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our departed Christian brother, T. Firth, Esq., will be realized,—the honour of the Connexion will be maintained, and an institution will be established, which Christ, the light of the world and the head of his Church, will bless; and which, by a ministry combining cultivated talents with deep piety, and well-directed zeal, will be made a blessing to our churches, and to the world, through all succeeding generations.

Miscellaneous Articles, Anecdotes, &c.

JOHN, THE BOOK-LOVING

SCULLION.

BY THE REV. J. T. HEWITT.

SOME time ago there lived in a pleasant village in the west of England a farmer and his wife, whose family was so large that young and old were obliged to labour very hard for their living. Seven sons and five daughters under twenty years of age lived beneath the humble roof, and tilled the fields and managed the dairy of the little farm. The only schooling the family had received was at the evening class kept by the parish clerk, for at that time there was neither village nor Sabbath-school. The fourth son, John, was more diligent than the rest in his simple studies, and became a favourite with his teacher. As he had a good voice, he used to help the old clerk at church with the responses, and the singing, until all the people liked to hear his full, clear voice, and many said to the clerk, "As your voice is so bad, neighbour, it is a capital thing you've such a good help as John in tuning the psalms." Thus, from his fourteenth till his seventeenth year, John continued labouring in the fields by day, writing, and reading, and summing in the evening, and singing in the church on Sundays and festivals. When at length the old clerk died, John, who had done the work for some time, naturally thought he might get the place, and his wish was mentioned to the vicar and parishioners. Now, the good people had liked his services as long as they had paid nothing for them, but when the youth wanted to improve his position

and to benefit by employing his humble gifts, they began to shake their heads and question whether he would do. One fault was urged by most people, "John was so young!" and a middle-aged man coming forward as a competitor for the post, it was agreed that the parishioners should choose, and that the stranger should tune the psalm in the morning, and John in the afternoon of the next Sunday, and then the decision should be made.

This was fair, but no doubt John thought it harsh to subject him, after all his services, to a competition; and whether this made him sing worse than usual, or whether, as is very likely, the village congregation loved novelty, certain it is that they decided in favour of the stranger, and poor John, who had long set his heart on being parish clerk, was rejected. He heard the decision with a calm look, but his heart was sore and heavy, and as he came out of the vestry into the church, he felt it was hard work to pass by his companions and acquaintances, and try to keep his feelings to himself. Fortunately, there was a side door, out of which he walked. hoping to get unnoticed into the quiet of the fields that skirted the churchyard. The congregation were mostly round the front porch, and in the main avenue, all but one old woman who had taught him his letters, who met John as he went out, and taking his hand in a motherly way, looked with a kind smile in his face, and said, "Don't be cast down at this disappointment, perhaps God reserves you for better things." The pressure of the hand, the look, the

words, all went to the poor youth's heart, and kindled a fire of resolution there, that burned bright and clear for many a future day. Ashe walked home he reasoned, "The world is wide, I'm young and strong, willing and able to work; why should I stay here, where they have rejected me?" That night, after the evening chapter was read, the youth told his father he wished to seek a livelihood elsewhere, and asked his consent and blessing. Both parents felt that their son might be uncomfortable to stay where his feelings had been hurt, and though they grieved to part, they did not oppose his intention, but hoped he might be able to get work somewhere about Exeter, which was not far away.

The next morning, before any neighbours in the village were stirring, John set out, carrying a change of linen in a bundle at the end of a

walking - stick. His poor mother slipped an old leathern purse with a few coins, all her hoard, into his pocket, watched him through her tears until a turn in the road hid him from her sight, and then lifted her throbbing heart to God in prayer for him, as mothers are wont to do. The lad met no success in Exeter, but as he saw the great cathedral, and noticed the stores, particularly the book stores, thoughts about the value of books and of learning came strongly into his mind. Oh! that he had time and opportunity to become a scholar! was the involuntary wish, which the next moment he rebuked, for how was he to get bread, much less learning? Some deep desire to gratify himself by being in the vicinity of learning and learned men must have sprung up in his heart and directed his steps, for he set forward from Exeter to Oxford, and walked the whole weary way! resting at night sometimes in barns, sometimes on the sheltered side of a haystack; he lived on bread and water, a draught of milk added now and then as a luxury.

Footsore, for his boots were worn out, he at length reached the University. With a feeling of awe he crossed the Maudlin Bridge, and

walked up that stately street, whose matchless curve reveals at every step some noble building, or majestic dome, or solemn temple. Tired as he was, friendless and lonely, the sight roused him to admiration; but a moment after, as he looked down at his nearly naked feet and dusty garments, the thought of what he should do now he had reached this fine city, came into his mind. Among all the colleges he knew the name of but one, and that was "Exeter College"there he would go and seek employment. Wild as his plan was, it turned out successful. He found out the college kitchen; the cook, a Devonshire man, heard the youth's story, and took him into his employment as scullion.

