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Tales and Sketches.

KAS USELESS AS PETER BANNERMANN."

FROM THE GERMAN.

AMONG the upper valleys of the Alps, there lives a brave, intelligent, industrious race of people called "the Waldenses." Though surrounded by Roman Catholics, they have remained for ages firm Protestants. Even the Romish princes that have governed them have never interfered with their religion, for the bravest and most faithful of their guards were Waldenses, who served them as they were taught to perform all their other duties-"not with eye service, as men pleasers, but as unto the Lord."

But at last a prince succeeded to the throne who had not sufficient strength of character to persist in doing what he knew to be right; and yielding to the persuasions of the jealous Romish priests, he ordered them to abandon their Protestant faith and put themselves under the protection of the Pope.

This they very respectfully, but very decidedly, refused to do; and, by the same advice, the prince determined to send troops and force them to do so. Very foolishly he sent his Waldensian troops against them; but it was soon very plain that they did not mean to be very active in the matter, so Austrian soldiers were employed to do the business.

The Waldenses fought bravely: step by step they disputed the possession of every inch of ground in their green valleys. But they were overpowered by the great numbers of the Austrian armies, and driven from one valley after another, until they had reached the beautiful apot known as the valley of Chamouni,

This was the highest one on that side of the mountain. If forced to leave that, their only place of refuge was on the other side of the Alps, to reach which they must climb to its almost inaccessible summit, and descend, amid the same difficulties, on the other side. There was a comparatively easy road to it, to be sure, through the mountain passes such a road as the mountaineers generally have to use in passing from one valley to another-but this they dared not attempt, for fear of meeting

the Austrians; so old men and delicate women and children must make the fearful journey, or remain to be brutally treated by the pitiless foe.

The troops poured into the valley, and the people (whose plans were already laid with caution and prudence, in case such a necessity should arise) pretended to submit. With the first shades of evening they went as usual to their beds, and soon the whole valley was as silent as death, except as the sounds of brawling or shouting and singing came from the church and schoolhouse, where the officers were quartered.

When the darkness of night, however, had settled over the valley, one by one they stole from their homes and met in a large cavern in the mountain side, which was hidden by a tall snow-covered rock from the sight of those in the village. Here they kneeled down, and the old pastor fervently and earnestly implored the protection of God in their fearful journey.

This done, they set forward, the aged pastor leading the van, some of the strongest men walking on each side of the women and the little ones who followed, and the remainder bringing up the rear, that they might be ready, in case they were pursued and overtaken, to meet the foe. Oh! a fearful journey it was indeed! "for

Among that little band of fugitives the sake of God" was Meta Bannermann, the widow of one of the noblest and bravest sons of the valley. Almost at the beginning of the struggle he had been killed in an attempt to protect from brutal insult the corpse of the old pastor's wife, and left his own wife, with her young babe and a crippled son of six years old, to the grateful love and care of the pastor and his flock.

Carefully, that bitter cold night, she wrapped her sleeping babe and held it tightly to her bosom. For hours they trudged on through the snow; even the stoutest scarce able to bear the intense cold; and when, at every halt for rest, she saw the little stiffened bodies taken from the arms of the weeping mothers and laid in the snow, she held her little ones still closer, and prayed in her innermost heart that she might be spared that trial.

But the little bundle in her arms began

to grow heavier, and she could scarce refrain from a cry of agony as her heart told her the cause. But still she clasped the little body closely, as if by the warmth of her own bosom to restore life to her child. She spoke no word, though: none knew the babe was dead. She could not leave it there in the cold snow. No, she would not tell her trouble; heavy as was the load she would bear it, stagger on with it still, and if a merciful God allowed them to reach in safety the shelter they were seeking, she could bury it in God's own acre beside the church, where she could go, day after day, and look at the little grave.

Thanks to the love of a pitying Father, the

poor exiles at last reached the haven of rest they sought, and found a warm welcome. Here, while the females, young and old, gave their eager help to the generous housewives who sheltered and fed them, the men, old men as well as their sons and grandsons, armed and stationed themselves in squadrons among the mountain passes and behind the rocks that hung over the mountain roads, ready to attack and drive back the enemy should they attempt to follow them there. Even the little boys had their duties assigned them, in taking information from party to party, and climbing to reconnoitre where a man would not dare to show himself.

