The

But fifty years ago, prisons were very different to what they are now. The cells were often damp and unhealthy; the poor wretches were crowded together in dirt and disease. better sort were mixed with the very worst, and they had no employment, so that there was nothing but wickedness going on all day long. The women were as bad as the men, and they were often so wild that it was dangerous to venture among them.

In the midst of their misery and sin, God took pity on them; and He put it into the heart of one of His servants, a refined and delicate lady, to visit and try to help them. This lady was Elizabeth Fry. She would go alone, or with one or two friends, with her Bible in her hand, and gather the poor untaught wretches around her; and, with a loving heart, and a gentle voice, she would read and talk to them. It would have been worth something to have seen how the poor creatures would tremble, and melt into tears, when they heard the blessed words, often for the first time in their lives;worth something to have heard the blessings murmured from lips that had spoken but in passion and with curses before. That good woman worked among them and never tired; she got other ladies to help her, and they began a school for the children and younger women. She made warm clothing for them, and had work provided that they might do; and she divided them into classes, that the better sort might not have to be with those who had grown old in crime.

At that time, the English law was very different from what it is now; and the crimes of forgery and stealing were punished with death. There were sometimes even poor women in the "condemned" cell, waiting till their time came to die. The good Mrs. Fry felt deeply for them, and spent much time with them, trying to lead them to penitence and contrition, and bringing to them, in their last hours, the blessed light of the Gospel. But she felt that the law was cruel and harsh, and could not rest till it was altered. She talked to the wisest and best men in the land, and got them to use their influence, and they worked untiringly, till the Government was persuaded

to make a change. Now, as you know, no one is ever punished with death, except for the crime of murder.

Many other good laws were made at this time for the improvement and better management of prisons; and it was greatly owing to Mrs. Fry's exertions, that those who were in power gave their attention to these things. Now, I have told you why this good woman is so famous, and why her name will always be remembered and honoured, you would like to know something of her own life as well as her work. She was a Miss Gurney, and was one of a large family many of whom have been noted for their benevolent and useful lives. They lived in a nice country-house with their father (having lost their mother when most of them were very young), and were a very happy and united family. Elizabeth, as a little child, was very affectionate and loving. She was foolishly afraid of the dark, like many other children, and was sometimes self-willed and obstinate. As she grew older, she tried to watch against her faults, and to correct them; but this was found very hard work. She often complained in her journal that she was vain, and easily led away from serious thought, and this discouraged her very much. But while she thought thus humbly of herself, her strivings after all that is good and right were plainly shown in her conduct. She was constantly trying to do good to others; and that in so thoughtful and delicate a manner, that her charities could only have sprung from a most loving and tender heart.

When Elizabeth was about seventeen, she was led to feel the importance of connecting herself with some particular society of Christians. Her family, though not Quakers, had generally attended the Friend's meeting-house; and some of the best people she had known belonged to that sect. From the ministry of Friends she had received deep and lasting benefit. Elizabeth, therefore, felt it her duty to become a Quaker. But before this resolve was made, she thought she would give the gaieties of life another trial. She felt it difficult to give up worldly pleasures. So she went with her father to visit some friends in London

and entered a good deal into company and amusement. At the close, however, of her visit, Elizabeth felt. she could gladly give up these things, and devote herself entirely to a life of usefulness, and to whatever work was found for her to do. She determined to become a strict Quaker; but first told her father of her resolve: for she said, "I ought to feel that my father is my best friend, and consult him about everything." She lived at home very happily for a few years, a good daughter and a good sister, helping to train the little ones; caring more for home friends than any beside. She gathered the poor children of the neighboured round her, and taught them day by day; she was most thoughtful and kind to the poor and sick, visiting them, and providing them with comforts. When she married, and left the home of her childhood for a new home in London, there were many tears shed, and many felt sadly that they had lost a friend.

It was several years before Mrs. Fry began her prison-work. She was too modest and humble-minded to put herself forward in anything; but never shrank from any task if she felt it was a duty laid upon her by God.

