very wroth was the crowd with the 
 owner of that house for the strange perverse- 
 ness he showed, 
 
 " He deserves to have his windows broken," 
 said one. 
 
 " So he will," replied another, " before the 
 night is out." 
 
 "A stingy fellow I" exclaimed a third. 
 
 " He is not stingy ; he belongs to the op- 
 position," said a fourth. 
 
136 THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 
 
 "More shame to him!" shouted a fifth: 
 "he ought to have his windows broken." 
 
 And probably, ere this, the gentleman's 
 windows would have been broken, had not the 
 people in the crowd known that police officers 
 were placed in front of the house, ready to 
 pounce upon the first who should throw a 
 stone. 
 
 " Pass on, boys, as quickly as you can," said 
 Mr. Weston, the teacher, " and let us get out 
 of the crowd :" and accordingly the boys passed 
 on. 
 
 "Why is not that house illuminated, sir?" 
 asked one of the boys of his teacher. 
 
 "I believe, for one thing," replied Mr. 
 Weston, " the gentleman who lives in it thinks 
 that a general illumination is a very foolish 
 waste of money, and therefore he sets his face 
 against this evening's public rejoicings : and I 
 think his opinion is correct. Then, for another 
 thing, you heard one of the men say that Mr. 
 Martin — for that is the gentleman's name — 
 belongs to the opposition : that is, he thinks 
 differently from those who have ordered the 
 general illumination, and does not consider that 
 there is any cause for rejoicing of any kind; 
 and therefore, also, he chooses not to light up 
 his house." 
 
 This explanation did not entirely satisfy 
 some of our schoolboys. "A pretty fellow, 
 this Mr. Martin," thought they, "to set up 
 
THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 137 
 
 his judgment against all the world. So he 
 would not have had an illumination, eh ? And 
 then we should have lost this grand sight, and 
 our holiday into the bargain." 
 
 " He does deserve to have his windows bro* 
 ken, J think," said one. 
 
 " I should just like to have a chance at 
 them," whispered another. 
 
 "We must go back that way again," said a 
 third, significantly : and so, for that time, the 
 subject was dropped. 
 
 A larger crowd than before was assembled in 
 front of Mr. Martin's house, when the boys, 
 returning from sight-seeing, were going home- 
 wards ; and it was by no means a quiet crowd. 
 Some were shouting, some hissing, some were 
 abusing the officers who kept watch and ward. 
 
 "Keep on the pavement, and go on as fast 
 as you can," said Mr. Weston. 
 
 But they could not go fast, had they wished, 
 and the boys did not particularly wish to go 
 fast. It was good fun : and when they were 
 just opposite the dark house, they stood still 
 for more than a minute, waiting for a clearer 
 passage. 
 
 There was one boy in that group who, had 
 he been noticed, would have been seen to slip 
 his hand into his pocket, draw it out again — 
 put it in again — draw it out again, and then 
 look stealthily round with a very red face. At 
 length, had he been very closely watched, a 
 12* 
 
138 THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION., 
 
 small marble would have been seen between his 
 finger and thumb, held very tight, and ner- 
 vously worked to and fro. 
 
 " Now then, my boys," said Mr. Weston, 
 " there is room for you to pass : be quick." 
 
 The next minute a sharp sound of broken 
 glass was heard ; and the marble had dis- 
 appeared. . 
 
 " Hallo ! there goes one window to begin 
 with," exclaimed a voice from the crowd. 
 
 "Who did that ?" shouted one of the officers, 
 rushing forward : " it was one of those boys, I 
 know ;" and he was about to lay hands on one 
 of them at a venture. 
 
 " Nonsense, my good man," said Mr. Wes- 
 ton, " I have been close by them all the time, 
 and not one of them lifted a hand, I am cer- 
 tain." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Weston," replied the man, who 
 knew the teacher, " I believe you ; else I did 
 fancy the stone came from hereabouts. This 
 is a queer sort of job, sir ; I wish it was over :" 
 and he returned to his station, just in time to 
 hear the crash of another pane of glass, and to 
 lay hands on the man by whom the stone was 
 thrown. Then there was a rush, a rescue, and 
 a fierce fight between police and mob, ending 
 in more broken windows, some broken heads, 
 and the committal, next morning, of three or 
 four rioters to prison. Meanwhile the boys 
 reached home, pleased with the fun, and only 
 
Sc&ool Bijjs Hebietoett. 
 
 The visitor was plainly, but neatly dressed. p. 139. 
 
THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 139 
 
 regretting that general illuminations were so 
 rare. 
 
 On the morning of the next day, the boys 
 being seated, and busily at work at their desks 
 — the master, accompanied by a visitor, entered 
 the school-room, and looked gravely around 
 him. 
 
 The visitor was a stout, pleasant-looking 
 man, very plainly but neatly dressed. 
 
 "Who is he? Who is he?" was whispered 
 by one to another. 
 
 There were few who knew him : but pre- 
 sently, at the farther desk was heard a low- 
 toned voice, " That is Mr. Martin ;" and at 
 the sound of this name, one of the boys, our 
 sharp-shooter, Robinson, looked rather con- 
 fused, fidgetted in his seat, and then hastily 
 began to work away most industriously at the 
 slate before him. 
 
 "What can he be come for?" whispered a 
 boy at Robinson's elbow- — " eh, Robinson ?" 
 
 " How should I know ?" replied he. " What 
 is it to you ? Why don't you go on with your 
 work ? You will get me a bad mark presently 
 for talking, if you don't mind." And again 
 he went on with his sum. 
 
 " Boys," said Mr. D , after a few mi- 
 nutes' ominous silence, " I wish you to form a 
 general class." 
 
 It was done. 
 
 "Boys,"- said he again, "my friend Mr. 
 
