pious and devoted children. Indeed, he barely endured their Christian life, and often gave painful evidence of his want of sympathy with them. It happened one day when he and Richard were engaged in their rural affairs on some part of the premises distant from the dwelling, that Mr. M'Allister, under a provocation, gave way to a burst of temper, accompanied with a profane expression, for which Richard reproved him. This so offended the father that he struck him, and ordered him instantly to leave his house. Richard took him at his word; went home, packed up a few things in a handkerchief, and, with his bundle on his arm, kissed his mother and departed, no one knew whither.

When his father came in, the first thing he did was to inquire for Richard. When Mrs. M'Allister, who was a most superior woman, as well as affectionate mother, related what had occurred, the father was struck dumb, not dreaming that what he | had said in his haste would be literally taken. He loved his son, and thought with agony of his situation. It was the depth of winter. He had gone on foot, slenderly provided, as he knew he must be, with funds, without letters, a small supply of clothing, and but indifferently prepared to buffet with the world. He immediately ordered every horse from his stables, and sent a rider in every direction in search of the wanderer. But it was in vain. The river was frozen over, and Richard, unseen by the family, had crossed on the ice, and taken the road direct for Baltimore, where he had few acquaintances, if any; but where he had learned that the Methodist Church was strong and influential, and where he hoped to find or make friends. The journey came near to having a fatal termination. The ground was covered with snow, the road on that side of the river running up a wild valley but thinly settled, was not well broken, and walking was very laborious. Richard having traveled on foot most of the day, became completely exhausted. Providentially, a gentleman who knew him overtook him on the road, and seeing his pitiable condition, dismounted and gave him the use of his horse, until they reached a place of accommodation. Thus assisted he finally reached Baltimore in safety. After what was thought a suitable delay, a friend communicated the place of Rich

ard's residence to his father, who immediately sent another son to bring him home, giving him every assurance of the utmost indulgence in his religious views and habits. After this, for some time, he walked his Christian path without hinderance or molestation.

Some time after this-I do not know exactly how long-Richard felt that a dispensation of the gospel was committed to him; and having obtained permission, he began to pray and exhort in social meetings, greatly to the satisfaction of his Christian friends and the Church.

Mr. M'Allister thought Richard not at all fitted by education for the work of the ministry. His two elder sons, intended for professional life, were liberally educated; the two younger, being intended for rural pursuits, received only good substantial English instruction. To undertake the responsible work of the ministry, with so slender an amount of intellectual culture, the father thought preposterous in the extreme. He was willing to send him to college and prepare him for the ministry in a branch of the Church possessing better opportunities for eligible situations; but this did not meet Richard's views. He was a Methodist. He was impatient to begin his His brethren and the officiary of the Church saw that he had native talents,—sound judgment, clear views of theology, and especially a correct knowledge of the way of salvation,-and they saw him fitted in their view for immediate usefulness, and holding out great promise for the future. They were as earnest as Richard was that he should lose no time in commencing his ministry.

work.

It was drawing toward the close of the conference year, and Richard was particularly anxious to obtain his recommendation from the Quarterly Conference, and be admitted into the ensuing Annual Conference in April; the father was equally anxious to prevent it. They both had a secret motive for this solicitudeand yet scarcely secret either, since each knew what was passing in the other's mind. The fact was, Mr. M'Allister's eldest son, George Washington, afterward well known as Colonel M'Allister, who, on completing his education, had gone to Georgia, had married and become wealthy, was expected with his family to spend the summer at his father's house. He was a

very superior man, of high accomplishments, finished education, and of noble, honorable, elevated sentiments and bearing. Richard feared as much as his father hoped from the influence of this highly cultivated but worldly brother. However, Washington arrived, and Richard was yet at home. His father had utterly refused to supply him with a horse and the necessary equipments for an itinerant minister. Richard feared the worst from the combined influence of father and brother. The father soon communicated his views to Washington, and, according to expectation, quite secured him on his own side. Washington had no idea that Richard should expose himself and disgrace the family by attempting what he considered him inadequate to perform.

It so chanced some little time after this, that Richard, who had already received a local preacher's license, and officiated occasionally in the neighborhood, had an appointment in the church on his father's estate. The father, hearing of it, told Washington that it would be an excellent opportunity for him to hear and judge for himself, when he had no doubt he would soon put an end to this preaching mania. All things being thus arranged, Washington placed himself in the congregation. Those who were present related to me the facts. Richard, instead of quailing before the keen eye that was so scrutinizingly bent upon him, only called more fervently upon his God, and threw himself upon his gracious aid. He was nerved to uncommon vigor. The opening services passed off without anything marked. After taking his text, the preacher soon began to show that he was not the novice that his brother had supposed. He handled his subject with skill, his ideas flowed freely, his language was correct and sufficiently copious, and after a time there began to breathe through his words a holy influence, a sacred power that touched the heart. Washington was first surprised, then astonished, at length amazed, until, forgetting where he was, as his hands rested on the back of the seat before him, he gradually and unconsciously rose upon his feet, his nether jaw dropped down, and thus standing upright in the middle of the congregation with his mouth half open, he listened in breathless attention to the sermon. As soon as the service was ended he returned to the house. The

father was waiting to learn the issue. "Well, Washington, what do you think of this preaching now?"

