THE PENNY POST. The Penny Post. STOPPAGE OF OUR POSTMAN.-"Indeed! what is the matter? Is there something amiss; has he been robbed, or has he proved dishonest, or untrusty, or negligent, or what?" "No: there was no blemish on his character; he never robbed his employers, though some mischievous fellows once robbed him, poor man." "Then what is the matter?" "I will tell you. One fine morning in July, he was, as usual, busily employed delivering his letters. A friend said to him, as he hastily passed by, 'how do you do this morning?' and his reply was, 'quité well, thank you, never better in my life,' and on he hurried. But there was one close at his heels to trip him up, and take, not his money-letters, but his life. He got through his work and went home; but the enemy, unseen, followed him there, seized him, and in less than four-and-twenty hours took away his life! Do you ask who was this enemy? Ah! he is too well-known; for he pays his visits to all sooner or later, and some of these days he will be sure to pay you a visit. The worst of him is that he carries with him a poisonous sting for some of his victims. But there is ONE greater than he. Make Him your friend, and you are safe from his attacks; and then, should he come suddenly, and clothed in terrors, for he is their king, you may look steadily at him as he comes, with the grave at his heels, and say, 'O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."" J. B. THE LAST FAREWELL.-Written by "A Poor Stockinger" in apprehension of a speedy dissolution. They were intended as a farewell epistle to his neighbours and friends. But God in mercy spared him. ADIEU, my kind friends, and farewell to you all; Death stares in my face and gives a loud call; And lifting his terrible spear, up, And compels me to drink of his bitter cup, The grim-looking monster looks full in my And tells me I soon shall have run the shoft race Appointed to mortals below. He says that I soon shall be hid in the If he kill my poor body in this fatal strife, My soul will then launch into oceans of life, Redeem'd by the blood of the cross. THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. The Children's Corner. THE COW-BOY.-Passing through a shady lane, I saw a little boy whose employment was keeping cows, sitting under a hedge, attentively perusing a tract. Pleased to see him so employed, I went up to him, and entered into conversation with him he told me he liked to read those little books very much, "for," said he, "they teach me the way to God." I asked him if he always liked them; he said, "O no, I should once much rather have read a song book, or idled away my time in doing nothing at all. I was very wicked and very bad indeed. I did not care what became of me, till one day as I was keep ing my cows in this very lane, I thought I saw something in the hedge; I went up and took it out; it was a tract called the 'Good Old Way.' I really wondered what it could be about, but I thought I would read it. So I did, and was very much surprised to find Jesus Christ was the way, the truth, and the life. I took it home to my father, he read it, and he too said he could not make it out, but he saw very plainly that he was not in this right way." "And what," said I," did you do then ?" 'Oh," said the boy, "father and I talked about it a great many times, and read it over and over again, and we liked it better every time; and I began to feel myself a very great sinner, and so did father; but my mother said it was all nonsense, and did not concern us. Then we began to search the scriptures, and there I soon found comfort in Jesus; and though a poor boy I trust I have found an interest in his blood; for you know Jesus has said, those that come unto me I will in no wise cast out." 66 THE DYING LITTLE GIRL.-I am sure you would have loved Edith C-if you had known her. She was always in her place at the Sunday-school, a sweet smile played upon her countenance when she entered her class; and then, how diligent to learn, how quiet, how serious, and affectionate! But Edith was taken very ill, and soon she died. In her dying moments she said she wished to speak to her father- a father who sometimes came home intoxicated! When he came, he drew near her bedside: the little Sunday-scholar told her father she was very happy-she was going to be with Jesus in heaven! And then fixing her dying eyes upon her father, she said, 'But, father, there are no drunkards in heaven!' Oh! how keenly did he feel! The father wept-Edith died. Her school-fellows, teacher, and minister, were very sorry when she was taken away; but what she said has not been forgotten. Her father could not forget what she told him-that there were 'no drunkards in heaven!' He repented of his sins, and has now become a member of the church. He often speaks of his dying little girl with tears, and hopes to meet her again in heaven. I hope all such fathers, who hear their children read this, will also remember what this man could not forget" that there are no drunkards in heaven;" and I hope that like this man they will think about it before it be too late for ever. If they stop and think now, and resolve to avoid that wicked sin in future, God will help them, and, forgiving their past sins for Christ's sake, save their souls from death. NAPOLEON-BEFORE AND AFTER WATERLOO. In looking over a file of foreign papers we met with the following sketch from "Dumas's Shores of the Rhine." It is possible that it may be true; that is all we can say for it. At all events it is a picture worth looking at, and may lead some to think of the horrid uncertainty of the game of