140 THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 
 
 Martin had some of his windows broken last 
 night ; and I am sorry to say there is grave 
 suspicion resting on one or more of you as 
 having joined in this wanton mischief. What 
 am I to say to this ? What have you to say. 
 to it?" 
 
 No answer, but many broad stares at Mr. 
 Martin, who stood by the master's side, with 
 a good-humoured expression of countenance, 
 w T hich spoke volumes of encouragement. 
 
 " Mr. Weston tells me," continued the 
 master, " that you were in front of this gentle- 
 man's house when a window was broken, and 
 that one of the police charged one of you with 
 the deed." 
 
 " Yes, sir," (one of the accused ventured to 
 reply ;) " but Mr. Weston knew that we did 
 not do it." 
 
 " Nay, he only thought you were guiltless, 
 as he had not seen either of you throw a stone: 
 but he might be mistaken, you know." 
 
 " Yes, sir, he might; but — " 
 
 "Well, will any one of you acknowledge 
 having thrown a stone, so as to break one of 
 the windows in Mr. Martin's house ?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "I must ask all around then. Did you? 
 Did you ? — you? — you ? — you ?" 
 
 " No, sir" — " Oh no, sir" — " Certainly not, 
 sir" — "I did not, indeed, sir." Thus said 
 they all. 
 
THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 141 
 
 " Will you ask our young friends if either of 
 them threw a marble t" said the gentleman. 
 
 " Certainly, I will. You hear boys, what 
 my friend suggests — was a marble thrown by 
 either of you, so as to break one of the win- 
 dows ?" 
 
 At mention of the word marble one of the 
 "young friends" hung his head and seemed 
 embarrassed; but he soon recovered himself. 
 As before, there was no answer. 
 
 " Come, I entreat you to speak, if any one 
 of you is conscious of having done it," said the 
 master kindly: "it is as bad to conceal some 
 faults as to commit them. 'Dare t© be true.' 
 Mansfield did you throw a marble through this 
 gentleman's window ? Alfred did you ? — Wil- 
 liam ?— Henry ?— Albert ?— Fran%?" 
 
 " No, sir ; indeed, sir, we know nothing 
 about it." 
 
 " Bowler ?— Nelson ?— Hart ?— Powel ?— 
 Robinson ?" 
 
 " No, sir," said they all once more. 
 
 " They all deny it, sir," said the master, 
 turning to the visitor. 
 
 " I am- sorry for it," repled Mr. Martin, 
 looking grave and sad ; " for by the testimony 
 of a credible witness whom I have this morning 
 seen, and whom I will produce, if necessary, 
 one of these boys is guilty. In the mean time," 
 he continued, slowly putting his hand into his 
 pocket " this may assist us in discovering the 
 
142 THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 
 
 culprit, as it is so peculiarly marked. It was 
 found this morning on my parlour carpet, and 
 one of the panes of glass has a hole which 
 answers exactly to its size." Thus saying, 
 Mr. Martin exhibited, in the broad palm of his 
 hand, a marble. 
 
 Very startling was the effect produced by 
 this exhibition. 
 
 "It is Robinson's alley — his shooter, — his 
 blood alley," whispered the boys from top to 
 bottom of the class. As to Robinson, he in- 
 stinctively put his hand into his pocket, and 
 drew out, tremblingly, a handful of marbles. 
 His alley, was not there. He coloured ; then 
 his colour went out ; then tears gushed from 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Is it yours ? Or was it yours ?" asked the 
 master, sternly. 
 
 "Yes, sir." Yes, Robinson did not deny it; 
 nor could he deny that he played with it, and 
 won with it, the day before, and that he refused 
 to sell or barter it away. It was in his pocket — 
 that was clear — when the boys started on their 
 evening excursion. 
 
 In truth, and in short, Robinson was guilty. 
 The temptation to mischief had been too strong 
 to be resisted — that is, he had not resisted it. 
 The fun of siily breaking a window, joined with 
 the idea that it would be a just punishment for 
 the man who would not illuminate, had reached 
 to his fingers' ends ; and in the excitement of 
 
THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 143 
 
 his mischievous propensity, he had forgotten all 
 about his "little fairy," and had sent it on the 
 evil mission, believmg it to be a marble of com- 
 mon stone or clay. 
 •Poor Robinson— foolish Robinson — truthless 
 Robinson ! How he trembled, and stammered, 
 and coloured, and became pale and coloured 
 again, when the mischief and the guilt were 
 brought home to him. 
 
 " But, sir, sir — sir, it was not a lie — it was 
 not indeed, sir, if you will but think, sir. I said, 
 sir — I said I did not throw the marble, and in- 
 deed I did not, sir." 
 
 "No? How then?" 
 
 U I— I shot it off, sir." 
 
 " That is a mean, disgraceful, and sinful 
 equivocation," said the master, angrily; "an 
 equivocation of which I could have hoped not 
 one of my pupils would have been guilty." 
 
 Robinson hung his head. 
 
 " You may well be ashamed of yourself, sir," 
 continued the tutor ; " and — " 
 
 "Allow me to interpose," said the good- 
 humoured gentleman ; " for perhaps I am in 
 fault. I should have shown the marble at once, 
 and then the temptation *would. not have been 
 placed before this lad. The window-breaking I 
 forgive, with all my heart ; though I hope our 
 young friends will not henceforth think it ne- 
 cessary or expedient to break the windows of 
 all who do not act precisely according to their 
 
144 THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 
 
 own views of what may be right and proper. 
 Were we all to do so," continued the friendly 
 visitor, with a smile, "there%ould not be many 
 sound panes of glass in the country, I fear. 
 Well, that is settled, and we will shake hands 
 over the broken window :" and Mr. Martin held 
 out his hand to the culprit, who, timidly and with 
 averted face, responded to the invitation. 
 
