in this as well as in every other line of duty. The only way to escape it is to live a sort of oblivion life. We often pity our modern Sir Rogers of congregations. If they exert an influence, up to the measure of their powers, they are quickly charged with officiousness, and their motives impugned. In case they refuse to act, from fear of being thought ambitious, they are spotted as sluggards or misers. Whichever way they turn they are sure to burn. Happy the Sir Roger who can say: "None of these things move God expects me to do my duty." The Sir Roger of the last century seems to have gone to a good long length in the discharge of his official functions: "As he is landlord to the whole congre gation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it, he stands up and looks about him; and if he sees any body else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servants to them." me. Perhaps our readers think such a monitor might prove useful still to waken up the sleepers. A quaint old man says, however, that such an officer is only needed when the preacher himself is not sufficiently awake. They used to punish the sleepers in church; but the man in the pulpit who put them to sleep invariably escaped without chastisement. Some of Addison's old knight's peculiarities are still breaking out afresh in some of our leading rural men of the church. He will slur and drawl certain notes in the Psalm after the rest of the congregation have done with them; if he is pleased especially with some matter in his devotions, he will amen lustily-Liturgy or none; and even, at times, stand up, lean forward and look about. Still, he does not go quite so far as the Sir Roger of old, who yelled out in the midst of the service: "John Matthews, mind what you're about there, and don't be disturbing the congregation by always kicking your heels-you idle fellow, you!" No matter how many irregularities are to be observed in such a person, if the parish be not polite enough to see the ridiculous, and if the general good sense and worthiness of his character are at par, his oddities even do not appear as blemishes. What the chaplain told Addison about his Sir Roger, many a country pastor may repeat still. This is what he told him: "The chaplain has often told me that upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement, and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon." He has likewise added some little to the pastor's happiness in the shape of gifts and favors. It is of much use, then, for the pastor and Sir Roger to be on good terms. One more quotation will show this: "The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, because the very next village is famous for the differences and contentions that rise between the parson and the 'Squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. The 'Squire, to be avenged on the parson, never comes to church, and the parson is always preaching at the 'Squire. The 'Squire has made all his tenants atheists; while the parson instructs them every Sunday that he is a better man than the 'Squire." Feuds of this nature are fatal to ordinary people. Dazzled by money and station, too many believe the 'Squire rather than the parson, though the latter be a man of learning and piety. Better, then, that Sir Roger and the parson should be of one mind, as much as can be at least, so we find it in the country, on Sunday and every other day. A LETTER FROM A VERY SMALL BOY. My name is Ernest Haven Curtis. I live "out West," mamma says, and my papa is a minister. They call me Ernie most always, but I like Ernest Haven the best, 'cause I was named after Henry P. Haven, who is going to be Governor of Connecticut, and mamma says he's good enough to be President. I expect I'll be President some time, 'cause I'm a very brave little boy. I don't cry when papa pulls slivers out of my fingers, or when mamma puts me to bed in the dark; though she most always rocks me to sleep, and I have to curl up like everything, 'cause I'm getting so long, and she's such a little bit of a mamma. I saw a rocking horse once, such a jolly big one, and had a ride on it. I wanted one awful, myself, but papa said he could not afford it. But I've got a grandpa that can make anything a boy wants, so I just said, "Grandpa, I must have a rocking horse." Grandpa said he could make a saw-horse for me to ride, but I said, "No, I must have one like Willie McEwen's, and I know you can make one if you try." Then I kissed and coaxed him awhile, for I've found out that's the way to get any thing you want. Well, the next day I heard him at work out in the barn, and I ran out there and saw he was trying to make me a horse, but, oh! such a looking thing as it was! He had a big, long, rounded body, with four legs