war, and the supreme folly of human ambition. Contrast with this "Child and slave of ambition," John Howard, the visitor of helpless prisoners; or William Carey, the translator of the word of God for millions; and say which of these will have and will hold the admiration and the love of unborn ages and be had in everlasting remembrance. Then "We saw two carriages approaching, galloping, each with six horses. They disappeared for an instant in a valley, then rose again at a quarter of a league's distance from us. we set off running towards the town, crying, 'L'Empereur! L'Empereur !' We arrived breathless, and only preceding the Emperor by some five hundred paces. I thought he would not stop, whatever might be the crowd awaiting him, and so made for the post-house, when I sunk down half dead with running; but at any rate I was there. In a moment appeared, turning the corner of a street, the foaming horses; then the postillions all covered with ribbons; then the carriages themselves; then the people following the carriages. The carriages stopt at the post. I saw Napoleon! He was dressed in a green coat, with little epaulets, and wore the officer's cross of the legion of honour. I only saw his bust framed in the square of the carriage window. His head fell upon his chest-that famous medallic head of the old Roman Emperors. His forehead fell forward; his features immovable, were of the yellowish colour of wax; only his eyes appeared to be alive. Next him, on his left, was Prince Jerome, a King without a kingdom, but a faithful brother. He was at that time a fine young man of six-and-twenty or thirty years of age, his features regular and well-formed, his beard black, and his hair elegantly arranged. He saluted in place of his brother, whose vague glance seemed lost in the futureperhaps in the past. Opposite the Emperor was Letort, his aidde-camp, an ardent soldier, who seemed already to snuff the air of battle; he was smiling too, the poor fellow, as if he had NAPOLEON-BEFORE AND AFTER WATERLOO. long days to live! All this lasted for about a minute.-Then the whip cracked, the horses neighed, and all disapppeared like a vision. Three days afterward, toward evening, some people arrived from St. Quentin; they said that as they came away they heard cannon. The morning of the 17th a courier arrived who scattered all along the road the news of the victory. The 18th, nothing. The 19th nothing: only vague rumours were abroad, coming no one knew whence. It was said the Emperor was at Brussels. The 20th, three men in rags, two wounded, and riding jaded horses all covered with foam, entered the town, and were instantly surrounded by the whole population, and pushed into the court-yard of the town-house. These men hardly spoke French. They were, I believe, Westphalians, belonging somehow to our army. To all our questions they only shook their heads sadly, and ended by confessing that they had quitted the field of battle of Waterloo at eight o'clock, and that the battle was lost when they came away. It was the advanced guard of the fugitives. -We would not believe them. We said these were Prussian spies. Napoleon could not be beaten! That fine army which we had seen pass could not be destroyed. We wanted to put the poor fellows into prison; so quickly had we forgotten 1813 and 1814, to remember the years which had gone before!-My mother ran to the fort, where she passed the whole day, knowing it was there the news must arrive, whatever it were. During this time I looked out in the maps for Waterloo, the name of which even I could not find, and began to think the place was imaginary, as was the men's account of the battle. At four o'clock, more fugitives arrived who confirmed the news of the first comers. These were French, and could give all the details which we asked for. They repeated what the others had said, only adding that Napoleon and his brother were killed. This we would not believe: Napoleon might not be invincible—invulnerable he certainly was. Fresh news more terrible and disastrous continued to come in until ten o'clock at night. We Then he At ten o'clock at night we heard the noise of a carriage. It stopped, and the Postmaster went out with a light. followed him as he ran to the door to ask for news. started a step back, and cried, 'It's the Emperor !' a stone bench, and looked over my mother's shoulder. I got on It was POETRY. indeed Napoleon, seated in the same corner, in the same uniform, his head on his breast as before. Perhaps it was bent a little lower; but there was not a line in his countenance, not an altered feature, to mark what were the feelings of the great gambler who had just staked and lost the world. Jerome and Letort were not with him to bow and smile in his place. Jerome was gathering together the remnants of the army; Letort had been cut in two by a cannon ball. Napoleon lifted his head slowly looking round as if rousing from a dream, and then, with his brief, stern voice, 'What place is this?' he said, 'Villers-Coteret, Sire.'-' How many leagues from Soissons?' 'Six, Sire.' 'From Paris?' 'Nineteen.' "Tell the post-boys to go quick,' and he once more flung himself back into the corner of his carriage. His head fell on his chest. The horses carried him away as if they had wings!" The world knows what had taken place between these two apparitions of Napoleon! Poetry. THE END OF THE WICKED. I SAW the wicked in his pride; Look'd on the gloomy waste around. O miserable thoughts of men! I turn'd-its glory was no more. I turn'd-the tow'ring tree was fell'd— The stately trunk in ruins laid. So shall it with the godless be, |