world the better for his existence? Did he promote the cause of human happiness? Did he advance one hairbreadth the progress of liberty and civilization? Ah! it had been well for the nations of the east had he never been born. He deserved neither a tear, nor a tomb! He richly merited to be hissed off the stage of being, and driven into darkness by the curses of mankind! His name should have been blotted out of the vocabulary of their tongues, or, if retained, it ought never to have been pronounced but with execration and horror! In all respects, he was diametrically opposed to the spirit, principles, and procedure, of the Christian missionary. The one destroyed, the other builds up, the social edifice. The one imparts felicity, the other inflicted calamity. The presence of the missionary excites songs of gladness; the presence of the warrior extorts groans of grief. The latter is a scourger, the former a comforter of mankind.”

All our readers will not be called to be missionaries to foreign lands; but all ought to enter upon a mission of benevolence and Christian charity, to do good to all men as they have opportunity. We also shall rejoice if, by this communication, we may induce you to aim, not at being worldly "Great," but morally "Good."

S. X.

WASHINGTON TURNED PHYSICIAN.

"IT must be, my child!" said the poor widow, wiping away the tears which slowly trickled down her wasted cheeks. There is no other resource. I am too sick to work, and you cannot, surely, see me and your little brother starve. Try and beg a few shillings, and perhaps by the time that is gone I may be better. Go, Henry, my dear: I grieve to send you on such an errand, but it must be done."

The boy, a noble-looking fellow of about ten years, started up, and, throwing his arms about his mother's neck, left the house without a word. He did not hear the groan

of anguish that was uttered by his parent as the door closed behind him; and it was well that he did not, for his little heart was ready to break without it. It was a by-street in Philadelphia, and as he walked to and fro on the side-walk, he looked first at one person and then at another, as they passed him, but no one seemed to look kindly at him, and the longer he waited the faster his courage dwindled away, and the more difficult it became to muster resolution to beg. The tears were running fast down his cheeks, but nobody noticed them, or, if they did, nobody seemed to care; for although clean, Henry looked poor and miserable, and it is common for the poor and miserable to cry.

Everybody seemed in a hurry, and the poor boy was quite in despair, when at last he espied a gentleman who seemed to be very leisurely taking a morning-walk. He was dressed in black, wore a three-cornered hat, and had a face that was as mild and benignant as an angel's. Somehow, when Henry looked at him, he felt all his fear vanish at once, and instantly approached him. His tears had been flowing so long that his eyes were quite red and swollen, and his voice trembled, but that was with weakness, for he had not eaten for twenty-four hours. As Henry, with a low, faltering voice, begged for a little charity, the gentleman stopped, and his kind heart melted with compassion as he looked into the fair countenance of the poor boy, and saw the deep blush which spread all over his face, and listened to the modest, humble tones which accompanied his petition.

"You do not look like a boy that has been accustomed to beg his bread," said he, kindly laying his hand on the boy's shoulder: "what has driven you to this step?"

"Indeed," answered Henry, his tears beginning to flow afresh, "indeed I was not born in this condition. But the misfortunes of my father and the sickness of my mother have driven me to the necessity now."

"Who is your father ?" inquired the gentleman, still more interested.

"My father was a rich merchant of this [city, but he became bondsman for a friend who soon after failed, and he was entirely ruined. He could not live after this loss, and

in one month he died of grief, and his death was more dreadful than any other trouble. My mother has until now managed to support herself and my little brother by her labour, and I have earned what I could by shovelling snow and other work that I could find to do. But the night before last, mother was taken very sick, and she has since become so much worse that "-(here the tears poured faster than ever)—“ I do fear she will die. I cannot think of any way in the world to help her. I have not had any work to do for several weeks. I have not had courage to go to any of my mother's old acquaintance and tell them that she had come to need charity. I thought you looked like a stranger, sir, and something in your face overcame my shame, and gave me courage to speak to you. O, sir, do pity my poor mother!"

The tears, and the simple and moving language of the poor boy, touched a chord in the breast of the stranger that was accustomed to frequent vibrations.