 "But the falsehood, young friend, the false- 
 hood — for a falsehood it was — do you not feel 
 it to have been such ? that is another matter. I 
 may forgive you, and take blame to myself for 
 leading you into temptation ; but you have griev- 
 ously offended your best Friend. He has given 
 you a tongue, but not for double-dealing : 
 thought and wit, but not to contrive how your 
 neighbour may be outwitted in the strife of 
 words. Do you not think so ?" 
 
 The boy made no reply ; and the gentleman, 
 still holding his reluctant hand, went on : — 
 
 " There are men as well as boys who fancy it 
 is cunning to use the letter of truth in the spirit 
 of falsehood ; but as the Lord looketh not on 
 the outward appearance, but at the heart, so 
 also doth he look at the intention to deceive or 
 mislead, and not at the words which convey the 
 deception. 
 
 " I will not tire you by further speech," said 
 the kind-hearted man, " except to commend to 
 you, and all your schoolfellows, the words of 
 honest George Herbert : — 
 
THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 145 
 
 'Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God, 
 Thy mouth to it; thy actions to them both : 
 Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod; 
 The stormy working soul spits lies and froth. 
 — Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie : 
 A fault which needs it most, grows two thereby ! 
 
 u And now^ my friend," said the visitor, turn- 
 ing to the master, " I have somewhat usurped 
 your magisterial authority ; but I know you will 
 pardon me, and I would fain be an advocate 
 with you for this lad. I think he is sorry that 
 he injured me ; and I have freely forgiven him : 
 I trust you will forgive him also. And will you 
 also forbear to punish, this time, the remissness 
 in truth of which you may justly complain? 
 The temptation was doubtless strong : and 
 strong men, you know, have ere now fallen in 
 like manner. I hope — nay, I will believe, he 
 will be henceforth more guarded, and remember 
 that equivocation is deceit, and that deceit is 
 hateful to the God of truth. I think I see peni- 
 tence in his eye: will you forgive him?" 
 
 The appeal was successful, punishment was 
 remitted : and, after a kind farewell to the pu- 
 pils, Mr. Martin was about to leave the school- 
 room, when, darting from his seat, a little fellow 
 ran up to him — 
 
 " Sir, sir, may I shake hands with you ?" and 
 in another minute the whole school had followed 
 his example. 
 
 Had there been a general illumination on the 
 succeeding evening, not a schoolboy there but 
 
146 r THE GENERAL ILLUMINATION. 
 
 would have been proud to guard the house of 
 their friend from injury. 
 
 And now, young reader, take a lesson and a 
 warning. Schoolboys are apt to do mischievous 
 things foolishly and thoughtlessly, but some- 
 times wickedly. There is one rule which, if 
 well regarded, would keep them from this — the 
 golden rule of the Lord Jesus Christ : " What- 
 soever ye would that men should do to you, do 
 ye even so to them. 
 
 But having foolishly, or thoughtlessly, or 
 wickedly perpetrated mischief, or having, by 
 any means, got into what you call "a scrape," 
 take care that you are not tempted to make 
 the matter worse by equivocation. The word 
 of God is plain on this point. God abhors 
 deceit ; and his plain and awful, but just and 
 righteous declaration is, that into heaven shall 
 never enter " any thing that defileth, neither 
 whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a 
 lie." Lay these words to heart, young friend. 
 " Value" — you will come to these words again 
 at the end of this book ; but they will bear 
 reading twice — " Value your honour, truthful- 
 ness, and integrity. Detest every thing like 
 duplicity and deceit. Dont go ivithin a mile 
 of a lie." 
 
VII. 
 THE BUSY BOY WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE, 
 
 " Ah ! Hammond, Hammond, you are smart 
 enough — you have talents enough — to be a 
 shining character some of these days. I see 
 nothing to prevent it, in the ordinary course 
 of things, excepting one terrible drawback ; 
 you are so idle — so incorrigibly idle. If you 
 permit this to grow upon you, your abilities 
 will do you no good ; they will only add to 
 your shame. Do combat this unworthy dis- 
 position, my boy, and think that you came into 
 the world to do earnestly what is to be done at 
 all." 
 
 Thus spoke the master, as the scholar stood 
 before him, self-convicted of the fault with 
 which he was charged, but not disposed to 
 mend it. 
 
 Hammond was idle — not positively lazy, but 
 idle ; and between laziness and idleness there 
 is a great difference. For instance, Hammond 
 had a school-fellow whose greatest pleasure 
 consisted in absolute inactivity, both of body 
 and mind. He could not be roused to exert 
 himself in any thing. Work or play, it was 
 
 147 ' 
 
148 THE BUSY BOY 
 
 all the same to Edmund. When all the rest 
 of the boys were making the air ring with 
 joyous shouts, and scampering, as if for a prize, 
 Edmund was dragging slowly along 
 
 " Over the hills and far away," 
 
 as though at least a seven pound weight of lead 
 or iron were fastened to each of his heels. When 
 they were, at one and the same time, tiring and 
 strengthening themselves by hard labour in 
 their various athletic games, he was generally 
 stretched at full length on the grass, with eyes 
 half shut, and mind far more than half vacant. 
 When, with greater or less alacrity, they were 
 preparing lessons for school, Edmund was dog's- 
 earing his books in utter dislike of the trouble 
 of learning. 
 
 Sometimes (perhaps generally) when boys 
 exhibit such an utter want of interest in all 
 that surrounds them, and such a fixed disin- 
 clination to do with all their might, or with any 
 part of it, what they are required to perform 
 — we must suppose that it arises, in part at 
 least, from ill health. In such <;ases medical 
 treatment is more needed than scolding and 
 compulsion. But Edmund's ailment was spi- 
 ritual, and not bodily. He was blessed with 
 strong bones, firm flesh, a healthy skin, and a 
 good digestion — ay, a famous digestion ; but 
 he was hopelessly slothful in mind, and his 
 mind influenced his body. In a word, he was 
 
WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE. 149 
 
 one of the lazy ones of whom it has been said 
 or sung — 
 
 " There are a number of us creep 
 Into this world to eat and sleep ,• 
 And know no reason why they're born, 
 But merely to consume the corn, 
 Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish, 
 And leave behind an empty dish. 
 They eat and drink and sleep, and then- 
 They eat and drink and sleep again." 
 
