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Bames that the history of any age can produce. A Hero even in his days of ignorance, for then with all earnestness he threw himself into the cause he believed But how much more a Hero

to be true. afterwards! A scholar and a philosopher, yet despising the taunts of the wise and learned. A man of station, and probably of affluence, yet joining himself to the degraded and the poor. One whose education and circumstances made him peculiarly sceptical, and whose conversion to christianity involved the loss of all his dearest hopes, yet yielding himself simply and unostentatiously to the truth, and acknowledging himself its servant, when it made its demand on him. Then watch him, as soon as he is converted, throwing all his energy at once into the cause he has espoused. Obliged more than once to escape for his life, from the enemies whom his conversion has gained him. Wandering from city to city, and from land to land, preaching the gospel of that Jesus whom once he persecuted. Maintaining himself through almost all his travels and labours by working with his hands for bread. Boldly standing up before both Jews and Gentiles, declaring the truth which both united to oppose. Submitting to chains and a dungeon, and in the prison at midnight singing hymns of praise. Declaring the truth unwaveringly before the enraged Sandhedrim, before Felix, before Agrippa, before the emperor Nero himself. Even in the last of his many imprisonments, when an old and grey-headed man-his mission nearly accomplished, his life-conflict nearly over; his body chained down in a Roman dungeon, and a death of torture awaiting him-see his eye glisten as he

dictates those glowing words, "I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day." And this glorious course of heroic suffering he closed by being beheaded!

There is JOHN, too-the amiable, loving, retiring John - who was imprisoned, scourged, banished to Patmos, plunged, as old traditions say, into a caldron of oil, (though he came out unhurt), and died at last enfeebled with age, after having maintained his consistency through a life in which he had many a time suffered more than a martyrdom. And there is PETER, whose life we all know, and who ended it by being crucified with his head downwards: and JAMES, the Lord's brother, who led the believers to martyrdom, being stoned, with a prayer for the forgiveness of his murderers on his lips: and MANY MORE, whom we know, and whom we do not know, but whose names are written in the Book of Life.

If unwavering allegiance to truth constitute a Hero, these men were Heroes. If a manly and bold, yet unostentatious defence of the truth constitute a Hero, these men were Heroes. If suffering and death for the right and good make a Hero, these men were Heroes. Through our widely different path, may our course be as heroic as theirs; and at the end of our journey, may we be fitted to join them in the land where they and their Glorious Leader are assembled !

Tales and Sketches.

THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.

"HOME!" How that little word strikes upon the heart-strings, awakening all the sweet memories that had slept in memory's chamber! Our home was a "pearl of price" among homes; not for its architectural elegance-for it was only a fourgabled, brown, country house, shaded by two antediluvian oak trees; nor was its interior crowded with luxuries that charm

every sense and come from every clime. Its furniture had grown old with us, for we remembered no other; and though polished as highly as furniture could be, by daily scrubbing, was somewhat the worse for wear, it must be confessed.

But neither the house nor its furnishing makes the home: and the charm of ours lay in the sympathy that linked the nine that called it "home" to one another. Father, mother, and seven children-five of them

gay-hearted girls, and two boys, petted just enough not to be spoiled-not one link had ever been dropped from the chain of love, or one corroding drop fallen upon its brightness.

"One star differeth from another star in glory," even in the firmament of home. Thus-though we could not have told a stranger which sister or brother was dearest-from our gentle "eldest," an invalid herself, but the comforter and counsellor of all beside, to the curly haired boy, who romped and rejoiced in the appellation of "baby," given five years before-still, an observing eye would soon have singled out sister Ellen as the sunbeam of our heaven, the "morning star" of our constellation. She was the second in age, but the first in the inheritance of that load of responsibility which, in such a household, falls naturally upon the eldest daughter. Eliza, as I have said, was ill from early girlhood: and Ellen had shouldered all her burden of care and kindness, with a light heart and a lighter step. Up stairs and down cellar, in the parlour, nursery, or kitchen-at the piano or the wash tub-with pen, pencil, needle, or ladle-sister Ellen was always busy, always with a smile on her cheek, and a warble on her lip.

Quietly, happily, the months and years went by. We never realised that change was to come over our band. To be sure, when mother would look in upon us, seated together with our books, paintings, and needle work, and say, in her gentle way, with only half a sigh," Ah, girls, you are living your happiest days!" we would glance into each other's eyes, and wonder who would go first. But it was a wonder that passed away with the hour, and ruffled not even the surface of our sisterly hearts. It could not be always so-and the change came at last!

