SHALL never forget the first time hearing

Blind Amos talk. It was one fine evening, and a number of us boys had been merrily playing on the green, until, as is not unfrequently the case with the games and amusements of this world, in our childhood and in boyhood-type of after-lifethe play had ended in a quarrel, and I am afraid there were some indications of a fight brewing among some of us. We were not far from Amos, who was sitting at his little garden gate. He called to us, and began to talk to us: 66 'Boys, you have had a good long game, and it will soon be time for you to go home; but before you go I have one word to say to you, and especially to the two of you I heard speaking so angrily just now. I fear you were going to fight; recollect, always before you begin to fight, to put on your velvet gloves. When I was a boy -I was not blind then-I remember it was just such an evening as I think this must be, I and a number of my playmates-all gone now, I know not where—had rambled through the woods and fields till, quite forgetful of the fading light, we found ourselves far from home; we found we had lost our way. It did so happen that we were nearer home than we thought; but how to get to it was the question. By the edge of the field we saw a man coming along, and we ran to ask him to tell us. Whether he was in trouble or not I do not know, but he gave us some very surly answer. Just then there came along another man, a nearer neighbour, and, with a merry smile. on his face, he said, 'Jem, a man's tongue is like a cat's; it is either a piece of velvet or a piece of sand-paper, just as he likes to use it, and to make it; and I declare you always seem

* From "Blind Amos." By the Rev. Paxton Hood. London: S. W. Partridge.

to use your tongue for sand-paper. Try the velvet, man, try the velvet principle.'

"I did not think then, I could not know, what velvet was to be to me in after-life, but I never forgot the good-humoured smile, the good-tempered tongue of that man: and I have often thought, when I have heard angry words rising, and have sometimes heard blows struck, things would have gone on far better if they tried the velvet principle. When I was apprenticed, there was a lad apprenticed with me, who tried all my patience and power of endurance; he took a strange dislike to me, and annoyed me in every way he could. I was a passionate mortal, and many a sharp and angry expression would come nearly to my tongue; but I prayed for grace to control my temper, and I often muttered to myself, 'Now, Amos, try the velvet.' Sometimes the sand-paper got the best of it: but I always found that while it exasperated and broke the skin it did no good to me; it did not make my life a bit more quiet. Every angry word left me more unhappy than before. I invariably said to myself, ' Why did you not try the velvet principle?'

"In the town where I was apprenticed, I knew a couple when I was nearly out of my time; and what an unhappy life they led, to be sure! They lived in our street-I do not say they came out into the street to wrangle, but everybody knew how unhappy their lives were. The name of the woman before she was married was Fife, and when her temper was very much vexed, her husband, I remember-a most provoking fellow-would sometimes come and stand at the street-door and ask the neighbours to come and listen to his fife, and inquire of them if they did not admire the sound of that fife, and very funny I dare say it was that he should say so; but I know that it

Then

always irritated his wife the more. sometimes she would take up the sandpaper, and when she began, I remember, she was quite a match for her husband. She would ask him if his temper did not want a poultice-if he had recovered from the tongue-ache-if she should get him a little tincture of nettles. They were the talk of the whole neighbourhood. I used to hear them, and think about the sandpaper and the velvet. I knew that one or the other would have been soothed and lulled by a kind word or two, and would have prevented the whole quarrel; and I used to think and say, 'Why, they would begin life again with quite a new, everlasting honeymoon, if they would only try the velvet principle.'

"Then I became, I hope, a Christian, and I found that the Christian's feet were to be shod with the preparation of the Gospel of Peace.' I found that the Christian, wherever he went, was to carry the spirit of peace, a loving heart, and a loving life; and I found, too, that the love of God in the heart is the only thing which will conquer temper, or the tongue, or make the 'speech to be, as the apostle said, 'always with grace, and seasoned with salt.' But I do think that after I became a Christian I❘ had more trials and infirmities of temper than before. I had a greater conflict with self, for I had more to live for; but every day, as I arose from and went to bed, I especially prayed that God would dwell in me by His love through Jesus Christ, and that He would make me more loving, that thus I might be able to carry out my favourite velvet principle.

"The best men sometimes get into trouble: the minister of our parish did something I forget what-that created a strong feeling against him. I do not know now whether he was right or wrong. I fancy he was right, for he bore a great deal of persecution with so meek and quiet a

spirit; he went about from house to house in the parish, apparently not heeding any of the remarks made about him. I knew there were no grounds for saying anything against his character: and he behaved, I remember, in so gentle and loving a manner, that in a month or two he won all hearts to him again. I have no doubt it was a severe struggle, but he conquered-conquered himself, and conquered the village. How much I admired him, and how gladly I beheld an illustration of my favourite doctrine it was a perfect triumph of the velvet principle.

