AMY,

THE GLASS-BLOWER'S DAUGHTER.

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(Caption to photo on page 4) They found her deeply engaged In conversation with a pretty little boy who sat by the wall alone.-P. 31.

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A M Y,

THE GLASS-BLOWER'S DAUGHTER.

A True Narrative

WRITTEN FOR THE AMERICAN SUNDAY~SCHOOL UNION, AND REVI8ED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION.

Philadelphia: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, NO. 146 CHE8TXUT STREET.

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Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1847, by The American Sunday School Union, in the Clerk.s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

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AMY,

THE GLASS-BLOWER'S DAUGHTER.

The romantic and beautiful country-seat of M r. Harrington stands upon a wooded hill, about half a mile from the village of Green-Briar, one of the loveliest villages in the State of N ^. The hill was originally covered by a thick wood, and in this condition Mr. Harrington found it, when in seeking for some quiet place to which he might retire with his family, in the summer months, from the din and bustle and heat and dust of the city, he pitched upon this as the loveliest spot on which his eye had ever rested. He showed a fine taste in the arrangement and disposition of his grounds, clearing the woods

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just about the house, opening a beautiful sloping lawn in front, and leaving here and there a clump of the finest elms of the forest. An acre or two of land was also cleared for a garden, but with this exception, and that of the necessary walks and avenues about the grounds, not a tree was felled. Behind the house the woods are unbroken, save by a few openings to the finest views of the country around; and as you wander through them, you soon reach the brow of the hill which is the termination of Mr. Harrington's estate in that direction. As you stand upon the verge of this hill, a magnificent view stretches out before the eye. At your feet, far below you, rolls the river M ^, curving around the base of the hill, till at length it takes a sudden turn and rolls off across the plain, which spreads for miles in extent; covered with highly cultivated fields, and dotted here and there by picturesque farmhouses, with their barns and other out-buildings. Far away in- the distance, stands the only unsightly object in all this extensive view.

Indeed, it would seem to be thrown in to set At, by contrast, the beauties of the rest of the scene. I refer to a little settlement known to the people of Green-Briar, by the name of the "Glassworks." It stands about two miles from the village. As you glance at the place, the first objects that attract your attention, are two large old black-looking houses, of a very singular shape, with steep roofs and tall chimneys, from which a dense black smoke is constantly pouring out. At this place a n^limber of men are regularly employed in the manufacture of glass;.indeed, the settlement is composed almost entirely of the dwellings of these labourers.

There are about forty or fifty small houses, very much alike in their general appearances and stretching for some distance, in a single street, along the bank of the river; On a little hill, back of the settlement, stands ~ small, square building, with a kind of steeple or cupola on the top of it, plainly showing by its appearance that it had once been used, or was at least originally intended, for a church or

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schoolhouse; but, alas, at the time my story commences, the half-open door and broken roof, and swinging shutters, and blank win~ow-sashes, told plainly enough that no church or school had been seen there for a long, long time. Indeed, it needed not this to convince one of the fact it was enough to walk through the single long street of this wretched village, and see the groups of idle and ragged children, quarrelling and taking the name of God in vain; or to know the reputation which the children of the glassworks had acquired in the Village of Green-Briar. If any article was missing from a house, or any fruit stolen from a garden, it was immediately taken for granted, that some of "those children from the glassworks" had been about the premises.

And who can wonder at the wickedness of these poor children?.brought up in ignorance and sin, without occupation of any kind having no knowledge of God or the Bible, and knowing no difference between the Sabbath and the rest of the days of the week, except that on that day they heard the sweet chimes of the village-bells as they sounded across the plain? calling the people of God to the house of prayer. Do you ask, scan it be that there are children in our land so near the sound of the gospel, who never hear its blessed truths? Is it possible that we have

heathen so near us?" Yes.children of the Sabbath-schools ye, who hear and weep over the degradation and wickedness of the poor heathen in the islands of the sea, in China, in India, and in many other far-off lands, ye, who are taught to sale and give your mites to send the blessed Gospel to them; do you not know, that every Sabbath, as the bell calls you to the place where you may "hear of Heaven and learn the way," you pass the dwellings of those.you even pass those in the streets, perhaps who have seldom or never heard of God, or the Bible, or the way of salvation; who never enter the house of Gods or hear the voice of prayer, and who, ~ you were to stop them and speak to them about their own dying souls

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and tell them of Jesus, who alone can save them . would stare at you as if you were speaking in an unknown tongue. They are within a stone's throw of your dwellings, they are sometimes at your very doors, begging for bread to feed their famishing bodies- but they have none to break to them the "bread of life..

Do you say "What can I, a mere child, do ? I cannot be expected to do any good to great numbers of wicked and ignorant people."

No; but cannot each one of you, whose eye may light upon these pages, try to do good to some one.only one poor degraded child? Cannot you persuade one to go to Sunday-school, where he or she may learn to read God's word; - - cannot you leave a tract at the doors of many who can read, or give a Bible or Testament to some poor creature, whom it may be the means of leading to a knowledge of the Saviour? Are there not many ways in which you may do good to such, and have you not opportunities every clay which you allow to pass unimproved, of teaching the way of life to those who are "perishing for lack of knowledge ?" Remember that the condemnation of those who live within the sound of the "church-going bell," and wilfully close their ears to the calls of the gospel, will be much greater and their punishment "much sorer," than that of those who never have heard these blessed sounds. But to return to our story.