 Such was Edmund, who was a lazy fellow ; 
 but not such, by any means, was young Ham- 
 mond, who was an idle fellow, but not a lazy 
 one. 
 
 We said that Hammond was self-convicted 
 of his fault. He could not help feeling that, 
 in the particular instance which had called 
 down rebuke, he had been negligent. His 
 lesson, whatever it was, had not been half 
 learned, though he had plenty of time in which 
 to learn it. But? he was not disposed to admit 
 the general accusation. 
 
 " I am sure, sir," he said, " I have not been 
 idle. I have not, I assure you, sir." He said 
 this half indignantly, half apologetically, quite 
 respectfully, however — for he was really a free, 
 open-hearted, and good-humoured boy — and 
 very earnestly. " I have not been idle, 1 
 assure you, sir." 
 
 " Then how is it that you do not know this 
 
 lesson?" asked Mr. D . 
 
 13* 
 
150 THE BUSY BOY 
 
 " Sir, I really did not think of it till this 
 morning I was so busy with other things 
 that it slipped my memory. I ought not to 
 have neglected it, sir ; but that is how it was." 
 
 "What other things, then, have you been 
 busy about, Hammond?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, you know there is the arbour we 
 are building, — that has taken a good deal of my 
 time ; then there is the plan of the new cot- 
 tage which I promised to draw for Mr. Har- 
 graves ; and then, sir, last night, I began to 
 put fresh covers on all my books : besides 
 these, I have done a good many other things- 
 I do not think I have had an idle minute, sir, 
 since this lesson was set me; I do not, indeed." 
 
 "All these are good and proper matters," 
 replied the master ; " and it may be that you 
 have thought yourself very busily employed; 
 but I do not withdraw my accusation. There 
 is such a thing as busy idleness, my boy ; and 
 busy idleness is your great failing. 
 
 " There is a numerous class of people in the 
 world," continued the kind-hearted tutor with 
 great seriousness, " who act as you are con- 
 stantly acting. They are always restlessly 
 busy, and always, also, lamentably idle. Do 
 you not understand how this can be ?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied the boy, hesitatingly, "I 
 cannot quite see that, sir. If a person is 
 always at work, or always busy about some- 
 thing," continued Hammond, ready always to 
 
WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE. 15 J 
 
 speak his mind, "I don't see how he can be 
 called idle." 
 
 " Do you not? Now, I rather wonder at 
 that, Hammond; you are not deficient in per- 
 ception:" (Hammond brightened up at this:) 
 "however, I will explain how it can be. 
 
 "Every man, woman, and child," continued 
 
 Mr. D , "has always a present duty to 
 
 perform ; something to do, to which all other 
 things, for the time being, ought to be subor- 
 dinate. You can understand that?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the boy. 
 
 "I do not know," continued the master, 
 "that a single exception can justly be made 
 to this rule. No — there must be a present 
 duty. The statesman, the man of wealth, the 
 professional man, the tradesman, the mechanic, 
 the day-labourer — these, with their wives, 
 children, and servants, (if they have them,) 
 have all their specific daily and hourly present 
 duties which cannot be neglected without fault. 
 Unhappily, many do not like being bound 
 down by this right and proper rule. Some 
 would prefer doing nothing at all; these are 
 the lazy ones. Others prefer doing something 
 other than the present duty ; and these are 
 the idle ones." 
 
 Hammond began to catch a faint idea of his 
 tutor's meaning; but he wished the lecture 
 was ended. The lecturer went on, however. 
 
 "I know many men, Hammond, who have 
 
152 THE BUSY BOY 
 
 good business or professions to which it is their 
 duty to attend ; but, being idle, they prefer 
 doing something else — tiring themselves out in 
 matters which ought to receive a very limited 
 share of their attention. They are ceaselessly 
 active, and make a great noise with their ac- 
 tivity, but they are not the less idle. Now this 
 is just the case with you, my boy : you forget 
 that you have a present duty. It was a pleas- 
 ant occupation to help build an arbour ; it is 
 very proper for you, or any one, to oblige a 
 friend, as in the plan of a new cottage ; it is 
 right that your books should have new covers : 
 all these matters might even have been — yes, 
 they would have been — present duties if under- 
 taken at the right time. But you had a 
 higher claim in this lesson, and in thrusting 
 that aside for occupations which had greater 
 attractions, you were busy indeed, but only i(^ly 
 busy." 
 
 "It is perpetually so with you, Hammond, 
 All your activity of mind and body is mistimed 
 and disjointed : and, I tell you again, unless 
 you attain a habit of self-government, self-de- 
 nial and application to one thing at a time, 
 and that the right thing, you may be admired 
 for the versatility of your talents, and you may 
 also be always in a bustle; but you will do 
 nothing well. You will raise for yourself ob- 
 stacles to success in life, and will be nothing 
 more titan a laborious trifler — an idle man. 
 
WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE. 153 
 
 Now go, and attend to your present duty, my 
 boy." 
 
 Glad that the lecture was ended, Hammond 
 went to his desk, and learned his lesson. The 
 next day he was as idle as ever, and the next, 
 and the next. 
 
 In due time Hammond left school, not 
 altogether unimproved, perhaps, but with the 
 sad blemish still remaining. He was idle and 
 desultory ; he hated continuous application. 
 In other respects he was amiable ; and had 
 not his idleness interfered and placed obstacles 
 in the way, he would have been a promising 
 youth. 
 
 Hammond left school with what would gene- 
 rally be considered good prospects. He had 
 friends, able and willing to assist him in any 
 profession which he might choose for himself; 
 and that choice he w T as urged to make. 
 