There seems but little connection between a scullery and a library, and no sort of similarity in the study of cookery and grammar, and yet somehow the youth contrived to employ his leisure time in poring over books until the meaning opened to his mind, and every book he read led the way to another, and another, until the studious habits of the scullion excited remark, and he was questioned by some of the men in authority, who were surprised at what he had attained during the few intervals of his daily labour. They respected his diligence, and he was admitted as a sizer (poor student, or on the foundation) of Exeter College, and then, all his difficulties being over as to the means of obtaining knowledge, he studied hard, and soon was among the most successful of college students. He was still very poor, for he had none to help him; he knew the poor parents he had left could not assist their son to become a scholar; but soon he was able to earn something by teaching students less advanced and less diligent than himself, and by slow but sure degrees his difficulties vanished, and in time, being as pious as he was industrious, studied for the church, was ordained, and became the ornament of the college that he had entered a friendless boy, and served as a scullion.

Years passed on; John's brothers and sisters were all grown up and

settled in life, most of them near the village in which they had been reared, but the good old parent-pair were still living, their hearts often gladdened by the tidings of, and presents from their long-absent son, the Great Scholar! They pined to see him once more before they died, and the poor old dame, now very aged, who had helped to nurse him in his childhood, and moreover, had taught him his letters, and spoke the kind word to him when he was sore troubled with his first grief, she, too, wished to see him-though, from her infirmities, that was hardly possible. These words were not unheeded by the object of them; he wrote a promise in his Christmas letter that he would, if spared, visit the old house at home the next summer.

What a variety of thoughts must have crowded into his mind in that pleasant summer time, when, riding in his own carriage to visit his parents, he passed over the ground that he had wearily walked in his young unfriended days. He told the driver to stop on the summit of a hill that overlooked his native village. There it was! nestling beneath the sheltering trees; the little church on the hillside seeming to keep watch over the green graves as they calmly basked in the sunshine. While the homeward bound traveller looked at this peaceful scene, the bell in the ivy mantled tower flung out its solemn toll over the valley. Slow, distinct, one by one, pealed the sad vibration-it was tolling for the dead! Along the well-known footpath that crossed the fields there came a funeral group; they were as yet more distant from the church in an opposite direction than was the traveller. He entered his carriage hastily, and desired to be driven at once and quickly to the church. Arrived there, with a beating heart he asked the name of the dead. It was the worthy woman whose "word in season fitly spoken," had proved so good to him. He mixed with the humble mourners round the grave, and at the conclusion made himself known to the clergyman, and requested that the villagers (who had gathered in

great force, for the dead had been as a mother to many) might be brought into the church, and there and then the stranger ascended the pulpit, and preached a sermon to the rustic congregation; and truly, if "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," that sermon must indeed have been worth hearing! for what a change had providence wrought since the youth had gone out rejected from the office of parish clerk, and had now returned to them the famous scholar, the pious prelate, DR. PriDEAUX, Bishop of Worcester; as the good woman had said, "God had indeed reserved him for better things."

How he met his aged parents, how he loved and befriended his poor relations, must be left to the imagination of those who have right minds and kind hearts; but one of his sayings is still remembered in the west of England, and merits to be remembered by all who in early life are tried by disappointments, "If I," said Dr. Prideaux, "had been parish clerk of Uxborough, I should never have been Bishop of Worcester."

THE FORTUNE HUNTERS.
A TRUE STORY.
Translated from the French by the
Rev. John Flather.

CHAPTER X.

A SCENE, AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT! PHILIP HENRI now considered himself fairly launched on Parisian life. He had become initiated in most of the resorts for pleasure, and had acquired a keen relish for them. He had nearly conquered his provincial accent, and had learned to use with facility the phrases that were current in the class with which he associated. The hesitancy he felt at first in mingling with them, lest he should compromise himself in their esteem by obtruding his old-fashioned notions, as they were called, was entirely gone, for such an apt scholar had he proved, that already there were young men who had passed their whole life in Paris, who dare not go as far as he was prepared to go. He had brought with him an unhealthy ima

gination and uncurbed passions, that caused him to undervalue the real worth of prudence. His moral principles were quite equal to theirs, but they knew that for life to last out it must not be squandered as he was squandering it; and hence, as he sometimes taunted them, 66 they hung fire," at which they would quietly shrug their shoulders to each other, while to him they seemed to pay deference, as to a leader. In short, Philip fell into the common delusion of supposing that he understood the world when he had seen only one of its aspects, which, though the most glaring, is the least enduring. One of his associates said to him one night, in reply to his taunting solicitations to remain later, “Philip, I cannot afford to set the world against me. I cannot do without the world, but the world can do without me, and it will never pay me to be such a dolt as to teach them to throw me aside by making myself useless to them." Philip sneered at the thought of society ever looking upon him as useless, now that his talents had been brought to light.

In Paris, as in all the great centres of civilization, the immense majority of men form habits of industry and adaptation to order, otherwise the business of life could not be carried forward. Whoever refuses to conform to these usages soon finds himself distanced in the race. The world cannot, will not, ought not to tarry until the youth who sets up his vain caprice against the judgment of mankind has satisfied his love of pleasure. Hence this noisy, merry-making minority do not "live out half their days." Already Philip had declined from the punctuality that characterized him at first in his attendance at the office of M. Thierry, and when there he had committed more than one mistake of some importance, owing to the dissipation of mind consequent on the preceding day's plea

sures.