"When I came to live in this village, and to follow my occupation here, I do not know why, but I found many of my neighbours did not like me. I never went to the public-house; I did not associate much with other people-I was thought to be above my station in life; I had innumerable sins of pride laid at my door. I lost many shillings, and, in consequence of this cruelty, I often, with my poor wife, passed a whole day with nothing to eat or to give to our children. Sometimes I thought I must leave the place-sometimes my faith began to fail; but God enabled me to hold on fast and firm. I determined to say nothing myself. I have always said, boys, if you will let a lie or any other bad thing alone, and not fight it, or kick it, or handle it, it will rot and die atlast; and so I found it: the good opinion of my neighbours came quite as unexpectedly and undeservedly as their censure. But I attribute the change to my following up my attachment to the velvet principle.

"Well, my dear boys, I dare say I have talked to you so long that you have quite forgotten what you were going to quarrel about; and I am sure you are very glad that I stopped you in the midst of the quarrel; and you will thank me, if you are wise boys, for having prevented you from giving way to bad tempers. Now,

recollect, that in the long run, gentleness is the truest strength. I know it will not seem so at first; there seems to be a good deal more power in a blow than a kind word, and much more power in an unkind look than a kind one; but it is not so: gentleness is the truest force. What does the Bible tell us is to lead the lion, the ox, and the wolf? Why, a little child. • A little child shall lead them.' The most weak and innocent thing you can think of shall lead the most cruel and savage creatures. When I was a boy, I remember hearing of a little girl who had some ornaments given to her by a good spirit; some people said they were fairy gifts; these ornaments were so

S

valuable that nothing on earth could buy them, and they were invisible, although they were always worn. The relations and friends of the girl could not make out what ornaments the good little spirit could have left.

They were not gold, nor diamonds, nor precious stones of any kind. At last it turned out that the ornaments were а meek and quiet spirit,' by which everything she did was to turn into gold, and everything she said was to turn into good. My boys, these are ornaments that God alone by His Spirit can give to you; but if He give them, you will never give way to evil dispositions nor be disposed to fight. In all your affairs of life try the velvet principle.'

OME years ago, an effort was made to collect all the chimney-sweepers in the city of Dublin, for the purpose of education. Among others came a little fellow, who was asked if he knew his letters.

"Oh, yes," was the reply.
"Do you spell?”

66

Oh, yes," was again the answer.

"Do you read?"

"Oh, yes."

"And what book did you learn from?" "Oh, I never had a book in my life, sir.'

"And who was your schoolmaster ?" "" Oh, I never was at school."

Here was a singular case: a boy could read and spell without a book or a master. But what was the fact?

Why, another little sweep, a little older than himself, had taught him to read, by showing him the letters over the shop-doors of the city. His teacher, then, was a little sweep like himself, and his book the signboards on the houses. What may not be done by trying!

and then turning, ran away as fast as my feet would carry me. I cannot tell you how much relieved I felt when I was far beyond the reach of temptation.

"On the next morning when I came down to breakfast I was startled and surprised to learn that Mr. Jones had been drowned on the day before. Instead of returning in a few hours, as he had stated to me that he would, he remained out all day. A sudden storm arose; his boat capsized, and he was drowned. I shuddered when I heard this sad and fatal accident related. That little word No had, in all probability, saved my life.

"I will now tell you, William,' my father said, turning to me, why I did not wish you to go with Mr. Jones. Of late he had taken to drinking; and I had learned, within a few days, that whenever he went out on a fishing or shooting excursion he took his bottle of spirits with him, and usually returned a good deal intoxicated. I could not trust you with such a man. I did not think it necessary to state this to you; for I was sure that I had only to express my wish that you would not accompany him, to insure your implicit obedience.'

"I felt keenly rebuked at this, and resolved never again to permit even the thought of disobedience to find a place in my mind. From that time I have felt the value of the word No, and have generally ever since been able to use it on all right

occasions.

It has saved me from many troubles. Often and often in life have I been urged to do things that my judgment told me were wrong: on such occasions I always remembered my first temptation, and resolutely said

"But is there not danger of my using it too often, and thus becoming selfish in all my feelings, and, consequently, unwilling to render benefits to others?"

"Certainly there is, Thomas. The right use of this word is to resist evil. To refuse to do a good action is wrong."

"If anyone asks me, then, to do him a favour, or kindness, I should not, on any account, say No?"

"That will depend, Thomas, in what manner you are to render him a kindness. If you can do so without really injuring yourself or others, then it is a duty which you owe to all men to be kind and render favours."

"But the difficulty I feel will be for me to discriminate. When I am urged to do something by one whom I esteem, my regard for him, or my desire to render him an obligation, will be so strong as to obscure my judgment."

"A consciousness of this weakness in your character, Thomas, should put you upon your guard."

"That is very true, father. But I cannot help fearing for myself. Still, I shall never forget what you have said, and will try my best to act from a conviction of right."

Do so, my son. And ever remember, that a wrong action is always followed by pain of mind, and very frequently by evil consequences. If you would avoid these, ever act from a consciousness that you are doing right, without regard to others. If another ask you, from a selfish desire to benefit or gratify himself, to do what your judgment tells you is wrong, surely you should have no hesitation in refusing."

The precept of his father, enforced when they were about parting, and at a time when his affection for that father was active and intense, lingered in the mind of Thomas Howland. He saw and felt its force, and resolved to act in obedience to it, if ever tempted to do wrong.