JOHN ROBINS' ENEMIES AND FRIENDS.-CHAP. I.

"YOU'LL

come on Wednesday evening, we shall have a good party, and there'll be dancing and beer."

This invitation was given by a young woman from her cottage door to an acquaintance who was on her way home to the next village.

"Oh! I'll be with you, make sure of that," was the answer.

Mary Robins, who had first spoken, seemed well pleased, and her visitor departed.

Of course the reader will suppose that Mary was a thoughtless, idle girl, who having nothing particular to think of beyond the best way of getting a best gown and bonnet, had leisure of mind and time to set her heart on the gaieties that she could obtain; but such was not the case: a pretty little curly-headed boy, who was the plague of the place, from his roaring cries when he got into trouble (a constant occurrence), called her mammy, and a sickly girl, a year younger, might be seen sitting on her doorstep from morning till night, playing with pieces of broken erockery, while an infant scarcely a month old lay in the cradle.

Yes, she was the mother of three children, who might have given her heart and mind enough, both of happiness and employment; but for all that, instead of looking on them as blessings and com. forts, she more frequently spoke of them as "plagues" and "evils which must be put up with."

Little Jack, who had much of her own temper, had managed to get the mastery over her. When she was in a passion he used to sneak out to amuse himself with tormenting the cat, pulling the flowers or unripe fruit from the neighbours' gardens, making the pool muddy by throwing stones in it, or giving a sly kick or thump to some urchin younger and smaller than himself; but when she was in a good humour he lorded it over little Annie, his sister, who from bad nursing was lame, and who was timid and gentle in disposition.

She

Mary herself had married at seventeen. had been a factory girl in a large town, and had never known the happiness of a well-governed home, scarcely, it might be said, of a home at all. Her father was a dissolute man, and her mother had ruined a constitution not too strong by habits of intemperance. It was considered a great thing for Mary when John Robins, a farm servant, who thought it was a fine thing to be married, being hardly twenty years of age, and who was wonderfully taken with Mary's appearance in her best clothes, offered himself for her husband.

Poor John had many times since had reason to know that the advantages of being married depend greatly on the character of the wife chosen; and Mary's pretty face lost its beauty when she became cross and ill-tempered, which was her usual habit; and her fine clothes lost their charm when he had seen them often, and found that they were exhibited not for his pleasure but for hers; and her lively spirit and merry tongue, which in his courtship had so bewitched him, failed altogether very soon after marriage; her spirits wanted company or some other excitement of a pleasurable kind, to keep them going; and her tongue was generally so busy in scolding the children, complaining of her troubles, and wrangling with him, that it would have been more agreeable if it had been silent.

Before he was five-and-twenty, therefore, John had heartily repented of his "folly," as he now called it, and not unfrequently had told Mary so, who had returned the compliment by wishing she

had never seen him.

Worse than this, he had taken to look out of doors for comfort that he could not find within, and he might be found now at the "Dog and

Pheasant" every evening, sitting till it was so late he feared to go in the way of Mary's tongue.

"A pretty time of night you've come back, and me with a baby!" she would greet him with. If he made no reply she would storm away, till his speech, half lost by the muddling of drink, would return, and he would use threats that silenced her against her will.

Little Annie would lie shaking in the bed when she heard these terrible encounters. Little Jack would stare over the bed-clothes with his round black eyes, and sometimes get into a fright too; but more frequently he would grin and take in, as lessons of manliness, the brutal language of his father.

Such was the family, and such the home of John and Mary Robins at the time the invitation was given with which our tale commenced.

A few nights before, as Mary sat rocking her baby before the fire, for it was early in a cold November, wondering whether it ever meant to go to sleep, a young woman whom she had known before her marriage tapped at her door.

"Come in," she cried, supposing it to be one of her neighbours.

"What you, Jane ?" she exclaimed, when she saw her mistake, "what brings you here to-night?"

Jane explained that she had come to see her mother, who lived two miles off, and did not like to return to the town without saying a word to her old companion. Mary was rather ashamed to be caught so untidy, but she was glad of the prospect of a long chat, for Jane said she could spare an hour, when a baker's cart which was driven by a friend of hers would pass the door and take her up.

"What a sweet bonnet that is, Jane," said Mary, looking askance at her own untidy hair, which though on Sundays and times of display was well plastered with grease, now lay rough and loose around her face.

