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THE MERCHANT'S CLERK.

CHAPTER IV,

WHEN Mr. Maxwell took his departure, we went on to the counting-house, and there Mr. Arnold introduced me to his clerks, and particularly commended me to a little sharp-featured man, who I soon found was a person of some importance. Mr. Dawson had been an inmate of that counting-house between twenty and thirty years, and he had gradually become a most serviceable friend to his employers. His knowledge of mercantile concerns always appeared to me quite wonderful, though he possessed none of the talent necessary for a director.

Mr. Dawson was then perhaps about five and forty years of age; the other clerks were generally much younger; one was a mere lad, like myself. I sat very stiff and quiet on my high stool, referring every now and then to Mr. Dawson for instructions, and the first day passed without any incident worth mentioning. I felt very strange, and stared and gaped with astonishment when I accompanied my new acquaintance, Mr. Dawson, to the Bank, and the India House, and many other houses and offices; and I took off my hat, and made a low bow, which nobody noticed, when I entered or quitted any office with him.

The next day Mr. Arnold begged Mr. Dawson to look out for a lodging for me in the neighbourhood where he resided. And I soon after heard that a Mrs. Thompson, a widow lady, whose house commanded at view of Kennington Common, then a green and airy spot, had consented to receive me as a sort of boarder into her family. Mr. Arnold, however, declared that I should remain as his guest till after Christmas.

I have little to relate of the few weeks which passed during my stay in Lane. I became better acquainted with the clerks. I saw more of London. My hand-writing improved. Mrs. Arnold and her daughters called me by my christian name. I received a long letter from my dear mother, and a very few lines from my aunt. I wrote also to them the longest letter I had ever written.

It was about the beginning of December that the partner of Mr. Arnold, who had been, on some affairs of consequence to the house, to Holland, returned home.

Mr. Ernst Von Brekelman, or as he was called in England Mr. Brekelman, was by birth a German, and had passed the first years of his life at Frankfort on the Maine, his native place. At the age of fifteen, he came to England, and was received into the house of Mr. Arnold's father. He wrote in the counting-house as a clerk for three years, and then returned to Frankfort. His father had been long a friend and correspondent with the firm of Arnold and Co., and both parties were well pleased, when, after an absence of ten years, Mr. Ernst again visited England, and declared himself the suitor of Miss Henrietta Arnold. The marriage was celebrated within two months afterwards, and the firm of Arnold and Co. was soon changed to that of Arnold, Brekelman, and Co. Mrs. Brekelman died about a year after her marriage, but her husband still remained in England, and devoted himself most unremittingly to business. He was the sternest and the strictest man I ever met with. saw that from the day of his return, the counting-house became an altered place. Whenever Mr. Arnold had

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been absent the clerks had freely indulged in conversation, and paid little attention to the mild shrill voice of little Mr. Dawson. They had sometimes gathered in social groups before the fire. But when Mr. Brekelman came back, and resumed his most elevated seat before the most elevated desk, the clicking of the clock might be heard for hours during the awful silence, interrupted only by the visits of persons on business, whom he always dismissed with as few words as possible. No intimate associate, from a neighbouring office, then sauntered in, and lounged about the desk of any one of the clerks, recounting, in an undervoice, the adventures of the past evening, while many a pen was suspended, and many a head stretched eagerly forward to hear what had occurred. No newspaper was carelessly taken up, and conned over with a feeling of increasing interest, till the day-book or the ledger were forgotten. All was carried on in exact and silent regularity, and if a person quitted his desk, and whispered to another, the whisper was generally audible enough to convey some such sense as" When did we last receive advices from Foster's house ?" "What sum was paid into Price, Lloyd, and Co's." If a person chanced to raise his head, he was sure to find the stern countenance of old Mr. Brekelman raised at the same moment, with his large owl-eyes scowling beneath his frowning brows, or to hear his loud harsh voice suddenly calling out, "Any thing you wish to know, Saar? You had better look to your books, Saar." Mr. Brekelman was remarkably tall and thin; but being large-boned, and large-featured, there was a strange sort of gauntness about his whole appearance: he dressed in the old style, with knee and shoe buckles, and ruffles at his wrists. I have often heard him abused for his formal and unrelaxing strictness; but he was so consistent in his conduct, and sometimes, though but seldom, he betrayed so much real, hearty benevolence from beneath the ice of his exterior surface, that he commanded the respect of those who knew him. He took little notice of me, except by telling me, when first we met, that he remembered my aunt when she was a blooming girl. But he looked as awfully severe on me, as on any of his clerks, whenever I was noisy or inattentive in his presence.

