said, "If you would only stop a few minutes, man, I would let you hear my best production." He then read, with a low musical voice, the lines beginning, "Ah me! this is a sad and silent city," which is included among his poems. For a considerable time Bethune conscientiously abstained from all kinds of spirits and malt liquors, "both of which hurt him." He did not seem to think that medicine would be availing in his state of health. as John usually wrote his poetry on pieces of paper in which grocery had been brought into the house, so that much of it was afterwards very difficult to decipher, and he pursued these attempts stealthily as if it had been a crime punishable by law." There was but one room in his dwelling, and it was his custom to write by the fire, with his paper placed in an old copy-book, which was his early writing desk, lying on his knee. If he heard the footsteps of any person approaching the door, the copy-book, &c., were thrust under an old newspaper which was commonly on the table. Notwithstanding all this care, however, it became known in the neighbourhood that he was a writer, from his mother's occasionally reading passages of his poems to her friends, and he was sometimes requested to write letters for others, a task which he always appeared happy to perform. His brother considered that he incurred great unnecessary fatigue by his constant habit of writing upon his knee, instead of in a more upright posture. Perhaps there never was one possessed of the power of writing who did not wish to publish—to see his thoughts in print—and to obtain, as he might hope, the sympathy and approval of many. With such a man as John Bethune the hope of acquiring money as well as fame, was plainly a great inducement to exertion, but how were these hopes to be brought to bear? He had been told, very truly, that few booksellers are willing to publish, at their own expense, the works of unknown persons; and he considered it unworthy of an independent man to publish his writings by subscription, asking others to take the risk of finding what might be worth the money which they gave for what they could not read. He thought, consequently, that one of the magazines would afford him the best chance of gaining some benefit from his talent. He wrote an essay in prose, with considerable care, which he sent to the editor of a magazine, but after a silence of nearly five months, his papers were returned to him with a civil note, saying that his essay was "very good," but was not accepted. (To be continued.) THE SUNDAY SCHOLAR; OR, HEARING AND DOING. (Continued from page 151.) CHARLES was much alarmed to see his sister fall. "Polly Polly!" cried he, springing forward to help her, at the risk, in so steep a place, of losing his own balance, “What a careless, awkward thing you are! come, get up: why what's the matter?" he added, turning very pale; for Mary, after making a vain attempt to rise, sank down again, and began to cry. "I can't get up," sobbed she, "my ancle pains me so, and you're so cross, Charley." "Never mind, dear, I'll help you up," said Charles, who, now. that his first feeling of frightened vexation had passed away, was really concerned for his unkindness, "it's a nasty steep place to be sure, but still, if you just take firm hold of me, and put your foot in this hole; "But I've sprained my ancle, I'm sure," sobbed Polly, "and if I should get up, I should roll down the hill." "What is to be done, then ?" cried Charles, wringing his hands, "you can't stay here all night; it's all, it's all my fault, Polly, and I'm so sorry, you can't think!" "No, it's not your fault," replied the amiable little Polly, quite forgetting her own pain, in her brother's distress, "it was my being so awkward, you know." Charles knew, however, that his disobedience to his mother had been the real cause of the accident, and this secret consciousness. doubled the concern he would at all times have felt on seeing his sister suffering; he tried several times to raise her, but failing in each attempt, he left her at length, to go in search of aid; for his ears had caught the sound of a voice, which appeared to proceed. from some one walking on the hill. The pathway was so steep, that he crawled up it on his hands and knees, and when he issued from the top, he perceived that the voice he had heard proceeded from the very last person whom he would have wished just then to meet, for it was Mr. Harvey, the minister of the place of worship his. mother attended, and the gentleman whose good opinion he seemed so effectually to have won. Charles knew enough of Mr. Harvey to feel assured that no mere cleverness would compensate in his eyes. for the absence of upright moral conduct; and fearful of lowering. himself in his estimation, he hesitated whether or not to apply to him for assistance, while the minister (who was taking a stroll in order to refresh himself after the fatigues of the day) stood admiring the sunset, and pointing out its beauties to his young nephew, 6 "This is a pretty spot to watch the departure of the sun from, Arthur," said he, "I always admire the view from this part of the hill; how truly we may say, with the Psalmist, The pastures are covered with flocks, the valleys also clothed with corn, they shout, with joy, they also sing;' for I'm sure the landscape looks as if it did indeed rejoice on every side,' now that it is glowing in the light of the setting sun." 66 "Do you know, uncle ?" said Arthur, I often wish I could build a church for you to preach in, on Birfield hill.” 'Indeed!" said Mr. Harvey, smiling, "why here, in particular?” "Oh! because I heard a gentleman, who has travelled a great deal, say, the other day, that in some country abroad, the Tyrol, I think, all the churches were built in pretty situations, as if to do them a sort of honor, you know, and I think it is a nice plan, don't you?" 66 Yes, very, provided the situations were convenient as well as pretty. It is not only in churches and chapels that we should worship; the world is one great temple, Arthur, and religion should be carried with us wherever we go, and not be thought of merely on a Sunday, when we are at church, or are reading good books at home." As he said these words Mr. Harvey turned round, and perceived Charles, who was standing behind him, still in a painful state of indecision. 