With bold affection pure and true, entirely his mother, now ready to die of Because, the wise often wed like fools, to premature old age. The house where she buy repentance. To Robert, so he says bore him, gave signs that the boy was a in old age, three things were essential in man who knew how to husband his earn- a wife, Religion, Good Sense and Diliings. The decay of years was repaired, gence, and three desirable, Beauty, Soand the old cottage made to look quite ciability and Wit. I do not say she posdecent like' and tidy. The father-no sessed these, though certainly she had man could tame him'-for the Evil Spirit the three first in no moderate degree.— of Rum possessed him, the Demon of the || Both were poor in outward circumstances, Dram-shop held him in thrall as the cat but both rich in a sound body and conplays with a mouse. No son could hope tented mind, in a religious heart, good to reform him. No, the Savior of the habits of industry, economy and thrift, world opened eyes and ears, and loosed and in the power of self-help. Why tongues stopped from the birth; he cast need they fear poverty in New-England? out devils, and raised the dead, and si- They do not. So lenced the Pharisees-who have since got a voice again-but he never raised a drunkard from his cups, that we read of. Young Robert, the smith's 'hired man,' the son of the village Drunkard-young Robert all sweaty and sooty, was an object of respect to every wise man in the village. The two deacons had both asked him to join the Church,-though ten years younger than the youngest inember; and even Mr Plaintext the Parson, loved-good old man as he was-to sit an hour on the anvil and talk with Robert about heavenly things. Many a wise matron said to her heart, what a nice husband he would make for our Judy! What if Sally Shallow Brain, and Anna Slender Waist thought he was not genteel; what if Susan Little Sight declared he had the hardest hand in the village? There were other Sallys and Annas and Susans, with whom good sense and unblemished character go quite as far, yes, as far as 'yellow gloves' or dashy stick now go with some of my young friends of the female sex. A few years passed over, and Robert had found an helpmeet, in an orphan girl whose forlorn situation attracted his notice, no less than her pleasant face, and sweet voice, and unobtrusive excellence won his heart. There is something quite mysterious in love, when it flows naturally as in our quiet villages. In a great city the rich will marry the rich; and the giddy be left to the light-headed, straws and feathers naturally attract each other and conglomerate on the surface of the stream. Like consisteth with like.' Why should it not? But gold and precious stones just as naturally come together at the bottom of the stream and dazzle the waters with their light. Why need we tell the character of the wife of Robert? When they began house-keeping in their small way, and sure it was small enough-it was in the fear of the Lord. They knew one another, and they loved one another; they knew their duty and to bring what is needed into the house, they did it. 'It is my part,' says Robert, and yours, Sally, to see that it does not waste.' What if they rose early and sat down late; what if Labor and Prudence turned a shilling many times before they were their daily companions, and they spent it? It were better that all men did So. With all their labors and Yankee thrift, for they had this patrimony,they found an hour in their busiest day for religious meditation and prayer, and often relaxation from toil, and their Religion several for mental improvement in their grew deeper as their minds expanded more wide. It was not their wont to trust their work to prayerless hands; nor to lay unthankful heads on the pillow of sleep. Yet many, whose hands no work of a manual kind has roughened, have no time for study; no time for Religion! Many houses are there in New-England, like this little cottage of Robert aud Sally; they stand modestly all over the land, and when Patriotism retires from the Halls of Congress, and the cities ;when Religion has withdrawn from the Pulpit and the crowd-both will take up their abode in these obscure dwellings, and cheer, as they now do, the fireside of the religious poor. Religion may be only an ornament in the eyes of the affluent and gay; an ornament worn on Sundays, or in the presence of their minister if he is a pious man,—and then carefully laid by. But with the poor this is not so. Years passed over the Church at Dalton-and the cottage of Robert; the former changed little; the latter much. At first there were only two heads at the table-but little curly pated urchins gradually gathered around the board, till at last something like a dozen of sons and daughters might be counted there, and the heads of the parents not gray. The blessing of the Psalmist fell on the righteous pair. (Ps. cxxviii. 