In one of the small dwellings of the glassworks' settlement, lived a family more wretched and miserable than any of the rest. And the fact of their being so, will be sufficiently accounted for, when I tell you that the father was a drunkard. This is enough to bring sorrow and trouble upon any family but Reuben Foster was more than a common drunkard. and it was a saying among the people of the glassworks, that is there never was such a Mend as Reuben Foster when he was in 1iquor." He was not naturally an ill-tempered man, and but for this vice Night have been a land husband and good neighbour. He was

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an excellent workman, and always kept sober till his day's work was done. But, alas ! for Reuben at one end of the street was a miserable little grog-shop, and thither his footsteps turned the moment he was released Tom his labours at the glass factory; and from thence he went reeling home to abuse his un offending wife, and she, poor creature ! was stone blind. Strange to say, she was so when Reuben married her; but Mary Wilson divas a very pretty girl, and no one would have supposed without looking very closely at her eyes that they were sightless. Mary loved Reuben, for he had always spoken kindly to her, and she felt grateful to him that he was willing to take her for his wife in spite of this infirmity;- a sad one for a poor man's wife. They had one little daughter, and when Reuben determined to move to the west, Mary's parents persuaded her to leave little Amy with them, at least for a time; and Mary consented, though it grieved her to the heart to part from her only child. Reuben soon found that his blind wife was not

so handy about every thing as she might be; for though her knitting and sewing surprised every one, and her house was kept in very nice order, yet some things did not suit him, and some things went amiss, because poor Mary could not see; and as he went on drinking, his temper became more and more sour, till from fretting and scolding at her he proceeded to blows.

I cannot bear to tell you the horrid story of the sufferings poor blind Mary endured. You have all heard and read of the miseries of the drunkard's home; but never was there a more wretched home than that of Mary Foster. She would tremble and shrink when her quick ear caught the sound of her husband's unsteady footstep approaching the door, for she well knew, that however she might try to please him, some excuse would yet be found to make her suffer. She was very lonely, too, and often thought of her little Amy, who was so far from her; but if she was ever tempted to wish for her, she checked the

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thought in a moment, saying to herself, "It is better as it is. I never could live to see her abused as I am" but diary did not then know what she could or would live through.

After Mary had been three or four years at the glassworks, she had a little son; and oh, how she doted on this little boy; she was never weary of tending him, and when she slept, she always held his little hand in her's, that she might be sure he was near her. At last, Reuben, who by this time had grown so much worse that he seemed perfectly to hate his poor wife, perceive d that she had one comfort in this little boy, and determined that, for a time at least, she should be deprived even of this enjoyment. So, one day, when little Harry was about four years old, as she took him upon her lap, and put her arms around him and kissed him, her husband said to her in a rough voice:

Thou make a fool of yourself with that child; he will never be fit for any this. brought up with so much hugging and kissing

He has got ? hard life before him, I can tell your and he must learn to rough it a little now. After this I shall take him down to the c works' with me. "

"Oh, Reuben," said poor Mary, turning her sightless eyes towards him with an expression of agony, "you will not take this child down to that place; he will surely come to some dreadful end. Oh, leave him with me, Reuben. I will promise never to kiss him once, if it is that which makes you angry."

But she was only bidden to hold her tongue. "The child must learn to take care of himself, " Reuben said, "and keep out of the way of danger ;" and then, on purpose to frighten and distress her still more, he added, that "a little melted glass would do his feet no harm. He must learn to bear pain."

So, the next day, little Harry was taken down to the glass-factory and seated in a sort of niche in the wall, and told to sit perfectly still or he might get burned to death. At first the little boy was quite amused watching the

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men at their work. He saw them blowing the glass into long cylinders, and singing them around as if they were playing with enormous soap-bubbles. But soon Harry grew very tired of sitting so still, and he would have been very glad to be allowed to get down and run about a little. Besides, he would lose sight of his father for a long time, and he wished very much that he might go and see what had become of- him. But he was afraid that if he got down, he should tread on some melted glass with his little bare feet, or fall into some of the great red fires he saw; and still more was he afraid of his father, for he knew that if he left the place where he had seated him, he would be severely punished. So, he

still till dinner-time, and very glad was he when his father put on his coat and came and took him by the hand and led him home. He wanted very much to go and kiss his poor mother when he saw her, but he knew that it would make his father angry, and so he did not. He hoped he might be left at home in the afternoon, but the moment his father had done his dinner. he called him to come again with him. Harry was a very pretty and interesting little boy, and some of the workmen were pleased with him, and felt sorry to see a poor little child compelled to sit so still the whole day. So they blew some little glass balls and gave them to him to play with, but he could only hold them in his hand and look at them; for he did not dare to get down to roll them about. So he sat all the afternoon, and at last it began to grow very dark, but the red fires of the furnace seemed to grow more red, and among the dusky figures that flitted about before them, he could not distinguish his father from any of the other men. At last every thing grew dim before his eyes, and poor little weary Harry fell asleep.

How long he had slept he knew not, when he was awakened by his father's shaking him and telling him it was time to go. Harry thought he was going directly home; but no . he must first st drag his little stiff tired legs

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after his father to the dram-shop, which, as I told you, was at one end of the street- and wait there while his father drank and caroused with an idle set who were always to be found hanging about this vile place; and then he led, rather than followed, his reeling father home. So passed many wretched days; and when they came home at night, poor Mary was always up watching and listening for the sound of her little boy's footsteps, and the only time her heart was at all at ease, or her mind free from anxiety, was when she collard lie down at night holding her little boy's hand in fiery and hear his Gentle breathing as he slept beside her. Sometimes this poor little boy was kept nearly all night at the glassworks. for you must know, that it is necessary for the workmen in these places to be ready to blow the glass, whenever it is in the proper state, whether it be night or day.

At last, poor Mary, who was nearly worn out with constant watching and anxiety of mind, ventured to remonstrates with her husband again, and begged him to leave little Harry at home with her. But for this she took a very unfortunate time. Something had gone wrong with Reuben that day, and he felt in a worse humour than was usual, even with him. So poor Mary, after receiving the most cruel beating her husband had ever given her, was pushed rudely from the door, and told never to enter it again till she could submit to his will without a word. She found her way to the house of Mrs. Brown, a poor neighbour, who took her in and treated her with great kindness. All the next day Mary sat thinking of her little boy, and longing to hear the sound of his voice; and when night came she crept back to her own dwelling and listening at the door, she heard the heavy breathing of her husband, showing thin he slept soundly after his visit at the dram shop.