66 Why, here is one of my Sunday scholars," said he, kindly smiling upon the boy, "I'm surprised to see you up here so late as this, my lad, but suppose you are enjoying the beauty— how pale you look though, is anything the matter?" 66 "Oh, sir," cried Charles, relieved, in spite of himself, to be thus addressed, my sister has sprained her ancle, and I can't get her to move, and I don't know what to do, sir." 66 "Sprained her ancle," said Mr. Harvey, immediately interested, where did you leave her; on the hill?" Half way down, sir: here, this way, please sir, this way." "This is indeed a steep place," said Mr. Harvey, when Charles had led him to the path-way, "you ought not to have brought your sister down such a dangerous place; don't be afraid, my dear," he called to Mary, I'm not going to run over you, but to see if I cannot help you in some way," and being remarkably sure-footed, he descended the path-way, lifted up the astonished little girl, and carried her in his arms to the bottom of the hill. "Now," said he, turning to the two boys, who had followed closely behind him, "do you run to my house, by this short cut across the fields; and Arthur, ask for your grandmother's invalid chair; I'm sure she will gladly lend it for this little girl to ride home in. If you make haste you may be back in a very few minutes; meantime, Mary will be very comfortable here, now we have made a throne for her out of this stump of a tree.' It seemed like a dream to Mary, to be seated in the twilight in an open field, with Mr. Harvey to protect her. "What would her schoolfellows say?" she thought, when they heard that he had actually carried her in his arms; they must esteem it an honour indeed. And then when the invalid carriage arrived, and she was assisted into it and drawn through the pleasant fields, and now nearly deserted streets, she felt quite abashed by the distinction with which she was treated, though perhaps at the bottom of her heart the little girl may rather have enjoyed the novelty of her position. (To be continued.) A JUSTIFICATION. A FRAGMENT. "BUT, my friend, though not actually wrong, it is not right, it is not well, to do things so secretly. I don't like it, Ella dear, and 1 think you are far too prone to it." "And I am almost sorry my secret is not still my own, Mary; for ever since the day you discovered it, there has been a coldness about you, a sort of distrust, which I have felt deeply. Why is it? I did not deceive you, nor do anything dishonest." "No, no, Ella dear, I never one whit doubted the perfect honesty or purity of your motives. It was right for you to do it since you were so thoroughly convinced of the good you might do thereby; but why hide it from your friends? It is cheating them of their due, for if you did good you deprived them of the proud pleasure of recognising you as the author; they have a right to know all that would make them feel a happier pride in you." "But as they had expected nothing, they were not disappointed. Its success seemed quite a chance, Mary, and its failure would have pained them much. Some might have felt proud of me, and some not: and oh! to have to bear patiently the praise of those we don't respect, and to endure the scorn, laugh, or cold criticism of those I love and am loved by, (for even they cannot always understand and judge us rightly,) would be more than I could bear calmly." "That is a weak, poor reason, as you know well, Ella. Whom we fully respect and love we esteem sufficiently to bear their opinion of ourselves, whether it be good or bad. To win the esteem of those whose esteem is worth winning, we must be brave, and learn not to shrink from hearing the bare, broad truth, though it be a painful one, and to bear a wrong reading of our actions. Concealment is never well; its tendency is ever downwards to great wrong-doing." "I don't think you are right when you say never well, Mary; for what did our great Master say? But thou, when thou doest thine alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth; that thine alms may be in secret, and thy Father, which seeth in secret, himself shall reward thee openly.' Oh! Mary dear, there is such a quiet, innocent, inexpressible delight in feeling yourself the unknown instrument of good; in watching alone with God, as it were, the growth of good seeds he has permitted you to sow; it cannot be a hurtful pleasure." "It is not so much the concealment, but its results, the trouble of concealing, which must weigh upon your heart and disturb your conscience. When once you have something to hide, there is continual anxiety, lest you become surprised out of the path of truth, or tempted to do that for which afterwards you would blush. It seems to me, Ella, it needs more strength, more firmness to keep pure and upright, with a something to conceal from others-be the reason for concealment ever so noble-than to stand unshaken amid a world of abuse, scorn, and misconstruction, with a calm and easy conscience, and the path of truth, which is the one sure path to God, clear and straight before you." "Well, my friend, my heart had no trouble or anxiety with its secret, it rather smiled upon it, until I smiled in return; and then you began to make discoveries. Then, I confess I was uneasy lest you might disapprove, and I blush now to remember I went a little wrong, a little crooked,—but that came with the revealing." "Ah! but whence the revealing, if not from the previous concealment, Ella darling?" "True, Mary, I think I understand now what you mean. But I confess I am often puzzled to think how you can summon courage to talk over and tell your troubles and thoughts, as you do to your mother. I envy you that; had I one, I fear I never should be able. I like to repeat this sonnet of Mrs. Browning's; it comes so true to my heart: 'If all the gentlest hearted-friends I know |