3.) Robert was one of the few who thought the best work of every present generation, was to take care of the generation now coming up to take their place. Accordingly his chief object was to give his children an education. Providence smiled on his efforts. His secular affairs improved; his former master made him a partner soon after his marriage, and as years came on, gave up the whole business, to the thrifty hands of the religious 'Prentice,' as the old minister used always to call him. The little garden, adjoining the cottage, tilled at first only before the sun rose, or after he had gone down-gradually extended, till it became a large farm, including the estate of Squire Seaver,' who soon tippled away his patrimony in half a score of years. The cottage itself gave way to a larger house, to suit the wants of Robert's rising family, and afford a home for his widowed mother. The smith had now a chance to educate his childrensomewhat after his own fashion. With him Education was not necessarily the learning of Latin. He was perhaps himself the best educated man in the county, though he knew no more of Latin than the national motto. 'An educated man,' he often told me, 'is one who can use perfectly his head, heart, hand and soul. He may be a farmer, or a minister, and have got his training in the field or at the fireside, or in College.' He did not think it needful to leave a toilsome trade to obtain an education; for he knew that each trade demands thought and is itself a school for the head and the hand, and besides, affords as much leisure as any of the learned professions, if one will use it. All the learning of his children came from the village school, and the Blacksmith's fireside. Yet his sons and daughters are more familiar with history, than most young people liberally' (i. e. expensively) educated, and had studied by far more books that have thought in them, than the young men and women of the first education in a fashionable city. Their pronunciation had something provincial, and they knew nothing of the last new novel.' Robert had spared no cost in his power to provide books, and all the means of a plain education for his family. But remembering how poor be had once been, and thinking it was a Christian rule, that the strong should help the weak-what was done for himself, was done for the village, for he improved the character of the district school, had an able teacher provided, and chiefly by his influence-for he became the chief man of the place-the school was kept all the year round, and a social library for the use of ALL who would read, connected with it. A little library was on his own shelves, purchased with money his neighbors spent for Rum and Cider, and other articles of equal value. His children caught the love of study from him. He read to them-and his wife, the long winter evenings, while she plied the housewife's needle; and still more questioned them on books they read, and the lectures, and even the sermons, which they heard; thus fixing the habit of attention deep and permanent. More pains, if possible, were taken with their religious than their intellectual culture. He knew he must BEGIN WITH GOD, or we must end in dust. His first care, therefore, was to awaken in his children the sentiment of Religion, which when once aroused rarely sleeps again. In this as in all his works, his wife was his most efficient aid. God has sown the seeds of Piety more plentifully into woman's gentle heart; that she who makes the first, the deepest, and the most lasting impression on the young soul, may write on his forehead the name of God, and seal it for his service. He showed his children the goodness of God, in the world about us, in the happiness of the fly and the robin, in the majesty of the stars, or the beauty of an apple-tree in bloom. So that the first impression they caught of God, was that of infinite love, which is the christian idea of God. He showed them the beauty of that greatest soul which has ever honored the earth, and revealed the mystery of Godliness in the flesh, so that a little child can understand it all. He dwelt on what is real and lasting in religion, and taught them this, leaving their childish fancies to wander at will in the graceful imagery of the New Testament. They saw in their parents, what they read in the bible, and other good religious books-of which Robert could find but few, that would not pervert a child's mind, and make it hate religion. They learned kindness and gentle affection from the example of their parents. Why should they love vice? Their eye was open to see goodness, and they saw it and were glad. So their reason and religion were of one birth and grew up side by side in life. To this family the Sunday was a day of rest, of thought, of joy, of religion, and of love. It was not kept with monkish austerity, but in the fear of the Lord. A walk, after church, in the green fields, or a visit to an intelligent or a needy neighbor was deemed no interruption of the Sabbath. With him each day was the Lord's day, for it was kept holy, and his own house the house of God, for peace and love dwelt in it. For these reasons, the Sunday was dear to him, and the Church profitable. The Sunday prayer and the weekly practice looked both in the same direction. Doubtless he had dull Sermons and prayers that smite and offend pious souls, but he made the most of the good ones and frequented most those places that taught him most. Such was the education of their head and heart. Their hands were taught to toil. They united labor and cultivation. One only of the family had a taste for a 'learned profession,' and is now a physician in his native town; the rest of the sons, four in number, are married and settled in life and work at trades, or upon the soil. Of the girls' as he still calls them, four are married in the neighborhood, to sober, industrious men, and pursuing the course of their father, and two are still the companions of their mother. Sixty five years have now passed over the head of Robert Jones the Blacksmith. 