CAEDMON: COWHERD AND POET.

IT

T is an interesting fact to cottage readers that the first name on the roll of British poets is that of a cowherd named Caedmon. He lived near Whitby, and for many years

looked after cattle in the fields. He is the first Anglo-Saxon writer of note who composed in his own language, and of whom there are any remains.

The following story is told about him by old writers. It is related that "he was so much less instructed than most of his equals, that he had not even learnt any poetry; so that he was often obliged to retire, in order to hide his shame, when the harp was moved towards him in the hall, where, at supper, it was customary for each person to sing in turn. On one of these occasions it happened to be Caedmon's turn to keep guard at the stable during the night, and, overcome with vexation, he quitted the table, and retired to his post of duty, where, laying himself down, he fell into a sound slumber. In the midst of his sleep, he dreamed that a stranger appeared to him, and, saluting him by his name, said, 'Caedmon, sing me something.' Caedmon dreamed also that he thereupon began to sing verses which he had never heard before. Afterwards he repeated the verses which he said he made in his dream: these put into modern English, are as follows:

"Caedmon then awoke; and he was not only able to repeat the lines which he had made in his sleep, but he composed many more, which were very good. In the morning he hastened to the town-reeve, or bailiff, of Whitby, who carried him before the Abbess Hilda; and there, in the presence of some of the learned men of the place, he told his story, and they were all of opinion that he had received the gift of song from Heaven. They then expounded to him. in his mother-tongue a portion of Scripture, which he was required to repeat in verse. Caedmon went home with his task, and the next morning he produced a poem which excelled in beauty all that they were used to hear."

Whatever may be thought of this story, it expresses a truth. The gift of genius comes direct from Heaven, and is bestowed without regard to rank: a fact of which we have

many examples. All classes share in this gift; and to every man belongs also the world of beauty and of truth in which it may be used and enjoyed. The humblest man who beholds the beauties of creation may every day find in them refreshment and instruction, especially by becoming acquainted with God in his works. Of the Christian observer, it is well said:

"He looks abroad into the varied field

Of nature, and though poor perhaps compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say- My Father made them all.' Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plann'd and built, and still upholds a world So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man f" Caedmon afterwards yielded to the persuasions of the Abbess Hilda, and became a monk. He made many poems on the Bible histories, and on various religious subjects. His account of the fall of our first parents is not unlike Milton's; and there is one vigorous passage, in which he portrays the overthrow of Satan, that at once recalls the sublime descriptions of the later poet. Caedmon is said to have been continually repeating to himself what he heard, and, "like a clean animal, ruminating it, to have turned it into most sweet verse." He died A.D. 680.

OLD JAMES BROWN AND NEW JAMES BROWN.

IT

T was miserable to look into that cottage at any time in the day-morning, noon, or night. There was ever to be seen the pale sickly face of a broken-spirited woman, and several children lounging about, or frightened into a corner when the drunken, swearing, idle father came in to trouble his own house. There was no money now to pay for the schooling, so they were Satan's pupils, who always finds work for idle hands. There was scarcely any furniture, and very little or very ragged clothing, both furniture and clothing having been turned by degrees into pawn-tickets.

There was no use in helping a family in this state. They had been helped up many times, but always fell down again, because James Brown loved drink more than he loved wife or children; and drink is a powerful rival, because it has such a smooth quiet way of upsetting self-control, mastering common sense, and undermining natural affection.

James Brown always lost his temper, too, when he gave up these safeguards, and became quarrelsome and ill-natured, ready

But see here is a cottage one rather longs to enter, so clean, and neat, and pleasant it looks; the hearth so cheerful, the inmates so comfortable. It is evening, and you can see through the window that a lamp has just been lighted, and the family are sitting down by the little table on which it stands, excepting one little child who gets between the father's knees, and another who sits in the mother's lap.

Hark! there is sound of music, not perhaps very choice, but still sweet and acceptable to the ear of Him who said, "Whoso offereth me thanks and praise, he glorifieth me." It is a hymn of thanks and praise for mercies" countless as the sand," and it comes from very thankful hearts.