His conduct, when first engaged, had made a favourable impression on his employer, which had predisposed that gentleman to be more lenient than usual, and the head clerk had more than once met with

Marie, and had learned from her something of their history and family, which awakened an interest in their welfare, while her own gentleness, and ingenuous manner, and devotion to her husband, strengthened the feeling. He had on several occasions screened Philip's mistakes, and had, in a friendly tone, pointed out the dangers to which he was exposing himself and his wife. These admonitions were resented as insults, for although Monsieur Henri regarded himself at liberty to deal the lash to every one whenever his humour was so inclined-and it was so inclined very frequently-he would not endure any suggestion, however mildly uttered, that pointed in a different direction from that in which he was now tending. Alas! that there should be so many like him in the world!

One morning, as he entered the office later than usual, Philip detected a mocking smile on the countenances of several of the clerks, who had for some time been annoyed by his cool assumption of superiority. He demanded what such a reception meant? A young clerk, who had the eye of a hawk, and an everready tongue, knit his brows in mimic imitation of the employer, placed his thumb to his nose, and moved his fingers as if playing an imaginary tune; then, rapidly jerking his bent thumb over his left shoulder, said ironically, in a low voice

"That means, Monsieur Philip, that you are going to dance a polka with the governor." Scarcely had he finished his pantomime, and the words escaped his lips, than, hearing footsteps, he resumed his writing as if no other idea had ever occurred to him, and immediately the head clerk, coming out of M. Thierry's private office, said, in a firm, clear voice

"Monsieur Henri, the master has been expecting you these two hours. You are to go to his office."

Philip, with erect head, stepped haughtily into the office. The night before he had remained late at the theatre, when a special performance had been announced. He had over

slept himself, and felt that he was in the wrong; but he hardened himself, and determined to brave it out. Monsieur Thierry, seated in his easy chair, with knit brow, in a tone that would have frozen any other than Philip, greeted him imperiously and sententiously with

"At last! How comes it you are so late?"

"I was up late," Philip answered harshly. "Where? mained silent.

Why?" Philip re

"I want to know," repeated M. Thierry in an irritated tone. "I want to know what you were doing last night?"

"Monsieur," replied Philip, trembling with indignation, though he thought he was exercising great selfcontrol, "it seems to me that when I am once out of these offices I owe no account of my actions to any one except to myself! If, however, you are so wishful to know, I will tell you. I was at the theatre!"

M. Thierry jumped up furiously, pushed his chair aside, and striding backwards and forwards, exclaimed,

"Monsieur goes to the theatre ! Monsieur out of my offices owes no account of his actions to any one! Monsieur, to have his pleasures, stays up late, robs me in the morning

When?

"Rob you? rob you? Of what?" violently asked Philip.

"Of what? Of time!" exclaimed the employer. "Of time! And that, to me, is money! Yes! By your blunders brought on through want of sleep, I have learned this morning the loss of a splendid connection, worth a thousand upstarts like you! And then, forsooth, you give yourself insolent airs! Will you take my place?" asked he, with grating irony.

"I will never endure this!" exclaimed Philip, now quite beside himself.

On hearing these words the merchant stood still, and, fixing upon him a look of contemptuous pity, folded his arms, and said, in a tone of constrained calmness, more terrific than anything that preceded it

"Monsieur Henri, go to the cashier. Take your wages, and never let me see you again!' That look, those words, and that tone imprinted themselves on Philip so deeply, he could never obliterate them. The die was cast, for the merchant took no further notice of the clerk he had thus discarded than if he had never seen him-except once, to intimate, by a resistless, though undefinable expression of the eye, that his presence any longer in that office could not be endured. Philip's heart struggled beneath the conflicting feelings that were awakened. Had he only frankly confessed himself in the wrong, and promised amendment, all would have been passed over; but he had too much conceit to permit that avowal, to which honest self-respect decisively pointed.

There remained 'one more ordeal, more difficult to pass through, as he thought, in a befitting manner than even this interview with his employer. On quitting the premises he had necessarily to traverse all the other offices, as M. Thierry's office was so situated as to command a view of the whole. He wished to leave the impression on the minds of his fellowclerks that he was quite indifferent to the loss of his situation, for he knew how ready they would be to twit him with his own severe remarks on those whose headstrong tempers formerly had opened a way to pluck him from utter ruin. He haughtily tossed back his head, and, after receiving his wages, assumed what he imagined to be an air of defiant dignity. He saw the stool he ought to have been occupying, and the peg whereon his hat ought to have been hanging. He felt the looks which were cast upon him as he stepped forward, as he supposed, with deliberation, but really with the greatest agitation. Some smiled ironically, several looked at him with contempt, while one or two looked at him with unaffected pity, for they foresaw what awaited him and his wife. The little fellow who was ever ready for a joke lifted his eyebrows, and stiffened his back, as

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