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50 besides five which the priest warned me to keep, w hen I went for his blessing, as he said I might want it in case of sickness, and I was thinking if ycr honour would take ten out of the eighteen, for a quarter, or so; I know 1 Can’t pay yer honour as I ought, only just for the love of God; and if ye’d please to ex amine me in the Latin, his reverence said I’d be no disgrace to you.” “ Just let me see what ye’ve got,” said the schoolmaster. The boy drew forth Irom in side his w r aisteoat the remnant of a cotton nightcap, and held it towards the schoolmas ter’s extended hand ; but Mary stood between her husband and his temptation. “Put it up child,” she said; “the rnasther dosen’t want it; he only had a mind to see if it was safe.” Then aside to her husband, “ Let fall your hand, James; it’s the devil that’s under yer elbow keeping it out, nibbling as the fishes do at the hook; is it the thin shillings of a widow’s son you'd be afther taking? It’s not yerself that’s in it all.” Then to the boy, “Put i; up, dear, and come in the morning.” But the silver had shone in the master's eyes through the worn-out knitting—“the thin shillings,” as Mary call ed them—and their chii k aroused his avarice the more. So. standing up, he put aside his wife, as men often do good counsel, with a strong arm, and declared that he would have all or none; and that without pay he would receive no pupil. The boy, thirsting for learn ing, almost without hesitation agreed to give him all he possessed, only saying that “ the Lord above would raise him up some friend who would give him a bit, a sup, and a lock of straw to sleep on.” Thus the bargain was struck, the penniless child turned from the door, knowing that, at least for that night, he would receive shelter from some kind-hearted cotter, and perhaps give in exchange tuition to those who could not afford to go to the “ great master w hile the dispenser of knowl edge, chinking the “ thin shillings,” strode towards a well-heaped hoard to add thereto the mite of a fatherless boy. Mary crouched over the cheerful fire, rocking herself back wards and foiwards in real sorrow, and de termined to consult the priest as to the change that had come over her husband, turning him out. of himself into something “ not right.” This was O'Leary's first public attempt to work out his determination, and he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He did not care to encounter Mary’s reproachful looks, so he brought over his blotted desk, and sat with his back to her, apparently intent on his books; but despite all he could do, his mind went wandering back to the time he was a poor scholar himself; and no matter whether he looked over problems, or turned the leaves of Homer, there was the pale gentle face of the poor scholar, whom he had “ fleeced” to the uttermost. “ Mary,” said he, anxious to be reconciled to himself, “there never was one of them poor scholars that had not twice as much as they purtended.” “Was that the w T ay with yerself, avick ?” she answered. James pushed back the desk, flung the ruler at the cat, bounced the door after him, and went to bed. He did not fall very soon asleep—nor, when he did, did he sleep very soundly —but tossed and tumbled about in a most undignified manner; so much so, that his poor wife left off rocking, and, taking out her beads, began praying as hard and as fast as she could; and she believed her prayers took effect, for he soon became tranquil, and slept soundly. But Mary went’ on praying. She was accounted what was called the steadiest hand at prayers in the country; but. on this particular night, she prayed on without stopping, until the gray cock, who always crowed at four, told her what the time was, and she thought she might as well sleep for a couple of hours; for Ma ry could not only pray when she liked, but sleep when she pleased, which is frequently the case with the innocent-hearted. As soon, however, as she hung the beads on the same nail that supported the holy water, cross, and cup, James gave a groan and a start, and call ed her. “ Give me your hand,” he said, “ that I may know’ it's you that’s in it.” Mary did so, and affectionately bade God bless him. “ Mary, my own ould darling,” he whis pered, “I'm a grate sinner, and all my learn ing isn’t —isn’t worth abrass farthing.” Ma ry was really astonished to hear him say this. “ It’s quite in airnest I am, dear ; and here’s the key of my little box, and go and bring out that poor scholar’s nightcap, and take care of his money, and as soon as day breaks entirely, go find out where he’s stopping, and tell him I’ll never touch cross nor coin be longing to him, nor one of his class, and give him back his coins of silver and his coins of brass ; and, Mary, agra, if you've the pow’er, turn every boy in the parish into a poor scho lar, that i may have the satisfaction of teach ing them, for I’ve had a dream, Mary, and smunnanM. kUTFSiE&iBY ©A&n'ffiris, I'll tell it to you, who knows belter than my self. how to be grateful for such a w r arning. There, praise the holy saints! is a streak of daylight; now listen, Mary, and don’t inter rupt me:— I suppose it’s dead I was first; but, any how, I thought I xvas floating about in a dark space, and every minute I wanted to fly up, but something kept me down. I could not rise —and as I grew used to the darkness, you see, 1 saw a great many things floating about like myself—mighty curious shapes. One of them, with wings like a bat, came close up to me ; and, after all, what was it but a Hom er; and I thought maybe it would help me up ; but when I made a grab at it, it turned into smoke. Then came a great white-faced owl, with red bothered eyes, and out of one of them, glared a Voster, and out