 Some months 'passed away, and the choice 
 was not yet made. He was perpetually busy, 
 too — at least he thought so. Sometimes it was 
 a visit he had to make ; at others, it was music 
 he had to copy ; at others, he had a book to 
 read ; ' at others some drawings to finish ; — 
 all good and right occupations in their place, 
 but not when they thrust out an obvious 
 duty. 
 
 At length, when the down upon Hammond's 
 upper lip began visibly to remind him that, try 
 as he might, he could not always be a boy, he 
 
154 THE BUSY BOY 
 
 made his election. He was fond of riding, and 
 so he would be a physician. 
 
 Hammond's father shook his head rather 
 doubtfully when this conclusion was arrived at. 
 He knew that physicians have something more 
 to do than to ride about for their own pleasure, 
 and he told his son so. As, however, he hoped 
 that a profession which demands no small 
 amount of labour, perseverance, and self-denial 
 would have a beneficial effect upon a youth, 
 active enough, but neither persevering nor self- 
 denying, he consented to the choice ; and 
 Hammond entered the office of a physician of i 
 good practice in a neighbouring town. 
 
 But Hammond soon found that, before the 
 pleasure of scouring the country on horseback 
 could be enjoyed, many preliminary steps had 
 to be taken by no means agreeable to him. To 
 stand hour after hour pounding drugs, mixing 
 draughts, or making pills, was not only tiresome 
 and monotonous, but produced nausea ; and to 
 attend t<j the dressing of cuts, bruises, and 
 •' filthy sores" was worse — it was disgusting. 
 But there was no help for it ; the premium had 
 been paid, and Hammond was "booked," as he 
 expressed himself. 
 
 To make amends, as far as he could, for such 
 disagreeable employments, the doctor's young 
 apprentice turned all his leisure time and inge- 
 nuity, and much time also that ought not to 
 have been leisure, to other pursuits. Now, he 
 
WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE. 155 
 
 was inventing, or trying to invent, a machine to 
 exhibit and illustrate the principle of perpetual 
 motion. Then, giving this up in despair, he 
 expended much time and trouble in teaching a 
 pet magpie to talk intelligible English. He 
 joined a choral society, a boating club, and a 
 lodge of "odd-fellows," in each of which, or in 
 all of which combined, he learned, as a matter 
 of course almost, to smoke cigars, and to drink, 
 — as his own particular toast, — confusion to gal- 
 lipots and phials. 
 
 Now all this might be very entertaining, but 
 it was evidently as much out of place as it was 
 wrong. Thus, as when a boy at school, Ham- 
 mond had the knack of devotino; his energies to 
 anything rather than the "present duty," so 
 did he also as a medical student. When, there- 
 fore, the term of studies expired, he knew a lit- 
 tle of many things not particularly useful, or, at 
 least, not at all likely to be useful to him ; but 
 with the profession in which he was expected to 
 rise he had made but a very slight acquaintance. 
 
 He had, moreover, formed friendships, or 
 what he called such ; and among the loungers 
 with whom too much of his time had been spent 
 was a young man as restless for want of occu- 
 pation, as Hammond was in spite of it. He 
 had the happiness, or unhappiness, of being 
 rich. 
 
 This friend (Harvey Brown) made his appear- 
 ance at the house of Hammond's father, one 
 
156 THE BUSY BOY 
 
 day, soon after the young student had left the 
 scene of his studies. 
 
 "Hammond," said he, "I mean to travel. 
 Will you go with me?" 
 
 "To travel! Where?" 
 
 " Anywhere. I am bored with doing nothing, 
 and must see something of life : — France, Italy, 
 Germany, Switzerland — one or all, it makes no 
 difference to me. Will you go ?" 
 
 Hammond shook his head. " I cannot ; I 
 must be off to the city — the stupid hospitals ! 
 Wish I could, though ; but — " 
 
 " Pshaw I the hospitals won't run away. Give 
 them the slip for a year." 
 
 " I would give them the slip forever, if I 
 could," replied Hammond; "but it won't do. 
 I must scramble through the world somehow. 
 Besides, travelling costs money; and — " 
 
 " That's my concern. I pa^ all costs ; so 
 now, once more, — will you go V 
 
 The iemptation was too strong for Hammond 
 to resist. He obtained the reluctant consent 
 of his father, who told him that time, to him, 
 was money, and in less than a month the two 
 young men were in France. 
 
 Two years passed before Hammond found 
 his way home again ; and then all thoughts 
 of completing his professional studies had va- 
 nished. 
 
 " But what will you do ?" argued hi? father, 
 
WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE. 157 
 
 in deep perplexity. " Consider what an expense 
 your education has been to me ; and I am not 
 rich, like Harvey Brown. You cannot live on 
 nothing." 
 
 " It would be throwing good money after 
 bad," said the young man : " it would — depend 
 upon it. I shall never make a doctor : I am 
 not cut out for it." 
 
 " I am afraid you are right," replied the anx- 
 ious parent. " I wonder w T hat you are cut out 
 for. Well, what do you think of doing ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, I have thoughts of land-survey- 
 ing. It would just suit me, I know. I wish I 
 had thought of it sooner. But it is never too 
 late to learn. And, indeed, I have been study- 
 ing lately, and — " 
 
 "Land-surveying!" exclaimed the father, 
 cutting Hammond short in his explanations : 
 " and have you considered, sir, that you are now 
 a man ? And after what your medical education 
 has cost, do you suppose I should be justified in 
 indulging you in this freak ? Think, my son ; 
 be sensible for once in your life." 
 