"This isn't my best," said Jane, with consequence, "I've got a beauty, with roses in it, and a feather, and long ends behind."

"Ah!" sighed Mary, who now inspected her gown. That's a love of a colour by daylight, I'm sure," she exclaimed, nodding towards it.

"Yes; I never wear it at nights; but I have had it on all day to-day. My best is the colour for night. You would open your eyes if you saw that!" said Jane.

Mary looked at the baby, and thought of the two children in bed, and sighed as the memory of her past power to be as smart as Jane arose before her. Jane, pleased with the effect she had produced, went on to tell of a lovely shawl and "a lace fall," and some other precious garments, each of which cost Mary many a sigh.

When she had done with her wardrobe, she went on to describe other things. There were, as Mary well remembered, penny concerts, and penny dances, and various other cheap diversions in town, at which it was very charming to display the finery so dear, and as she believed so becoming. Jane was devoted to all these; she was a first-rate dancer, or thought she was, and the sound of music was fine indeed when she could hop about to it.

She finished by saying, "Oh, Mary, I would not live shut up in this stupid little village for anything-not for the best husband in the world! When I marry it shall be to somebody that lives in town."

"I wish I'd never left it," cried Mary.

"Well, why don't you come back? you're quite young yet; you can get plenty of work; hands are scarce, and work thick; and your husband could get it in his line too, or he might get on the railway; try it, do; it is a pity to see a nice smart girl as you used to be, turned into such a poorlooking thing."

Mary was half offended, but the thought of the

possibility of getting back to the pleasures of the town overcame her anger.

"If I thought John would!" she exclaimed. "Oh, he will, if you talk him over; you used to have a famous tongue of your own," said Jane. The baker's cart, driven by Jane's particular friend, was heard rattling over the loose stones in the village street; she started up, and, with a jaunty air, stepped into it, advising Mary as she did so "to think well of her words."

Mary did think, but not well nor wisely.

She sat over the fire long after Jane had left her, pondering her advice. John, who was not half sober, came in with an awkward, sheepish, lumbering look; he was trying to make up his mind to fire off into a fierce scolding, if she began with an evil tongue, and was struck with her quiet air and manner.

Instead of throwing off his hat and coat, and lying down at once on the bed to escape her abuse, and sleep off his intoxication, he stood, as if lighting a candle, but really looking at her sideways to see what humour she was in.

"Here's a match, John," she said, quietly; "I can't reach it to you; baby's never going to sleep to-night, I think."

"Don't trouble, Mary," he answered, quite relieved by such unusual good manners, I'll sit a bit by you; it's cold out, I'm glad the fire's in."

So saying he drew a chair beside her, and began warming his hands. "Give me the child a bit," he said; "I dare say you're tired."

"She's dropped off now," said Mary, putting her in the cradle, determining that she would take advantage of John's evident good humour to start the subject of going to the town.

"I've had Jane Raymond here; you remember her?" she said.

John didn't; but he listened, half asleep, to her des ription of all that Jane had been saying.

She's sure I should get plenty of work," said Mary, "and you might, too; and you know what wages I got when I was there, double what you can get now; and we could get the children inJack's quite old enough for some work, or would be in a year; I'm sure it would be a good thing to keep him out of mischief."

She went on counting up all the advantages to be gained from a removal to town. John didn't stop her nor contradict her, and she construed his silence into consent. So the next morning, when he was quite sober, she told him that as he was quite willing she would send to Jane to get a promise of work directly, and the sooner he looked about to see for some for himself the better; and, for her part, she thought no time was to be lost before packing up their traps, and making a change that was to bring such riches and pleasure with it.

John was rather startled at the proposal; he didn't remember having said he would go. There had been a time when nothing would have induced him to do it, but regular visits to the public-house had greatly altered him; ease and idle talk were more pleasant to him by far than hard work; so, as the very thought put Mary into such good humour, making her almost as agreeable as she was when he first knew her, he gave way, everything was settled, and they were to leave the village on a fixed day.

"We'll have a dance before we go," said Mary. "It shall be twopence a-piece. We'll get Phil Horner to bring his fiddle, and they'll let us have the beer cheaper from the Dog and Pheasant' as you're an old customer, and we shall want a good drop."

And it was to this party, which was fixed for the Wednesday before their departure, that Mary Robins invited Jane Simpson, the shoemaker's sister, of Bletley, the next village.