Sister Ellen was to be married!

It was like the crash of a thunder bolt in a clear summer sky! Sister Ellen-the fairy of the hearthstone, the darling of every heart-which of us could spare her? Who had been so presumptuous as to find cut her worth? For the first moment, this question burst from each surprised, half angry sister of the blushing, tearful Ellen! It was only for a moment; for our hearts told us that nobody could help loving her, who had ever looked through her loving blue eyes, into the clear wellspring of the heart beneath. So we threw

our arms around her, and hid our faces on her shoulder and lap, and sobbed without a word!

We knew very well that the young minister, whose Sabbath sermons and gentle admonitions had won all hearts, had been, for months, a weekly visitor to our fireside circle. With baby Georgie on his knee, and Georgie's brother and sisters clustered about him, he had sat through many an evening, charming the hours away, until the clock startled us with its unwelcome nine o'clock warning; and the softly spoken remainder," Girls, it is bed time!" woke more than one stifled sigh of regret. Then sister Ellen must always go with us, to lay Georgie in his little bed; to hear him and Annette repeat the evening prayer and hymn her lips had taught them; to comb out the long brown braids of Emily's head; to rob Arthur of the story book, over which he would have squandered "the midnight oil;" and to breathe a kiss and a blessing over the pillow of each other sister, as she tucked the warm blankets tenderly about them.

We do not know how often, of late, she had stolen down again, from these sisterly duties, after our senses were locked in sleep; or if our eyes and ears bad ever been open to the fact, we could never have suspected the minister to be guilty of such a plot against our peace! That name was associated, in our minds, with all that was

superhuman. The gray haired pastor, who had gone to his grave six months before, had sat as frequently in that same oaken arm-chair, and talked with us. We had loved him as a father and friend, and had almost worshipped him as the embodiment of all attainable goodness. And when Mr. Neville came among us, with his high pale forehead, and soul-kindled eye, we had thought his face also," the face of an angel" too glorious for the print of mortal passion! Especially after, in answer to an urgent call from the people among whom he was labouring, he had frankly told them that his purpose was not to remain among them, or anywhere on his native shore; that he only waited the guidance of Providence to a home in a foreign clime. After this much-bewailed disclosure of his plans, we placed our favourite preacher on a higher pinnacle of saintship.

But sister Ellen was to be married-and married to Mr. Neville! And then-" Oh,

sister, you are not going away to India!". burst from our lips, with a fresh gush of sobs.

I was the first to look up into Ellen's troubled face. It was heaving with emotions that ruffled its calmness, as the tidewaves ruffle the sea. Her lips were firmly compressed; her eyes were fixed on some distant dream, glassed with two tears, that stood still in their chalices, forbidden to fall. I almost trembled as I caught her glance.

"Sisters! Agnes Emily!" she exclaimed, in a husky whisper, "Hush! be calm! Don't break my heart! Do I love home less than"

The effort was too much; the words died on her lips. We lifted her to the bed, frightened into forgetfulness of our own grief. We soothed her until she, too, wept freely and passionately, and, in weeping, grew strong for the sacrifice to which she had pledged her heart.

We never spoke another word of remonstrance to her tender heart, though often, in the few months that flitted by us together, we used to choke with sobbing, in some speech that hinted of the coming separation, and hurry from her presence to cry alone.

Our mother has told us the tidings, with white lips that quivered tenderly and sadly. No love is so uniformly unselfish as a mother's surely; for though she had leaned on Ellen as the strong staff of her declining years, she sorrowed not, as we did, that she was going. She was too happy in the thoughts that her child had found that "pearl of price" in a cold and evil worlda true, noble, loving heart, to guide and protect her.

Father sat silently in the chimney corner, reading in the large family Bible. He was looking further than any of us-to the perils that would environ his dearest daughter, and the privations that might come upon her young life, in that unhealthy, uncivilized corner of the globe, whither she was going. But both our parents had dedicated their children to God; and they would not cast even a shadow on the path of self-sacrifice and duty their darling had chosen.

To come down to the unromantic little details of wedding preparations: how we stitched and trimmed, packed and prepared, -how we stoned raisins with tears in our eyes, and seasoned the wedding cake with

sighs. But there is little use in thinking over these things. Ellen was first and foremost in all, as she had always been in every emergency, great or small. Nothing could be made without her. Even the bride-cake was taken from the oven by her own fair hands, because no one-servant, sister, or even mother-was willing to run the risk of burning sister Ellen's bride-cake; and she "knew just how to bake it."

