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 hus began his sermon.

Hugh Latimer, dost thou know to whom thou art his day to speak? To the high and mighty monarch, he king's most excellent majesty, who can take away hy life, if thou offendest: therefore, take heed that hou speakest not a word that may displease. But, hen, consider well, Hugh, dost thou not know from whence thou comest, upon whose message thou art зent? 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 ogether: therefore, take care and deliver thy message Faithfully!"

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

He, falling on his knees, replied, that his duty to is 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."

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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 ruined swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphan's moans,
And all that misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

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 any thing 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 neighbors, but burdened with a large family, and so poor that they wondered how he was able to live. The counsellor 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 honorable Conduct.

The Spanish historians relate a memorable instance of honor 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 body is now in my house. You ought to suffer; but you have eaten with me, and I have given you my faith, which must not be broken."

When he had uttered these words, he led the astonished Spaniard to his stables, and mounted him on one of his fleetest horses, and said, "Fly far while the night can cover you; you will be safe in the morning. You are, indeed, guilty of my son's blood; but God is just and good, and I thank him I am innocent of yours, and that my faith given is preserved.

In the year 1746, when the English were at war with Spain, the ship Elizabeth of London, coming through the gulf from Jamaica, richly laden, met with a most violent storm, in which the ship sprung a leak, that obliged them, for the saving of their lives, to run into the Havana, a Spanish port. The captain went on shore, and directly waited on the governor; told the occasion of his putting in, and that he surrendered the ship as a prize, and himself and his men as prisoners of war, only requesting good quarter.