'His eye is not yet dim, nor his natural vigor abated. Well could he give thanks, on last Thanksgiving day, when his eleven children, and five and forty grand children assembled in his house. 'I passed over Jordan,' said the grateful man, with my scrip and my staff, and now I hon hast made me this great people.' 'Verily, says his wife, we have trusted in the Lord and he has given us a reward. May our children do better and be more deeply blessed.' There are many men in New England, like this man. It is they who make its prosperity; they are the fathers of thriv ing towns; they fill its churches, its pulpits, its Senates. Their outfit in life consists at the first of three things, good habits of industry and economy; the abiding principle of Religion, and the power of self-help. What better estate can man leave to his children? NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. French nation on their proposing to re[The following lines, addressed to the move Napoleon's remains from St. Helena to France, are from the pen of Rev. H. F. Lyte.] Disturb him not! he slumbers well On his rock 'mid the western deep, Where the broad blue waters round him swell, And the tempests o'er him sweep. O leave him, where his mountain bed Looks o'er the Atlantic wave, There, midst three mighty continents, Sleeps Europe's warrior lord: At eve his shadowy form: And his voice in the midnight storm. Disturb him not! though bleak and bare, That spot is all his own; And truer homage was paid him there Than on his hard-won throne. Earth's trembling monarch's there at bay, The caged lion kept; For they knew with dread that his iron tread Woke earthquakes where he stept. Disturb him not! vain France, thy clime No resting-place supplies, So meet, so glorious, so sublime, As that where thy hero lies. Nor call the dead from his grave to deck Raged through thy realm at will, He reared from the dust thy prostrate state; Of the capitals of the world. And will ye from his rest dare call The thunderbolt of war, To grin and chatter around his pall, His honored dust deride? What, will no withering thought occur, No thrill of cold mistrust, How empty all this pomp and stir Above a little dust? And will it not your pageant dim, Your arrogance rebuke, To see what now remains of him, Then let him rest in his stately couch itated-then went in-and came out. I now saw her face-it was pale-her hair, black as night, was parted on her forehead-her eyes too were very black, and there was a wildness in them that made me shudder. She passed on up Broadway to Grand street, where she entered a miserable looking dwelling. I paused -should I follow farther?-she was evidently suffering much-I was happyblessed with wealth, and O, how blessed in husband, children, friends! I knocked-the door was opened by a cross looking woman. Is there any person here that does plain sewing? I inquired. 'I guess not,' was the reply. There is a woman up stairs, who used to work, but she can't get any more to do—and I shall turn her out to-morrow.' 'Let me go up,' said I, as passing the woman with a shudder, I ascended the stairs. 'You can keep on up to the garret,' she screamed after me-and so I did; and there I saw a sight of which I, the child of affluence, had never dreamed! The lady had thrown off her hat, and was Where the wild waves dash, and the light-kneeling by the side of a poor low bed. nings flash, And the storms go wailing by. Yes, let him rest! such men as he Are of no time or place; They live for ages yet to be, Records of Woman. From the New York Mirror. THE CHANGES OF FORTUNE. The following tale illustrates one of the many instances of distress existing among the poor seamstresses of the city, and the lady who has communicated it for publication in the Mirror vouches for its authenticity. 'Do you give out work here?' said a voice so soft, so lady-like, that I involuntarily looked up from the purse I was about purchasing for my darling boy, a birth-day gift from his papa. 'Do you give out work here!' 'Not to strangers,' was the rude reply. The stranger turned and walked away. "That purse is very cheap, ma'aın.' 