I hope you will some day read the life of this noble, loving-hearted woman, who laboured for the bodies and souls of the poor outcasts. Once she received the notice and approval of an earthly sovereign; but this was not the reward she wished for, She has gone to her rest long since to receive a crown of glory, and to hear the welcome words, "Well done," from the lips of the Heavenly King.--Lessons from Noble Lives.

a bleak moor in Scotland. The snow had been falling fast, and the poor boy looked very cold and hungry.

"You may come in at any rate till my husband comes home. There, sit down by the fire; you look perishing with cold; " and she drew a chair up to the warmest corner: then, suspiciously glancing at the boy from the corners of her eyes, she continued setting the table for supper.

Presently came the tramp of heavy boots, and the door was swung open with a quick jerk, and the husband entered, wearied with his day's work.

A look of intelligence passed between his wife and himself. He looked at the boy, but did not seem very well pleased: he nevertheless bade him come to the table, and was glad to see how heartily he ate his supper.

Day after day passed, and yet the boy begged to be kept "until to-morrow; so the good couple, after due consideration, concluded that, as long as he was such a good boy, and worked so willingly, they would keep him.

One day, in the middle of winter, a pedlar, who often traded at the cottage, called, and after disposing of several of his goods, was preparing to go, when he said to the woman, "You have a boy out there, splitting wood, I see," pointing to the yard.

"Yes, do you know him ?"

"I have seen him,” replied the pedlar.
"Where? Who is he? What is he?"

"A jail bird;" and the pedlar swung his pack over his shoulder. "That boy, young as he looks, I saw in court myself, and heard him sentenced-'ten months.' You'll do well to look carefully after him."

Oh! there was something so dreadful in the word jail: the poor woman trembled as she laid away the things she had bought of the pedlar; nor could she be easy till she called the boy in, and assured him that she knew that dark part of his history.

Ashamed and distressed, the boy hung down his head; his cheeks seemed bursting with the hot blood, and his lips quivered. "Well," he muttered, his whole frame shaking, "there's no use in my trying to do better; everybody

"Oh!" exclaimed the boy, with a burst of grief that was terrible to behold. "Oh! I hain't no mother! I hain't no mother ever since I was a baby. If I'd only had a mother," he continued, while tears gushed from his eyes, "I would't have been bound out, and kicked, and cuffed, and horsewhipped. I wouldn't have been saucy, and got knocked down, and run away, and then stole, because I was hungry. Oh! if I'd only a mother."

The strength was all gone from the poor boy, and he sank on his knees, sobbing great choking sobs, and rubbing the hot tears away with the sleeve of his jacket.

The woman was a mother, and though all her children slept under the cold sod in the churchyard, she was a mother still. She put her hand kindly on the head of the boy, and told him to look up, and said that from that time he should find in her a mother. Yes, she even put her arm round the neck of that forsaken, deserted child; she poured from her mother's heart sweet kind words, words of counsel and tenderness. Oh! how sweet was her sleep that night; how soft her pillow! She had plucked some thorns from the path of a little sinning, but striving mortal.

But when we found a starry flower,
And praised its varied hue,
A tear came trembling down his check,
Just like a drop of dew,

We took him to the mill, mother,

Where falling waters made

A rainbow o'er the rills, mother,

As golden sun-rays played; But when we shouted at the scene,

And hailed the clear, blue sky, He stood quite still upon the bank, And breathed a long, long sigh.

We asked him why he wept, mother,
Whene'er we found the spots
Where periwinkles crept, mother,
O'er wild forget-me-nots.

"Ah, me!" he said, while tears ran down
As fast as summer showers-
"It is because I cannot see

The sunshine and the flowers."

Oh! that poor, sightless boy, mother,
He taught me that I'm blest;
For I can look with joy, mother,

On all I love the best;
And when I see the dancing stream,
And daisies red and white,

I kneel upon the meadow-sod
And thank my God for sight.

The Right Hon. William Ewart Gladstone.