3

threw that stone had lamed me for life."

Here the gentleman turned round and looked at Sam, who was standing at the corner with his little sister behind him.

"It wasn't me, sir-indeed, sir, 'twasn't me, sir," cried Sam, half frightened at the determined look of the gentleman.

"Silence!" said the gentleman; "you did it-I saw you."

"Ah, that he did," said a cab man who was passing, and heard what was going on; "and he's always at it: he nearly lamed my horse the other day; I gave him a taste of the whip then."

Sam began to look very fright ened, and to alter his tone, and to say he didn't mean to do any harm and his little sister, instead of laughing, looked as if she was going to cry.

"He's a downright ruinated lad, sir," said the cabman again, "and he'll soon make his sister as bad as himself. I'm sure it will be a charity to send him to some sort of lock-up, to keep him out of mis

"Do you hear that?" said the gentleman, turning to Sam.

"Oh, please sir to forgive me!-please sir to forgive me!" said Sam, falling on his knees. "I didn't mean to hurt the gentleman, only Jenny and me were so hungry, 'cause we'd had no breakfast, we thought we'd have a little bit of play at throwing stones."

"There's no believing a word you say," replied the gentleman, "and the proper thing to do, no doubt, is to get you sent to the House of Correction. Where do you live?"

Sam gave a very roundabout description of his dwelling-place, and as the passenger who had been hurt had contrived to limp into a chemist's shop to get something applied to his ankle, the gentleman said to the children, "Walk on, and show me whereabouts your home is; I should like to know a little more about you."

Sam looked astonished indeed-and well he might -to think that such a welldressed gentleman should think of going to such a dingy, dirty hole as the place he called his home; and he didn't at all like the thought of the chance there was of his father or mother hearing of what had happened, for he knew well, although they wouldn't care for the fault, they would be sure to beat him for it. So he said, "Please, sir, the door's locked, and father and mother's out, and we can't get in till night."

The gentleman hesitated; it might be true or might not; at last he said, "Well, go straight on before me, then, and turn as I direct you."

Now it happened that he was a churchwarden of the large parish in which the affair happened, and he thought he couldn't do better than take Sam and

his sister to the vestry, which he knew was opened just then, and there inquire a little more particularly into their state; for, much as he was shocked at Sam's lies, he could not but pity their half-starved and destitute condition. Sam didn't feel sure that he wasn't going to the police-court, and every now and then tried to give the gentleman the slip; but, quick as he was, he couldn't manage it.

When they stopped at the vestry door in the gloomy looking wall, both children began to think it was the police-court, and Sam was again on his knees, begging and praying the churchwarden to let him go.

"You won't be hurt," was the answer; and they were obliged to go into the vestry.

Having first sent an old woman, who was

cleaning the church, for two basons of soup from a cook's shop close by, which soup they devoured so ravenously that he had no doubt it was indeed their breakfast, he told them to stand by the fire while he seated himself at a table before it. Then he looked steadily at Sam and said, "Do you know how many lies you have told to-day?"

"No, sir," said Sam, after waiting a moment, as if trying to recollect.

"Do you care whether you tell a lie or speak the truth?" Sam coloured, and was silent.

"If I were to say I would give you this shilling for telling one now, would you do it?" and he took out a shilling and laid it on the table. "Yes, sir," said Sam, eagerly.

"Well, then, I will, if you will first do something else that I shall tell you for another shilling."

Sam's eyes quite twinkled with delight, till the churchwarden, taking the poker, which was red-hot, out of the fire, held it before him, and said, "Lay hold of that-the red-hot end I mean." Sam shrank back, and looked scared. "You must," said the churchwarden, "or you won't get your shilling; or here, let me put it on your face-that will do as well."

Sam began to cry out with terror as the poker came close to his face.

"Why won't you do it?"
"I'm afraid, sir," said Sam.

"No, that I'm sure you're not," said the gentleman.

"Oh, I am, I am," said Sam. "Oh dear, sir, do let me go."

"Can you read?" said the gentleman, putting the poker back into the fire.

"Yes, sir-a bit, sir," said Sam.

"Come here, then," said he, opening a book which was on the table, and turning to the eighth verse of the twenty-first chapter of Revelation, "read this: All liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fir and brimstone.' Do you know who says this "" asked the gentleman, after Sam had spelt it out. "God Almighty; and, depend upon it, he will keep to his word." Sam looked very

serious.