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I am sorry to say that the kindness I met with from my new friends had a bad effect on me. I became most insufferably opinionated and self-conceited. I put down the kindness and attention which I received as a homage payed to my own deserts. I talked incessantly when in the presence of Mrs. Arnold and her daughters, and talked on subjects which could not interest them. might have seen that my conversation wearied my hearers, for Mrs. Arnold and Susan generally replied in monosyllables, though with their usual sweetness of manner; while Julia paid no attention whatever to me, but took up a book, and sometimes turned entirely away from me. The irregular habits of Julia continued, and Mr. Arnold often gave us lectures on the importance of regularity, and I, who happened to be an early riser, used to look up to him as he spoke with a feeling of great self-satisfaction. Sometimes I ventured a remark on the same subject, declared my conviction that nothing could be done without regularity, described to Mrs. Arnold the regular habits. of my aunt's household-in fact, I interfered when it would have become me to have attended to myself. I saw that when I was speaking Julia often laughed to herself,

or stared on me with rather a contemptuous astonishment; and her manner soon lost much of its warmth and friendliness towards me. On many other occasions I was equally impertinent.

My vanity, however, was soon well humbled. Thomas Arnold, the eldest son of my friends, came home. He had been many years at Eton, and was to go to Cambridge the following autumn. He seemed to be a favourite with every one in the house, and his return was hailed with one general feeling of delight.

We were sitting in the drawingroom when a loud knock was heard at the door, every one rose, for it was the day and the hour that Thomas Arnold was expected. The two girls rushed out of the room. Mrs. Arnold threw down her work, and Mr. Arnold put down the newspaper, and walked to the window. We soon distinguished the bounding tread of some one ascending the stairs, and the glad voices of Julia and Susan welcoming their brother. In another moment Thomas Arnold entered with his two delighted sisters clinging to each of his arins. He kissed his mother fondly, and even pressed his lips to the cheek of his father. All this time I stood unnoticed, till Susan observed me, and immediately led her brother towards me. He shook hands with me very heartily, and talked for a few moments with hearty good nature to me. Then he turned round again to his sisters and to his parents, and seemed as if he had entirely forgotten that I was in the room. I now and then offered a few words in my new, presumptuous style of conversation, but now even the gentle and wellbred Susan stared at me, as if she had not heard a word I spoke, and was soon called back, even in looks, to attend only to the lively questions of her brother.

But my

The easy and good-humoured manner of Thomas Arnold soon drew me to the same self-conceited familiarity with him as with the rest of his family. My good opinion of myself, my outward self especially, now received a check. I came up one Wednesday afternoon into the drawing-room, and finding no one there, took up a book, and sat down near the window to read as long as I could by the dusky light. The door, leading from the room where I sat into another sittingroom, was open, and I soon heard by their voices that Thomas Arnold and his sisters were there. book was a volume of the Arabian Nights, and I did not care to leave the adventures of Aladdin. The dull light, however, grew more and more dull, and as my eyesight failed me, I suppose my sense of hearing became more acute. My own name first caught my attention. I did not wish to listen. I was just going to give notice of my near presence by a loud cough, when some words, spoken more loudly, stopped my cough, or rather turned it into a gape of surprise-"Oh, don't tell me," said Julia, with an indignant voice, "his selfconceit is intolerable! Yes, he was very well when he first came. I liked him, because his manner was so natural. Good natured! Oh, yes! and what should make him otherwise? But he always seems best pleased with himself. How he does talk-prose, I should say! He goes on and on, never tired with the same dull subject-self-When I was there! when I said so! when I was asked! always I!! How you can