Then she stole softly in, and feeling about for little Harry, she took the sleeping boy quietly in her arms without awakening hint, and wrapping him in her shawl, she hurried

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to the house of her kind friend, and while she had her little boy by her side again was almost happy; but when daylight came she rose, and wrapping him up, took him back and laid him down again by the side of his still soundly-sleeping father.

This she did for several nights, and at last Monday morning came, and Mary determined when she carried her little boy back, to remain and go about her work as usual. Reuben was by this time quite tired of doing his own work and preparing meals for himself and Harry, and he had been obliged to confess to himself that Mary; was good for something, after all. So he was secretly very well pleased when }ye awoke that morning to find the house in order and his breakfast all ready for him, and Mary at her washing. He took no more notice of her, however, than if she had never left the house; but as he was quite tired, too, of having to watch little Harry (of whom he was really fond, and being in an unusually good humour that morning, he determined to leave the little boy at home, till the time should come when he wanted to annoy poor Mary, and cause her trouble again. So, merely saying, "I don't want the child with me today," he left the house.

I cannot tell which was the most happy, Harry or his mother, when they found themselves left together again; and as Mary had her little boy to lead her, she determined to go down to the river, as she often did in the summer, to do her washing; and Harry led her by the hand and stayed close beside her all the day. He was now left with her quite often, and Mary took good care never to pet him or show him any sign of affection when his father was present. But there were days when Reuben felt cross and wanted to distress Mary, and then poor little Harry was again taken from her to spend the whole day, and sometimes the night, in the glassworks.

We have said that diary Foster had a little girl, whom she left with her parents in New England, when she accompanied her husband

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to the West. The old people died soon apes Mary left, and little Amy lived sometimes with one uncle or aunt, and sometimes with another By some, she was treated kindly, and by others not so well. No pains had been taken to teach her any thing useful, and she had grown up to be eight or nine years old, In ignorance and idleness. liter uncles and aunts were all poor, hardworking people, with families of their own to take care of, and none of them felt as if they could spare the money that would be necessary to pay Amy's expenses to go to her mother. At last, however, one of Amps uncles found a person of his acquaintance who was going in that directions and who expected to pass directly through the village of Green-Briar and he persuaded him to take charge of Amy as far as that place, and gave him the money for her expenses.

When they arrived at Green-Briar, this man asked some one whom they met, which was the way to the glassworks. The person kindly pointed out the little settlement to Amy, at

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no great distance across the plain; and told her to follow the windings of the road till she reached the settlement, and then to ask the first person she met where Reuben Foster lived. Poor little Amy started with her bundle of clothes in her hand, on her lonely way across the plain; and desolate enough she felt going to meet parents of whom she had scarcely any recollection whatever. She had seldom heard them spoken of, and only knew that her mother was blind; and that she had a little brother whom she had never seen. She had a vague idea, too, that her father was not a very good man, and not very kind to her mother. After in Miring her way from several whom she met, she at length stopped before her mother's door. Mary was busily engaged in some household work, but hearing a footstep approach the door, she paused and asked,

"Who's there ?"

"Is this Reuben Foster's house?" asked Amy, timidly.

"Yes, " answersed Mary..

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"And are you Mrs. Foster?".

"Yes, I am..

"Then you are my mother. My name is Amy Foster;. and in a moment, Mary had caught the little girl in her arms, though in the next she was crying and sobbing to think of the misery and wretchedness in store for Amy and for all of them. Then, she had a thousand questions to ask about friends - and relations; for Mary had never heard a word from them since a letter had been sent to Reuben, telling them of her father's death. She wept very much when she heard that her mother too, was dead; and to hear of Amy's sufferings from the unkindness of some of her relatives. But Amy said to her, c ~ Mother, I have one kind uncle there, uncle Robert; and he told me to tell you, that, if at any time you were very unhappy, you must come and live with him." This was very pleasant to poor Mary who had always felt that there was no escape for her from the bitter bondage which she groaned.

Just then, Harry came running in, and he was very much amazed to see a strange girl sitting on his mother's lap; and still more surprised to hear that it was his sister. When Reuben came home, he was not at all pleased to find that another had been added, to the family, and seemed to take a dislike to Amy, from the first moment he saw her. Every thing she did was done wrong, and was sure to call forth a rebuke and sometimes a blow, till the poor child would tremble and shrink whenever she saw her father approaching the house.

Amy lived at home a little more than a year; her father's dislike of her appearing to increase every day, till at last, for some trifling offence, he whipped her severely, and drove her from the door with curses, as he had done her mother before, telling her never to darken that door, or to let him see her face again. Amy had, before this^7 become acquainted with Mrs. Brown, the kind neighbour who had received her mother. and

Page 30 =============================================================== to her house she crawled, though sore and bruised from the beating her father had given her. I am sorry to say, that Amy had no feeling towards her father but that of bit~er hatred, and she would have rejoiced at any moment to hear of his death. She had never been taught to read the Bible. She knew no~ing of the dreadful place to which her wretched father's soul would go, if he were to die in his sins; and she had never heard that if she wished the death of another, she committed murder in her heart. But brighter days were to dawn upon poor Amy's darkened mind.

