Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave,
Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave.
Others he saved, himself he could not save.

Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead
Who in his record still the earth shall tread
With God's clear aureole shining round his head.

We bow as in the dust, with all our pride
Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.
God give us grace to live as Bradley died!

ST.

SOBRIETY BY LAW.

"An ounce of fact is worth a pound of theory."-Old Proverb.

W. HEPWORTH DIXON.

T. JOHNSBURY, Vermont, is a garden. Yet the physical beauty of the place is less engaging than the moral order. No loafer hangs about the curbstones. Not a beggar can be seen. No drunkard reels along the streets. You find no dirty nooks, and smell no hidden filth. There seems to be no poor. I have not seen, in two days' wandering up and down, one child in rags, one woman looking like a slut. The men are all at work, the boys and girls at school.

Each cottage stands apart, with grass and space, each painted either white or brown. White is the costlier and most cheery colour, and the test of order and respectability is a white front. Few of the cottages are brown. I see no broken panes of glass, no shingles hanging from the roof. No yard is left in an untidy state.

St. Johnsbury is a working village, and the people in it mainly working men. It is a village such as we are striving after in our Shaftesbury Parks and other experiments in providing cheap and wholesome lodgings for our labouring classes, in the hope that they may be persuaded, first to save their money, and then to put it into real estate, by purchasing the houses in which they live. Here the problem has been solved; a working-class proprietary secured. In many cases

Sobriety by Law.

119

I have reason to infer in most-the craftsmen own the cottages in which they live. Inside, each cottage is a model of its kind, with all appliances for cleanliness and comfort; in short, a neat and well-conducted domestic shrine.

What are the secrets of this artizans' paradise? Why is the place so clean, the people so well housed and fed? Why are the little folks so hale in face, so smart in person, and so neat in dress? All voices, am bound to say, reply to me,

that these unusual, yet desirable, conditions in a workmen's village spring from a strict enforcement of the law prohibiting the sale of any species of intoxicating drink. The men of Vermont, like those of other northern States, have adopted that public act which is known to English jesters and good fellows under the opprobrious title of the Maine Liquor Law. The Maine Liquor Law is a stringent act, and is carried out in parts of the New England States with the unflinching rigour of an Arctic frost.

Are there no protests? None, or next to none; as year and year goes by more persons come to see the benefits of our rule. The men who formerly drank most are now the staunchest friends of our reform. These men, who used to dress in rags, are growing rich. Many of them live in their own houses. They attend their churches, and their children go to school. These facts are not to be suppressed by shrugs and sneers.

What then remains? The workman's paradise remains; a village which has all the aspect of a garden; a village in which many of the workmen are owners of real estate; a village of nearly five thousand inhabitants, in which the moral order is even more conspicuous than the material prosperity; a village in which every man accounts it his highest duty and his personal interest to observe the law. No authority is visible in St. Johnsbury. No policeman walks the streets-on ordinary days there is nothing for a policeman to do. Six constables are enrolled for duty, but the men are all at work in the scale manufactories, and only don their uniform on special days to make a little show.

120

The Happy Workman's Song.

THE HAPPY WORKMAN'S SONG.
DR. BYROM.

I AM a poor workman, as rich as a Jew

A strange sort of tale, but however 'tis true; Come listen awhile, and I'll prove it to you,

So as nobody can deny.

I live in a cottage. and yonder it stands;
And while I can work with these two honest hands,
I'm as happy as they that have houses and lands,
Which nobody can deny.

I keep to my workmanship all the day long,
I sing and I whistle, and this is my song-

"Thank God, who has made me so lusty and strong," Which nobody can deny.

I never am greedy of delicate fare:

If God give me enough, though 'tis ever so bare,
The more is His love, and the less is my care,

Which nobody can deny.

My clothes on a working-day looken but lean;
But when I can dress me, on Sundays I mean,
Though cheap, they are warm; though coarse they are clean,
Which nobody can deny.

