but make the best use of both. Without industry and frugality, nothing will do, and with them everything. He that gets all he can honestly, and saves all he gets (necessary expenses excepted), will certainly become rich-if that Being who governs the world, to whom all should look for a blessing on their honest endeavours, doth not, in his wise providence, otherwise determine.

Dr Franklin says, in his own life, in order to insure my credit and character as a tradesman, I took care, not only to be really industrious and frugal, but also to avoid every appearance of the contrary. I was plainly dressed, and never seen in any place of public amusement. I never went a fishing or hunting: a book, indeed, enticed me sometimes from my work, but it was seldom, by stealth, and occasioned no scandal; and, to show that I did not think myself above my profession, I conveyed home, sometimes in a wheelbarrow, the paper I purchased at the warehouses. I thus obtained the reputation of being an industrious young man, and very punctual in my payments. The merchants who imported articles of stationery solicited my custom; others offered to furnish me with books; and my little trade went on prosperously.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTH.
THE SEASONS MORALIZED.

Behold the changes of the skies,
And see the circling seasons rise;
Hence, let the moral truth refined
Improve the beauty of the mind.
Winter, late with dreary reign,
Ruled the wide, unjoyous plain;
Gloomy storms, with solemn roar,
Shook the hoarse, resounding shore-
Sorrow cast her sadness round,
Life and joy forsook the ground,
Death, with wild imperious sway,
Bade the expiring world decay.
Now cast around thy raptured eyes,
And see the beauteous spring arise;
See flowers invest the hills again,
And streams remurmur o'er the plain.

Hark, hark, the joy inspiring grove
Echoes to the voice of love;
Balmy gales the sound prolong,
Wafting round the woodland song.
Such the scenes our life displays,
Swiftly fleet our rapid days;
The hour that rolls for ever on,
Tells us our years must soon be gone.
Sullen death, with mournful gloom,
Sweeps us downwards to the tomb;
Life, and health, and joy decay,
Nature sinks and dies away.

But the soul, in gayest bloom,
Disdains the bondage of the tomb;
Ascends above the clouds of even,
And, raptured, hails her native heaven.
Youth, and peace, and beauty there
For ever dance around the year;
An endless joy invests the pole,
And streams of ceaseless pleasure roll.
Light, and joy, and grace divine,
With bright and lasting glory shine:
Jehovah's smiles, with heavenly ray,
Diffuse a clear, unbounded day.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTH.

THE FAITHFUL MINISTER.

Bishop Latimer having one day preached before King Henry the Eighth, a sermon which displeased his majesty, he was ordered to preach again on the next Sunday, and to make an apology for the offence he had given. After naming his text, the good bishop thus began his sermon:Hugh Latimer, dost thou know to whom thou art this day to speak? To the high and mighty monarch, the king's most excellent majesty, who can take away thy life, if thou offendest: therefore, take heed that thou speakest not a word that may displease. But, then, consider well, Hugh, dost thou not know from whence thou comest, upon whose message thou art sent? Even by the great and

mighty God, who is always all-present, and who beholdeth all thy ways, and who is able to cast both body and soul into hell together: therefore, take care and deliver thy message faithfully!"

The bishop then proceeded with the same sermon, and confirmed it with more energy. The sermon being finished, the court was full of expectation to know what would be the fate of this honest and plain dealing bishop. After dinner, the king called for Latimer, and, with a stern countenance, asked him how he durst be so bold as to preach in this manner.

He, falling on his knees, replied, that his duty to his God and to his prince had enforced him thereunto, and that he had merely discharged his duty and his conscience in what he had spoken, and that his life was in his majesty's hands. Upon this, the king rose from his seat, and, taking the good man off his knees, embraced him in his arms, saying, "Blessed be God, I have so honest a servant."

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTH.

THE MISERIES OF WAR.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round;
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields:
To me, it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans,
And all that misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND NINTH.

DE SALO AND THE POOR SHOEMAKER.

As this counsellor of the Parliament of Paris was returning from the courts of justice, one summer evening, in the year 1662 (a year rendered memorable in the annals of France by a severe famine, by which it was distinguished), followed only by his servant, a man came up,

and, putting a pistol to his breast, whilst his hand trembled exceedingly, demanded his money.

"My friend," said he, "you have stopped an improper person; I have not much money about me, but it is all at your service;" and gave him two louisd'or. The man took them, and made off as fast as he could, without saying anything more. "Follow that man," said the counsellor to his servant, "without his observing you; see where he stops, and return and let me know."

The servant did as he was ordered, followed the robber through three or four narrow streets, and saw him go into a baker's shop, where he bought a large loaf of bread, and changed one of his louisd'or. He then went into an alley, at the distance of a few paces, ran up a pair of stairs that led to a garret, and, on entering it (where there was no light but that of the moon), he threw his loaf into the middle of the room, and exclaimed, with sobs, to his wife and children, "Eat, eat! this loaf has cost very dear; satisfy your hunger, and do not torment me, as you have done, to procure you another. I shall be hanged one of these days, and you will be the cause of it."

The wife, who was in tears, appeased him as well as she could; picked up the loaf, and divided it amongst her four children, who were nearly starved to death. The servant, who had taken exact notice of all that passed, returned to his master, who went the next morning, according to his directions, to visit the poor man's habitation.

In his way up stairs, he inquired of the lodgers what character he bore; and was told that he was a shoemaker, an honest and a worthy man, ever ready to assist his neighbours, but burdened with a large family, and so poor that they wondered how he was able to live. The coun

sellor knocked at his door, and was immediately let in by the poor man in rags, who, instantly recollecting him as the person that he had robbed the preceding day, fell down at his feet, requesting him not to ruin him.

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my good friend," said the counsellor; "I am not come to do you any harm, I promise you. You follow a very wretched profession, I assure you; and one that will, in a short time, bring you to the gallows, if you do not leave it off. Take these ten guineas: they will buy you some leather; so work as hard as you can, and support your children by your honest industry."

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND TENTH,

REASON LIKE THE EVENING STAR.

The evening star of reason's thine;
The bright and morning star be mine!
Reason may lead to that cold clay,
Where ends the wanderer's earthly way;
But o'er the grave this star shall rise,
And point the pilgrim to the skies.
Be thou my guide, where'er I roam,
And lead me to my heavenly home!
O light me to that blissful shore,
Where friends shall meet to part no more!
Gather all nations from afar,

And be to them a ruling star!

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVENTH.

ANECDOTES OF HONOURABLE CONDUCT.

The Spanish historians relate a memorable instance of honour and regard to truth. A Spanish cavalier, in a sudden quarrel, slew a Moorish gentleman, and fled. His pursuers soon lost sight of him, for he had, unperceived, thrown himself over a garden-wall. The owner, a Moor, happening to be in his garden, was addressed by the Spaniard on his knees, who acquainted him with his case, and implored concealment. "Eat this," said the Moor, giving him half a peach; "you now know that you may confide in my protection."

The Moor then locked him up in his garden apartment, telling him, as soon as it was night, he would provide for his escape to a place of greater safety. But he had no

sooner gone into his house and seated himself, than a great crowd, with loud lamentations, came to his gate, bringing the corpse of his son, who had been killed by a Spaniard.

When the first shock of surprise was a little over, he learned, from the description given, that the fatal deed was done by the very person then in his power. He mentioned this to no one; but, as soon as it was dark, retired to his garden, as if to grieve alone, giving orders that none should follow him. Then, accosting the Spaniard, he said, "Christian, the person you have killed is my son; his