But little Peter Bannermann could be of

no use. He could not climb the slippery peak, or slide over the frozen glacier; so he must sit at home, and for the first time in his life repine at his misfortune.

Christmas Day was near at hand. The widow Bannermann had no gift for her crippled boy. With jealous care she had hoarded up a few kreutzers, and on the Christmas Eve, when the lights of the Christmas trees streamed from even the humblest cottage windows, she slipped the twelve kreutzers into his hand, and bade him go and buy for himself whatever he most fancied.

With a grateful kiss the boy started on his errand, stopping from time to time to look in through the frosted window panes upon the happy, merry groups within. He did not envy their happiness, and was ready to echo every gay laugh; but when he saw a straight-limbed, active boy run nimbly across the room, his eyes filled with tears, and he murmured at his own lameness.

Presently he came to the house of the town magistrate, and looked in upon a large company of children that were gathered

about a table playing with a company of leaden soldiers. One of them was broken, and as a little girl picked it up, her brother exclaimed: "Throw it away! It's as useless as Peter Bannermann!"

The boy's pleasure was over, and he went home to tell, with bitter tears, what he had heard. The broken soldier had been thrown into the street; Peter had picked it up, and for many days he looked at it again and again, while the words rang in his ears: "As useless as Peter Bannermann."

It haunted him even in his dreams; and at last he rose one cold, starry night, when hardly half awake, and wandered by himself up the side of the mountain. On he went from rock to rock, dreaming that he was no longer a cripple, and then rousing again to a painful consciousness of the fact, as he found the difficulty he had in crossing some little ravine, over which another would have gone at a single leap. He noticed that upon several of the most pro minent peaks of the mountain there were large piles of wood and brush carefully arranged, and near each was placed & sentinel. At last he gained a distant point, and wearied with his efforts, sat down to rest.

then

Here, too, was a pile of wood, and as the sentinel paced past him, he asked its object. "The first who discovers the ap proach of the Austrians," replied the man good naturedly, "is to light his pile; the others will light theirs, and so the warning be given to all the valleys round; for it is said they are going to take us unawares." And he passed on.

Peter sat thoughtfully, and then again dropped almost off into sleep, quite unable to tell how he came there, and whether he had heard or only dreamed of the beacon piles; but, through all, those bitter words rang through his brain, and he murmured the drowsy prayer that he too might be able to be useful.

Suddenly he started to his feet; no sound had reached him, but straining his gaze down the side of the mountain-peak on which he stood, he saw, or fancied he saw, a dark mass moving slowly and silently upwards. He turned to the sentinel; he was gone. Again he gazed with straining eyeballs; then suddenly springing to the pile, in an instant a bright flame shot up from it; and before the flying boy-who, now forgetting his lameness, was speeding like an arrow down the icy slope had gone a hundred yards, the signal was answered

from every mountain and rocky peak, until the whole valley seemed lighted up.

But vainly those who had lighted the beacon-fires strove to catch a sight of those of whose coming they had thus given warning. Nowhere was a single form to be descried, and many a harsh speech was made of the dreaming cripple, and of their own folly in being so hasty. But this did not last long; soon the sound of a smothered tramp began to be heard; and before the words had left their lips, the Austrians came in sight, led by a mountain guide through passes they would never else have found.

But they had seen whose form had stood beside that first beacon flame, and whose hand had thus defeated their plans. The flying boy was still in sight, but it was in a fearful place; he stood upon the edge of a wide rift; how could the cripple cross it? But he must; not only was his own life at stake, for an enraged soldier was in full pursuit, but the alarm must be given to the village, the sleepers awakened, and the women and children enabled to betake themselves to their hiding-places.

Peter never stopped to think: with a wild leap he sprang over the gulf: an arrow sped by the hand of his pursuer struck his side, but still he rushed on. The alarm was given; the village was aroused; and the noble boy sank bleeding at his mother's door. None sought safety until their preserver was raised and ready to be carried with them; but flight proved needless. Met by an armed host where they had expected to surprise helpless women and feeble old age, the invaders were soon repulsed; thousands fell in that deadly fight, short as was its duration, and thousands were hurled down the icy slopes of the snow-covered mountain, and were dashed to pieces in the wild chasms below.