 " I was never more sensible than I am now," 
 replied Hammond. " Only think, father, and 
 reckon. You know pretty well what it would 
 cost to get me through the hospital work ; to 
 say nothing of what more it would cost to buy 
 me a practice afterward, and to say nothing 
 either of the risk of innumerable homicides, and 
 all that unpleasant kind of thing. Now one 
 14 
 
158 THE BUST BOY 
 
 year in a surveyor's office, would give me % 
 start, and would be less expensive. After that 
 I would shift for myself." 
 
 This logic prevailed, and Hammond soon af- 
 terward again left home. 
 
 We could follow Hammond step by step 
 almost, through many succeeding years of his 
 life ; but a sketch only was intended, and we 
 forbear. He is now hard upon forty years of 
 age, and has been many things in turn, and 
 nothing long. Every new scheme has involved 
 fresh expense ; and he is now poor in purse, 
 and poor in reputation. He liked land-survey- 
 ing as little as he liked medicine ; then he 
 became a farmer, and after the loss of half his 
 capita], grew tired of the monotony of an 
 agricultural life, and. embarked in commerce. 
 From commerce he turned to manufacture ; 
 and from one branch of manufacture to another ; 
 and has verified the proverb, strikingly appli- 
 cable to such as he, " The thoughts of every 
 one that is hasty tend only to want." Prov. 
 xxi. 5. He now talks of gathering together 
 : - remnants of his former possessions, 
 and seeking on another part of the world's 
 
 rfac that prosperity which has here eluded 
 his grasp. But unless he resolutely turn over 
 a new leaf, and banish or overcome that real, 
 genuine idleness, which, restless and bustling 
 as it may seem, ever neglects present duty for 
 subordinate pursuits, and fancies ever some 
 
WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE. 159 
 
 untold advantage in perpetual change, it is to 
 be feared that even this last resort will fail. 
 
 Schoolboys, there is a moral to this sketch 
 That moral has already been read. But it has 
 a still deeper, sadder application. Many a 
 one more wise than Hammond in that worldly 
 diligence which "tends to plenteousness" is 
 yet supremely foolish in the affairs of eternity. 
 Neglecting the ever present duty of seeking 
 " first the kingdom of God, and his righteous- 
 ness," he suffers himself to be drawn aside by 
 every passing" toy, or " driven with the wind 
 and tossed." He knows himself to be a sinner, 
 and Christ Jesus to be the Saviour of sinners ; 
 and he means to flee to that only hope and 
 refuge. But still, in restless activity about 
 " the things which are. seen and temporal," 
 and in idle indifference toward " the things 
 which are not seen and are eternal," the lan- 
 guage of his heart is, To-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 and to-morrow. 
 
 Young friend, is it so with you ? Ah ! be 
 not so unwise. Abandon, once for all, your 
 criminal trifling. Hear the words which the 
 Holy Spirit teaches : " To-day if ye will hear 
 his voice, harden not your heart." Your 
 " present duty" is " to lay hold on the hope 
 set before you;" to believe in the Saviour of 
 sinners ; to close with the offers of God's mercy, 
 to seek eternal life, and to seek it in God's 
 
160 THE BUSY BOY 
 
 appointed way — through Jesus Christ, the 
 Prince of life, the atoning sacrifice, the only* 
 Mediator between God and man. Yes, young 
 reader, this is your duty, your present duty. 
 Let this, then, be your first great concern. 
 
 Your present duty ! Try to find out the 
 worth of your soul, dear young friend ; that is 
 your present duty. Have you never tried your 
 powers on this problem ? Try them now, then 
 — not to-morrow. 
 
 " Don't tell us of to-morrow ! 
 I* must be done to-day : 
 'Twill never be accomplish'd 
 While you throw the hours away." 
 
 Find out, then, the value of your soul, by 
 the test which the Pivine Saviour has taught 
 us to apply : " What shall it profit a man, if 
 he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own 
 soul ? or what shall a man give in exchange 
 for his soul?" Your present duty, young 
 friend, is to find an answer to these questions. 
 
 Your present duty ! To value and make 
 the most of your present advantages ; that is 
 your present duty. To "remember thy Creator 
 in the days of thy youth, while the evil days 
 come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou 
 shalt say, I have no pleasure in them ;" this is 
 your present duty. 
 
 To say, or think, when any difficulty seems 
 
WHO WAS ALWAYS IDLE. 161 
 
 to arise to prevent you from doing what your 
 conscience tells you, and the Bible tells you, 
 ought to be done, and done at once, " There is 
 a lion without, I shall be slain in the streets;" 
 this is not your present duty. "It is only by 
 meeting and overcoming difficulties that you 
 can form a manly and strong" — and what is 
 more, a Christian — "character." One victory 
 over temptation paves the way for other and 
 greater victories. One instance of cowardly 
 yielding to temptation weakens the soul for 
 future conflicts. Sloth, nke all other evil 
 habits, gathers strength by indulgence. 
 
 " There have been multitudes before you 
 who set aside present duty by the help of this 
 or that plausible reason, and at the same time 
 dream of great activity in some indefinite future 
 time. Vain dream ! how vain, their dying 
 hour revealed to them. If you imitate their 
 folly, you will find out at last, to your sorrow, 
 as they did, that the real hindrances to God's 
 service you carry about with you in your own 
 bosom, and that no change of circumstances 
 can remove them. If, then, you would not 
 live a life of sloth, and die a death of anguish 
 and despair, awake at once to the performance 
 of duty. God helps the earnest : the sluggard 
 he leaves to want." 
 
 Yes, God does help the earnest. He says 
 to you, young friends, "Ask, and it shall be 
 14* 
 
162 
 
 THE BUSY BOY, ETC. 
 
 given you ; seek, and ye shall find ; knock, and 
 it shall be opened unto you : for every one 
 that asketh receiveth ; and he that seeketh 
 findeth ; and to him that knocketh it shall be 
 opened." Matt. vii. 7 8. 
 
 f ( 
 
 y-> 
 
 S4: 
 
VIII. 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Schoolboys ! our review of school days is 
 ended ; but our book — not quite. 
 