It was very common for parties of young people to come out from the village of Green-Briar, and visit the "glass-works" as one of the curiosities about the place. One day, about the time that Amy was driven from home, a party of young ladies an d gentlemen started out in a boat to make a visit of this kind. Among them was Rose Harrington, who had just completed her course at. one of the schools in the city of ----------, and had come up with the rest of the family to spend the summer at Green-Briar. She was a young lady of peculiar loveliness of manner and appearance, and great cultivation of mind, but her principal charm was her ardent and unaffected piety; and her chief desire seemed to be to imitate her Saviour, and "go about doing good." When the party arrived at the glass-factory, they wandered about over the great buildings, examining every thing, and observing the whole operation from its commencement to its perfection, and of course asking questions respecting it of many of the workmen.

It was some time before the party perceived that Rose Harrington had left them, and when they missed her, and began to look about for her, they found her deeply engaged in conversation with a pretty little boy who sat by the wall alone.

She had been talking to him for a long times and had drawn from him, by degrees, some account of the family.

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Harry was afraid at first to answer hers and looked about to see if his father was near, but as he was nowhere to be seen, the child's restraint soon wore off his heart opened to the unaccustomed tones of kindness, and he told the story of his sorrows to the inquiring young lady. From it she learned, that he had a blind mother and one sister that his father was very unkind to them both; that his mother had once been drip en from home, and his sister was now living with strangers.

This was not his language, but she gathered it from what he sail. The little boy did not know what she meant when she spoke of a school; had never heard of the Bible or the name of God, except as coupled with oaths; and had no idea that Sunday should be kept in any different manner frown the other days of the week.

Before Rose left the place, she conversed with one of the he'll, from whom she learned that years ago, there had been a school in the school-house on the hill; but it had long

Once been discontinued, and that the children of the glassworks were growing up in total ignorance of any thing but evil.

Her heart was deeply affected with the condition of these poor children, and as she took her place to return home, she sat thoughtful and silent, and could not rouse herself to enter into the trifling conversation of her gay companions, even when they rallied her upon the gravity of her appearance. Her mind was filled with deep and solemn thoughts. She was thinking of the numbers of souls in the settlement she had just left, who were in all the darkness of heathenism; and she thought, that part of the responsibility, at least, would rest upon her if they were left to perish. Something must be done, and that without delay, for these poor benighted children, and she determined that even if she stood entirely alone in the effort, she would at least make an endeavour to instruct and enlighten as many of them as she could, and show them way ~~ life.

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As soon as Rose reached home, she went immediately in to her father's library, and opened to him the subject of which her heart was so full. She proposed to him to repair the school-house, at the glassworks, and then she said she would engage all the young people whom she could persuade to unite with her, and go through the settlement, and collect all the children of a suitable age, and form a Sunday-school. Mr. Harrington entered into her plan with great interest, and promised that his part of the labour (the repairing of the school-house) should be attended to immediately. Rose lost no time, but went about among the young people in the village, and proposed the plan. Some thought very well of it, and wondered that it had never occurred to them before. Others said it was "well enough to try, but you might as well attempt, they said, to make black white, as to expect to do any good to the children at the glass-works.. Some were willing to join in it, to please Miss Harrington; others were ready to engage in any thing new, and there were some who would have nothing at all to do with it.

But Rose was not discouraged - she went from house to house, introducing herself where she was not known. She wished those of all denominations to join together, and part of her plan was, to have the different clergymen of the village preach by turns, once every Sunday, at the settlement. She succeeded at last in gaining a sufficient number of teachers, and an excellent superintendent. But the hardest part of her task was yet to be accomplished, and this was to visit every house in the settlement, and persuade the people to allow their children to attend and be taught. The people generally seemed to think it very strange, that a number of young ladies and gentlemen should be willing to come so far on purpose to teach their children. They thought there must be some hidden object, which they could not under stand. Some wanted to know how much they

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would have to pay if they sent their children, others consented to send them as a very great favour to those who asked ~ but I am glad to say, there were a few who seemed very much pleased with the opportunity to have their children instructed. The children themselves were delighted by the novelty of the thing, and were all extremely anxious to see what sort of an affair a school might be! It did not take long to repair the building, and in three weeks from the time that the idea of the school first entered Rose Harrington.s head, it was ready to be opened. .

The children had all engaged to be on the spot the next Sunday afternoon. So, when the superintendent and teachers arrived, they found a crowd already collected about the school-house, ~ ailing for the door to be opened. When all the children were assembled, Mr. Gordon, the superintendent, requested them to be seated. After awhile, he required them to look at him. He, then, in the most simple language he could command, told them of God, their Creator, and of Jesus Christ, their Saviour; he explained to them the nature of the Sabbath, and of prayer. "And now, children,' said he, "I am going to pray to the great God, of whom I have been telling you and you must listen and try to pray with me, and He will hear us, and give us what we ask for, if we ask as we ought." After the prayer, he opened the Bible. He told them, that this was God's message to men; that their object in coming there, was to teach them to read and understand and love that holy Book; to teach them how to live and how to die, that they might go to Heaven, and not be miserable and wretched for ever.

Then commenced the business of arranging the classes. It was Amy Foster's good fortune to be placed in Miss Harrington's class. Though the woman who had received Amy, when she was driven from home, was very kind in allowing her to stay at her house, yet she had no time to attend to her appearances teach her any thing useful. She was at

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first sight one of the most unpromising child Wren in the school. Her hair was uncombed, her face dirty, and her whole appearance untidy in the extreme. But Rose soon discovered that she was naturally a very bright, intelligent child. She learned quickly, and with She greatest delight. She asked questions in the most eager manner about her lessons, and seemed to wish to make up, as soon as possible, for the time she had lost.

The first lesson the teachers gave their classes, was on neatness: ~~ You must come neat and clean," said they, "or we cannot teach you, or let you touch the nice books we bring." The very next Sunday showed a great improvement in that respect. Many a clean bright face appeared, that would hardly have been recognized as the same that was there the Sunday before. It was, however, for a time, an office requiring great patience and self-denial, to be a teacher in that Sunday school. The habits of the children were so idles that many of them seemed not to care whether they learned or not. Some of the teachers became "weary in well-doing," and gave up their classes; but others more faithful and devoted took their places; and gradually most of the children began to take an interest in the lessons, and seemed really to wish to improve.

