But the question is, are the mass of the people of this country better than those in France, or Germany, or Switzerland? Would not the poor peasants in those countries be better than we are, if they had the advantages that we enjoy? There is one thing, especially, which those who have travelled must remark, that the lower classes in foreign countries are more civil than they are among us, and there is not that love of mischief among their little children which we find in our land. When I travelled through Germany a little while since, I observed large rows and avenues of walnut, cherry, and apple trees, bending down with the weight of the fruit, planted along the roads, without guard or fence; but there were no rude boys or girls robbing these trees, and breaking down the branches. I saw little benches placed in the public gardens, but none of them were torn up or defaced by the young people, who amused themselves in these walks. Palings and fences, gates and hedges are safe in that country from the wanton mischief of children; for, as I said before, the spirit of destruction does not seem to be so common with them as it is with our little boys and girls.

To change the heart of man is indeed a task beyond the reach of human power; yet we are bound to use the appointed means, leaving it to the Almighty to give them due effect. Observe the words of the wise man in the Bible (Proverbs xxix. 17), " Correct thy son, and he shall give thee rest; yea, he shall give delight unto thy soul." These thoughts were suggested to me by the story which I am about to relate.

CHAPTER II.

Story of a bad boy made good.

A RESPECTABLE gentleman of the name of Elwyn was one day walking through one of the principal streets of the country town near which he resided, when he fell in with a large crowd, which was pouring from the centre of the town towards the jail.

Mr. Elwyn asked the reason of this confusion, and

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was told, that some miserable man was at that time about to suffer death, for some dreadful offence against the laws of his country.

Shocked at hearing this, Mr. Elwyn turned hastily round, and striking into a by-street, made his way as quickly as possible from the presence of the mob. He had presently quitted the more public parts of the town, and had entered a more quiet street in the suburbs, when he found out that he was closely followed; and, looking behind him, saw a young man of respectable appearance and pleasing countenance, who seemed only to wait a favourable opportunity to address him. On Mr. Elwyn's turning round, the young man stepped forward, and touching his hat when he spoke, addressed him to the following purport. My name, sir, is Philip Barnes; perhaps you may recollect my name, although it is many years since I had the honour of speaking to you."

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Philip Barnes!" repeated Mr. Elwyn; "the name has escaped my memory. Tell me, my young man, where and when did we ever meet before." The young man smiled, but it was one of those sorrowful smiles which are suddenly checked by some melancholy recollection.

"We did once meet before, sir," he replied, "and it was on an occasion when I had been with that unhappy young man, who is now suffering the punishment of his crimes. Do you remember, sir, about ten years ago, putting a boy in the cage in your village, for breaking a poor man's palings?"

"I have put so many boys in that cage for such trespasses," replied Mr. Elwyn, " that unless you can bring some particular circumstance of the case to my memory, I shall not be able to recollect you."

'Do you remember the widow Esther Barnes, who lived near the turnpike ?" said the young man: "I am her only son, and perhaps, under God, it is to you, sir, that I am obliged for being at this moment free and at large, or even for not being a sharer in the fate of the unhappy youth who is now suffering at the gallows."

On hearing this, Mr. Elwyn stopped short, and looking full in the face of Philip Barnes, he said, "I remember your mother, young man, and I have some faint recollection of once putting her son in the cage; and I remember that she acted like a wise woman on the occasion, and said that it was better for her son to be

confined for a few hours in an iron cage, than perhaps to die a shameful death by the laws of his country. And now explain to me, my young man, why you think yourself obliged to me; for I am not conscious of ever having had it in my power to do you the smallest service, as I think it must have been not many months after the same affair of the iron cage, when your mother left the parish, and from that time I have totally lost sight of the family."

"I will not pretend to say," replied Philip Barnes, "that you ever did any more for me than to give me the wholesome discipline which I speak of: nevertheless, my good sir," continued the young man, "I think, when you come to hear the circumstances of the case, that you will think with me that you never did a lad a better turn than that which you then did for me."

"Well, then," said Mr. Elwyn, "if your business does not call you another way, my young man, let us walk together to my house, and you shall explain this matter further to me. You say that the poor creature who is now suffering punishment, was with you at the time I found you breaking the fences:-I do not remember putting a second boy into the cage at that time."

"Sir," said Philip Barnes, " you shall hear the whole of the story. My mother, as you well know, was a poor woman, who lived entirely by her own labour, and I was her only son.