"Now," said the churchwarden, "will you tell a lie for this shilling?"

Sam looked at the fire and at the shilling, while his little sister, who had been most attentively listening all the time, cried out "Oh, don't, Sam!

don't!"

"No, I won't, sir," said Sam.

"I am glad to hear you say so," said the gentleman, "and I advise you whenever you are going to tell a lie again to think of what the Bible says of that place into which all liars must be cast."

The children left the vestry with new thoughts in their heads, and their friend-for he was their friend-did not end his kindness with this first lesson. He found out the parents, made them send their children to the school, and frequently gave a friendly eye to their pro

gress.

They were gradually rescued from their state of ignorance, while kind help, in the way of food and clothing, supplied the need to which their unnatural parents exposed them.

Sam at last learned to hate lying for the sin of it, and from love to God who

hates it; but for a long time the thought of the red-hot poker frightened him into truth. Both Jenny and he had good reason to remember through life their visit to the vestry.

GETTING THE WORST OF IT.— "Do you want any berries, ma'am ?" said a little boy to a lady one day. The lady told him she would like some, and taking the pail from him, she stepped into the house. He did not follow, but remained behind, whistling to some canaries hanging in their cages on the porch. "Why do you not come in and see that I do not cheat you?" said the lady. "I am not afraid," said he; "you would get the worst of it, ma'am." "Get the worst of it? what do you mean?" Why, ma'am, I should only lose my berries, and you would be stealing; don't you think you would get the worst of it?"

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THE BIBLE ILLUSTRATED.

"The sheep follow him for they know his

voice. And a stranger will they not follow, but

will flee from him: for they know not the voice

of strangers."-John x. 4, 5.

A MAN in India was accused of stealing a sheep. He was brought before the judge, and the supposed owner of the sheep was also present. Both claimed the sheep, and had witnesses to prove their claims, so that it was not easy for the judge to decide to which the sheep belonged. Knowing the customs of the shepherds and the habits of the sheep, the judge ordered the sheep to be brought into court, and sent one of the two men into another room, while he told the other to call the sheep, and see if it would come to him. But the poor animal, not knowing the "voice of a stranger," would not go to him. In the meantime, the other man, who was in the next room, growing impatient, gave a kind of "chuck," upon which the sheep bounded away towards him at once. This "chuck" was the sound by which he had been used to call the sheep; and it was at once decided that he was the real owner.

"Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns

and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in

your heart to the Lord."-Ephesians v. 19.

THE Rev. Joseph Slatterie, of Chatham, was once walking in that town, when his attention was arrested by a youthful voice singing a verse of the well-known hymn of Dr. Watts, "The sorrows of the mind." Pleased alike with the sweetness of the voice, and the voice, and the cheerful tone in which the verse was sung, the gentleman looked around to see whence the voice proceeded, but for some time he looked in vain. At length he saw a little with his head popping out of a chimney, and waving his brush with a sort of triumph over his

sweep

ness-room remains at rest till tomorrow at ten o'clock, when I will be ready to give you my best advice. I saw you in our church, and am happy to show you attention, but we'll leave the concerns of this world out for this day." He added, that to this resolution he owed much of the comfort he had enjoyed.

"By their fruits ye shall know them."-Matthew vii. 20,

A MINISTER of the Gospel in Edinburgh was once introduced to a young man, a scoffer at religion, as one who, though young and in health, never attended public wor- WHEN any one told Captain ship. "I am almost tempted to Webb, a Methodist labourer in hope," said the minister, "that what Wesley's time, of the conversion of I hear is untrue.” By no means, a rich man, he was in the habit of said the infidel," for I always spend asking, "Is his purse converted!" my Sundays in settling up my ac- Without the conversion of his pure counts." The minister at once and the good captain could give no cre most seriously replied, "You will dit to the conversion of the man. find, sir, that the day of judgment In this he agreed with Dr. Adamı will be spent in the same manner." in the same manner." | Clarke, who used to say he did not believe in the religion that cost a man nothing. The religion that costs a man nothing is no religion at all; and the being converted, all but the purse, is no conversion at all.

"Because of swearing the land mourneth."Jeremiah xxiii. 10.

HOWARD, the philanthropist, was seen significantly to button up his coat in the neighbourhood of a printing-office where he heard coarse profanity. "I always do this," he remarked, "when I hear swearing. One who can take God's name in vain, can also steal or do anything else bad.”

