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der, a slave of C. Fannius. Agrius tortured him, and, on his confessing the crime, handed him over to Fannius, who put him to death. Shortly, afterward the missing slave returned home. This same Alexander was made of sterner stuff, for when he was subsequently suspected of being privy to the murder of C. Flavius, a Roman knight, he was tortured six times, and persistently denied his guilt, though he subsequently confessed it, and was duly crucified.” Another instance is furnished by the case of Fulvius Flaccus, in which the whole question turned upon the evidence of his slave, Phillip. This man was actually tortured eight times, and refused through it all to criminate his master, who was nevertheless condemned.”

Augustus believed torture to be the best means of arriving at truth : Modestinus held it to be the last resort, in which Adrian also agreed. Ulpian expressed it as his opinion that evidence extorted from slaves by torment was “unsafe, dangerous, and deceitful, for some men were so resolute, that they would bear the extremity of torment without yielding, while others were so timid that through fear they would at once inculpate the innocent."

Examination by, torture was introduced into England in the fourteenth century, and was not abolished until the early part of the last century.

The Orphan of Juggernaut.

BRAHMIN family in, the north of India, set out on a pilgrimage to the temple of Juggernaut. They knew and felt that they were sinful, but thought that by this pilgrimage they could atone for their sins. They had never heard of Christ. The family consisted of a man his wife, an infant of two or three months old, and a few servants. They had pro

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ceeded to within one hundred and twenty miles of the temple, when cholera attacked the mother. The father then left her, proceeded on his journey, and probably sacrificed himself to the idol.

With great difficulty the suffering mother dragged herself and babe to the door of a house, where she expected to find the succour she needed; but her hope was in vain There are no sympathizing hearts amongst real heathen.

Some little time after, the missionary passed on his way to preach to the pilgrims, and found her lying on the ground, under the shade of a large tree, unaided, uncared for, with her starving infant clinging to her. Just then the sky threatened to burst upon their heads in a fearful storm, and at his feet lay that expiring mother and the helpless babe, so soon to be left an orphan. The missionary had to walk some miles before he could procure a cup of milk for her; and for the first time she heard the “ story of grace,” from the friend who so tenderly cared for her perishing body. In a few days she died. What was then to become of her little girl ? Girls are always unwelcome to the heathen, and a mother could not be found to tend it. A native doctor was asked by the missionary what could be done for the infant. Let it die too," was his reply.

The missionary then resolved to take the forlorn little one to his own home, while the native doctor took the gold and silver ornaments the woman wore, and the money

that was found on her person.

The starving condition of the child was soon shown after its reception under the Missionary's roof. Some food was put on

a plate on the floor, and while a spoon was being sent for, with energy the little thing crawled to it, and began feeding herself.

Years rolled on, and the babe was taken to America, and placed in a boarding-school, and after her return to her native country she became assistant teacher in the schools of the Mission which had been her: happy home. She 'afterwards married a highly-educated Christian Rajpoot. No heathen rites nor Hindu revellings were practised at their marriage, but they lived to the praise of the good God who had saved her life so near that very spot.

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SOME years ago, a


noble steamer was sinking, with hundreds of persons on board. Only one boat-load was saved. As a man was leaping into the the tossing boat, a girl who could not be taken into the boat, and who knew that she would soon be swallowed up in the deep, deep sea, handed him a note, saying: “Give this to my mother.”'

was saved. The girl, with hundreds of other persons, was drowned. The mother received the note. What do you think the little girl had written in it? Here are her words:

“ Dear mother, you must not grieve for me.

I am going to Jesus," Dear girl!

What faith and courage she must have had to write that note! She was going to Jesus through the stormy waves

of the angry sea; yet she was not afraid.

If anybody had asked this little girl, “Which way are you going?" she could have answered the question readily: “I am going to Jesus." Let us all try to go there. She went from the waters, others go from the land, but it is as

near hea. ven in one place as in another.

The man

We're bound for the land of the pure and
Ye wand'rers from God in the broad road of


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say, will you

E - den a - bove. In that blessed land neither sighing nor anguish,

Can breathe in the fields where the glorified rove:
Ye heart-burdened ones who in misery languish,

Oh say, will you go to the Eden above?
No poverty there--no, the saints are all wealthy,

The heirs of his glory, whose nature is love,
No sickness can reach them, that country is healthy,

Oh, say, will you go to the Eden above ? Each saint has a mansion, prepared, and all furnished,

Ere from this clay house he is summoned to move; Its gates and its towers with glory are burnished, Oh! say, will you go to the Eden above ?

March on happy pilgrims, the land is before you,

And soon its ten thousand delights we shall prove; Yes, soon we shall walk o'er the hills of bright glory,

And drink the pure joys of the Eden above.


AUTHOR of Good! to thee I turn :

Thy ever-wakeful eye
Alone can all my wants discern,

Thy hand alone supply.
Oh let thy fear within me dwell,

Thy love my footsteps guide!
That love shall meaner loves expel,

That fear all fears beside.
Not to my wish, but to my want,

Do thou thy gifts apply';
Unasked, what good thou knowest grant;

What ill, though asked, deny.

NOT PUOR. What! poor, you say? Why, save you, friend,

I've more than half the world can show ;
Such wealth as mine you cannot boast,

Such bliss as mine you cannot know.
I've more than keenest head can sum-

Could ever dream of, night or day ;
I've treasures hid from sordid hearts,

No cunning thief can take away.

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