But Samuel Gloom was always in a humour quite the contrary to this; every thing seemed to go wrong with him; he was always grumbling and finding fault; if he spent his money in drinking, and was obliged to have ragged clothes, and a shabby house, and a half-starved family, he always laid it to the government, or to his master, or to any thing but to his own fault: and he was always expecting that something should be done to set things right with him,-when in truth, all that was wrong was his own bringing on, and nobody could cure it but himself. It was curious to see the different looks, and hear the different expressions of these two men, about the very same thing. What made one of them gay and cheerful, made the other sad and gloomy. One day I met them both coming from their master's house; they had just been receiving their week's wages: Sam was looking all glumpy and sullen; but Tom looked quite cheerful and happy. I asked Sam what was the matter? He said, "it was a great shame, that it was, that the master should have such a sight of money—a table covered with silver, and almost without doing any thing for it, whilst the poor labouring man only brought away a little share of it, after toiling all the week at his work." "Why now," says Tom Cheerly, "it is that very same sight that makes me so thankful and contented. I did not envy master's state at all, for he had all the money to raise, and I know he had hard work enough to raise it; for it is not an easy matter for a gentleman to pay all the men that work for him, and to live, himself, besides: but master, you see, must find the money for us, and So, you see, we were all paid; every man of us came away with a week's wages in his pocket; the heaps of silver on the table were swept all away, and all in our pockets." "Well," said Gloom, "that's true enough; but our master gets profit out of his farm; and the work we do on it helps him towards getting his money." "To be sure it does," says Cheerly; "but that enables him to live, and us to live; it is good for us both; and, instead of being sorry, when I think master is doing well, I am quite glad of it; and when he does well, we do well; he can afford to employ so many more of us, and

1835.]

THE TWO LABOURERS.

13

so enable us to maintain ourselves honestly and pleasantly by our own labour, instead of obliging us to go for charity to the parish, which I am not ashamed of doing if there is necessity for it, but which I never will do, if I can any ways honestly keep myself and my family by my own work. When I can do this, I am always cheerful and thankful; and the more prosperous master is, the more I am pleased; I know very well that if those who employ the poor were brought low, the poor must be brought low too. The more people there are to spend money, (if they spend it well), the better it is for working people, and so I am not going to vex myself about such things as seem to plague and trouble you so much. "But then," said Gloom," it would be better for us if we had some of master's land for ourselves, instead of having only the working on it." "Now there," said Cheerly, "is just where you are mistaken; it would not be better for us; it would be worse. If you are to have a share of master's land, I shall want my share too, and so will all our neighbours; and I know that this plan would not give us so much a piece in a year, as we can now earn in a month; there would be no capital; no table full of silver at the week's end to pay the labouring men with." "Well, if it is to be so," said Gloom, to be sure we had better bide as we are.' "I am sure so, said Cheerly; "I not only wish to be contented, but to be cheerful. I look upon it, moreover, that whilst a man is at his work, he ought to have his mind kept in a good state; I consider that we are not sent into this world only to labour for a time, aud then to die and become nothing but we are to live for ever; and if we would live in happiness, when we depart from this world, we must be prepared for that happiness by having our minds brought into a right state whilst we are here. Now a spirit of murmuring and discontent, puts us into a wrong state; it is murmuring against God's Providence, and resisting his grace; so that I have reasons both of time and eternity, for wishing to have my mind in a state of cheerful contentment, and to strive against all murmuring and discontent.

V.

THE PRAYER BOOK AND THE LITTLE BIRD.

(From the Weekly Visitor.)

"Therefore, thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art, that judgest for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same thing.”—Rom. ii. 1.

How quick is the eye of man to see, and the heart of man to condemn, the infirmities and faults of his neighbour! and how slow is he to perceive his own defects! We speak of the pride of those around us; of the folly of mankind; and of the neglect of divine things, visible among the multitude, without considering that pride dwells in our own hearts; that folly is manifest in our own conduct; and that neglect of divine things is among our own manifold deficiencies.

I was led into this course of reflection by a trifling circumstance, which occurred a short time ago. While standing in a bookseller's shop, talking with the bookseller, a middle aged woman came in to buy a Prayerbook. The bookseller's young man reached down a number of Prayer-books, of different sizes, and spread them on the counter before her, inquiring if she wished one with a small print, or a large one. 66 O, as to that," replied the woman, its no matter at all, for I can't read a word; but it looks so, to be stuck up in Church without a Prayer-book before one."