"She was a good mother as far as she knew, and kept me in as well as she was able: yet I often used to run away from her, and when I was about ten years of age, I made acquaintance with a lad belonging to the same village, a little older than myself, the son of a butcher, whose name was Roger Wilks, the very same unhappy youth who is condemned to die this day."

"Wilks!" said Mr. Elwyn, "Wilks the butcher! I remember the name ;-but he has left us many years." "Well, sir," continued Philip Barnes," as I before said, I made acquaintance with this poor lad, and as wild a lad he was as ever I recollect."

"Better fed than taught, poor boy!" observed Mr. Elwyn; "this is the case with many butchers' families; but go on."

"I was in many schemes of petty mischief with this lad," said Philip, "before any one took any notice of the matter either for good or bad. One of these I remember especially. It was on a Sunday evening in the

summer. Roger and I had got into an apple-tree in a lone field as you go down from the village towards the mill-pond; we were close up in the branches of the tree, and were eating and filling our pockets at our ease, when two men came into the field, and were passing over into the bushes on the other side, when one of them looking up, spied us in the tree. The man immediately pointed us out to his companion, saying, 'Look you there, do you see those rogues in the tree? I have a good mind to shake them down.' 'Pshaw,' replied the other man, 'let them alone; it is no business of yours; why should you meddle with other people's affairs? Leave the farmer to guard his own fruit. Come along, what business is it of yours? Leave Farmer Smith, I say, to mind his own matters; I'll warrant he'll take care of his own.' As he said this, both the men passed on, leaving us more hardened and determined in our roguery than before; and I have often thought, since that time, of the injury which persons do to society, who allow sin to go unpunished, because,' as they say, 'it is no business of theirs.' Why, sir, I consider that it is every person's business, as much as in him lies, to stop the progress of sin whenever it comes in his way."

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Why," replied Mr. Elwyn, "I have always thought so, and I have been led by Scripture itself to consider, that if I allow a fellow-creature to commit a crime which I could have prevented, I am a partaker in his crime, and deserve to share his punishment. How else do you understand that passage in Scripture, where reproving a neighbour is given as a test of love? Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart; thou shalt in any wise rebuke thy neighbour, and not suffer sin upon him.'" Levit. xix. 17.

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Very true, sir," replied Philip Barnes," and there are many, I doubt not, who in a future world will rue this cruelly. But to go on, sir, with my story.

"Poor Roger and I got safe home with our apples, and I made up some tale to my mother, to account for my being in possession of so much fruit.

"A few days after this, I was engaged, towards the dusk of evening, in company with Roger, in pulling down the railings of a poor man's garden, which he (no doubt with much pains and cost) had put up a few days before.

"Now I cannot remember that we had any other motive for this work than downright mischief;-but be

it as it might, we were both tugging hard at these rails when the very farmer passed by on horseback whose apple-trees we had so thinned the Sunday before.

"We had the grace to cease for a few minutes from our mischievous job as he rode up; but it was so plain what we had been about that the farmer was at no loss to understand it, for as he rode by, he called to us, saying, 'What are you doing there, boys? It's well it is no fence of mine, or I would be even with you.' So saying he rode on, and Roger, winking at me, whispered,Not so cunning as you think, farmer, by a deal the apples for that!'

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"When the farmer was gone, as the evening became more dusk, we fell to work again," continued Philip, "with more spirit than ever, encouraged by our escape so far,-when suddenly we heard steps near at hand, and looking up we saw you, sir, who by getting over a stile had come unexpectedly upon us. Oh,' cried Roger, ' it is Mr. Elwyn, and as sure as we are caught we shall get it! He took to his heels and I after him, but not so speedily but that you were too quick for me. I remember you caught me, sir, by the lappet of my coat, and without saying with your leave,' or 'by your leave,' dragged me back to the village, and put me into the cage, where I remained shut up till near midnight, and expected to be kept there till day-dawn, and indeed all the next day.

"At twelve o'clock at night, however, I remember that you came to let me out. It was a fine moonlight night, sir, just in the autumn, and you walked up and down with me two or three times in the street, and laid before me the consequences of sin, both in this world and the next, and pointed out the use of chastisement, in order to check the progress of sin.

"You told me, that if I kept evil company I should assuredly be lost and undone, and then you taught me this beautiful verse, 6 Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way! By taking heed thereto, according to thy word."" Psalm cxix. 9.

"And you told me where I was to find the precepts of the Lord revealed, even in his Holy Bible; and so, sir, we parted-but through the divine mercy, I never forgot that night, and your kind discourse; and I have often since thought that, humanly speaking, the punishment of the cage would have done me no good without the kind discourse I afterward heard, neither would the