'I do not wish it now,' said I, as taking up my parasol, I left the shop, and followed the stranger lady. Her hair had fallen over her shouldersshe sobbed not, but seemed motionless, her face buried in the covering of the wretched, miserable bed, whereon lay her husband. I looked upon his high, pale forehead, around which clung inasses of damp, brown hair-it was knit, and the pale hand clenched the bed clotheswords broke from his lips-'I cannot pay you now,' I heard him say, poor fellow! I could bear it no longer, and knocked gently on the door. The lady raised her head, threw back her long black hair, and for ceremony-sickness, sorrow, want, gazed mildly upon me. It was no time and perhaps starvation, were before me, I came to look for a person to do plain work,' was all I could say. morrow 'O, give it me,' the sobbed. Two days we have not tasted food!-and toShe gasped, and tried to finish the sentence, but could not.She knew that to-morrow they would be both homeless and starving! 'Be comforted; you shall want no more.' I kept my word. In a few days she told me all; of days of happiness in sunny West India's isle-her childhood's home; of the death of her father and mother-of a cruel sister and brother-inPassing Thompson's, she paused--hes-law-how she left that home hoping to 252 Mary-Queen of England. of old Smithfield !—if they submitted, they became the flames of ecclesiastical domination! find a brother in America-how she troy them, with faggot in one hand,and the sought in vain, but instead found a hus- ecclesiastical rod in the other—if they reband; he too, an Englishman, a gentle-sisted, their death bed was to be the flames man and scholar, had been thrown upon the world. Sympathy deepened into love; alone in the crowd, all the world to each other, they married-he procured employment in a school; she, plain needle work. Too close attention to the duties of his school; long walks and scanty fare, brought ill health, and confined him at length to his bed. The shop from which his poor wife obtained work failed, and their resources were cut off. She had looked long, weary days for employment-many had none to give others gave no work to strangers. Thus I found them-to comfort them for a little time-then I trust, they found, indeed, a comforter in heaven! The husband died first-died, placing the hand of his poor wife in mine! I needed not the mute, appealing look he gave me; I took her to my own happy home-it was too late! It is a very little time ago, I went one morning to her room; she had passed a restless night; had dreamed, she said, of her George-she called me her kind and only friend-begged me to sit a little while beside her, and looked up so sadly in my face, that my own heart seemned well nigh breaking. I left her not again. In the still, deep night, I heard her murmur, 'Sister Anne, do not speak so harshly to me! O, mamma, why did you leave me! Then again, she said, 'Give me an orange, my sister-I am very faint.' Her soul was again in her own sunny home. 'Lay me by my George, and God will bless you,' were her last words to me.I led my hushed children to look upon her sweet, pale face, as she lay in her coffin. They had never seen sorrow or death, and then I gave them the first knowledge of both; and then I told them of the sin, the cruelty of those who wound the 'stranger's heart.' For the Ladies' Pearl. MARY-QUEEN OF ENGLAND. (Concluded.) No sooner had the Roman Catholic Church wrung submission from the nobles of England to the tiara of the haughty successor of St. Peter, than it prepared to kindle the flames of persecution, to awe obstinate Protestants, and to convert or des Mary, woman though she was, shrunk not from the bloody task. Sour, bigoted, and cruel, she was prepared to see the last blood of her kingdom flow, as a propitiation to the offended dignity of the Roman hierarchy. And it did flow in streams that dyed the soil of Britain in colors so deep, that time will never remove the stains There they remain, guardians of Protestantism, talismans of power, watchwords of successful resistance should the politicoreligious prince of papacy ever attempt to plant his crosier on the throne of England. Dark and gloomy was the opening of the year 1555; for, with the opening year, began the flowing of protestant blood.Hooper and Rogers led the van of that martyr army whose noble deaths are the disgrace of Mary's reign. When Rogers was sentenced, he begged a final interview with his helpless wife and his ten children. 'No,' said Gardener, the brutal Bishop of Winchester. No; she is not your wife!' But Rogers did see them, for they met him on his way to Smithfield. He died in triumph amid the flames of suffocation and death. Hooper died in Gloucester. His sufferings were extreme. At the stake they offered him a pardon if he would recant. But, he preferred a martyr's crown to a bishop's mitre. The wood of his pyre was green, and burnt slowly and weakly. 'Bring more fire,' he exclaimed, as his limbs consumed with exquisite torturės, and as one hand dropped off. For full three quarters of an hour his sufferings lasted, when with triumph his great spirit flew beyond the reach of Mary and her papal crew. Cranmer, the mild, the devoted, the venerable Cranmer, followed these worthies a few months subsequently. Once, when threatened with the stake, he recanted, but soon repented over this act of weakness, |