Meanwhile a grateful company had gathered about the dying boy, and his eye lighted with joy as he clasped his mother's hand and whispered, "Never again can they say, 'As useless as Peter Bannermann!"" He could tell nothing of the way in which he reached the mountain-peak-nothing of the way in which he had returned; all he knew was that he had prayed and his prayer had been answered. By the light of the stars he had caught a glimpse of the invaders as they rounded a peak below, and, finding no one near him, had lighted the

beacon.

But the life-blood was pouring from his

wound; his moments were numbered. The old pastor bent over him. "My noble boy," said the old man, while the tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks, "for thy sake and that of thy brave father, thy mother shall never want what we are able to give. Hast thou anything else to ask of

us ?"

The boy smiled. "Never let the Waldenses forget, dear father, that, though a cripple, God gave me the noble privilege of saving them from their oppressors!" and with the last words his spirit passed away.

The traveller who passes the night in the little villages that lie nestled among the valleys of the Waldenses, will hear at midnight (the hour at which those beaconfires were lighted), the sound of the watchman's cry: Midnight! and God's peace is with us! Blessed be the memory of Peter Bannermann!"

HOW OLD MR. PETREL CAME TO GO TO CHAPEL.

THERE are some tough oaks that grow on Mount Zion, or rather horn-beams, that you can neither split nor cut. Old Mr. Petrel was one of these. He lived near the "beech woods," a little beyond the old red school-house, and about three miles from the centre of the town. He was an honest, regular, square-and-square man, not gifted in making soft speeches, weeping at funerals, or visiting the sick. But he paid his taxes, went to chapel, observed the Sabbath, and felt that he was really what he professed to be-a stiff, staunch, and good Christian. But a trial came upon Mr. Petrel, as they do upon us all, and he met it in his way, as we all do in ours. And thus it was.

The "old meeting-house" had become so rickety and worn out, that it was determined by the people that they must have a new one. The first thing was to raise the necessary funds. As Mr. Petrel had fears of his own, he would not subscribe anything till he could see "how things went." But they "went" very well, and the funds were subscribed, leaving a margin for Mr. Petrel. Now, the old meeting-house stood about half a mile from the centre of the town, nearer Mr. Petrel's house. So, in selecting a new site, after many anxious meetings, all of which Mr. Petrel attended, and spoke earnestly, it was finally determined to set the new house a little nearer

the centre. The exact distance was just twenty-six rods. This was a better site than the old one-a little nearer those who lived in the south part of the town, and it would leave the old house to worship in till the new one was done. But Mr. Petrel now had his back up! He scolded, he stormed, he urged! He knew he always rode to church, but to ride twenty-six rods further, that was intolerable. He solemnly declared that he would never enter the new house. The people reasoned, coaxed, and bore with him, and went on and built the present nice house. They knew Mr. Petrel was unbendable, and soon left off trying to bend him.

He kept his word. He never entered the chapel. He stayed at home ; he read a little; slept all he could; sharpened his razor, and shaved; and got over the Sabbath as well as he could. But he stopped growing in intelligence, cheerfulness, kindness, and everything that was good. The tree lacked sap.

Thus he lived sixteen years a sort of Christian Ishmaelite among his neighbours. At the end of this time he was taken sick, very sick, and his neighbours thought he must die. He thought so himself. One dark stormy night, as he lay waiting for the morning, the hours seeming to move on wings of lead, he saw the door open-perhaps he dreamed it, he was never sure-and in came a tall, powerful Form, most plainly from the world of spirits. It came up and stood by Mr. Petrel's bed. The hair of the old man stood on end. He tried to speak, but those awful eyes were upon him, and he could not move his tongue. After a long pause, the Form spoke:

"Mr. Petrel, are you ready to go? You see I have come.'

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"Go where ?" gasped the sick man.

Go before the great Master.'

What for?"

"Why, to answer 'for all the deeds done here in the body'; to have your life and character examined."

"Will they ask me questions ? "
"Most certainly; and very searching

ones, too."
"Won't you just tell me some of these
questions, for I shall want the answers
ready?

"Well, you will be inquired of how you have spent your life; what has been the great object of your life; what your example has been befor. Your family, and

before the community; how you have regarded God's word and will; how you have spent your Sabbaths, and improved your opportunities to get good, and be good, and do good; how you have treated Christ and his commands; how you have treated his people and his cause; and what fruits will remain' after you are gone."

