light. The sheep which he was di-rect-ed to drive were oft-en re-luc-tant to leave their own pas-tures, and sometimes the in-ter-ven-tion of rivers and oth-er ob-sta-cles made their pro-gress pe-cu-li-ar-ly dif-fi-cult. On such oc-ca-sions Yar-row con-tin-ued his ef-forts to drive his plun-der for-ward, un-til the day be-gan to dawn, a sig-nal which, he con-ceived, ren-dered it ne-ces-sa-ry for him to de-sert his spoil, and slink home-wards by a circu-i-tous road.

An-oth-er in-stance of sim-i-lar sa-gac-i-ty a friend of mine dis-cov-ered in a beau-ti-ful lit-tle 'span-iel, which he had pur-chased from a deal-er in the ca-nine race. When he en-tered a shop, he was not long in ob-serying that his lit-tle com-pan-ion made it a rule to fol-low at some in-ter-val, and to es-trange it-self from its master so much as to ap-pear to-tal-ly un-con-nect-ed with him. And when he left the shop, it was the dog's custom to re-main be-hind him till it could find an op-portu-ni-ty of seiz-ing a pair of gloves, or silk stock-ings, or some sim-i-lar prop-er-ty, which it brought to its mas-ter. The poor fel-low prob-ab-ly saved its life by fal-ling in-to the hands of an hon-est man.-Sir Walter Scott.

LESSON LXXXVIII.—THE BETTER LAND. “I hear thee speak of a bet-ter land;

Thou call'st its chil-dren a hap-py band ;
Moth-er! oh where is that ra-di-ant shore ? -
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?
Is it where the flower of the or-ange blows,
And the fire-fies dance through the myr-tle boughs ?''

“Not there, not there, my child."
“Is it where the feath-er-y palm-trees rise,

And the date grows ripe un-der sun-ny skies ?

Or 'midst the green is-lands of glit-ter-ing seas,
Where fra-grant for-ests per-fume the breeze,
And strange bright birds, on their star-ry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glo-ri-ous things?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far a-way in some re-gion old,
Where the riv-ers wan-der o'er sands of gold?
Where the burn-ing rays of the ru-by shine,
And the di-a-mond lights up the se-cret mine,
And the pearlgleams forth from the cor-al strand;
Is it there, sweet moth-er, that bet-ter land?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gen-tle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams can-not pic-ture a world so fair,—
Sor-row and death may not en-ter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fade-less bloom,
For be-yond the clouds, and be-yond the tomb,

It is there, it is there, my child!"—Mrs. Hemans.


Rob-in-et, a peas-ant of Lor-raine, a prov-ince of France, af-ter a hard day's work at the next mar-kettown, was run-ning home with a bas-ket in his hand. "What a de-li-cious sup-per shall I have!" said he to him-self; "this piece of kid, well stewed down, with the on-ions sliced, thick-ened with my meal, and seas-oned with my salt and pep-per, will make a dish fit for the bish-op of the di-o-cese. Then I have a good piece of barley loaf at home to fin-ish with. How I long to be at it!"

A noise in the hedge now at-tract-ed his no-tice, and he spied a squir-rel nim-bly run-ning up a tree, and pop

ping in-to a hole be-tween the branch-es. "Ha!" thought he, "what a nice pres-ent a nest of young squir-rels will be to my lit-tle mas-ter; I'll try if I can get it." Up-on this he set down his bas-ket in the road, and be-gan to climb up the tree. He had half as-cend-ed, when casting a look at his bas-ket, he saw a dog with his nose in it, fer-ret-ing out the piece of kid's flesh. He made all pos-si-ble speed down, but the dog was too quick for him, and ran off with the meat in his mouth. Rob-in-et looked af-ter him, "Well," said he, "then I must be con-tent-ed with plain soup—and no bad thing either."

He trav-elled on, and came to a lit-tle -pub-lic-house by the road-side, where an ac-quaint-ance of his was sit-ting on a bench drink-ing. He in-vi-ted Eob-in-et to take a draught. Rob-in-et seat-ed him-self by his friend, and set his bas-ket on the bench close by him. A tame ra-ven which was kept at the house came sli-ly be-hind him, andperch-ing on the bas-ket, stole away the bag in which the meal was tied up, and hopped off with it to his hole. Rob-in-et did not per-ceive the theft till he had got on his way a-gain. He re-turned to search for his bag, but could hear no ti-dings of it. "Well," said he, "my soup will be the thin-ner, but I will boil a slice of bread with it, and that will do it some good at least."