It was very interesting now to watch the change in the appearance of the school from Sabbath to Sabbath. The children came more tidy in their appearance. Though their clothes were patched, their faces were clean, and their hair neatly combed. They felt that they were not utterly cast- off and abandoned; that they Mere no longer looked upon with suspicion and dislike; that there were some who cared for them; and they began to take some satisfaction in endeavouring to please their kind teachers, who were doing so much for them. Rose took the deepest interest in her class, and became warmly attached to some of her scholars. It was delightful to her to see their eyes ~ten, and their cheeks glow as they caught

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some new idea, and to hear them ask questions With eager animation, about things which had been familiar to her from the cradle, but which were heard now for the first time by these neglected children.

I might tell you of much good that was done in this Sunday-school- I might point you to many a little child, who here learned to read and love the word of Gods and who (through it) were brought to the knowledge of the Saviour. But, leaving the rest, I must follow out my original plan, which was to tell you the story of Amy Foster, whom we will now find and see what became of her, after she entered the school.

Miss Harrington having drawn from the little girl her history, went to see Mrs. Brown, the woman who had received Amy into her house. She found her to be a poor, hard-working woman, with several children of her own. She said it was hard for her to support them all, but she could not let poor Amy starve, neither could she send her back to be abused as she had been by her cruel father. Rose determined, that if she could gain her mother's consent, Amy should be received into their family. Mrs. Harrington, who had beep very much interested in the story of the Fosters, as she had heard it from her daughter, readily consented to take the Child, and let her learn to be useful; and, oh, how happy Amy was, when told that she might come and lie e in the same house with her kind friend and teacher !

Before this time, regular services had been established at the school-house, and some one of the -clergymen of Green-Briar came out every Sunday afternoon, and preached there to the assembled population of the "glass-works. " Amy managed the next Sunday to see her mother, as she came up to the school-house, led by little Harry. She told her, that she was now living with Mrs. Harrington, where she was very kindly treated, and was happier than she had ever been in her life. Seeing that her mother's face was even paler and sadder than usual, she asked,

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"But what is the matter with you, dear mother? Does father treat you very badly now?"

"Oh, Amy, worse and worse," answered the poor woman, bursting into tears.

Why, then, mother, do you stay with him ? How I wish you would go and live with Uncle Robert.'

"Amy, child," said her mother, "how can I go and leave Harry. Many and many a time, I have taken a bundle of clothes and left the house, thinking I never would go back, but could not make up my mind to leave your little brother, and so I always returned. And now, Amy, he has Threatened to murder me; and I never go to sleep, without thinking that, perhaps, before morning, he will be the death of me."

Amy shuddered as her mother told her this, and determined that she would go to her kind friend, Miss Harrington, with this new trouble. Rose went immediately on hearing it to her father. A respectable man, a tenant of Mr. Harrington's, was going to start the next morning in the cars for New England, and would pass directly through the village, where Mary Foster's brother lived; and Mr. Harrington said, he would pay Mary's expenses, if she would leave her husband, and go with him. As soon as Amy heard this, she flew to the "glassworks," and contrite ed to see her moo their, without the knowledge of her father, who was (as usual on Sunday evening) at the grog-shop. Mary's resolution was immediately taken; but she said nothing of it to Harry, fearing that he might, in some way, disclose the secret to his father.

In the summer time, (as I have already told you,) Mary often went down to the river-side to do her washing, and Harry was usually left at home, to lead her there and back. The next morning, as soon as her husband had gone to his work, Mary put up a few clothes for herself and Harry in a small bundle, and laid them in her clothes-basket, and covering them with a few dirty clothes, started with Harry for the river, walking along slowly as

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usual. When she came to the bank of the stream, she set down the basket, took out the bundle, and taking hold of Harry's hand, she said, "Now lead me to Mr. Harrington's, as fast as possible." Harry knew the way, and did as his mother directed him. Mary hurried him on, fearing that she might be too late for the cars, or that her husband might hear of her flight, and follow an d overtake her. She reached Mr. Harrington's safely, awl found the man of whom he had spoken, just ready to start. Mr. Harrington gave him money to pay Mary's expenses, and told him to take g^Qod care of her, and not to leave her till he saw her safe with her brother. Mary felt very sa^(lly at again parting with Amy, but she was sure that she was now in good hands, and would be well taken care of. Her heart bo~nd

Reuben was detailed at the factory all that day, and when he left his work to go home to his supper, he little dreamed that his wife and little boy were more than a hundred miles away! When he reached the house, he was surprised to find it silent and ^(leserted! All wad in confusion no supper was ready for him, and it seemed as if no person had been about the house, since he left it in the morning. He wondered what had become of his wife and Harry, for Mary had never dared to be absent when he came home and wanted his meals. He sat down, uneasily waiting for them, by turns angry and anxious, till it became nearly dark. But he could endure it no longer. He left the house, and took his way towards the river. After wandering along the bank for some time, he came to ~lary's basket o~^rered with joy, as she found the cars mooing ra ~ turned, and a few cloths lying on the groun . pidly onward, bearing her and her little boy The river was swollen with the spring rains, from him, whom she had once loved, but and at this place was broad and deep, and it whose neglect and abuse of her had entirely ~ . flashed across his mind that his wife and little weaned her affections from him. Ida Harry were-, probably, drowned ! Perhaps

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Mary had fallen in while stooping to wash, and Harry, in trying to save her, had been drawn in likewise; or it might be, that Harry had fallen in first, and that Mary had heard him scream, and running to save him, had lost her balance, and both had gone down the strewn together. The alarm was soon given, and Ace whole settlement turned out; the men brought torches, and searched slowly an-d patiently along the bank of the river for some trace of the missing ones. Nothing was found, however, but a little shawl that had blown from Mary's neck, as she stood on the bank. This had floated down for some distance, and was caught upon a projecting twig. Reuben was now convinced that his wife and son were drowned.