Then verse by verse a chapter in the Bible is read round, and then the blind is drawn down so that you cannot see; but you can hear still the father's voice in prayer, conThen a little fession, and thanksgiving. rustling and scrambling, and probably a loving kiss from each parent, and the young ones scamper off to bed.

Ah this is indeed a pleasant scene-a real one, as real as the former, and as true to the life; and it occurs in the very same cottage too. What a happy change of tenants! What has become of the old ones, poor James Brown and his miserable family?

Why, old James Brown has passed away at last. Through reading a tract in which the grace of God bore home to his heart words whereby he might be saved, he was changed into new James Brown. His is the cottage still, his the cheerful looking wife, his the healthy well-clad children, his the hymn of praise, the prayer of faith, the home of love and peace. "Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound."

He heard the voice of Jesus saying, "Come, come unto me; come, poor enslaved and burdened sinner, come and drink of the water of life freely." And he did so, and now in wondering love the sober man, the kind husband and father, born again of the Holy Spirit, meekly but firmly struggling upward in new life and hope, says, and says truly, "By the grace of God I am what I

DID HE HEAR?

'YE think he heard, Bob?"

"D'YE

"I don't know, but I think he must have, he was close by."

"I shall catch it preciously if he did. Our parson's very particular about swearing. He tackled me about it one day before; and I promised I wouldn't do it any more. I wish I'd known he was t'other side of the hedge." And so the two lads went on with their ploughing. But the swearer did not look easy at all.

What made him look uneasy? Was it that he had sworn a great oath, and sinned against God. No; he did that every day, and thought nothing of it. It was that he was afraid the clergyman had heard him.

But did he not think that whether the minister of God had heard him or not, God himself had certainly heard him? Or was he afraid of a man hearing him, but not at all afraid of God hearing him? Poor boy! if so, he was just like hundreds of other men and boys all through the country. Perhaps you are one of them, reader. Is it so?

Then just think for a moment. You do not mind swearing in general. You swear before your wife, your children, and your mates; but you take care not to swear when your master or the clergyman is near. Why do you not swear before them just as you do before the others? Does not this show that you know swearing is wrong? For, if not wrong, why should you mind your master or the clergyman hearing it? And will you dare to swear in GOD's hearing, when you would not dare to swear before a fellowcreature? Will in God's preyou do wrong sence, when you would not dare to do it in man's presence?

But perhaps you do not care whether it is wrong or not. Only, you would not like to be spoken to by the minister, and if your master were to hear you swearing, he might turn you off. For some masters will not have a swearing servant. And can GOD do nothing to punish you? You, who fear a word from the minister, or the loss of your place-will you not fear what GOD can do to the swearer? It is his command to you not to swear; and be sure he is angry with you whenever you do. And which is the worst, to have God angry with you, or man?

Oh that every swearer would remember that God hears every word that is spoken, and every oath that is sworn! The master be safe out of hearing; the minister may may be miles away; but God hears you wherever you are. In your house, in the stable, in the workshop, in the field, in the soldier's barrack-room, on the ship's deck, wherever you swear an oath, God hears it. He hears it and marks it down, and is displeased. You have never, in all your life, said a word that God did not hear.

Is not this a thing to think of? Is there nothing here to pray about ?

WH

WHAT GOSSIP DOES.

THEN Charles Lacy took home his wife, it was said that in all the parish of Radford there had not been seen a nicer couple. Indeed he seemed to have made a good choice; for Lucy was good-tempered, affectionate, industrious, and careful. What could a man desire more? She had one fault, indeed, she was fond of talking; but then, who is perfect? Charles thought she would grow the better of that; and perhaps she might have done so, had she fallen into better hands; but of all the gossip shops in England, there was surely none like their village birds of a feather flock together. Lucy had not been a month in her new home before the busy-bodies of the place found her out. At first they were contented with short visits, and just a few words in passing; but they found Lucy so ready to listen and willing to talk, that they soon began to take up more of her time than was convenient.