 A few years ago were gathered together the 
 teachers and pupils, not of our school, but of 
 one much larger. It was "the public day," as 
 it was called ; and many beside teachers and 
 pupils were there to witness its proceedings. 
 There were prizes awarded, and other proceed- 
 ings, (with which schoolboys are familiar,) pre- 
 paratory to going home. Of these, however, 
 we do not intend to give you any account. But 
 beside these, an address was made to those 
 who were that day assembled ; and from that 
 part of it which more particularly concerned, 
 the boys, we shall find and borrow a fitting con- 
 clusion to our tales. Here it is ; and let every 
 schoolboy in whose hands this book may be 
 placed, read it attentively and prayerfully : — 
 
 " My dear boys : knowledge is good, large in- 
 formation is very desirable ; but religious know- 
 ledge is absolutely necessary. Science, litera- 
 ture and elegant accomplishments, all that gives 
 to the intellect greatness or refinement, if pos- 
 sessed apart from religious faith and holy char- 
 
 163 
 
161 CONCLUSION. 
 
 acter, are only as flowers that adorn the dead. 
 There is a knowledge which purifies while it 
 expands ; which is life to the soul, as well as 
 light to the intellect ; which will go with you 
 to any world, and prepare you for any, by 
 guiding you safely through the dangers of this. 
 Seek that knowledge where you know it is to 
 be found — in those Holy Scriptures 'which are 
 able to make you wise unto salvation through 
 faith which is in Christ Jesus.' Cultivate, dear 
 youth, piety toward God, deep reverence for 
 his presence, his service and his name. Pray 
 to him for that pardon of sin which boys need 
 as well as men, and for that grace which chil- 
 dren, as well as adults, can receive. The pro- 
 mise is to you as well as to us. 
 
 " In relation to your general conduct, I 
 should like you to associate real nobility and 
 greatness of character with what is moral — 
 with habitual obedience to the law of conscience, 
 and the dictates of duty. Vice is mean and de- 
 grading, as well as wrong. In the Bible, sin- 
 ners are represented as objects of contempt as 
 well as of condemnation. A bad boy knows 
 well enough that he deserves to be despised, for 
 he cannot help sometimes despising himself. 
 Do, bravely and manfully, every thing that you 
 feel you ought. Cultivate a generous, open, 
 unsuspicious temper. Despise selfishness ; hate 
 and loath it in all its forms of vanity, sloth, self- 
 will, oppression of the weak, harshness to the 
 
CONCLUSION. 165 
 
 timid, refusal of help which it would be proper 
 to render, or of little sacrifices to se/ve others. 
 Detest every thing like dupKcity and deceit. 
 Don't go within a mile of a lie ! Value your 
 honour, truthfulness and integrity. When you 
 have misunderstandings, do not be ashamed of 
 acknowledging error, or apologizing for wrong. 
 As soon as possible, be rid of grudges and re- 
 sentments, and live together in cheerfulness 
 and love. Be, in manners, at once frank and 
 courteous — in act and conversation, delicate 
 and pure. In one word, desire in all things so 
 to behave yourselves that as you ' grow in sta- 
 ture,' you may 'grow in wisdom and in favour 
 with God and man.' 
 
 " One word in relation to your studies — 
 Work. Work well, hard, cheerfully. Don't 
 wish to get through, or to get off easily, or to be 
 indebted to any one for any thing whatever 
 that you ought to know and to do yourselves. 
 Every thing depends on your diligence and in- 
 dustry. Let none of you fancy that because 
 you have genius you may dispense with labour. 
 No boy ever translated Homer by inspiration. 
 Nothing valuable is, in this world, either done 
 or got without effort. 6 Nature gives us some- 
 thing at first' — something to start with — our ori- 
 ginal capacity, whatever it may be. ' Every 
 thing else, after this, she sells — sells always — 
 sells to all — and sells dear. You must pay the 
 price. By intellectual labour you may pur- 
 
166 CONCLUSION. 
 
 chase for yourselves attainments and distinc- 
 tion ; happiness and respect come by virtue. 
 If you like, you may be idle, thoughtless, 
 wicked ; the price is ignorance, contempt, ruin. 
 Nothing will come to you in this way. Recol- 
 lect, also, that in the long run there can be no 
 mistake. No boy or man can ever really get 
 what he has not purchased, or carry away what 
 belongs to another : or, if he does so, or appears 
 to do so, he cannot keep it for any long time 
 without being detected. Every day is a day 
 of judgment — a day of reaping as you have 
 sown — of revelation of what you are. ' No man 
 is concealed,' or can be. Not one of you can 
 go through life, all the way, with the reputation 
 and character of a good scholar, if you are not 
 really such. Things will be constantly occur- 
 ring to reveal you, and society will not be long 
 in ascertaining your precise height and depth, 
 your solid contents and superficial dimensions. 
 In the same way, you cannot pass for what you 
 are not in respect to your actual moral charac- 
 ter ; somehow or other, you will come to find your- 
 self weighed and measured. You will pass 
 among your fellows for what you are worth, and 
 for nothing more ; if you are worthless, the 
 world will soon make the discovery, and it will 
 let you know that it has made it. Depend upon 
 it, the best way to be thought good is to be 
 good ; the surest mode of being held in reputa- 
 tion is to have a character. 
 