Poor Mary never had thought so far as to endea~our to deemed them in this way; her only thought had been of escaping from her husband. Reuben returned to his desolate dwelling, filled with agony and remorse. No one felt sorry for him, but all the neighbourhood mourned far the poor blind woman and her sweet little boy. Amy and the Harrington's kept their secret well; and time passed on, and the circumstance was almost forgotten. Reuben, to stifle remorse, and hush the reproaches of conscience for his treatment of Mary, and drown his sorrow for the loss of his little boy, drank more and more deeply, till at last he was brought down to death's door, by that awful scourge of the drunkard, MADNESS. Oh, how the wretched man would groan and shriek with agony and terror, till crowds would collect about the house from curiosity, though few dared to enter. Four or five of the strongest men would sometimes go in and hold him, as he seemed determined at all hazards to escape from the demons that he imagined were pursuing him. For several days he was in this fearful state, suffering, as it seemed, all the torments of the lost, while yet in the body. But it pleased God that he should not then really go to that place of despair. The fit passed ok, leaving

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hin very weak and unable to stir hand or foot.

But, to return to Amy. Her kind teacher had taken unworried pains with her, and instructed her every day since she came to reside In her mother's house, and Amy had been a very diligent and attentive scholar. Indeed, Rose thought she had reason to hope that Amy's heart was changed, and that she had become a true child of God. One Sabbath, the lesson was on the forgiveness of injuries. "Love your enemies; do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you." These texts seemed to make a deep impression on Amy's mind. She aske d many questions in the class, and wished to have every word of the lesson exp] aine d. She seeme d particularly thoughtful when she came home, and after tea, that pleasant summer evening, she took her Bible, and walked out to the brow of the hill, of which I spoke in the beginning of this story as commanding a view of the plain on the outskirts of which stood "the glassworks." Here she seated herself, and gazed earnestly over the plain, till she thought she could almost distinguish her father's dwelling. Then she turned to her Bible, and read over again the texts I have quoted, applying them to her own case. "My father," said she to herself, "has surely been my enemy; and yet I am commanded to love him; he has hated me, but I am told to do good to him; he has even cursed me, but I am here taught to bless him in return; he has despitefully used me, but Jesus says, I must pray for him. " And, bending her head over her Bible, she poured forth a fervent prayer for her wretched father; she prayed that he might be made a sober man; that he might see and repent of all his sins, and become a true Christian. And as she prayed, she began to feel pity Or her father, and thought that she could even love him. She prayed, too, for her mother and little brother; "And oh," said she, "if it be not too much to ask, may we all be united once more under the

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same roof, a happy family, loving and serving Thee." And then she cast her eyes again to~rds the little village, and her mind was filled with thoughts of her father and mother and her little brother.

At last, she saw a man coming round the path at the foot of the hill, and as he drew nearer, she saw that it was Mr. Brown, the husband of the kind woman who had taken her in. She ran down a little path on the hillside, and met him, and accosting him, she asked eagerly for her father. "Oh, you be Reuben Foster's girl," said the man. You've grown and improved so, I should hardly have known you. Why, Reuben has been drinking harder than ever, since his wife and the little boy have been drowned, and he's been very bad lately, and as nigh death as a man could be and live." And then he told her what a dreadful state her father had been in, and how he had suffered, but that he was now a great deal better, though so weak that he could not leave his bed.

~~ And is there no one to take care of him ?'~ asked Amy,.the tears flowing fast as she spoke.

"Why, no.he don't want much care now; some of us go in as we pass, twice a day, to and from work, and do what he wants; but we must all work, you know, and none of us have much time to attend to him; but thought you used to be so afraid of him, Amy, and I did not wonder at it."

"Oh, Mr. Brown," said Amy, "I was very wicked to feel as I did towards my father; but I have been taught better; and now, if my father would but let me, I would gladly come and sit down by him, and nurse him."

When Amy's father drove her from his door, he told her never to enter it, or to let him see her face again; butthe more she thought of him, the more she felt it to be her duty to go to him now that he was sick and lonely. She went to Mrs. Harrington, who not only gave her permission, but urged her strongly to go, and gave her many little comforts to take to her

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father. Never had Amy walked across that plain with such a trembling heart; and though she tried to gather courage, assuring herself that she was in the way of her duty, yet when she reached the hut, she could scarcely walk or even stand. She went around to the back door, and came into the kitchen and sank down upon a chair; and here every thing reminds d her so strongly of her mother and little Harry, that she burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break. But she was soon roused by the sound of low groans from the next room, as of one in great distress and weakness. She rose, but could scarcely gather strength to look into the room, so fearful was she of meeting her father's eye, which had never looked upon was something strengthening, as he was faint her in kindness. At last she stepped softly to and exhausted by the power of his disease. the door, and looked cautiously in. There lay ~ Had it not been for Amy's timely visit, h her wretched father upon the bed; but, ohs how altered ! His face was very pale, his eyes closed, his cheeks sunken, and had it not been for the low groans, which issued from the half opened lips, she would have thought she was looking upon the face of one dead. Amy breathed a short prayer for strength, and went up boldly to the side of the bed. Seeing that. her father's position was very uncomfortable, she raised his head and arranged his pillow; then she brought some water and bathed his face, and put a little in his mouth! This appeared to revive the sick man, who opened his eyes, but seemed bewilders d and took little notice of Amy or any thing about him. Amy then put the room in some order. and making a little fire in the kitchen, she prepared a nice broth for her father, with the things she had brought; and bringing it to him, she fed him with a little of it. All he seemed to need

might have sunk too low for recovery. After eating the broth, he slept a little, and then rousing up, he looked about him, and his eye rested on his daughter with a look of intelli~ce. And as he said, or rather gasped,

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"Amy !" she started back, and her old feeling of fear came over her again. ~ Don't be afraid,- child?" said he, pausing for breath after every word, ~~ I will not hurt you now, ~ do not wish to hurt anybody i but tell met how c ame you here ?"