One day when Charles came home to dinner, he had to wait for it, his wife having been thus hindered. Another time a neighbour's pig had. got into the garden while Lucy was kept at the shop by Nancy Bray. Things of this sort became more and more frequent; and Charles, though not inclined to find fault, was obliged to speak somewhat sharply on the subject, and to say plainly that she must give up the company of what all decent people called the pests of the village.

Lucy was frightened for a time, and became shy of her companions; but habit is strong, and, by little and little, she soon became as intimate with them again as ever.

As soon as convenient, after Charles had gone to work, Nancy Bray and Dolly Meddler might be seen at her door, pulling their neighbours to pieces as fast as their tongues could go.

"Only to think," said Nancy one day, "how folks will talk; they say as your husband is quite afraid to let you have the money for fear how you'll spend it; but I said I know'd better than that, didn't I, Dolly P"

"Yes," said Dolly; "but if it wasn't for making mischief, I know something as Charles did say, if I'd a mind to tell.”

"I don't believe my husband would say anything of me," said Lucy, colouring, "that I should mind to hear."

"Oh," said Nancy, laughing, "as for that, all the men are alike. There's my husband can't give me a good word, I know, when he's in his tempers; and as for Tom Meddler, Dolly knows the character he gives her;" upon which they both laughed. But Lucy nearly cried as she said,

"I couldn't bear for Charles to say anything against me."

"Well, it wasn't so much against you; only, when somebody asked him how he came not to marry Phoebe Moss, he said, it might have been better for him if he had. And how he did go on to praise Phoebe! And, as I told Nancy, he'd no business to go and do that. Dear! you don't mind it?" she continued, seeing how Lucy changed colour; "why that's nothing. Tom tells me he wishes he'd never seen my face every day quite reg'lar. I shouldn't care what he said if I was you, as

long as he'd give me the money; but it was too bad of him for to go and say as if he'd had Phoebe he could have trusted her with the money."

"I don't believe he could say so," said Lucy, fairly crying; but the two friends solemnly assured her that he did, and much more besides, which they bound her down not to repeat, upon pain of never telling her anything again.

When they were gone, Lucy's mind was so troubled with what she had heard, that she scarcely knew what she did. One moment she thought she would charge her husband with it, and have it out; the next she determined to keep it proudly to herself. All the morning she remained in this state: the consequence was she did nothing right; and when Charles came home to dinner, he found all at sixes and sevens, and the cooking by no means firstIt was so much worse than he usually found it, that he showed a good deal of temper, saying, he supposed "she'd been at her old diversion;" to which Lucy answered, "it was a pity he hadn't married some one that could please him better.”

rate.

A quarrel, their first real one, followed, and the husband went away thoroughly angry, leaving his dinner untouched. Lucy cried all the afternoon, now blaming herself and now Charles. That evening, for the first time, instead of returning home he went to the public-house; but he was naturally sober, and had no intention of pursuing as a habit what he had merely done to show his displeasure.

The next morning, however, came Nancy and. Dolly, full of the story, pitying "poor Lucy," as they called her, and advising her not to give in; but if he chose to take to bad ways, to let him. Sure there could be no harm in her having a quiet word with a neighbour, while he went spending at the public. But Lucy loved her husband; and although they succeeded in embittering her against him, she could not follow all their counsel.

The breach, however, was not healed up. Every day Charles grew more sullen and complaining, as Lucy said; and Lucy grew more idle and careless of pleasing him, as Charles said.

She was sitting listlessly at the door one day, dreading a visit from her neighbours, and yet longing for it; for in the disorder of her mind she had lost much of her industry, and talking had become as necessary to her as dram-drinking to a drunkard. Her dress had lost much of its neatness and her person much of its attraction; and although her work was in her hand, her eyes were up the village street.

Mr. Manly, a clergyman who had come to supply the place of the vicar for a short time, stopped as he was passing, and asked her if she had eggs to sell.