The benevolent stranger immediately sought the dwelling of the sick widow. He entered a little room in which he could see nothing but a few implements of female labour, a miserable table, an old bureau, and a little bed, which stood in one corner, on which the invalid lay. She appeared weak and almost exhausted; and on the bed at her feet sat a little boy, crying as if his heart would break.

Deeply moved at this sight, the stranger drew near the bedside of the invalid, and feigning to be a physician, inquired into the nature of her disease. The symptoms were explained in a few words, when the widow, with a deep sigh, added, "O, sir, my sickness has a deeper cause, and one which is beyond the art of the physician to cure. I am a mother-a wretched mother. I see my children sinking daily deeper and deeper in misery and want, which I have no other means of relieving. My sickness is of the heart, and death alone can end my sorrows; but even death is dreadful to me, for it awakens the thought of the misery into which my children would be plunged if" Here emotion checked her utterance, and the tears flowed unrestrained down her cheeks.

"Do not despair," said the benevolent stranger; “think only of recovery, and of preserving a life that is so precious children. Can I write a prescription here ?"

to your

The poor widow took a little Prayer-book from the hand of the child who sat with her on the bed, and tearing out a blank leaf

"I have no other paper," said she; "but perhaps this will do."

The stranger took a pencil from his pocket, and wrote a few lines upon the paper.

"This prescription," said he, "you will find of great service to you. If it be necessary, I will write you a second. I have great hopes of your recovery."

The mother took the paper, by which she was to receive the sum of one hundred dollars, from his own private property, to be doubled in case of necessity.

Let the children who read this story remember, that Washington, the celebrated American General, was not above entering the dwelling of poverty, and carrying joy and gladness to the hearts of its inmates.

MEMOIR OF BERNARD SEARLE.

BERNARD SEARLE was born at Tavistock, in Devonshire, on September 25, 1837. His parents, knowing the worth of religion, strove to "train up their child in the way he should go." From a very early age they regularly took him to the house of God, and sent him to the Sundayschool. They were very desirous that he should become wise, good, and happy. It is, however, a matter of deep regret with many Christian parents, that their endeavours, to lead their children into the "narrow way that leadeth unto life," appear to be in vain. But Bernard was not like those thoughtless and ungrateful young people who despise. good counsel, and, by sinful conduct grieve the hearts of their parents, and bring down their grey hairs with sorrow. to the grave. He was attentive to their teaching, and rendered cheerful obedience to their commands, and always

manifested gratitude for the favours which he received. He was remarkably kind in disposition; and had a strong love of truth. His faults were so few, and his excellences so many, that he was beloved by all who knew him. His day-school Master says, "he was the best boy in the school." His Sunday-school teachers say, "he was always a pattern of diligence and seriousness to the class." A minister who a few years since laboured in Tavistock, and who had a very intimate knowledge of Bernard, speaks of him in the following terms—

"I considered him remarkably quick in his perceptive faculties, and his memory was exceedingly retentive. His manners were very winning, chiefly from his kindness and good nature. Even when he was only seven years old, he seemed to prefer the happiness of others to his own. benevolent desires were always evident from his prayers. Often he would most fervently pray for God to convert the world and end its misery."

His

About two years before his death, his health began to decline. There was one short interval when it was thought he would recover, yet it was only a circumstance that created a hope that was to be bitterly disappointed. For there appeared again symptoms of a wasting disease, which so prostrated his energies that he never rallied again; but he became weaker and weaker, till death ended his sufferings; which, though great, were patiently endured.

At the commencement of his illness, he had a strong desire to recover, but the strength of that desire was soon subdued, and he became quite submissive to all the will of God.

Some months before his decease, he obtained a clear view of the Gospel-plan of salvation, and was enabled to believe on Christ, to the saving of his soul. Soon after this, he wrote to inform the minister, before referred to, as follows—

"The Lord has pardoned all my sins, and he has taken away my stony heart, and has given me a new heart, and a clean heart, and he has washed me in His blood who died for me. Sometimes I think I should like to live. Then I think I should rather die, and go to Heaven, and meet my dear father, and grandfather, and cousins, and all my friends.