"I heard that you were sick, father, and I came to take care of you."

"And who told you to come and take care of such a father ? "

"The Bible teaches me, that I must bless them that curse me, and do good to them that despitefully use me 'I

"Well, my mother u sed to read to me out of the Bible, when I was a little boy, but it is a long, long time since I have seen or heard a word of th e Bible . "

"I have mine in the house with me," said Amy, in a faltering voice, (c Shall I bring it and read a little to you ?"

How thankful was Amy when her father consented, and how gladly she brought her Bible, and sat down by his bedsides and read

to him from that holy Book ! At first, he did not seem much interested in what she read, but it was pleasant to him to hear the sound of a human voice, after the loneliness in which he had lived so long. At length, he seemed thoughtful at some-passages she read. They seemed like things once familiar to his mind, but long forgotten. When or where he had heard them, he could not remember. Amy did not yet know enough of the Bible to turn to any particular passages but shy never read without coming upon some verse that the sick man thought appropriate to his case. Sometimes, as she read to him such passages as these : "The soul that sinneth, it shall die ;" "The drunkard shall not inherit the kingdom of heaven;" "The wicked shall be turned into hell," &c.; he would tell her to shut the book, and that he did not wish her to bring it into his presence again. But after awhile he would call her back, and tell her to read some more. On one occasion, after Amy had been rending to him, the miserable man was in great

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distress. He groaned so loud as to alarm Amy who came to his bedside and said "What is the matter, father? Can you not sleep ?"

"Sleep ! How can I sleep after the things you have been reading to me. As sure ~~ that book is true, I am going to hell. And ~~ any man on earth knows what the torments of hell are, I am sure I do."

"But father, you need not go lo that dreadful place. This same Bible tells me, and I have heard in Sunday-school, that there is hope even for the vilest of sinners; and that Jesus is willing to receive Aim who repent of their sins and turn to him. I have learned such verses as these: c Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be like snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. c Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavyladen, and I will give you rest."'

It was a beautiful thing to see that child sitt^M~g down by the bedside of the father, who had abused her and caused her young heart so much sorrow, and beginning at the first truths of our holy religion, tell him of Christ and Him crucified; and lead him by the simple and easy steps by which she herself had been led to the knowledge of Jesus. And then kneeling down by his bedside, she offered a short and simple and child-like prayer for her father .that he might get well.that all his sins might be forgiven, and that he might become good, and go to heaven.

The tears^9 for the first time, streamed down the cheeks of the wretched man; and when Amy rose from her knees, he said to her, in a softened voice, ~~ I feel easier now."

When Amy asked her father's lease to go into the village, he consented, though he had become so fond of her now, that he could hardly bear to have her out of his sight for a moment. Amy went directly to the superintendent of the Sunday-school, and told him the story about her father, and asked him to come out and talk to him, and pray with him. She felt the i~portance of making an impression on her

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father's mind now, while it was tender, and before he recovered and went back (as he might perhaps) to his old habits and companions.

Mr. Gordon, the kind superintendent, ever ready to answer the call of the needy, immediately prepared to accompany the little girl to the "glassworks." He was a man (oh, that there were more like him!) who was welcomed everywhere and by all classes; the sick and the well, the grave and the gay, the old and the young, and all ~i-stene~ with interest to his conversation.

Reuben Foster was not much pleased to see a stranger coming in with his little girl; but his kind winning manner soon attracted him. And as Mr. Gordon talked with him, he at last opened his heart, and with sobs and groans, told him what a sinner he had been.

I have he are all this, " said Mr. Gordon. ~~ know your history; I know your sins are very great, and I have come to tell you that there is still hope and mercy for you- - .Jesus came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance ;' and if you are truly sorry for your sins, and will give your heart to him, ha will receive you graciously, and love you freely. "

"But for strong drink," said Reuben, HI should never have been such a wicked wretch as I have been. Oh, if I had not been ~ drunkard ! But for that, I might have been a kind husband and father; and now, that am getting well, how can I tell, but that, when I go among my old companions again, I shall fall into my old habits, and be worse than ever. "

"I have with me,. said Mr. Gordon, Temperance pledge, ~ hich will be, perhaps, some safeguard for you, if you will sign it. By putting your name to this paper, you promise that you will never again taste a drop of any intoxicating liquor."

"I will sign that paper," said Reuben, and taking a pen in his trembling Hill ha regilt h;a name to the pledge.

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As Mr. Gordon and Amy kneeled by the bed, they prayed that Reuben might have strength given him to keep his pledge through all temptation; that he might recover, and repent and reform, and become a meek and humble disciple of the Savor. Reuben was very much affected during this scenes and grasping Mr. Gordon's hand, as he rose from his knees, he said with much earnestness: "God helping me, I will keep it."

"And now, my friend," said Mr. Gordon, "you will, we hope, soon be well, and when you go to your daily work among your old companions, be not afraid to tell them what you have done. They all know what you have been, and what have been your sufferings in consequence. Now, tell them boldly, and as a thing you have cause to glory in, that you have broken away from the tyrant, who has so long had dominion over you, and are determined to be a free man. And take my word for it, it will not be long before some of them will follow your example."