Poor Mr. Petrel groaned out aloud.

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Now, why do you groan? You have had a long life and great opportunities and you must be a good, ripe Christian All the sermons you have heard for th last

"Hold! hold! I haven't heard a ser mon for more than sixteen years!' "Indeed! Why not? Have you beer sick so long?"

"No, sir: but I got put out, and vowed I would never enter the meeting-house and I've kept my word."

"Yes, at the loss of your soul," said th Form, very sorrowfully.

"How do you know that?" said Ma Petrel, his chin dropping, and his face col and sweaty.

"Because the Lord says, Them tha honour me I will honour; they that despis me shall be lightly esteemed.' But wha will you say when asked how you hav spent your Sabbaths, and why you hav dishonoured the Lord's house and Christ table?"

Mr. Petrel began to gasp. It seemed if he would choke.

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should you not set up your will there, and trample on Christ just as you have done here? No, depend upon it, a will so stiff and stubborn cannot be admitted there! But we are wasting time. Are you ready to go with me?"

Oh, no! no! Do excuse me for a little while. Things look different to me. Please leave me now, and let me have one more trial. I solemnly promise

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The Form held up his finger in a very warning manner, and slowly went backwards out of the room. Poor Petrel was covered with perspiration. But from that hour he began to recover. He slowly got well. He said nothing about the vision, but all noticed that his voice was softer and all his actions kinder than they had ever been before.

On the third Sabbath after this, as all the congregation were seated in the house of God, the door slowly opened, and in walked old Mr. Petrel! All gave a start, as if a ghost had entered, and all looked amazed; but in a moment more a dozen pew-doors flew open, and as many beaming faces nodded to welcome him. How strange it all seemed! How delightful the singing; how beautiful the house; how well the people were dressed; how wonderfully the man of God preached; what fervent prayers; what a place! He held down his head, and wept profusely for joy. His soul seemed to come back, like Noah's dove, to the ark of safety. His tears were contagious, and many an eye wept with him. After meeting, all his old friends and neighbours gathered round him, and shook him warmly by the hand, and welcomed him back, and not a reproach did he hear, nor a sneer did he see! His coming seemed to open all hearts and moisten all eyes, and they rejoiced as over a lost sheep restored to the fold.

And thus it was "how Mr. Petrel came to go to chapel."-Rev. J. Todd, D.D.

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father's direction, took the violin, and went round to the different houses at which his father was in the habit of playing. When he came home he told his father how well he had got on, and how pleased the people were with his playing.

"Thank God for that," said the dying. man, "for you will now be able to support yourself. Luigi, listen to what I say: I shall soon join your blessed mother in heaven; but before I go, promise me you will never be a thief or a beggar. No, my. boy, be honest, and God will help you: be honest as the daylight, and you never need fear any man."

Little Luigi gave the required promise, and a day or two afterwards his father died, and he was left a friendless orphan in the wide wide world.

As soon as his father was buried, he locked up the little tenement they had lived in, and, taking his violin, the only thing he owned in the world, with many tears he bade farewell to the only place he had ever known as his home, and took the key to the landlord.

"Father's dead," he said, when he saw the man, "and I shan't be able to pay the rent, so I've brought you the key.”

"But where are you going to live, my boy?" said the man, as he took the key.

66 Oh, in the street," answered Luigi, "if I can't anywhere else; but I dare say somebody will give me a lodging now and then. All the neighbours are very kind to me.'

"Well," said the landlord, "your father was an honest man; I'll say that of him so I hope you'll be like him. There's a trifle to begin the world with:" and he gave the boy a few pence.

Luigi was glad of something to eat; for although the neighbours had offered him some dinner before he came out, he was too sad to feel hungry. But his long walk had given him an appetite, so that he was glad to enter the first shop he came to, and buy food. He then began to play his violin, and many people, attracted by his youth, and the mournful strain he was playing, gave him a trifle as they passed, so that at night he was able to pay for a lodging with one of the neighbours. The next day he went out again, and though he did not get quite so much as he did the day before, still he would not ask, but kept on playing, leaving it to the listeners to give him whatever they pleased unasked. So day after day passed, and he grew to love his violin as though it had been a com

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