listen to him, Susan, surprises me, but how you and mamma can answer him is perfectly astonishing! Oh, Thomas," she cried out, but she could scarcely continue speaking, for her voice seemed kept down by irrepressible laughter, "Oh, my dear Thomas, if you could have seen him to day, poor vain creature, as he stood beside, or rather a little behind you, before the large looking-glass between the windows. I saw such a smile of self-satisfied admiration pass over his broad face as he seemed to compare himself with you. He patted his sleek hair so fondly on each side of his head, and drew up his chin from his tight throttling neckcloth, and looked down with a sort of restless glancing over his whole person, as if he could scarcely believe that the glass was a faithful mirror to such a charming figure. And then he turned on his heel, with that little, vulgar, careless half-whistle. I'm glad he did not meet my countenance when he turned, for I could not have restrained a peal of laughter." "Poor fellow," I heard Susan say, "how can you abuse him so? He will grow out of these little faults. I'm sure he will. Really, Julia, I must tell you that you are excessively rude to him."

"Oh, I don't care," said she, in a laughing reckless voice, "I wish him to see that I don't particularly admire his ways. Then his insolence at breakfast-how he chimes in with papa, and looks upon me with such conscious superiority, because he is always down early with his shining morning face."

"Pray don't speak so loudly, Julia," said Susan, "or rather drop this subject. I never heard you speak so ill-naturedly of any one."

"I should like him to hear me," replied Julia, still more loudly," he wants a little humbling."

"But you would not hurt his or any one's feelings, would you, Julia?"

"Feelings! don't fear, his feelings are not so easily wounded, they are well covered by a shield of selfconceit; one must pierce that first, which would be no very easy work, to

"Do stop, Julia," exclaimed her brother, "you are now getting unjust, very unjust, as well as unkind; poor fellow, I dare say his feelings are delicate enough; one might soon find out that, he has such a way of colouring up. To tell you the truth, Miss Julia, I don't quite admire your way of abusing a person behind his back, it's not like you, Julia. You were always violent in your likes and dislikes, but I never remember this new accomplishment of your's-this scandal talking. It is beneath you, Julia."

Julia replied loudly, and in anger to her brother; but I heard again Susan's sweet, beseeching voice, and when Julia spoke again, her voice faltered, she confessed herself wrong, she spoke kindly about me, nay, the whole tide of her feelings towards me seemed to have been turned, for as she continued speaking, I felt the tears rush into my eyes, and I loved her the better for the lesson I had received, it now taught me, as all rebukes should teach, making me feel the truth of the words, without being offended by the speaker. The two girls went up stairs together, and Thomas also left the room, but as they did not pass through the drawingroom, I was not discovered. In a few minutes after I

rose up, and treading lightly on the thickly carpetted staircase, I stole to my own room.

I first met Julia again in the dining room, and the moment she saw me, she said with an air of charming frankness, "You must shake hands with me, John, and forgive me, for though you did not hear me, I have been abusing you in a very shameful manner, and I am very sorry for it."

I could not resist, when I next stood near a large looking-glass with Thomas, I could not resist judging what truth there was in the remark of Julia. My vision seemed to have undergone a change, for I no longer thought my style of dress so superior, but I am sorry to say that my vanity was rather turned into a new channel than humbled. I was convinced that my appearance was not fashionable, but I was not convinced that my outward appearance ought to have been of inferior consideration to me. I became more anxious than I had ever been about my dress, and I did not feel well satisfied with myself till I had entirely, though gradually, substituted the most fashionable apparel for the blue coat, waistcoat, and trowsers, the black silk handkerchief, and the laced high-low shoes, which I had been accustomed to wear.

But while I grew thus attentive to my outward appearance, I neglected more and more the state of my inward self. The Bible, my mother had given me, lay unopened week after week. My prayers, which had never been very long or very earnest, were always hurried through, and very often neglected altogether. God forbid that I should sit in judgment upon others, or condemn any one but myself, but I sometimes look back to the habits of Mr. Arnold's family, at that time, and grieve over the apparent forgetfulness of God, the apparent inattention to every thing like religion among them, and I do not wonder that I thought and cared so little about the matter. They were upright, honourable; to all appearance strictly moral; kind and pleasing in their manners, and it seemed to me, that they could be all this without religious principles, or any acknowledgement of God. I do not say that I reasoned thus, for I was not conscious of any reasoning about the thing. I do not say that they did not live to God in secret, for I have had good reasons since to believe that in a way they did; but religion was among them like something they were ashamed of. The family never once, that I remember, met together, children, servants and all, to ask for pardon, as repentant sinners, or to pray for God's help, or God's blessing through the Saviour who died for them. I know that religion is not according to the new fashion of the present day, talking about religion, or even knowing about religion; but it is not only a reasonable duty of the creature, but it is according to the positive command of God, that His children should unite together in the great congregation, or in the gathering together of even two or three, from the highest to the lowest, from the eldest to the youngest of the family, with confession, and with prayer and praise, to seek His presence as a God of grace, who is always present with them as a God of providence. But, alas! such is the way of the natural man, and to use the words of a great living writer, "Nature is in a state of exile from God, and

