and the upper storeys projected so as almost to meet, which quite prevented a free current of air, and outside the walls was a moat or broad ditch, often of stagnant water, into which all the refuse of the town was thrown. There were no such things as carpets in the rooms, but the floors of the principal ones and also of the churches were strewn with rushes or straw, which was hardly ever changed, but occasionally fresh was laid on the top. With this state of bad food, foul air, and dirt, we cannot wonder when we are told that the people suffered from many diseases now unknown; and that pestilences occurred about every three years, which sometimes carried off a much larger proportion of the people than cholera ever does now.

Fortunately we have at present no experience of these dreadful diseases, but we may judge from their names how horrible they were. There was the black death, the sweating sickness, the plague, and many others. We cannot, therefore, wonder that the population increased very slowly, and civilization made but little progress during the period that was called the "middle ages."

For every trifle scorn to take offence,

That always shows great pride or little sense;
Good nature and good sense must always join,-
To err is human, to forgive divine!

THE LESSON OF LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

"JOHN, the Lord hath said 'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it,'" murmured a fond mother, as she bent over the sick couch of her only son.

John did not answer, but his dark eyes glittered menacingly.

"My son," pursued the fond parent, gently parting the clustering masses of dark hair from his forehead; "This man is rich-is far above you in station, and Jane Aslaine was unworthy of your love-forget her, my son, and leave this man to the reproaches of his own conscience."

No answer!

"I know how truly you loved her, my son," continued the mother, "but the lesson of life is forgive and forget'-rather thank God that you were spared the misery of a life with such a woman."

John rose upright on his bed, his wan hand quivered with excitement, his eyes beamed with an unearthly lustre, and the dark circles round them were thrown into bold relief, by the unnatural pallor of his high and expansive forehead.

For many days he had suffered from the attacks of an insidious malady, and nights had passed while John struggled through the various stages of the disease, and during the long hours of these nights of delirium, the fond parent had watched and waited, her trust reposed in Him who is "the Father of the widow and the orphan."

"Mother, you ask me to forget this injury; you ask more than weak human nature can fulfil. This man sought my friendship, and obtained my confidence, and not content with abusing that sacred trust, blighted my dearest hopes, and rudely dissipated my brightest visions. O! mother, you know not what anguish rages in this breast of mine. May heaven forgive me, mother; but let not this man cross my path!"

My child," and the widow's hand was softly placed upon the fevered brow of her son. 'My son, what

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did our holy Redeemer teach to those who desired to approach the throne of his heavenly Father? Forgive, us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' John, the injury was great, but you possess a noble heart and an upright mind, let me appeal to your better nature, my son. Strive against this mad desire of revenge-leave this man to God and his own thoughts. Forgive her, for she is but a woman!"

How holy is the love of a mother! How infinite her tender councillings!

John sank back in his couch, his wan cheeks were moistened by the tears that a mother's simple but touching address had caused to flow. His eyes beamed with a new and expressive joy, and a calm and peaceful smile hovered over his pale lips. Glancing softly at his mother's anxious face, he murmured, almost inaudibly, Mother, I will teach this man how a Christian takes his revenge; I will show this woman how a man can love!" And the calm and holy moonbeams flooded the apartment, and rested like a glory upon the sleeping son, and the watching mother.

་

CHAPTER II.

John Ormand was the only son of William Ormand, who had occupied the onerous, but ill-paid office of clerk and sexton, in the Parish of P-.

By a system of vigorous economy his father had continued to maintain himself, his wife and son, respectably, without craving the luxuries of life. At an early age John was sent to the Sunday School,, and at intervals to the Parish Charity School. John worked attentively, and sedulously at his studies, and in a few years not only won the respect and esteem of his teachers and friends, but by a betrayal of a superior intellect he gained the admiration of persons moving in a higher sphere of life.

At the age of 14, John's father died, leaving his son and wife to the cold charity of the world. But privation developed a trait in John's character at this early age, which might otherwise have lain dormant for years, had not this struggle with poverty taught him that a man's

fortune lies in his own right arm, and an intelligent mind.

So he struggled onwards bravely for several years, ever bearing in mind, and recognising the truth of the adage, that "There's a turn of the tide in the affairs of every man." And at the period at which our narrative opens, John was a senior clerk in a commercial firm in a city, a few miles distant from his mother's residence, He had placed his hand to the plough, and he did not look back!

(To be continued.)

F. G. B.

THE CANARY BIRD.

The child

A good and wise father entered the room, where his daughter Rose was seated on a stool before a piano. By her side stood a table, on which was a cage covered with a large cloth. It contained a beautiful canary, with a bright yellow body, dark wings, and a black spot upon the top of its head. It had been presented to the little girl some time previous. was earnestly engaged in playing a little air of a home melody, and bending eagerly forward to catch the slightest answering sound from the occupant of the cage. Soon the little feathered warbler, hidden from view, whistled a few short notes, then burst forth into a flood of song, and at length sang in answer to the child the air that she had played. "There," she exclaimed, laughing, and gently clapping her hands, "Listen, father, I have at last taught Cherry one of my own songs. She now rose, lifted the covering from the cage, and advancing towards the open window, hung it upon a nail near by. The father smiled, and placed his hand affectionately upon his daughter's head, saying, "You have at last, my child, by confining the little bird in a dark cage taught it to sing so sweetly; and now that you have taught this little creature its lesson, it will in return teach you a still better and more instructive one. As with the canary in the darkened cage," he said, "so it is with man in sorrow. You have made the

cage dark till the bird has caught the air you played to it, and its notes are sweeter because trained in darkness. So, if Providence see that it is good to darken the life of man with clouds of adversity, it is for some kind purpose. Trials, if rightly received, bring forth some noble traits in the character, that under a bright, unclouded sky, might never have appeared, and when called out they shed their kind influence upon all around."

The father's words sank deep into the heart of his child. At night, when she laid her head upon her pillow, she prayed that whatever affliction God might see fit to send upon her it might work for her good in this world and in the next, that she might have strength to bear all, and humbly to say, "He doeth all things

well."

LITTLE WALTER.

"I KNEW a little lame boy, once," said a lady to some village children; " he was called Walter ; he had a hump on his back that you would have felt quite sorry to see, and a very pale face."

He could not walk about, or even sit up in his chair; he was obliged to lie nearly always, and the only chang he had was when he was wheeled in the morning from the bed-room where he slept at night, to the little back parlour where he stayed all day. Walter's father and mother were dead, and the people he lived with had not much time to notice or think about him. They used to come into his room every morning, and then he saw them no more till dinner time. He used to hear them running up and down stairs, going out and in. Shall I tell you how he spent the long hours when he was left by himself?

A kind lady had given him a few story-books, and a little horse and cart, that made a tinkling sound when it moved its wheels. The first thing he did every morning was to push this cart up and down the room with a long stick; he liked to listen to the little bells ringing as the cart moved, but as he had no one