of the oth er a Gough; and globes and inkhorns chang ed, Mafy, in the sight of my two looking eyes, into vivacious tadpoles, swimming here and there, and making game of me as they passed. Oh, I thought the time was a thou sand years, and everything about me talking bad Latin and Greek that would bother a saint, and I without power to answer or to get away. I’m thinking it was the schoolmas ter's purgatory I was in.” “ Maybe so,” replied Mary, “ particularly as they wouldn’t let you correct the bad Lat in, dear.” “But it changed, Mary, and I found my self after a thousand or tw’o years, in the midst of a mist--there was a mistiness all around me —and in my head—but it was a clear, soft, downy-like vapor, and I had my full liberty in it, so I kept on going up—up for ever so many years, and by degrees it cleared away, drawing itself into a hohreenoX either side, leading a great high hill of light, and 1 made straight for the hill; and having got over it, I looked up, and of all the brightness I ever saw’, w’as the brightness above me the brightest; and the more I look ed at it, the brighter it grew ; and yet there was no dazzle in my eyes; and something whispered me that that was heaven, and with that I fell down on my knees, and ask ed how I was to get up there ; for mind ye, Mary, there was a gulf betw’een me and the hill, or, to speak more to your understanding, a gap ; the hill of light above me was in no ways joined to the hill on which I stood. So I cried how was Ito get there. Well, before you could say twice ten, there stood before me seven poor scholars, those seven, dear, that I taught, and that have taken tin -y§st rnents since. I knew them all, and I knew them well. Many a hard day’s work I had gone through with them, just for that holy blessed pay, the love of God —there they stood, and Abel at their head.” “Oh, yah mulla! think of that now’, my poor Aby; didn’t I know the good pure drop was in him!” in terrupted Mary. “ The only way for you to get to that hap py place, rnasther dear,” they said, “is for you to make a ladder of us.” “ Is it a ladder of the ” “Whisht, will ye,” inturrupted the master. “‘We are the stairs,’ said they, ‘that will lead you to that happy mansion. All your learning, of which you are so proud,—all your examinations—all your disquisitions and knowledge—your algebra and mathematics— your Greek—ay, or even your Hebrew, if you had that same,—all are not worth a tra neen. All the mighty fine doings, the great ness of man, or of man’s learning, are not the value of a single blessing here ; but we, mas ther jewel, we are your charities; seven of us poor boys, through your means, learned their duty—seven of us! and upon us you can walk up to that shining light, and be happy for ever.’ “ I was not a bit bothered at the idea of making a step ladder of the seven holy cra turs, who, though they had been poor schol ars, were far before myself where we were now ; but as they bent I stept, first on Abel, then on Paddy Blake, then on Billy Murphy; but anyhow, when 1 got to the end of the sev en, I found there were five or six more wanting —I tried to make a spring, and only for Abel I’d have gone, I dont know where : he held me fast. ‘0 ! the Lord be merciful ! is this the way with me afther all?’ I said. ‘Boys, darlings! can ye get me no more than half way afther all ?’ ‘ Sure, there must be more of us to help you,’ makes answer Paddy Blake. ‘ Sure, ye lived many years in the world after we left you,’ says Abel, ‘and, unless you hardened your heart, it isn’t possible but you must have bad a dale more ot us to help you. Sure you were never content, having tasted the ever-in creasing sweetness of seven good deeds, to stop short and lave your task unfinished?— Oh, then, if you did, rnasther,’ said the poor fellow, ‘ if you did, it’s myself that’s sorry for you,’ Well, Mary, agra! I thought my heart would burst open when I remembered what came over me last night—and much more— arithmetical calculations—when I had full and plinty, of what the little you gave and I taugnt came to—and every niggard thought was like a sticking-up dagger in my heart— and I looking at the glory J could never reach, because of my cramped heart; and just then I woke. I’m sure I must have had the pray ers of some holy creature about me to cause such a warning.” Mary made no reply, but sunk on her knees by the bedside, weeping,—tears of joy they were, —she felt that her prayer had been heard and answered. “And now, Mary, let us up and be stirring, for life is but short for the doing of our duties. We’ll have the poor scholars to breakfast—and, darling, you’ll look out for more of them. And oh) but my heart’s as light as the down of a thistle, and all through my blessed dream.” Sketdjcs of Cifc. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE LISTENER...,NO, 111. NOT BY CAROLINE FRY. FRANK SPRAGUE. I suppose every one is gifted with what we are wont to call, a “ better nature,” with some nobler impulses and purer aspirations, than are habitually sent forth. In many persons, this better nature is strengthened and trained until its impulses become principles, which affect every action of their lives, and form just and honorable characters; the whole earthly existence of others, again, presents a continued struggle, between these impulses, and those baser passions whose indulgence only degrades; and there is a third class where all goodness seems totally obliterated, and the triumph of depravity is complete. I do not confound this part of our nature with conscience, which I regard as a sentinel placed at the door of the heart, warning us of unlawful intruders, of treachery and deceit; in other words, as a principle confirming us in our confidence in those spontaneous emo tions, which proceed from the action