CONCLUSION. 157 
 
 " If, at this moment, I could gather together 
 here all the pupils that have ever been located 
 within these walls ; if I could summon them 
 from wheresoever they sojourn, and cause them 
 to surround you in visible forms, and thus show 
 you exactly what they are, it would be a most 
 affecting and instructive spectacle. Many, 
 probably, would have to rise from their graves ; 
 of these, some would appear as spirits of light ; 
 some, it is to be feared, with the awful aspect 
 of lost souls. Others would be brought from 
 the ends of the earth, and the isles of the sea ; 
 from under ancient dynasties and new republics ; 
 from continents and colonies of another hemi- 
 sphere : of these some would be found to be 
 honourably engaged in commercial enterprise ; 
 some to have been driven from their fatherland 
 by folly or misfortune ; some to have gone 
 voluntarily forth as ministers and missionaries 
 — the highest form and office of humanity. Of 
 those that would come from the towns and cities 
 of our country, how great would be the number ; 
 how varied the pursuits; how different in their 
 tastes, habits, and character ; how changed in 
 appearance — perhaps in opinions, sympathy, 
 belief — from what they were, when in this 
 school, as they plied their tasks, or bounded in 
 the playground, #>r kneeled in prayer ! Many 
 would be here, (there can be no doubt,) who have 
 passed through life, and are passing through, 
 it, with honourable characters and spotless 
 
168 CONCLUSION. 
 
 reputation ; many who are enjoying the fruits 
 and rewards of steadiness and industry ; and 
 many beside, who, adding to their virtue faith, 
 and following out their religious training, are 
 known and esteemed as religious men, and 
 adorn the community in which they move. 
 Pleasant would it be to look upon the coun- 
 tenances of such men — men of intelligence, 
 virtue, and religion ; pleasant for you to hear 
 their words of encouragement, and their united 
 testimony to the advantages of learning — the 
 worth of goodness — the possibility of securing, 
 and the satisfaction flowing from, the friend* 
 ship of God. 
 
 " While such as these might allure and 
 attract you toward holiness and heaven, there 
 would be some others whose career and appear- 
 ance would operate upon you in another man- 
 ner; whose ruined characters and blighted 
 prospects, debilitated health, reckless habits, 
 wretchedness and shame, would alarm and 
 deter you from following their courses, and 
 move your hearts by pity and terror. Some 
 of these, perhaps, when at school, were gay and 
 buoyant, loved by their associates, and worthy 
 to be loved. They entered life with high hopes 
 and bright prospects ; they were the pride of 
 their parents ; every thing wa§ done for them 
 to secure and facilitate their advancement and 
 success : with all this, they have come to be 
 what I have described — a ruin and a wreck. 
 
CONCLUSION. 169 
 
 If sucli could speak, they would probably tell 
 you that they fell from not having a fixed, 
 settled, and serious aim in life : that they 
 gave themselves up to the satisfactions of the 
 moment, whatever they might be ; passed 
 thoughtlessly from pleasure to pleasure ; cared 
 for nothing but immediate enjoyment, having 
 no idea of living for any great or honourable 
 purpose. Thus, wasting their talents and 
 squandering their time, they easily proceeded 
 from folly to vice, till they found themselves 
 utterly and irretrievably ruined. 
 
 "But instead of fancying what they might 
 sa^ I will tell you what actually was said by a 
 man of good abilities and finished education, 
 who thus wasted life and saw his error when 
 too late. 'Let my example warn you of a 
 fatal error into which I have fallen,' said he to 
 a friend at his bedside. 'I have pursued 
 amusements, instead of turning my ingenuity 
 and talents to useful purposes. I am sensible 
 that my mind was fit for greater things than 
 any of which I am now or was ever supposed 
 to be capable. I am able to speak fluently in 
 public, and I have perceived that my manner 
 of speaking has always increased the force of 
 what I said : upon various important subjects I 
 am not deficient in useful information ; and if 
 I had employed half the time and half the 
 pains in cultivating serious knowledge which I 
 have wasted in exerting my powers upon trifles, 
 15 
 
170 CONCLUSION. 
 
 instead of dissipating my fortune and tarnishing 
 my character, I should have become a useful 
 member of society, and an honour to my family. 
 Remember my advice, young man. Pursue 
 what is useful to mankind. You will satisfy 
 them, and, what is better, you will satisfy 
 yourself.' 
 
 " Such was the melancholy close of a sinful 
 course. God forbid that any of the bright 
 eyes that are now before me, glistening with 
 the dew of their young life, and sparkling with 
 the light of hope and joy, should come to be 
 dimmed with regrets like these ! Nay, God 
 forbid that any of you, my dear boys, should 
 neglect to learn the important lesson, that what 
 formed the highest object of this dying man's 
 ambition and desire, even if attained, however 
 it might really ' satisfy' the world, ought not 
 alone to ' satisfy yourselves.' The best that 
 he wished he had lived for and aimed at, is 
 short of the best that you should pursue. God 
 is to be satisfied as well as 'mankind.' How- 
 ever the one may be content with virtue, the 
 other requires piety and faith. He demands 
 character founded on religion — usefulness flow- 
 ing from love to Himself. Your best doings 
 will be imperfect ; you will need mercy to 
 pardon sin — the Holy Spirit to implant prin- 
 ciples of heavenly strength — grace to renew 
 and sanctify the heart — the atonement of 
 Christ believed, trusted in, pleaded in prayer 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 171 
 
 as the source of hope and the ground of accep- 
 tance. 'Seek first the kingdom of God.' 
 4 Study to show yourselves approved unto 1dm' 
 6 Serve him with reverence and godly fear.' 
 'Be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus.' 
 i See that ye neglect not the great salvation.' 
 ' Flee also youthful lusts : but follow righteous- 
 ness, faith, charity, peace, with them that call 
 on the Lord out of a pure heart.' Pursuing a 
 course of holy action and religious usefulness, 
 you will come to know the truth of the 
 memorable words of one of our devout and 
 illustrious ancestors : — ' You have been ac- 1 
 customed,' said Philip Henry to a friend stand- \ 
 ing by his bedside, as he was about to die — 
 'you have been accustomed to note th&J.asfr i 
 words of dying men. ^Jthese are mine: /A life,* 
 
 * SPENT IN THE SERVICE OF GrOD IS THE HAPPIEST 
 LIFE UPON EARTH.' '""" 
 
/