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(Caption under photo) "I will sign that paper,. said Reuben. .P. 58

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(blank)

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Reuben recovered, and went to his work, and though the struggle was at first hard, yet he kept his resolution nobly. Amy now lived at home, and kept house for him; and morning and evening she read the Bible to him, and every Sabbath they went up together to church at the little school-house.

One evening, after Amy had read a chapter, Reuben spoke of his wife and little boy, and of the strangeness of their disappearance. He could not realize that they were not still alive.

"Yes, dear father," said Amy, cat they are living. You were deceived in supposing they w ere drowned.though mother never intended to make you think so; she only wished to escape. You know you had often told her to go, and she said she could not go without Harry. They are now at W----, with Uncle Robert."

Reuben bowed his head on his clasped hands for some time; then he rose and walked the room, while Amy sat in trembling suspense,

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dreading to hear him speak. At Iast he stopped and said:

"Amy, I have suffered much, but I have deserved it all and much more. It is better as it is. I might have had the sin of murder to answer for, if I had known of your poor mother'~ flight. I shall go for her immediately, Amy, and though, in the sight of God, I can never, by ages of severings atone for any part of my sin, yet I may be able to make some atonement to your poor mother for mv treatment of her."

Mary Foster had now been living for more than two years with her brother, where she was kindly treated, and being very expert at some kinds of work, she managed to support herself and Harry, instead of being a burden to her friends. She was sitting one day, near the door of her mother's house, knitting, when the gate was opened and closed again, and she heard a familiar footstep coming up the path. At the sound Of it, Mary started and turned pale. She rose from her chair and turned from side to side, as if seeking for some way of escape; and then sank into her chair again in utter despair. She knew that her husband was before the door ! But, oh, what joy for Mary, when she heard the first k

words from his lips when he spoke to her as he used to do in earlier years.when he told Me story of his repentance and reformation, and promised her, again and again, that he would always treat her kindly, if she would return to him.

Reuben hardly knew his little boy he had grown and improved so much since he had seen him; and Harry was delighted when he heard that he was to go back to their old home, with his father and mother. And Amy .do you think she could well be happier than when they all came home, and sat together around the tea-table which she had made ready for them ? Many were the tears of gratitude that fell that evening in Reuben's humble dwelling.

Some years have passed since Reuben

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Foster's reformation, and the return of his wife sand Children to the "glassworks.' A small neat white church now stands On the hill, near the old school-house, and a missionary is supported at the factory, who preaches regularly morning and afternoon, on the Sabbath. Tracts are distributed at every door through the settlement; eatery family is provided with a Bible; and there is a flourishing library connected with the Sunday-school.

Were we now to take a walk through the street of that settlement on the Sabbath, we should see Bose children Thor at the commencement of our story, were quarreling and swearing, now sitting down and reading the Bible or some good book, to themselves or to listening parents or aged grand-parents. We should pass houses where the Voice of prayer is heard morning and evening from lips before unused to pray, and others from whence we should hear voices singing hymns and psalms, which had formerly been employed in cursing and blaspheming the name of God. We should no more see a grocery with its door surrounded by an idle crowd; for so many of the people have followed :Reuben's example, that the man who kept the grog-shop took down his sign long since, and moved ~way, and his grocery is converted into a decent dwelling-house. And as the bell rings for church, many groups of decently-dressed people may be seen leaving their dwellings, and going up to the house of God, to pray and sing praises together, and gladly to listen to She preaching of the word of God. And all this good is done through the influence of the Sunday-School; and that Sunday-school owed its formation to the desire of one pious Christian heart to do good ! Who can estimate the amount of goo d that one Christian, zealous in the Master's cause, may eject, through the blessing of God upon his or her labours ?

Among those groups, none will be seep Ogre regularly than a decently-dressed, respectable looking man, with a blind woman leaning on his arm; a young woman following,

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With a bright lad about fourteen years oll. Amy~is now a teacher in the Sabbath-school, and her aim is to try to be as useful as Miss Harrington bras before her. Miss Harrington has married and moved to the East, but the influence of her pious example and stea dy, unwavering zeal will Iong be felt in the "glassworks " Sun day-school; where there are many besides the Foster family, now humble and happy Christians, who, but for the establishment of that Sunday-school, and the results that followed, would still have been in darkness and ignorance and sin.

My story is told.and I have only to ask my young readers, why they cannot "go and do likewise." If the young lady of whom I have told you, after visiting the "glassworks," and finding the people there in the miserable state in which they were when our story opened, had contented herself with saying: "Well, it is a great pity that they should remain so, but what can I be expected to do ? It is a hopeless task to endeavour to instruct and reform these degraded people;" how different would have been their situation now! They would have gone on from bad to worse; the children would have grown up with the bad habits of the parents, and their reformation would have been more hopeless than ever. But Miss Harrington felt it to be her duty to do what she could, and in dependence upon Divine grace, she went about her work, and you have seen the result. Could you but look upon that happy village, of sober, industrious, hard-working people; could you see them sitting in the little church and, with serious -countenances, listening attentively to the preaching of the gospel, you would hardly believe that this was the same community, where, ~ few years ago, the name of God was profaned, the Sabbath disregarded, and the grog-shop crowded with miserable drunk ards. Truly, cat it is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes."

My young friend, I know not who you are, or where you dwell; but this I know, that

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wherever your lot may be cast, if there are human beings near you, an obligation rests upon your which perhaps, you little realize. There are those near you, who will rise up in the last great day and call you blessed, as having been the means of leading them to a knowledge of the Saviour; or who will point to you as they are sent into outer darkness, and say: cc You never took me by the hand, and led me to a Sunday-school. You never told me of the way of salvation, or pointed me to a place of prayer."

Look about you, my young friends, quickly, and see what you can do for those who are perishing in sin and misery.quickly, "for the night cometh in which no m an can work; " and remember, that "He who turneth a single sinner from the error of his way, shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins. "