"Father," was the calm and serious reply, "if ever a man was called to preach the gospel Richard is; and he ought to preach; and if you will not give him a horse and saddlebags I will."

66

"O!" said the father-for his resistance was all gone-"if he must have a horse and saddlebags, I suppose I am the most suitable person to buy them for him."

Richard had no more trouble. He ran

a brief but bright career. He was appointed first to the city of Philadelphia, I think by the Presiding Elder; he then traveled for a short season with one of the bishops, by whom he was appointed to Baltimore to fill a vacancy, and thus became attached to the Baltimore Conference. After traveling a few years, while stationed a second time in Baltimore, he married a daughter of Colonel Barry of that city, and the same year took the yellow fever, from the effects of which he never fully recovered. He filled one or two appointments afterward; but his health utterly failing, he went to the South for change of climate, and died in great peace and Christian triumph at the house of his brother in Georgia, who subsequently became a pious man, and died the death of the righteous.

Thus rose, and shone, and set, a bright particular star" in Methodism. He was not a meteor. His light was mild, gentle, and constant; "a burning and a shining light" he was, and by the brightness of his example many were guided into the way of peace. As "he that winneth souls is wise," and "they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars forever and ever," so shall many in the last day, while they admire and approve his choice, bless God that they were ever permitted to know that devoted and exemplary minister of Christ, Richard M'Allister.

CHILDHOOD.-Childhood is like the mirror, catching and reflecting images all around it. Remember that an impious or profane thought uttered by a parent's lips may operate upon a young heart like a careless spray of water thrown upon polished steel, staining it with rust, which no after scouring can efface.

AN AWKWARD ADVENTURE.

ONE

evening in the autumn of 185-, during a temporary stay at a muddy little fishing station near the junction of the river Avon with the Bristol Channel, an adventure befell me, which might have been attended with very untoward results, and which I shall relate as briefly as may be. I had taken my residence for a week or two in the neighborhood, for the express purpose of holding communication and exchanging occasional visits with an old friend and schoolfellow, the captain of an India trader then lying at anchor in the roads. We generally spent our evenings together, either on board his vessel or at my lodgings, but always separated about an hour before midnight. The old boatman, who two or three times a week rowed me off to the vessel and brought me back again, happened to be out of the way one evening at the accustomed hour; and while I was waiting, almost ankledeep in the brown sludge which the receding tide leaves upon that coast, expecting his appearance, a decent-looking middleaged man pulled toward me in the merest cockle-shell of a craft, and, touching his hat of glazed tarpaulin, volunteered to supply his place. Without hesitating a moment I stepped into the boat, and, seating myself in the stern, pointed to the "Bhurtpoor," lying about a mile and a half in the offing, and told him to pull away.

The season was approaching the equinox, and, the wind blowing fresh, my appetite for dinner sharpened as we got clear of the mud-banks, which, as the tide runs out, rear their broad backs above the surface in that part of the river. The sun had sunk nearly to the level of the mountain-tops in distant Wales, but was still shining brightly when I took my seat; but we had not proceeded a mile before a dark cloud rising in the west, from which quarter the wind blew, rapidly curtained him from sight, and twilight came on much more suddenly than usual. The black cloud was the precursor of an angry squall, and I could discern the advancing scud glooming over the waters at a few miles' distance. I did not relish the notion of being caught in it, as with it was also advancing, as usual, a heavy shower of rain, against which I had no defense, and I urged the boatman to pull away with a will. "Ay, ay, sir," said he, tugging at

the oars," trust me for putting your honor aboard without a wet jacket."

For about two minutes the little boat, under the impetus of increased exertions, danced forward at a more rapid rate. Already I could see the hands on board the Indiaman hastily furling some loose sails, which, as the vessel lay at anchor, had probably been let down for the purpose of repairs. I was watching the seaman-like evolutions of the crew, and marveling at the instantaneous disappearance of every rag of canvas, when I became suddenly aware that my companion had stopped rowing, and that the boat, under the influence of the receding tide, was drifting out of the right track. "Pull away!" I shouted, turning my eyes to where he sat, while the big drops from the black clouds, now right overhead, began splashing down like liquid bullets upon us. The man, however, neither moved nor spoke, but, with crossed arms, clasping the oars to his breast, sat stiff and rigid as death. His eyes were darting from their sockets, and glaring on all sides as though in an agony of terror; his mouth, firmly set fast, yet spluttered forth foam at the corners; his face, abnormally swollen, was of a livid black color; and the veins of his forehead stood out like an iron net-work, while the perspiration streamed off his head in a perfect torrent.