such a middle region, as the one we at present occupy, where the creature enjoys himself amid the gifts, and cares not for the Giver, cannot long be tolerated. He is an anomaly on the face of creation, and will as such be swept away."

The Storm, or the Father and Daughter. THE gale increased the storm howled awfully around -the sea ran mountains high-the wind blew in hurricanes, and when the day dawned after that fearful night, the tempest still raged with unabated fury-the roaring waves still curled "their monstrous heads," and dashed against the isolated rock, on which stood one of those numerous Lighthouses erected on the dangerous parts of the coast of Great Britain. This Lighthouse was occupied by an aged man and his daughter.

The old man had hitherto scarcely known what it was to fear, but during that dark tempestuous night he had not closed his eyes, and as soon as morning dawned, he hastened to the window of the upper story of the Tower. His daughter was already there gazing so intently towards a rock at some distance from the Lighthouse, that she scarcely noticed her father's entrance. "It is an awful storm," said the old man. She answered not, but continued gazing with fixed and earnest attention. "Yes," she exclaimed at last, "I am not mistaken, it is surely a wreck which I see on the Black Rock." "Poor souls! poor souls!" said the old man. "Yes, I see plain enough the forepart of a vessel fast on the rock." They said no more, but stood gazing in deep and solemn silence.

The high waves rolled, and dashed. The wildfowl, disturbed from their resting places, mingled their screams with the noise of the angry elements; and the wind-the awful wind seemed to increase its dismal roarings. Who that were here could for a moment question the terrible majesty of Him who "rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm?" Are there any such that man, and his daughter, were not of these, if any such there be. They knew full well who it is that "commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, and lifteth up the waves of the sea ;" and as they stood gazing on the foaming ocean, the silent breath of prayer went up to Him who can "make the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still."

Ay,

"Father, dear father," exclaimed the startled maiden after a long pause, "I thought I heard a piercing shriek." "The screams of the wildfowl deceived you," answered the old man. They listened again, and cries for help were distinctly audible amid the roar of the tempestuous billows. "No, no, no; those are not the screams of the wildfowl," she said, "they are the cries of human beings in distress."" sure enough, it is even so," answered the old man. And, Oh, father," she continued, "I see the poor creatures clinging to the wreck; and, hark! again you hear the cry of horror. My poor fellowcreatures," added the tender and gallant female, " your cries are neither unheard, nor unregarded, we will do what we can to help you." "My child," said the father, grasping hold of his daughter's arm as she was prepar

ing to depart, "It must not be; to attempt to reach that wreck is to rush on certain death."

"All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them," was the command which occurred to the mind of the daughter.

She repeated the blessed words aloud, and as she kissed her aged parent's cheek, she added in the most gentle and respectful tone, "Father, my own dear father, if we had been thrown this night upon that dreary rock, and had held clinging to the wreck of our vessel, expecting every moment to be swept away by the waters which surrounded it, should we not cast a longing, ay, and an imploring eye towards this friendly Lighthouse? Should we not desire and expect that its inmates would at least make an effort to save us? And should we not do unto others as we would they should do unto us? And then, dear father," she continued, finding that the old man remained silent, and thoughtful, remember that the voice which spoke those gracious words was the same all-powerful voice that said to the stormy sea, Peace, be still;' and there was a great calm; and surely our good and gracious Captain will not refuse to guide us while we are seeking to obey His own command. May we not take up the words of your own favourite hymn and say,

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'Begone, unbelief, our Saviour is near,

And for our relief will surely appear;

In prayer let us wrestle, and He will perform; With Christ in the vessel we smile at the storm." "Well, well, the will of the Lord be done. If we perish, we perish. The floods lift up their waves, but the Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea."