of the “ better nature.” I cannot then account for it, except to suppose it a gift of God, remind ing us of the state of man ere he sinned, and of the holiness he must strive to attain, before he can stand in the presence of the All-Perfect. Although I regard with very respectful ad miration, a character governed by high prin ciples—its passions subdued, its natural im pulses controlled, and the whole presenting much of the symmetry of perfection; yet where all this is merely the result of a happy education, or of a want of intensity of feeling, I cannot feel for the person whom it adorns, either sympathy or love. In the character rendered beautiful by generous and amiable impulses, there will be found many inconsis tencies, impairing the general effect; but do not these very faults form a back-ground, upon which the virtues stand forth in brighter relief! So it is with myself, that the faults of those I truly love, often commend them the more closely to my heart, proving as they do the absence of ihe opposite errors. I would not.desire what is often denominated “a spice of wickedness,” which implies always to me, intentional error, nor yet faults arising from weakness, xvhich, when discovered, only awaken contempt; but an enthusiastic, warm hearted being, carried too far in his affections by their very strength, in his dislikes by the intensity of the detestation, with which he re gards all meanness; extravagant, because his only idea of the value of money, is the amount of happiness it will procure for his friends: thus improvident, because too disinterested; and visionary, because in spite of all he has learned of mankind, or I should rather say, of all his opportunities of learning, he cannot >et believe the selfishness and narrowness of most men’s souls. Such a character, imper fect and faulty as it is, is infinitely more irre sistible to me, than the cool, calculating, pru dent man, who lives prosperously—whose wealth gains him friends, position and res pect, and all because he adopted a happy policy. Such a person as first described, was Frank Sprague; so generous, w r arm-hcarted and en thusiastic; and by all these qualities, he was unfitted to succeed in life. “Frank will never be rich,” said his father; “heis so confoundedly generous; and he will never be popular,—l mean, a hail-fellow well-met, among men of the world—for in spite of his good heart, he lacks some quality of the head, which w r ou!d teach him policy. He befriends those whose gratitude and friend ship will never be of any use to him in get ting along in life, and it is more than likely he will take for an intimate associate, some person like himself, from whom he will never learn prudence and forethought.” Frank’s mother was a good woman, who loved her son too well to wish him to sacri fice his ingenuous and amiable nature, to mere wordly wisdom, so she replied— “ What you say, is all true, my dear hus band, but even you would not have him ex change .such a friend, whose sympathies would encourage his noble impulses, for one whose head is full of schemes for acquiring wealth, and thereby rising in the world, in stead ol acquiring knowledge, and learning to be good and useful, and thus arriving at eminence: whose senses are so distorted that there is no beauty in the world to him, like the glitter of golden hoards, and no music like their jingle. So entirely has such a person become absorbed in his degrading pursuits, that the music of animate and rejoicing nature never arrests his attention, and, “ The primrose by the river’s brim, A yellow primrose is to him, And it is nothing more.” What room has such a heart, for the culti vation of those purer sentiments, whose strength and expansion on earth, give us a nobler being in Heaven! You would not have our son a mere man of the world , even though he arrived at some distinction, if he must become so, at the expense of his beauti ful enthusiasm, and his hearty appreciation of the good and true.” “•You argue like a woman, who has the love of a mother, without her ambition.— Frank has his own way to make in the world, and you would be content to see him poor and obscure through life, and unappreciated, as persons of his unworldly character alw’ays are. Taught such lessons by his mother, J do not wonder he receives my advice so coldly.” “ You wrong me, my husband, in suppo sing I have not his interest at heart. Let him be good first, and then, if he has the genius to attain it, let him have greatness. But though trank can get money readily enough, he has no faculty for keeping it. You often say, justice to himself should teach him more prudence, in the use of money, and we know that to be just to others, before he was gen eious to them, has been one of the hardest lessons of his life. This lesson, however, he will ere long have perfectly learned, and then let him spend lr.s income as he now T does, in promoting the happiness of those around him in cultivating his taste for the arts, enlar ging his library, and having his purse ever ready at the cal! of the needy. It is true he may thus live and die, poor , in the world’s estimation, but richer far in the better sense of the word, than the bequeather of hundreds of thousands..” * * * * * Frank Sprague was taught some severe lessons. He judged all mankind too lenient ly; so the cunning man of business, whose success in his machinations, deprived him of his just title of knave, made him his dupe and left him the victim of a most dishonorable fraud. When awakened to a sense of the wrong done him, he was first lost in wonder at the baseness of the man’s nature, and then turned quickly away from one so far below himself in all but cunning, and pursued an other course, which would never again bring them into contact. But because his trust had