We were not left alone in our labours; for Ellen had been loved by more than the home-roof sheltered. Old and young, poor and rich, united in bringing their gifts, regrets, and blessings to the chosen companion of the pastor they were soon to lose. There is something in the idea of missionary life that touches the sympathy of every heart which mammon has not too long seared. To see one, with sympathies and refinements like our own, rend the strong ties that bind to country and home, comfort and civilization, for the good of the lost and degraded heathen, brings too strongly into relief, by contrast, the selfishness of most human lives led among the gaieties and luxuries of time.

The day, the hour, came. The ship was to sail on the ensuing week; and it must take away an idol.

She stood up in the village congregation, that all who loved her, and longed for another sight of her sweet face, might look upon her, and speak the simple words that should link hearts for eternity. We sisters stood all around her, but not too near; for our hearts were overflowing, and we could not wear the happy faces that should grace a train of bridesmaids. She had cheered us through the day, with sunshine from her own heart, and even while we were arraying her in her simple white, like a lamb for sacrifice, she had charmed our thoughts into cheerfulness. It seemed like some dream of fairy land, and she the embodiment of grace and loveliness, acting the part of some Queen Titania for a little while. The dream changed to a far different reality, when, at the door of her mother's room, she put her hand into that of Henry Neville, and lifted her eye with the look that said, "Where thou goest will I go, even from all besides !"

Tears fell fast in that assembly; though the good old matrons tried to smile, as they passed around the bride, to bless her and bid her good-bye. A little girl, in a

patched but clean frock, pushed forward with a bouquet of violets and strawberry blossoms in her hand.

" "Here, Miss Nelly-please, Miss Nelly," she cried, half laughing, half sobbing, "I picked them on purpose for you!"

Ellen stooped and kissed the little, eager face. The child burst into tears, and caught the folds of her dress, as though she would have buried her face there. But a strong-armed woman, mindful of the bride's attire, snatched the child away.

"And for what would ye be whimpering in that style, as if you had any right to Miss Ellen ?"

"She was always good to me, and she's my Sunday School teacher !" pleaded the little girl, in a subdued undertone.

Agnes drew her to her side, and silently comforted her.

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Step aside-Father Herrick is here!" said one just then.

The crowd about the bridal pair opened, to admit a white haired, half blind old man, who came leaning on the arm of his rosy grand-daughter. Father Herrick was a superannuated deacon, whose good words and works had won for him a place in every heart of that little assembly.

46 'They told me she was going," he murmured to himself; "they say 'tis her wedding. I want to see my little girl againbless her!"

Ellen sprang forward, and laid both her white, trembling hands in the large hand of the good old man. He drew her near his failing eyes, and looked searchingly into her young, soul-lit countenance.

"I can just see you, darling; and they tell me I shall never see you again! Well, well-if we go in God's way, we shall all get to heaven; and it's all light there!" He raised his hand over her head, and added, solemnly," The blessing of blessings be upon thee, my child. Amen!"

"Amen!" echoed the voice of Henry Neville.

And Ellen looked up with the look of an angel.

So she went from us! Oh, the last moment of that parting hour has burnt itself into my being for ever! Could the human heart endure the agony of parting like that, realised to be indeed the last-lighted by no ray of hope for eternity? Would not reason reel under the pressure?

It was hard to bear; but I have no words to tell of its bitterness. She went to her

missionary life; and we learned, at last, to live without her; though it was many a month before the little ones could forget to call on "Sister Ellen" in any impulse of joy, grief, or childish want. Then the start, and the sigh," Oh, dear, she's gone— sister is gone!" And fresh tears would flow.

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"Gone, but not lost;" for that marriage in the family opened to us a fountain of happiness, pure as the spring of self-sacrifice could make it. Our household darling has linked us to a world of needy and perishing spirits-a world that asks for the energy and the aid, not only of those who go from us, but of those who remain in the dear country of their birth. God bless her and her charge!

Already she has been the means of turning many poor benighted ones from darkness unto light; if we meet not again on earth, we shall assuredly meet around the throne. For there is no one who gives up house, or land, or father, or mother, for Christ's sake, who will go at last without a blessed reward; and we know that they who are wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, AND THEY THAT TURN MANY TO RIGHTEOUSNESS AS THE STARS, FOR EVER AND EVER.

BUNYAN AND HIS LITTLE BLIND CHILD.