Thus spoke the old man, and thus answered his fearless child,

"The floods, O Lord, lift up their voice, And toss the troubled waves on high; But God above can still their noise, And make the angry sea comply." They hastily descended the narrow staircase, and seizing the oars, were about to enter the little boat. Both of them paused, and both at the same instant knelt down in fervent supplication to Him at whose command the winds blow, and who alone can still the rage thereof.

Thus prepared for life or death, they commenced their perilous voyage. Who shall say that the Christian is a coward in the hour of danger? We may rest assured it is not those who have made their peace with God that are wont to quail and tremble when death and danger draw near. At all events they will notthey cannot hang back when duty calls them to go forward, and however the world may smile at and deride them in the hour of safety, that same world shall be forced, in the hour of difficulty and danger, to perceive the mighty difference there is between those who have, and those who have not, "the everlasting arms underneath" them.

The frail skiff, rowed by the father, and guided by his brave daughter, floated over the boisterous sea, and reached the Black Rock in safety. Thanks and blessings burst from the lips of those who had been clinging to life while all hope of relief had been sinking within

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The daughter for the last time contended with the storm, and the lower apartment of the Lighthouse was now well nigh filled with the grateful beings whose lives had been thus wonderfully preserved. The father stood beside his noble child on the very 'spot where they had both knelt down in prayer before commencing their dangerous undertaking.

"And now, dear friends," said the young woman,"we must not rob God of His glory. We must not forget that my dear father and myself have after all been only instruments in the hands of the Almighty for your preservation. Let them give thanks, Oh Lord, whom thou hast preserved," she continued, as she once more bowed down in prayer, and offered up her solemn and grateful praises to the God of winds and sea. companions followed her example, and knelt around her, and it might be said of the nine who were saved not one refused to give glory to God. The Lord “ put a new song in their mouth, even praise unto their God: many shall see it, and fear, and shall trust in the Lord." M. P. H.

JOURNAL OF A DISTRICT VISITOR. No. II.

Her

January 31, 1839.-In the course of my visits this day I entered one of those miserable and wretched human abodes (a cellar) in street, where a stranger is much at a loss in what position to hold himself, when descending the narrow, slippery, and winding steps, and where to avoid striking his forehead against the projecting wall above that narrow opening, through which he has to grope down into a dark, damp, and dreary hovel, where if he wishes to relieve himself from the stooping posture, he attempts to stand upright, he receives an unwelcome rebuff upon his head from the low ceiling, and is reminded that he had now entered the region of the poor and low

It was into one of those cellars I had now entered, and where from the darkness and smoke which filled the place, I could not distinguish an object before me. I heard, however, a voice saying, "wait a moment, Sir," and at that instant, directing my eyes to where I thought the voice proceeded, I discovered a young woman near a fire which was just bright enough to throw its light upon her face, the expression of that face was trouble and grief. She was lighting a candle, and said, in a deep earnest voice, you shall see them in a minute;" she then raised the hand which held the candle, and led me to the farthest corner of the place, where the dim light just sufficiently cleared away the darkness to disclose to my view a most affecting and paralizing sight! Two aged people lay there, stretch

ed on a bed, (or rather on something to serve that purpose,) on whose countenances the hand of death had already drawn some awful characters, though the vital breath yet lingered on their lips; still, it seemed as if the king of terrors in his disappointment at having been kept in so long a suspense, had with impatient revenge inflicted some of those deadly marks on the old man and his wife, as if to announce to them his certain though prolonged approach.