At the moment, I felt shocked at the unblushing manner in which the woman thus acknowledged that she only wanted the Prayer-book to keep up appearances before her fellow sinners, and that the reverence which is due. to the High and Holy One, the Lord of life and glory, and the godly sincerity which ought to fill the heart of every human being, entering into God's presence, was altogether lost sight of. I thought the woman had much to answer for on account of her hollow-hearted profession of religion, and her solemn mockery of God's worship. These reflections, however, soon gave place to others of a yet more painful nature; for I called to remembrance how frequently I myself, with the book of prayer in my hand, bending my knees before the Searcher of all hearts, the Judge of quick and dead, had allowed

1835.] THE PRAYER-BOOK AND THE LITTLE BIRD. 15

my eye to rove abroad, and my imagination to go forth after worldly things. Was not I then equally guilty? The Prayer-book was, in such instances, as useless in my hand as it would be in her's; nay, my fault was the greater, for she could not read, but I could; and I felt the truth come home to my heart, "Thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art, that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same thing."

Some time ago, while sitting in one of the pews of a country Church, during divine service, a little bird winged its way in, and perched on one of the brazen candlesticks which hung suspended in the middle aisle. I was sorry to see how the attention of the congregation was drawn aside from more important pursuits, by this trifling circumstance. The Sunday School boys had all a smile on their faces; the white caps, tippets, and mittens of the Sunday School girls were moving to and fro, while their wearers tittered and whispered to each other about the little bird. The folks in the gallery looked down, and the people in the body of the Church looked up to the chandelier; the churchwarden, the squire, and the squire's lady, all took their eyes from their books, and, once, I thought, that the very clergyman himself gave a glance at the little bird perched on the chandelier in the middle aisle. I thought to myself, "How little must the hearts of this congregation be influenced by divine things, when so trifling an occurrence is sufficient to draw them aside from the worship in which they were engaged! What will He, who readeth the thoughts of all hearts, think of those who, in the midst of their prayers and praises, can be drawn from them by the sight of a little bird! This is a solemn sight, and solemn are the reflections it calls forth.

But though I was so quick to perceive the thoughtless conduct of the Sunday scholars, the unseasonable curiosity of the people in the gallery and body of the Church, the bad example of the churchwarden, the squire and his lady, there was one person in the Church quite as faulty as any of them, the glancing of whose eye, and the wandering of whose heart, I did not observe. No! that

one person, culpable as he was, I had altogether over-13 looked.

t

The little bird, after twittering for some time on the chandelier, again stretched its wings, and left the Church by the same window through which it had entered. Andthen it was, that looking at my Prayer-book, I found that a considerable part of the service had been gone through without my having once turned over the leaves of my Prayer-book. I stood self-condemned. Here I had been so prompt to see, and so swift to condemn, those around me, while I myself had been committing the very. same fault which had called forth my reproaches. God is a Spirit, and those who enter his court ought, indeed, to "worship Him in spirit and in truth;" yet how seldom do we feel that holy reverence, that awful consciousness of His presence in the sanctuary, which would prevent our eyes from straying, and our thoughts from wandering from His worship! I learned a lesson from the Prayerbook and the little bird. Reader, learn one also.

A DREAM.

I HAD been passing the evening with two friends, good men, but rather too eager in argument. The one was a Calvinist, and frequented Lady Huntingdon's chapel, the other was of the Church of England. The conversation I turned upon the subject of religion. On important points of faith, my two friends, I doubt not, agreed, as all good Christians, whether Dissenters or of the Church of England, do: but I soon found that the less important points in which they differed in opinion from one another, were those which they chose exclusively to talk of. I grew weary; and going to rest later than is my custom, (for arguers are no respecters of hours,) I tossed about in my bed, too tired to sleep, till at last, when my eye-lids did close, the following curious dream engaged me. Methought I was suddenly transported to a vast plain, in the midst of which stood a temple, whose splendour and beauty no human architect could ever equal; its pinnacles glitterede with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds; its walls were of ivory, whiter than the driven snow; its pillars were of pure gold; wreathes of flowers, formed of the amethyst,