One of the most touching things in all the labouring, suffering, struggling life of Bunyan, is his artless account of his sorrow in leaving his blind child, when he was about to take up his residence in Bedford jail. This imprisonment was not unexpected. The arbitrary, persecuting laws which signalized the reign of Charles the Second from its commencement, had armed the authorities of the realm with power to imprison the persons and confiscate the goods of all who should be found either preaching or hearing the gospel outside the walls of the parish church, or praying without the prayer book in their hands. Bunyan very well knew that he should be one of the first to feel the effects of these measures, and he accordingly prepared himself. His forebodings were not long unrealized, for having made an appointment to preach on a certain day, the Justice of the Peace heard of it, and issued a warrant for his arrest. This fact was soon known to Bunyan and his friends, and he might have given up the meeting for that

time, and retired to a place of safety, had he chosen. But, no, he will not flee! He says, "I feared that if I should run, now that there was a warrant out for me, I might, by so doing, make them afraid to stand, when great words only should be spoken against them. Besides, I thought that seeing God of his mercy should choose me to go upon the forlorn hope in this country, that is, to be the first that should be opposed for the gospel,-if I should fly, it might be a discouragement to the whole body that might follow after. And, further, I thought that the world thereby would take occasion at my cowardliness to have blasphemed the gospel, and to have had some grounds to suspect worse of me and my profession than I deserved." He does not, we see, come to his decision without much consideration and prayer. He considers the effect of his example upon the weak and timid among the people of God; and though it was probably hard to come to it, his deliberate conclusion was, "I will stay and hold my meeting, let the consequences be what they may." We know that it was hard for him to make up his mind to go to prison, not so much because he dreaded imprisonment, but his family, his forsaken, destitute family, rose up before his mind's eye, appealing powerfully to his feelings as a husband and father. Especially did it go to his heart to leave his blind child. He says, "Notwithstanding these spiritual helps, I found myself a man encompassed with infirmities. The parting with my wife and poor children hath often been to me in this place as the pulling the flesh from my bones; and that not only because I am somewhat too fond of these mercies, but also because I should often have brought to my mind the many hardships, miseries, and wants that my poor family was likewise to meet with, especially my poor blind child, who lay nearer my heart than all I had beside. Oh, the thoughts of the hardships I thought my blind one might go under, would break my heart to pieces. Poor child, thought I, what sorrow art thou like to have for thy portion in this world! Thou must be beaten, must beg, suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand calamities, though I cannot now endure the wind shall blow upon thee. But, yet, recalling myself, thought I, I must venture you all with God, though it goeth to the quick to leave you. Oh, I saw in this condition I was as a man who is pulling

down his house upon the head of his wife and children; yet, thought I, I must do it, I must do it. And now I thought on those two milch kine that were to carry the ark of God into another country, to leave their calves behind them."

How beautiful is this relation, and how does it open to us the rich vein of tenderness in Bunyan's heroic heart! We are apt to clothe those noble souls of Bunyan's stamp, those Christian warriors who stood in the breach, fighting stoutly for "liberty to worship God," in those old, trying days, we are apt to think of them as all stern and grim, and unaffected by mere earthly joys and sorrows. Here the veil is lifted, and we see underneath their grave, calm steadfastness, a pure, strongly-flowing current of human affection and feeling. That, although so richly endowed with strength to do and bear, they were not wanting in that lovely grace of charity that fertilizes and beautifies the soul.

Following Bunyan to his damp and narrow cell in the Bedford jail, we find him there solaced by the company of his little blind daughter. It is said that the wet unwholesome state of this jail, standing as it did upon a bridge, first inspired the celebrated John Howard with a desire to improve the condition of jails and prisons. We can judge something of its state from this fact form some idea of the sufferings and privations that Bunyan endured for conscience' sake. But there was a bright side to the picture. Every morning came this blind daughter to cheer the heart of the lonely father. She brings in a wellsecured parcel the materials for the day's work, for Bunyan even here labours assiduously in aid of his family. He cannot of course carry on any longer his humble trade of tinker, but he has learned since he came to prison to make tagged laces. Upon them they work together perseveringly through the day, not a long one, for time thus devoted to honest labour and hallowed by love and peace could not have seemed long; and at evening, with the laces that have been completed, the little girl goes home to her mother. It is easy to suppose that the father could not willingly settle to his work in the morning, until he had embraced his dear one-that he listened anxiously every time he heard the jailer's step in the passage, for the accompanying sound of a small foot, that came at last, making his pulses leap, and

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