brooch was broken, she would not believe her, but would think she was telling falsehoods, and would say it was done by her carelessness. But as God knows all about us, he will never punish as a fault that which was only an accident. However, he always knows when we are really guilty, and he "will by no means clear the guilty." Therefore, as God is acquainted with the secrets of all hearts, it is impossible for us to hide anything from him. We ought humbly to confess our sins to God and implore forgiveness.

When we confess our sins, we must ask for mercy in the name of Jesus. He has died for our sins. I made up the loss to the little girl, but it was a very small trifle, it did not cost me much; but it cost Christ much suffering to atone for our sins. "He was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor, that we through his poverty might be made rich." His precious blood was shed for us. The little girl had only broken a threepenny brooch; but we have lost our all. In Christ, however, we may have restored to us that "inheritance which is incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away."

I hope then, that, from this little story, the reader will learn; that they ought not to tell a lie to hide a fault; but to confess their sins to their heavenly Father, and seek forgiveness through Christ who died for sinners.

S. SMITH.

A MOURNFUL ACTOR DISMISSED.

AT Munich, in the year 1795, a new comedy was acted one night at the principal theatre. The part of one of the characters, whose duty it was to keep the audience in a perpetual roar of laughter, was sustained by a young man whose mournful actions and spiritless gestures were strangely at variance with the drolleries he uttered. He seemed to be about seventeen years old, his figure was tall and slender, his countenance pale, and his large blue eyes wore an expression of profound melancholy. The play was unmercifully hissed; and, as soon as it was over, while

the young actor was changing his dress, one of the atten dants made his appearance.

"Mr. Aloise Senefelder, "said he, "the manager wishes to speak to you immediately."

"Tell him I am coming," replied the young man; and hastily finishing his toilet, he repaired to the manager's

room.

"Mr. Senefelder," said the man in authority, "do you know that I am the author of the play acted to-night?

'Yes, sir," said Aloise, timidly.

"Do you know the piece is condemned?”

65

Sir," said Aloise, "I did my best

"To make it fail, and you have succeeded," said the incensed author. "From this moment you are no longer one of my company. Here is what I owe you- take it, sir, and withdraw.

Astonished at these words, Aloise stood like a statue. He seemed without power either to take the money or move. The book-keeper, who was present, at length took the few coins and placed them in his hand; and the cold contact of the silver recalling him to recollection, he clasped his hands convulsively together, and falling on his knees, burst into tears.

"Ah! don't send me away!- don't send me away!" he cried.

"In

"I want an actor, not a mourner," said the managerauthor, in whose ears the hisses were yet ringing. place of laughing, you weep."

"Sir, my father died two days ago, and is not buried for want of a coffin to contain his dear remains. My mother, and my five little brothers and sisters, have only me to depend on. Try me, then, Mr. Sparmann, try me once more, I beseech you."

"Sorry I can't grant your request," said the manager, taking up his hat and moving toward the door. As he passed Aloise, on whose pale face the burning tears seemed frozen by despair, the feelings of the man partly conquered

those of the author.

"Double the salary, and pay for the father's funeral,

Mr. Fitz," he said to the box-keeper, and then went out.

Fitz took a few crowns from the drawer, placed them in the hand of Aloise, helped him to rise; and then giving him his arm, assisted him out of the theatre.

Kindly supporting the poor boy's tottering steps, the box-keeper led him to an undertaker's shop, and gave orders for a humble coffin. Then seeing him able to walk to his mother's lodging, Fitz took leave of him, and returned to the theatre.

The widow inhabited a miserable apartment in an obscure part of the city. Want and misery were stamped on the innocent faces of the five little ones who surrounded her, and who with one accord rushed toward Aloise as he entered.

The eldest, a pretty girl about ten years old, drew them back, and putting her lips close to her brother's ear, whispered

Aloise ?"

"Have you brought any supper, "Here," said he, giving her the silver he had received. "So much as that?" said the sister; "they must be much pleased, to give you so many crowns."

