The old school-house is altered some
The benches are replaced

By new ones, very like the same
Our jack-knives had defaced.

But the same old bricks are in the wall,
And the bell swings to and fro,
Its music's just the same, dear Tom,
'Twas forty years ago.

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill,
Close by the spreading beech,

Is very low; 'twas once so high
That we could scarcely reach;

And kneeling down to take a drink,
Dear Tom, I started so,

To think how very much I've changed
Since forty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm,
You know I cut your name,

Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom,
And you did mine the same.

Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark 'Twas dying sure, but slow,

Just as she died whose name you cut

There forty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom,
But tears came in my eyes;
I thought of her I loved so well,
Those early broken ties.

I visited the old church-yard,

And took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved Just forty years ago.

Some are in the church-yard laid,
Some sleep beneath the sea;
But none are left of our old class,
Excepting you and me.

And when our time shall come, Tom,

And we are called to go,

I hope we'll meet with those we loved
Some forty years ago.

XXV. DRUNKARDS NOT ALL BRUTES.

IT is often said that reckless victims of intemperance are brutes. No, they are not brutes. I have labored for about eighteen years among them, and I have never found one that was a brute. I have had men swear at me; I have had a man dance around me as if possessed of a devil, and spit his foam in my face, but he was not a brute.

I think it is Charles Dickens who says: "Away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, and on that door is written 'Woman."" And so in the heart of the vile outcast, away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door on which is written "Man." Here is our business: to find that door. It may take time, but begin and knock. Don't get tired, but remember God's long-suffering for us, and keep knocking a long time, if need be. Don't get weary if there is no answer; remember Him whose locks were wet with dew. Knock on-just try it-you try it; and just so sure as you do, just so sure, by and by, will the quivering lip and starting tear tell you have knocked at the heart of a man and not of a brute. It is because these poor wretches are men and not brutes that we have hopes of them.

I remember a man of whom it was said, "He is a brute; let him alone." I took him home with me and kept the "brute" fourteen days and nights through his delirium; and he nearly frightened my wife out of her wits, once chasing her about the house with a boot in his hand; but she recovered her wits and he recovered his. He said to

me,

"You would n't think I had a wife and child?” "Well, I should n't." "I have, and, God bless her little heart, my little Mary is as pretty a little thing as ever stepped," said the "brute." I asked, "Where do they live?" "They live two miles from here." "When did you see them last?" "About two years ago." Then he told me his story. I said, "You must go back home again." "I must n't go back; I won't; my wife is better without me than with me! I will not go back any more; I have knocked her, and kicked her, and abused her: do you suppose I will go back again?"

I went to the house with him; I knocked at the door, and his wife opened it. "Is this Mrs. Richardson?" "Yes, sir." Well, here is Mr. Richardson.

66

Now, come

on one side I waited to

into the house." They went in. The wife sat of the room and the "brute" on the other. see who would speak first, and it was the woman. She pulled her apron till she got hold of the hem, and then she pulled it down again. Then she folded it up closely, and jerked it through her fingers an inch at a time, and then she spread it all down again; and then she looked all about the room, and said, 'Well, William?" And the brute

said, "Well, Mary?"

He had a large handkerchief round his neck, and she said, "You had better take the handkerchief off, William ; you'll need it when you go out." He began to fumble about it. The knot was large enough; he could have untied it if he liked; but he said, "Will you untie it, Mary?" and she worked away at it, but her fingers were clumsy and she could n't get it off. Their eyes met, and the love-light was not all quenched; she opened her arms gently and he fell into them. If you had seen those white arms clasped about his neck, and he sobbing on her breast, and the child looking first at one and then at the other, you would have said, "He is not a brute; he is a man with a great, big, warm heart in his breast."

XXVI.-GOD'S SUPPORT AND GUIDANCE.

FORSAKE me not, my God,
Thou God of my salvation!
Give me thy light, to be
My sure illumination.
My soul to folly turns,

Seeking, she knows not what;

Oh lead her to thyself;

My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!

Take not thy Spirit from me;

And suffer not the might

Of sin to overcome me.

A father pitieth

The children he begot;
My Father, pity me;

My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!
Thou God of life and power,
Enliven, strengthen me,
In every evil hour.
And when the sinful fire

Within my heart is hot,
Be not thou far from me;
My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!
Uphold me in my going,
That evermore I may

Please thee in all well-doing;
And that thy will, O Lord,

May never be forgot,
In all my works and ways,
My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!

I would be thine forever;
Confirm me mightily

In every right endeavor.
And when my hour is come,

Cleansed from all stain and spot

Of sin, receive my soul;

My God, forsake me not!

XXVII.—A TOUCHING RELIC OF POMPEII.

SINCE the excavations of Pompeii commenced, many strange things have been brought to light. In digging out the ruins, every turn of the spade brings up some relic of ancient life, some witness of imperial luxury.

For the greater part, the relics have a merely curious interest; they belong to archæology, and find appropriate resting-place in historical museums. But there are some exceptions. Here, for instance, the excavator drops in, an uninvited guest, upon a banquet; there, he unexpectedly intrudes himself into a tomb. In one place he finds a miser cowering on his heap, another shows him bones of dancing girls and broken instruments of music lying on the marble floor. In the midst of the painted chambers, baths, halls, columns, fountains, among the splendid evidence of material wealth, he sometimes stumbles on a simple incident, a touching human story, such as strikes the imagination and suggests mournful interest of the great disaster, as the sudden sight of a wounded soldier conjures up the horrors of a battle.

Such, to our mind, is the latest discovery of the excavator in this melancholy field. It is a group of skeletons in the act of flight, accompanied by a dog. There are three human beings, one of them a young girl, with gold rings and jewels still on her fingers. The fugitives had a bag of