Getting into conversation with her, he was struck with her manner, which was superior to that of her neighbours. He spoke of the tract that he found had been left for her, but which she had not read. He was very kind, and Lucy felt drawn to him. She was very miserable, and her tears fell fast, at some remarks he made on the duty of a Christian wife. While he was speaking Charles came in for some tools. "I came to inquire if your wife had any eggs," said Mr. Manly, noticing his sullen manner.

Oh," said he, "you must go to some more thrifty folks than we, sir, to get them. Our hens got pined in the winter."

An hour before Lucy would have answered sharply, but now her tears only flowed afresh. Mr. Manly saw there was something wrong; and Lucy's appearance, and the look of the house, made him suspect that the blame did not rest altogether on the husband's side. He said no more then, but left the cottage; meanwhile Charles, who could not find his tools, remarked sneeringly, "that she'd a great deal better spend her time in keeping things to rights, than in complaining of him to strangers, and making up pitiful stories about how ill he treated her."

He had never said anything of this kind before, and Lucy looked surprised.

"Oh, it's nothing new," he continued, "I hear it wherever I go, what a bad husband I am, and how you wish you'd never seen me; and it's a pity you ever did."

Lucy could not answer; for she well knew that several times, in the bitterness of her discomfort, she had said things of the sort to her gossip friends, when they had come to tell her of the unkind speeches of her husband.

Charles did not wait for an answer, however; he believed she had been telling her tale to the strange gentleman; and as he went out at the door, he said, "You'd better go and spend the evening with some of your cronies; I'm going out, and may be shan't be home till to-morrow."

Charles kept his word and did not return that night; and when Mr. Manly called the next morning, to take a little book on household duties, which he thought might be useful, he found Lucy, not at the door, but, with swollen eyes and a most disconsolate face, in the house. Her naturally open temper, and his kind manner, led her to do what Charles had accused her of, and she told him her trouble.

Mr. Manly heard her story, and drew from her a confession of many things wherein she had been the cause of what she suffered. Taking out his Testament, he read that part of the third chapter of James which concerned the tongue. "Don't you see," he said, "that it is this little member which is set on fire of hell, that has ruined all your domestic peace ?"

Lucy began to inveigh bitterly against Nancy and Dolly; but Mr. Manly stopped her, saying,

she had none but herself to blame; for she had helped them on in their sin by encouragement. He did not spare her, but he did not discourage her, telling her he hoped it might not be too late to retrace her steps. He gave her excellent advice, which, with tears, she promised to follow, and left her with hearty prayer that she might have strength to do it.

One thing he had strongly urged was a return to her old habits of cleanliness and industry. She was shocked and surprised, when she came fairly to examine her cottage and her own dress, to see how much this was needed, and went to work to make things look a little better when Charles should return. Another thing he had urged was that she

VILLAGE GOSSIPS.

should refrain from anything like reproach when her husband came in, and try to wear the manner of old days.

It was not long after she had completed her preparations that Charles came home. He had the same sullen air, and came in whistling, going straight to the cupboard, without speaking to her, to look for something to eat.

"There's nothing there, Charles, but bread," she said, meekly; "but I thought you'd be hungry, as perhaps you'd been far, so I put some potatoes in the pot. I wished I'd got a bit of bacon to put with them."

Charles looked at her in silence while she put a cloth on the table, which she had scrubbed, and placed the potatoes upon it. He noticed the fireplace it was clean, and everything around it. His eye fell on his wife: she looked as he had not seen her for a long time; as neat and nice almost as in former days.

"Have you had your dinner?" he said, not looking at her.

"No; I waited for you," she answered.

This was enough. He got up to draw another chair to the table, but she did it herself; and, although he made no remark, she was sure that the effort she had made was not lost upon him. He left home, however, without telling her where he had been.

As soon as he was gone, she hastened to clear away and renew her work of cleaning. She was very busy when a tap at the door told her that Nancy Bray was there. She would not trust herself to open it, but peeping out of the chamber window, told her she had so much to do, she could not spare time to come down.

"Oh you must hear what I've got to tell you," said Nancy.

Lucy shook her head.