He went on a-gain, and ar-rived at a lit-tle brook, over which was laid a nar-row plank. A young wom-an com-ing up to cross it at the same time, Eob-in-et gallant-ly of-fered his hand. As soon as she had reached the mid-dle, either through fear or sport she shrieked out, and cried she was fal-ling; Rob-in-et has-ten-ing to sup-port her with his other hand, let his bas-ket drop in-to the stream. As soon as she was safe o-ver, he jumped in and re-cov-ered it, but when he took it out, he

per-ceived that all the salt was melt-ed, and the pep-per washed a-way. Noth-ing was now left but the on-ions.

“Well !” said Rob-in-et, “ then I must sup to-night up-on roast-ed on-ions and bar-ley bread. Last night I had the bread a-lone. To-mor-row morn-ing it will not sig-ni-fy what I had.” So say-ing he trudged on sing-ing gai-ly as be-fore.—Evenings at Home.”

LESSON XC.-OBERLIN. Not quite a hundred years ago, a high val-ley in the Vos-ges moun-tains, called the Ban de la Roche, was inhab-it-ed by a poor and i-so-la-ted peo-ple, who, though liv-ing in the heart of the French prov-ince of Al-sace, and scarce-ly a doz-en leagues from Stras-burg, were yet al-most in a state of bar-ba-rism. Their houses were mis-e-ra-ble cab-ins, their chil-dren grew up with scarce-ly any in-struc-tion. The land was as un-prom-is-ing as its in-hab-it-ants ; on the moun-tain side it was so steep, as to threat-en ev-e-ry moment to slide down ; in the plain, in-un-da-ted with wa-ters, which, hav-ing no prop-er bed, spread in all di-rec-tions. Nor was there much to cul. ti-vate ; the soil was too sto-ny, and the cli-mate too cold, to grow vines, or even wheat, with much suc-cess; and the po-ta-to, which had been in-tro-duced in to the country du-ring the great fam-ine in 1709, had ut-ter-ly de-gen-e-ra-ted, be-cause no pains had been ta-ken to im-prove it. Then there were no prac-ti-ca-ble roads ei-ther com-mu-ni-ca-ting with Stras-burg, or even lead-ing from one vil-lage to an-oth-er, and where there are no roads, i-de-as are as sta-tion-a-ry as men and car-ria-ges, and ev-er-y one con-tin-ues in his ig-no-rance. As for trade and man-u-fac-tures, they did not ex-ist. You will al-rea-dy have guessed that the Bi-ble was lit-t?known in this des-o-late re-gion ; for the Bi-ble does not per-mit those who lis-ten to it, to re-main in such a condi-tion. It ap-pears to con-cern it-self only a-bout re-li-gi-on, but it re-al-ly em-bra-ces e-ver-y-thing; instruc-tion, schools, trade, com-merce, ag-ri-cul-ture, civil-i-za-tion, com-fort; so that the first thing to be done, when it is de-sired to keep peo-ple in ig-no-rance, is to pre-vent them from read-ing the Bi-ble—just as wick-ed men put out the light, when they are go-ing to com-mit á crime.

In-to this lit-tle ter-ri-to-ry, where rude-ness, ig-norance, pover-ty, and un-be-lief, seemed to have es-tablished them-selves as in an is-land of the South Sea, or among a tribe of Hot-ten-tots, came one day, in the year 1767, a young pas-tor, twen-ty-seven years of age, named O-ber-lin, who had ac-cept-ed this hum-ble po-si-tion because no one else was wil-ling to do so, A pi-ous and be-nev-o-lent heart anx-ious to do good, an 0-pen and cul-ti-va-ted mind to de-vise the best meth-ods, and a per-se-ve-ring will to car-ry them in-to prac-tice; these are three things es-sen-ti-al to use-ful-ness, and O-ber-lin pos-sessed them all in a rare de-gree. He set to work im-me-di-ate-ly, stri-ving to do two things, to re-new the peo-ple by the Gospel, and the coun-try by civ-il-i-za-tion ; thus fol-low-ing the ex-am-ple of our Lord Je-sus Christ, who dis-pensed at once tem-po-ral and spi-rit-u-al bles-sings. On the Sun-days he preached the Gos-pel, and by pro-claim-ing the love of our heav-en-ly Father, who “ so loved the world that He gave His only be-got-ten Son, that who-so-ev-er be-liev-eth in Him should not per-ish, but have ev-er-last-ing life,” he melt-ed the hard-est hearts, and made his pa-rish-ion-ers his friends, whilst he made them friends of Je-sus Christ. He

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