"Ye shall keep my Sabbaths, and reverence my sanctuary: I am the Lord."-Leviticus xix. 30.

"Use this world as not abusing it: for the fashion of this world passeth away."-1 Corintians

vii. 31.

JOHN KNOX, while standing Mary Queen of Scot's anteroom. seeing some of the young palace ladies sitting there in their gorgeous apparel, thus addressed them: "Ch, this fair ladies, how pleasant were life of yours if it should ever abit and then in the end that we might pass to heaven with all this gar gear. But fie upon that knav Death, that will come whether will or not; and when he has on his arrest, the foul worms be busy with this flesh, be it ev so fair and tender; and the sill soul, I fear, shall be so feeble that gold it can neither carry with it gall garnishing, targetting, pearls,

ADAM ROLLAND was an eminent Scotch lawyer. On coming out of church one Sunday morning, he met a country friend, and invited him to his house. His friend replied that he had come to town to consult him upon some important business, and began to state what it was. Mr. Rolland gently touched him, saying, "My friend, I do not keep company on this day, far less could I enter on worldly business, of which I have enough during the week-days. The key of my busi-precious stones.

1

I'

HE IS A CHRISTIAN.

E is a Christian! Then he is a man of truth. Upon his word you may fully rely. His promises are faithfully fulfilled. He would not hazard his good character, or sin against God, by falsehood or deceit. "He that speaketh truth showeth forth righteousness."

He is a Christian! Then he is an honest man. He had rather wrong himself than wrong his neighbour. In whatever business he may be engaged, you may be sure that his dealings will be honourable and upright. "Provide things honest in the sight of all men." The way of the just is upright

ness."

Then he is
Then he is

He thinks of his

He is a Christian! a humble man. own infirmities, acknowledges his dependence upon God, and regards his poorest brethren as men, objects of his Redeemer's love, and worthy of his attention. "God giveth "He that grace to the humble." humbleth himself shall be exalted." He is a Christian! Then he is a kind man. He feels interested for his neighbours, and has ever a pleasant word for those he meets. If rich he feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, ministers to the sick. If able to give but a cup of cold water he does so for the sake of Him who said that if done in his name it should meet with a reward. "To godliness add brotherly kindness." "Whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, his bowels of comand shutteth up

regard with pity the failures of others, and will be more ready to reclaim and restore than to find "Bear ye one another's fault. burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ." "Charity suffereth long, and is kind.”

He is a Christian! Then he is forgiving. Wrong does not rankle in his heart, craving for revenge. The forgiving word is ready upon his lip for his bitterest enemy. "If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespasses." "Even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye."

He is a Christian! Then he is

a happy man. He knows that his sins are all forgiven by his Saviour's death. death. When assailed by temptation, he comes off more than conqueror by the help of the Captain of his salvation. He is not dismayed by trouble or affliction, for he can still see his Father's loving hand, and feels assured that these light afflictions will work out for him a far more exceeding weight of glory. He can look calmly at death, as the threshold of his eternal home in the "There is therefore no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit." "Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing."

heavens.

THREE BLESSINGS.

your riches be justly got, or you spoil all. For it is well said, 'He that loses his conscience has nothing left that is worth keeping.' Therefore be sure you look to that. And in the next place look to your health and if you have it, praise God, and value it next to a good conscience; for health is a blessing that money cannot buy; cannot buy; and therefore value it, and be thankful for it. As for money, neglect it not: but note that there is no necessity for being rich; for there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side them.

"I have a rich neighbour who is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh; the whole business of his life is to get money, and more money. That he may still get more and more money, he is still drudging on, and says that Solomon says, "The diligent hand maketh rich;' and it is true indeed. But he considers not that it is not in the power of riches to make a man happy; for it was wisely said, by a man of great observation, miseries That there be as many beyond riches as on this side them.' And yet God deliver us from pinching poverty; and grant that, having enough, we may be content and thankful. Let us not repine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally dealt, if we see another abound with riches; when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches hang often so heavily at the rich man's girdle, that they clog him with weary days nights, even when

love of God in him?”

He is a Christian! Then he is slow to think evil. He hopes for the best, and is ready to make excuses for his friends and neighbours. Knowing his own weakness, he will

Money are well described as three blessings by old Izaak Walton, as follows:

others sleep quietly.