resolved, by concealing his rays a little for once, to teach his far-off friend the value of his own position, however humble it might be, compared with that of others; but certainly it was very much darker for that time of morning than it had been for many weeks, nay months before.

And thus they were all deceived, and lost an hour in their reckoning.

Well, and what of that? Why, not much to you, perhaps, dear reader, who think but little of having an hour less or an hour more to spend; but I assure you it was of some importance to them. In the first place, Michael was late at his workshop, and his master, who had a pressing job in hand just then, was very angry, and would not believe a word of his excuse about not knowing the time; then the children were scolded, and forfeited their tickets for early attendance at school; and, worse than all, John-poor John!-lost a most promising situation. That letter I mentioned when I began, was a recommendation for him to take to a gentleman in a neighbouring town, who was in want of an assistant; but although he hurried off as fast as he could, he was too late for the train-the railway would not stop because the clock did-and by the time he could reach the town and the gentleman, the situation was filled up that morning by some earlier and more successful candidate. Poor, poor lad! he was sadly disappointed and downhearted.

Here was a cluster of misfortunes! caused by the old Dutch clock's neglect of his duty.

"Ah, it is all very well in a story," interrupts some captious reader, "to arrange events in this way, just to suit your purpose, but things do not happen so in real life."

Do not they, dear reader? I am very glad that your experience has been so much happier than mine; for I have met with many similar instances in my lifetime.

However, I cannot stay to discuss the point with you now, because, as I am the old Dutch clock's biographer, I must hasten to finish my records of his history.

As Michael and his family sat by the fireside that evening, commenting upon the scenes of the past day, the door stood open for some time, and the old Dutch clock had thus an opportunity of hearing the sad consequences of his foolish determination. What a mistake he had made that morning! He had supposed that he was of no use in the world; that there was nothing good or great for him to accomplish in that dusky out-of-the way corner; and yet how he had been missed; how badly they had all got on without him! If he had had any idea that he was really wantedthat his feeble efforts at all contributed to their comfort and happiness, he would never have stopped-not he. And now that he had discovered his mistake, and saw clearly that he had his own work to do, and that nobody else-not even the great sun-could do his work, he humbly resolved to persevere in it for the future.

And if you want, gentle reader, to know whether he kept his resolve, you have only to pay a visit to Michael's cottage, and there you may see the old Dutch clock, with his bright, pleasant-looking face, ticking away most contentedly in his quiet nook on the stairs. But I told you I had a motive for laying this simple and circumstantial account before you. The truth is, I want it to teach you a lesson that may do you good. It is possible that you have been sighing as reflective and low-spirited young people do sometimes over the circumscribed and uninfluential position in which you are placed. You fancy that you are scarcely of any use to those around you; that there is nothing for you to do where you are; that you are not in your right sphere, and are living to but little purpose. Now just profit by the old Dutch clock's mistake: remember

your place is marked out for you, and your work is assigned you, by the great Master who rules over all; and it is your duty and privilege not only to believe that He knows just what you are fitted for, but also that He has some wise and good purpose to accomplish by your instrumentality. You may not be able to discern it-the old Dutch clock could not see what use there was in his monotonous and apparently unobserved ticking-but it exists nevertheless; and this thought ought to sustain and cheer you.

Go on then with courage and perseverance. No one who lives with an earnest desire to serve God and benefit his fellow-creatures, lives in vain. It is impossible. Do your appointed work-poor and uninteresting though it may seem to you steadily, heartily, cheerfully. Do it as unto the Lord and not unto men; and then whether God keeps you in your present sphere, or whether He removes you to a higher and more extensive range of usefulness, his blessing will upon you; his glory will be augmented by you; and his voice will sound sweetly in your ear, saying, "Well done, good and faithful servant!"

rest

ELMA.

VINCENT PRIESSNITZ,
Or, The Cow Boy of Gräfenberg.

[We give insertion to this interesting narrative, simply to present our readers with the example of a man of upright character, untiring benevolence, much self-denial, and great originality and force of intellect. As a good son, a careful observer of nature, and a persevering man, we commend him to the imitation of our youthful friends. Of the medical system he introduced, and practised, we say nothing.-ED.]

FREIWALDAU is a clean, cheerful little town in Austrian Silesia, lying at the foot of the Giants' Mountains, and enclosed by the two rivulets, the Biala and Scharitz. From this town migrated several of its

burghers about the middle of the last century, and settled down on the Gräfenburg, one of the hills in the neighbourhood. Among the settlers was the father of Priessnitz, who became bailiff of the little township that shortly after sprung up, and who was greatly esteemed by his neighbours as a prudent, honest man, and as an excellent farmer.

His sixth child, the subject of the present notice, was born to him on the 4th of October, 1799. His wife, the daughter of a blacksmith, is described as having been an industrious, painstaking, orderly, and pious woman. She required all her children and household to be up and ready for work by four in the morning, a habit which her son followed throughout his life. When his mother was no more, Priessnitz often got out of bed with the feeling that she had called him. In the school of Freiwaldau he learned to read, write and cypher a little; but he was recalled from school in his sixth year, in consequence of the death of his eldest brother, on whom the care of the farm devolved. In after years he learned to read, and made himself perfect in arithmetic by his own exertions, but took no pleasure in writing.

The grief of the father for his son was so intense that it shortly brought on blindness, and to Vincent's mother was left the whole care and superintendence of the little farm. At a very early age, then, Priessnitz was called upon to assist his parents, and it was seldom he could go to school. What he lacked in regular tuition was, to some extent, compensated for by an extremely active and observing mind. No fact was lost upon him, and no discovery was made which was not subsequently turned to good account.

The cow-boy, Ferguson, lying upon his back in the fields in a dark night, and studying the configuration of the heavens by means of strung beads, has often been quoted as an instance of precocious thirst for knowledge; but upon the whole we consider the attempts of the cow-boy, Preissnitz, to extract from Nature some

of her deeper secrets, while tending his father's cattle in the fields or among the woods of the Gräfenberg, a far greater instance of natural genius seeking its way to the wells of science unassisted. He observed the habits of the animals under his care, and of the wild creatures that crossed his path. He noted in his mind the effects of the seasons and the weather on himself, on plants and on animals.

When he had a leisure hour, and this was but seldom, his delight was not in village sports, but in rambling in woods and forests, in green vallies, and by clear rills and fountains, watching every change of growth and form of being, and registering every secret which a keen sense can penetrate, through the gauze that curtains nature from the intelligent. He drank of the fountain and found his spirits quickened; he laved his limbs in the fountain and found his frame invigorated; he sat by the fountain and saw the wounded stag descend to drink, and afterwards to bathe its bleeding flanks. Day after day came the stag to the fountain, and day after day the boy was there waiting and watching. The stag speedily got well, and in the mind of the boy was engendered the idea of the curative powers of cold water, which, subsequently developed, has made his name famous.

This first hint was not lost upon the young peasant. He subsequently observed how domestic animals and cattle apply to water when bruised or wounded. Step by step he made the induction. He tried the remedy upon himself with satisfaction. He tried it upon his neighbours with success, so that ere he was fifteen he was consulted by the wounded and bruised in his district, by those who had sprains and those who had dislocations, seldom failing in affording relief and effecting a cure.

Meanwhile he was active in ministering to the welfare of his parents, and never had parents a more devoted son. On him devolved all the masculine duties