"I'm sure I would not stay slaving there, while he goes off amusing himself with Phoebe Moss," said Nancy, vexed to find she could not move Lucy from her purpose. The latter repeating she had not a minute to spare, shut the window, and began clearing out the chest of drawers, in which Charles had long declared he never could find anything that he looked for. Although Nancy's words rang in her ears, she felt more comfort that evening in the work

she had so long neglected than she had known for many sad

months.

When Charles came home to tea, it was ready, and he found her busy patching a jacket which had long been out at elbows. The change in Lucy was a real one; her heart had been convinced of the evil and the folly of her sin. The first moment that she saw anything like a return of his old tenderness in her husband, she opened her whole mind to him, begged his forgiveness, and promised to endeavour to be what she was once to him. Charles was quite overcome; and in his turn he confessed he had not been forbearing enough.

"It was what you said about Phoebe, dear Charles," she said, with tears, "that drove me to be so careless."

"Phoebe!" he exclaimed, "what did I ever say about Phoebe ?"

Lucy now repeated all she had heard.

"Just listen," he answered; and he told her many things of the same kind, which he had been repeatedly informed she had said of him. They soon found, that in admitting a gossip between them, they had taken a serpent to

sting all their happiness to death; and heartily thankful were they both when they thus came at the truth. Lucy repeated all that had passed between her and Mr. Manly; and Charles was not long in thanking him for what he had done to restore their peace.

"I've never known a happy moment, Lucy, since we've been distant and unkind to each other."

"And I'm sure I haven't, Charles," she said. The good effects of this peacemaking did not rest here: that tongue which was growing confirmed in the ways of slander, to the misery of men and the dishonour of God, was now, by God's grace, brought under the government of holiness, love, and truth; and so afraid was Lucy of ever transgressing, that if she heard any one begin a story with, "They was a saying, but don't you go for to mention my name," she always stopped it, with "Pray don't tell me, neighbour. I never listen to gossip; God hates it, and I desire to do so too."

WHAT

GRANNY'S SPECTACLES. would dear Granny do without her spectacles? Just look at her as she sits there, in her own place at the little table, with the old Bible open before her. She will not be disturbed by our talk, for she is rather dull of hearing. Look at that quiet smile. It always comes over Granny's face when she is reading one of her favourite Psalms-perhaps about the "green pastures" and "still waters," in the twenty-third; or about the "old and grey-headed," in the seventy-first.

I remember onoe meddling with that precious pair of spectacles, and smashing both the "eyes." They were soon mended: but Granny's look of dismay I shall not soon forget.

If she had lived six hundred years ago, Granny could not have searched out for herself those sweet "green pastures" and "still waters." Nor with her own eyes could she turn to those beautiful bits of prayer for the "old and grey-headed," In ancient times there were no crystal lenses for old eyes; no glasses for the dim-sighted. Holy men of old, Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, New Testament saints, and pious, scholarly men of after-ages had no help for failing sight. There was no such thing as a pair of spectacles.

Who first found out this treasure is a matter of some dispute. Most people, however, trace the discovery to a learned monk, commonly called "Friar Bacon." He was born at Ilchester, in Somersetshire, in the year 1214; just one year before the signing of "Magna Charta" by king John. Roger Bacon passed his life chiefly at Oxford, in useful studies: and died there in 1292. Poor old monk! how little he guessed, when poring over his convex crystals, how many dim eyes would be brightened, and how many sad hearts would be comforted, through some of his discoveries!

Many a generation passed away before the old friar's invention became generally useful. For a long time the treasure was only for the studious and the wealthy. Books were scarce, and readers were still scarcer. But we now live in the days of the English Bible, and the printing press, and the magnifying glass. A

pair of spectacles is within reach of the aged poor, as well as of the aged rich.

"Children," said Granny, reverently closing the big book, and wiping her spectacles, " Children, when I thank God in my heart for his many blessings, I seldom forget to thank him for giving these glasses. For, though the old friar may have invented the first pair of spectacles, who but God could have given him the wit to set about it, or the skill to fashion it?"

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky,
One star alone of all the train

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,

The Star-the Star of Bethlehem.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.