What to do I did not know. I concluded that the man was in a fit of some kind or other, and I feared momentarily, lest, in some sudden paroxysm, he should flounder overboard, and perhaps upset the boat, causing the destruction of us both. I would have given much to have had a friend with whom to advise; but advice was out of the question. While I sat deliberating, the squall burst upon us with unmitigated fury. The floods came down a perfect waterspout, and the winds tossed us about among the chopping billows to such an ugly tune, that in a few minutes the boat was nearly half full of water, and I was fain to take to baling out with all my might, making use of an old saucepan, rusty and shorn of its handle, which lay among the loose planks in her bottom. Still there sat the wretched waterman, rigid as a corpse, and apparently insensible to the assaults of the tempest. By this time it was so dark that I could see neither the "Bhurtpoor" nor the coast, and, what is more, did not know in which di

rection to look for them. I could only see my companion's face by leaning forward and bringing my own almost in juxtaposition with it; and whenever I did this, the same horrified aspect met my view, and he invariably resented my curiosity by the utterance of a frightful guttural sound, expressive, if of anything, of terror, lest I should lay a hand upon him.

The squall fortunately soon mitigated in intensity, and seemed to settle down into a heavy rain. When I had baled out the water sufficiently to remove present uneasiness on that score-and it seemed to me that I had occupied hours in accomplishing it-I unshipped the rudder, and, by dint of no inconsiderable labor, paddled with it so effectually as to keep the boat's head to the wind. That was all I could do, and I could not do that very well, as an occasional sea that broke over the gunwale convinced me a dozen times at least. After tossing about in this miserable condition a considerable time, which seemed to me an age, I looked at my watch to see how long we had been out, and was amazed to find that not two hours had elapsed since we had started. I should hardly have been more surprised had the sun risen on the other side of the channel and ushered in the morning. My troubles seemed to have endured longer than the whole of the past day, and yet there were eight or nine hours to pass before another would dawn upon us. I began to fear that we should not survive the night; we were probably several miles from the nearest land, but in what direction it lay I had no idea. All that I knew was, that we were drifting down channel, and that down we must continue to drift till the tide turned, which I judged would not be for several hours. I bawled to my companion as loud as I could halloo-bantered him, consoled him, encouraged him, reasoned with him;-all, however, was to no purpose; not a response could I elicit. There was, therefore, nothing for it but to sit still and wait the issue. I was wet through to the skin as thoroughly sodden as if I had been fished up from the bottom of the sea, and every now and then a terrible presentiment haunted me that to the bottom we were doomed to go before the morning.

How long I sat in this state, alternately baling with the rusty saucepan, paddling with the rudder, and gazing moodily at

the grim figure of the boatman, now half shrouded in the darkness, I have no distinct recollection, but it must have been a very considerable time. My reflections were none of the pleasantest. The vision of the captain's comfortable cabin, and his well-spread table furnished with the game we had shot together the day before, rose to my imagination, in tantalizing force; and there was I, transformed from a delighted and favored guest to a miserable castaway, at the mercy of a motionless image, who, for all I knew, might wake up into a raging madman, or die and stiffen in the position in which he sat, leaving me in the unpleasant predicament of having to account for his fate should I happen to survive him long. Morbid thoughts began to rise in my mind and to mingle with unworthy terrors, both of which I had a difficulty to shake off. At length I began to revolve the matter determinately, with a view to action of some sort. I could bear the horrible perplexity of my position no longer, and determined to do something, if possible, to bring it to an end. But what?-that was the question. I stood up and looked around. I fancied I could see a glimmering of light far away to the left, and thought that if I could get possession of the oars, I might succeed in making the land in that direction, particularly as the wind had now abated and the storm had ceased.

I cautiously laid my hand upon the man's shoulder, and felt for his fingers: they were hot as those of a person in a high fever. I endeavored to loosen the oars from his grasp, but I might as well have tried to snap them in pieces with my fingers; they were firm as though gripped in an iron vice. I felt his face and hair; both were hot and bathed in clammy moisture. In spite of the poor fellow's affliction, I grew exasperated with him for venturing out to sea, with the knowledge which he must have had that he was liable to such fearful visitations. Half in anger and half inspired with a sudden idea, I groped in the bottom of the boat for the old saucepan, found it, filled it with the cold brine, and dashed it suddenly in the fellow's face. The shock was instantly followed by a deep sigh and a rather violent gasping. Distressing as these sounds usually are, they were now grateful music to my ears, and without waiting more than a minute, I repeated the experiment. Di