"There! look Sir, at my poor father and mother," said the devoted daughter, whilst her eyes rested first on the one, and then on the other, with an expression of mingled grief and joy upon her face, as if touched with their miserable condition, and yet rejoiced that they were still alive. "There," she said, "you see my only comfort, they lie here like two lambs, they have lived long-very long together, and now they are going to die together. To do full justice to the interesting picture before me, to describe the expression of the countenances which were turned to me by the daughter and her dying parents, I am, indeed, unableit was an affecting sight. But, if I was greatly affected with the misery of the scene before me, and had cause to lament over sin which has made such ravages in this world, so I had on the other hand, much more cause to rejoice when I saw how faith in Christ Jesus had overcome death, and had taken away the sting of the grave. For, blessed be God! when I entered into conversation with these dying people, I found, that, so far from being in any ways influenced by the painful circumstances surrounding them, they expressed their inward joy and peace in such a manner, as left no doubt on my mind that they were resting in the arms of the blessed Saviour, who had sent the Comforter into their hearts, which gave them that peace which this world could neither give nor take from them. They appeared to me like those travellers, who tell us, that when they ascended the summit of a high mountain, they have seen the clouds rolling beneath them, and while surrounded with the clear atmosphere, and the bright sunshine, they have felt as if belonging to another world. In all their answers to my questions, there I was reminded of the Apostle's words, "For us to live is Christ, and to die is gain." Never did I see the infirmities of old age more supported by that living Spirit within as in the case before me, and though the aged man was at the moment I spoke to him suffering great pain, yet it disturbed not the serenity and heavenly comfort which the mention of his Saviour seemed to bring to his soul. Oh! how vain, how lighter than vanity itself, the world appeared at that moment! and how welcome a friend seemed death! Blessed Father! may my last moments be like theirs! As I prayed by them they clasped my hands, and when attempted to rise from my kness, it was with some difficulty that I extracted my hands, they bathed them with their tears, and thus endeavoured to express their joy and gratitude.

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On the following day when I revisited the cellar, the spirit of the old man had departed; he had passed from time to eternity, from earth to heaven. His daughter led me up to the corpse of her beloved father, and with an exulting smile she said, "See how sweet

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and heavenly be looks." And this was not a mere fancy of hers, for when looking at the face which I had lately seen disfigured with pain and approaching death, I was, indeed, struck with its calm serenity and peace. I thought I could read on it, "Death where is thy sting? Grave where is thy victory?" I next turned to the aged woman who had not moved from the spot where her husband expired, she stretched out her feeble arm, she took hold of my hand, and said, [ shall soon follow him, good sir, he is gone to heaven."

Silently, and with my heart lifted up to God, I stood for some minutes, looking at the widow and then at the daughter. Not a tear, nor any expression of sorrow could I discover; death seemed to have changed its name and character in that poor abode, wretched and underground as it was, and instead of death I saw, as if inscribed upon the living-the dying-and the dead, in living characters-" Gain."

CORRESPONDENCE.

"And the soldiers likewise demanded of him, saying, and what shall we do? And he said unto them, Do violence to no man, neither accuse any falsely; and be content with your wages." Luke iii. 14.

Rev. Sir,-I hope you will excuse the liberty I have taken in thus adressing you, but on reading the 3rd number of the Christian Beacon, I find it said, "The Christian must by no means conceal his sentiments, but that he should hold them forth for the benefit of others;" whether my sentiments will be of any good to others, God only knows, may his blessing rest upon what I write, poor, feeble, and simple as it may be.

A few Sundays ago being at St. Peter's Church, I was very much struck with one verse of the second lesson, so much so that I could not for the life of me pay any attention to the remainder of the service. I went home and read that verse over and over several times the next day, it was still the same, I could not forget it. I took the Bible and read those words over and over again, and still I did the same for several days. At last I applied it to my self with prayer to God to enlighten my understanding, and shew me why I should be so uneasy about it, the verse is to be found in the 3rd Chapter of Luke, it is the 14th "And the soldiers likewise demanded of him, saying, and what shall we do, and he said unto them, do violence to no man, neither accuse any falsely, and be content with your wages."

verse,

Now, Sir, as to violence I thought I never had to my recollection done violence to any man, so I said to myself, that part of the verse cannot be the cause of its weighing so heavily on my mind. I applied the next parts, neither accuse any falsely: this like the other part I could not re. member to have done; but when I came to apply the next part, and to consider a little about being content with my wages, I could very well remember the time when I should not have been content, if I had had ten times as much as I now have. Thus, Sir, my eyes began to be partly opened. I went on to consider how was it that I had been so discontented. It was because I had been used to neglect the principal part of a soldier's duty, that which all soldiers should consider deeply, the duty they owe to God,--this it was which I had long neglected,-this was the cause of

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