fastened into some nice rockers, but not a sign of a head or tail! Who ever saw a horse without a head? I suppose I looked ashamed, to think my grandpa didn't know any better, for he just laughed and laughed at me, and I thought I should have to cry; but he caught me up, put me on the thing and made it rock first-rate. Then I said, "Grandpa, horses have heads and tails." "Do they?" said he, "Well, you run in the house now and tell mamma all about it, and I'll see what I can do." Mamma laughed when I told her what a queer horse grandpa had made, and said I needn't worry about it, for grandpa would have it all right when it was done. Then I went to grandma's room. I always go to her when I am in trouble, for she knows just how to comfort little boys. She most always has a turnover for me, or some peppermints in her pocket. This time she said I'd better make a train of cars and run them awhile to pass away the time. So I got all the old chairs in the house in a row, and I was the conductor and engineer, and had all of Minnie's dolls, and some rag dolls made of little shawls and things, for passengers. The children were all at school, so I had to play alone. We'd just had an awful smash up, all the cars upset and off the track, and all the passengers killed, when grandpa came in with my horse. Didn't I just hurrah and dance when I saw it had a splendid head on! good enough for any horse, if grandpa did make it. I made such a noise, papa came down from the study to see if the house was on fire. The horse had no tail or mane, and there was no saddle or bridle yet, but papa said he'd finish it off for me, and I tell you he did it up nice. He wanted to paint it, but I couldn't wait for paint to dry, so he got a nice long squirrel's tail and nailed it on where the tail ought to be, and some more short ones for a mane. Grandpa sawed a slit in the head where the mouth ought to be, and papa fixed up the nicest kind of a bridle, 'cause it was real leather, and not makebelieve. Then he found a piece of sheepskin with the wool on, and fastened it on the horse with a bright red surcingle for a saddle, and fixed up some good stout stirrups, and it was done. Then I put my foot in the stirrup and got on just as any man would. Didn't I make the horse go? I tell you it was the happiest moment of my life. There was grandpa and grandma, papa and mamma, Cora, Willie and Minnie all looking on, and Katie came in from the kitchen, with the butter ladle in her hand, to see what all the fuss was about. The girls wanted to ride, too, but I went to Boston and back, first, and then I let them try it, but they couldn't make it go worth a cent, 'cause they're too big, and had to sit sideways. I hugged and kissed grandpa, and said: "Thank you," just as nice as I could, for I think he's about the best grandpa that ever lived. He tells me the jolliest bear stories, and makes me big carts and little ones, and gives me long rides in the wheelbarrow. I wound his feet in red I used My horse had the epizooty, of course. flannel, wrapped him up in warm shawls, and greased his nose; that's what mamma does to me when I have the snuffles. up all the arnica wetting his head, 'cause it ached so. Mamma didn't like that at all when she found it out; she said water would have done just as well. I tried to give him some sugar pills, but they wouldn't stay in his mouth, so I ate them for him. He's all right now, and I ride him every day. This is all I have to say this time. ERNEST HAVEN CURTIS. -Christian Union. THE CHRISTIAN'S FATHERLAND. Where is the Christian's Fatherland? Where pilgrim hosts have rushed to lave Where is the Christian's Fatherland? Earth's shadows with the light divine? Or is the Christian's Fatherland, Where, with crowned head and croziered hand, And on the grave of Cæsar sits? Where is the Christian's Fatherland? It seems to have escaped the notice of modern infidels, that those old forms of religion of which they make so much, and which they consider equal if not preferable to Christianity, made no provision for their children. This of itself ought to be considered a strong reason for rejecting them as defective and false. A religion which does not embrace the children, which makes no provision for their proper training, and which shuts them out from its sacred books, is unworthy of reception by national people, and carries in itself the proofs of its false pretensions and the elments of its own destruction. The care which Christianity takes of children, the value it sets upon them, and the training with which it supplies them, are among its grand peculiarities. At the recent anniversary of the American Sunday School Union, at Philadelphia, Rev. Thomas Armitage, of New York, expressed the following striking and suggestive thoughts: |