to
which he had been converted, his watchword remained unchanged: 'It is
the Lord!' His body has been consigned to the grave, but the sunset
glory of his example still illumines our sky, and will forever light us
onward to the path he trod."

THE DISASTERS OF A MAN WHO WOULDN'T TRUST HIS WIFE.

A TALE OF A TAILOR.

BY WM. HOWITT.

There are a multitude of places in this wide world, that we never heard
of since the day of creation, and that never would become known to a
soul beyond their own ten miles of circumference, except to those
universal discoverers, the tax-gatherers, were it not that some sparks
of genius may suddenly kindle there, and carry their fame through all
countries and all generations. This has been the case many times, and
will be the case again. We are now destined to hear the sound of names
that our fathers never dreamed of; and there are other spots, now
basking in God's blessed sunshine, of which the world knows and cares
nothing, that shall, to our children, become places of worship, and
pilgrimage. Something of this sort of glory was cast upon the little
town of Rapps, in Bohemia, by the hero whose name stands conspicuously
in this article, and whose pleasant adventures I flatter myself that I
am destined to diffuse still further. HANS NADELTREIBER was the son of
Mr. Strauss Nadeltreiber, who had, as well as his ancestors before him,
for six generations, practiced, in the same little place, that most
gentlemanly of all professions, a tailor--seeing that it was before all
others, and was used and sanctioned by our father Adam.

Now Hans, from boyhood up, was a remarkable person. His father had known
his share of troubles, and having two sons, both older than Hans,
naturally looked in his old age to reap some comfort and assistance from
their united labors. But the two elder sons successively had fled from
the shop-board. One had gone for a soldier, and was shot; the other had
learned the craft of a weaver, but being too fond of his pot, had
broken his neck by falling into a quarry, as he went home one night from
a carousal. Hans was left the sole staff for the old man to lean upon;
and truly a worthy son he proved himself. He was as gentle as a dove,
and as tender as a lamb. A cross word from his father, when he had made
a cross stitch, would almost break his heart; but half a word of
kindness revived him again--and he seldom went long without it; for the
old man, though rendered rat