I envy not them that have thousands of pounds,

That sport o'er the country with horses and hounds; There's nought but contentment can keep within bounds, Which nobody can deny.

I ne'er lose my time o'er a pipe or a pot,

Nor cower in a nook, like a sluggardly sot;

But I buy what is wanting with what I have got,

Which nobody can deny.

And if I have more than I want for to spend,

I help a poor neighbour or diligent friend;

He that gives to the poor, to the Lord he doth lend,
Which nobody can deny.

What though my condition be ever so coarse,

I strive to embrace it for better or worse,

And my heart, I thank God, is as light as my purse,

Which nobody can deny.

Whatever, in short, my condition may be,
"Tis God that appoints it, as far as I see,
And I'm sure I can never do better than He,

Which nobody can deny.

The Maiden Martyr.

BRIGHTER THAN THE DEW.

TH

HE sun may warm the grass to life,
The dew the drooping flower,

And eyes grow bright, and watch the light
Of autumn's opening hour:

But words that breathe of tenderness,
And smiles we know are true,

Are warmer than the summer-time,
And brighter than the dew.

121

THE MAIDEN MARTYR.

ATROOP of soldiers waited at the door ;

A crowd of people gathered in the street,
Aloof a little from the sabres bared

Which flashed into their faces. Then the door
Was opened, and two women meekly step
Into the sunshine of the sweet May-noon
Out of the prison. One was weak and old-
A woman full of years and full of woes-
The other was a maiden in her morn.

The troop moved on; and down the sunny street The people followed, ever falling back

As in their faces flashed the naked blades.
But in the midst the women simply went
As if they two were walking, side by side,

Up to God's House on some still Sabbath morn ;
Only they were not clad for Sabbath day,
But as they went about their daily tasks:
They went to prison, and they went to death
Upon their Master's service.

On the shore
The troopers halted: all the shining sands
Lay bare and glistening; for the tide had drawn
Back to its furtherest margin's weedy mark,
And each succeeding wave, with flash and curve,
That seemed to mock the sabres on the shore,
Drew nearer by a sand breadth. "It will be

A long day's work," murmured those murderous men
As they slacked rein-the leaders of the troop
Dismounting, and the people pressing near

122

The Maiden Martyr.

To hear the pardon proffered, with the oath
Renouncing and adjuring part with all
The persecuted, convenanted folk.

And both refused the oath; "Because," they said,
"Unless with Christ's dear servants we have part,
We have no part with Him."

On this they took

The elder one, and led her out
Over the sliding sands, the weedy sludge,
The pebbly shoals, far out, and fastened her
Unto the furtherest stake, already reached
By every rising wave; and left her there,
As the waves crept about her feet, in prayer
That he would firm uphold her in their midst,
Who holds them in the hollow of his hand.

The tide flowed in. And up and down the shore
There paced the Provost, and the Laird of Lag-
Grim Grierson-with Windram and with Graham;
And the rough soldiers jested, with rude oaths,
As in the midst the maiden meekly stood
Waiting her doom delayed—said she would turn
Before the tide-seek refuge in their arms
From the chill waves. But ever to her lips

There came the wondrous words of life and peace :
"If God be for us, who can be against!"

"Who shall divide us from the love of Christ?
Nor height nor depth-

A voice from the crowd

A woman's voice, a very bitter cry

"O Margaret! my bonnie Margaret! Gie in, gie in, oh dinna break my heart; Gie in, and take the oath."

Her mother's voice yet sounding in her ears, They turned young Margaret's face toward the sea. And round the shoreward stake

The tide stood ankle-deep.

Then Grierson,

With cursing, vowed that he would wait no more;
And to the stake the soldiers led her down,
And tied her hands: and round her slender waist
Too roughly cast the rope, for Windram came
And eased it, while he whispered in her ear,
"Come take the test." And one cried, "Margaret,
Say but God save the king.'" God save the king