The burglar withdrew his menacing pistol, and Mr. Lee said:

"I will conduct you to the place where my most precious treasures are placed."

He opened the door and pointed to the cot where his two children lay in the sleep of innocence and peace.

"These," said he, "are my most precious jewels. Will you take them?”

He proceeded to say that as a minister of the Gospel he had few earthly possessions, and that his means were devoted to but one object-the education of his two motherless children. The burglar was deeply and visibly affected by these remarks. Tears filled his eyes, and he expressed the utmost sorrow for the wicked act he had commited.

After a few remarks by Mr. Lee, the would-be criminal consented to kneel and join in prayer; and there, in that lonely house, amid the silence of midnight, the offender poured forth his remorse and penitence, while the representative of religion, of peace and good will, told him to "go and sin no more."

CCXIX.-SILENCE.

How eloquent is silence! Acquiescence, contradication, difference, disdain, embarrassment, and awe, may all be expressed by saying nothing. It may be necessary to illustrate this apparent paradox by a few examples. Do you seek an assurance of your lady love's affection? The fair one confirms her lover's fondest hopes by a compliant and assenting silence. Should you hear an assertion, which you may deem false, made by some one of whose veracity politeness may withhold you from openly declaring your doubt, you denote a difference of opinion by remaining silent. Are you receiving a reprimand from a superior? You mark your respect by an attentive silence. Are you compelled to listen to the frivolous conversation of a fop? You signify

your opinion of him by treating his loquacity with contemptuous silence. Are you, in the course of any negotiation, about to enter on a discussion painful to your own feelings and to those who are concerned in it? The subject is almost invariably prefaced by an awkward silence. Silence has also its utility and advantages. And first, what an invaluable portion of domestic strife might have been prevented; how often might the quarrel, which, by mutual aggravation, has perhaps terminated in bloodshed, have been checked at its commencement by a judicious silence! Those persons only who have experienced them are aware of the beneficial effects of that forbearance which, to the exasperating threat, the malicious sneer, or the unjustly imputated culpability, shall never answer a word. Secondly, there are not wanting instances where the reputation, fortune, the happiness, nay, the life of a fellow creature, might be preserved by a charitable silence.

THE REAL GENTLEMAN.

NoT he who displays the latest fashion-dresses in extravagance, with gold rings and chains to display; not he who talks the loudest, and makes constant use of profane language and vulgar words; not he who is proud and overbearing, who oppresses the poor, and looks with contempt on honest industry; nor he who can not control his passions, and humble himself as a child; no, none of these are real gentlemen. It is he who is kind and obligingwho is ready to do you a favor with no hope of reward—who visits the poor, and assists those who are in need-who is more careful of his heart than of the dress of his personwho is humble and sociable-not irascible or revengeful— who always speaks the truth without resorting to profane or indecent words. Such a man is a gentleman, wherever he may be found. Rich or poor, high or low, he is entitled to the appellation.

CCXX.-SHORT SELECTIONS.

THE TEMPEST.

THE night came down in terror. Through the air
Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits roll'd;
The lightning kindling with its vived glare
Their outlines, as they rose, heaped fold on fold;
The wind, in fitful sighs, swept o'er the sea;

And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep,
Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be

Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep. But false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd gale Burst in one loud explosion, far and wide, Drowning the thunder's voice!

- Epes Sargent.

TIME.

Time flows from instants; and, of these, each one

Should be esteemed as if it were alone.

The shortest space, which we so highly prize
When it is coming, and before our eyes,
Let it but slide into th' eternal main,
No realms, no worlds, can purchase it again.
Remembrance only makes the footsteps last
When winged time, which fix'd the prints, is gone.
- Sir John Beaumont.

THE PATH OF DUTY.

THE path of duty is the way of glory;

He that walks it, only thirsting

For the right, and learns to deaden

Love of self, before his journey closes

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples which outredden
All voluptuous garden roses.

The path of duty is the way of glory;

He that, ever following her commands

On with toil of heart and knees and hands

Through the long gorge to the fair light, has won

His path upward, and prevailed,

Shall find the toppling crags of duty, scaled,
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God himself is moon and sun.

-Tennyson.

CCXXI. THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

Он, a wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between;

And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that isle is the Long Ago;
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!—
There are trinkets and tresses of hair:

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night-

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

-B. F. Taylor.

CCXXII. THE LOST ARTS.

THE art of making daily bread,
With work of hands and work of head,
Instead of basely plotting for it,
Seems lost to many a mind and heart,
Whose fathers loved industrious art

As much as their fast sons abhor it.

The art of living frugal lives,
With honest husbands, faithful wives,
Without a thought of mean divorces,
Is half forgotten there and here,
By those who never love or fear

The law which fate at last enforces.

The art of holding public trust,
Without vile crawling in the dust

To reach the high or humble station,
Is classed among forgotten arts,
So many sacrifice their hearts,

On shrine of base humiliation.

The noble art of seeking out
The man we scarce can do without,

To stop the public treasures leaking,
The manly art ignoring self,
Undazed by golden gleams of pelf,
Is lost, alas! in office-seeking.
The art of earning more, not less,
Than's paid for vain parade and dress,
And saving for a day that's rainy,
And wintry age, that comes too soon,
And sickness, that may smite at noon,
Is lost in fashion's maze by many.