"So much pleased, Marianne, that they have dismissed me."

"Then you are no longer an actor?" said one of the little boys. "So much the better. It is an ungodly profession, our curate says."

"Yes," rejoined another child, "but how shall we get money to buy bread, if Aloise does nothing?"

"Hush, hush," said Marianne; "don't let your dear mamma hear this bad news to-night. We will pray to God, who has taken papa to Himself, and perhaps he will send us some consolation."

Aloise was silent. He watched all night by his father's corpse, and the next morning followed it to the grave. Instead of returning home he wandered idly through the streets, pursued by the still recurring question. "What can I do?" Night approached. He thought of returning to his mother, recollecting how uncasy his absence would

make her; but when he looked around he knew not where he was. In absence of mind he had wandered far into the country, and the rushing of a river struck his ear. He approached its bank, and overcome by fatigue and hunger sank down upon the soft grass. For some time he watched the flowing water, till a dreadful idea entered his poor and harassed brain.

"Beneath that quiet wave," he thought, "all my woes will soon be ended. I am no longer good for anything. I am only a burden to my mother, giving her only another mouth to feed. I will therefore die, and all will be over.”

Aloise had been educated in sentiments of Christian piety; and now, like a ray of light from heaven, the thought struck him that he was meditating a fearful crime. He shuddered, and kneeling down, prayed fervently to God for pardon.

While on his knees, his ideas became gradually confused, the waters ceased to flow, and the stars to shine. Aloise slept.

When he opened his eyes it was daylight.

The scene around was gilded by the rising sun. He heard the pleasant singing of the birds, and his heart expanded with joy. He was still among the living-he had not accomplished his wicked resolution; and, falling again on his knees, he thanked God for his mercy. Notwithstanding his bodily weakness, he felt refreshed, and sat down for a few moments on the grass, to collect his thoughts, ere he set out on his return to the city.

While thus resting, his eyes fell on a smooth, white chalk stone, on which was traced the delicate semblance of a sprig of moss, with all its minute flowers and tender fibres. He remembered that the evening before his tears had fallen on this stone, and moistened the sprig of moss which had probably fallen on it from the beak of some wandering bird. Now the moss was no longer there, the wind had blown it away, but its impress remained so exquisitely traced on the smooth white surface of the stone, that the young German could not help being struck with the phenomenon.

"This means something," thought he. "I may have been led in mercy to this spot. I am a bad actor, a bad singer, but who knows? I may be reserved for something better."

Taking the stone in his hand, Aloise rose up and turned his step homeward.

At the gate of the city he met his little brother, whom his mother had sent to seek him. The child told him that an old uncle of their mother had come to see her the morning of the burial, and had given her a sum of money to relieve her wants.

"My God, I thank thee," said young Senefelder, mentally. He did not then know that the stone which he held in his hand would cause him in a few days still greater emotions of thankfulness. At first he employed his discovery only in ornamenting the covers of caskets, snuff-boxes, &c., but one day it occurred to him to take off on wet paper the picture drawn on stone. The experiment succeeded, and thus lithography, or printing from stone, was discovered.

In time, Aloise brought the art to perfection. He studied chemistry for the purpose; and rich and happy were his prosperous family around him. He felt that he never could be sufficiently thankful for having outlived his design of self-destruction.

"Why should we ever despair?" he would say, "God can turn our pain into pleasure, and our bitterness into joy."

MEMOIR OF JOHN SWEETLOVE, OF BOLTON. THE subject of the following sketch was born in the month of April, 1831, in Lever Street, Great Bolton. When he was only three years of age he sustained a serious loss by the death of his father. Owing in some measure perhaps to this circumstance, he lived till he was thirteen years of age without any desire for Sabbath school instruction, or any concern for his spiritual welfare; at that age he began to attend a Sunday-school in the neighbourhood where he resided. After a while he fell back