SCENES IN GEORGIA.
BY
ES-ABSZ* DRlTSDAXiX:.
WRITTEN FOR THE AMERICAN SUNDAV SCHOOL UNION
" The wilderness, and tlie solitary place, shall be );lad for them
B.nd the desert shall rcjoico arid blossom as thu rose "
AMERICAN SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION.
ftljtlaMjjJjia:'
NO. 146 CHESNUT STREET.
Eastern District of Pe\nsylvania, to wit:
BE IT REMEMBERED, that on the twenty
eighth day of July, in the fifty-second year of tlio
independence of the United States of America, A.
'.D. 1S27, Paul Beck, Jun. Treasurer, in trust for
' the American Sunday School Union, of the said
District, hath deposited in this office the title of a
book, the right whereof he claims as proprietor, in
the words following, to wit:
" Scenes in Georgia. By Isabel Drysdale. Written for the Ameri¬
can Sunday School Union.
" The wilderness, and the solitary place, shall be glad for them;
and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose."
In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States,
intituled, " An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by se¬
curing the copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the authors and
proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned"—
And also to the act entitled, "An act supplementary to an act,
entitled, "An act for the Encouragement of Learning, by secur¬
ing the copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the authors ane
proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned,'-
and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, en
graving, and etching historical and other prints." «
D. CALDWELL,
Clerk tf the Eastern District of Petmsjlvania.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE FISHERMAN OF THE SOLITARY ISLAND. 7
THE NEGRO NURSE. 27
THE TWO COUSINS; OR, THE EXAMPLE AND
THE WARNING. - - - 43
A 2
SCENES IN GEORGIA.
THE FISHERMAN OF THE SOLITARY
ISLAND.
A chain of very small islands, in the popu¬
lar phrase of the country called keys or ham¬
mocks, stretches along a part of the southern
shores of Georgia. They seem set as a firm
but slender barrier, to stem the ocean's fury,
and screen the neighbouring coast from its
violence. Accordingly we find, that while
the restless waters rave and foam along their
seaward shore, the narrow inlets which sepa¬
rate them from the continent, lie still and
placid as a glassy pool.
This islet chain appears to have been origi¬
nally an interrupted bank of sand, accumu¬
lated by the impetuous currents of the seaj
8
THE FISHERMAN OF THE
imperceptibly coated with soil, .and gradually
clothed with vegetation; so that now, dark
woodlands wave, where once was seen only
the straying of the crested billow.
There is something remarkably bleak and
desolate in their appearance $ incessantly
lashed by the fierce blasts of ocean, the
stinted foliage of their forests is thin and
scattering; while innumerable naked branches
are presented, barked and silvered by expo¬
sure. Here and there, indeed, a solitary
cabbage-tree rears its stately head; resisting
the strife of elements, with shaggy strength,
and rustling its stiff, palmate leaves, unin¬
jured by the storm.
One or two of these islands have been par
tially cleared and cultivated, greeting the
passing mariner with the cheerful signs of
human habitation. The thin, blue smoke,
that curls above their dark woods,—the dis¬
tant "barking of dogs, or even the mill's rude
music, is hailed with pleasure, by those that
"go down to the sea in ships, that do busi¬
ness in the great waters." But the island
which forms the extreme point of the chain.
SOLITARY ISLAND.
9
and which from its singularly torn and dis¬
mantled appearance, has received the familiar
epithet of Ragged Key, has been left in its
native state of savage wildness. A small
clearing, indeed, has been made near the
beach, where a fisherman's hut peers through
the rude thickets that surround it,* but the re¬
mainder of the island still continues a tangled
wilderness of woods and shrubs.
A poor, but excellent Spaniard, has made
this solitary spot his abode. Here, far from
all social enjoyment, he walks with God, and
is hidden in the secret place of his pavilion.
A small field adjoining his little hut, fur¬
nishes him with bread $ and the net, which is
often seen extended against its rude wall to
dry, supplies him with the treasures of the
sea.
He lives a life of toil and exposure, but he
has learned that golden lesson ot humility,
" having food and raiment, therewith to be
content." And to his serious and meditative
spirit, solitude presents no horrors. He is no1
indeed, entirely alone: his faithful dog is the
constant companion of his steps; follows him
10 THE FISHERMAN OF THE
to the field, or the hunt, and when his voca¬
tion calls him to the sea, lies howling on the
shore, until his keen eye discovers his mas¬
ter's canoe, like a black speck upon the dis¬
tant waters,' then welcomes his return with a
whine of delight, and licks, with transport, his
caressing hand. Ragged Key, too, is occa¬
sionally visited by passing boats and ships,
invited thither by its firm sandy beach, and
the banks of oysters which line its shorej so
that he is not destitute of occasional opportu¬
nities of intercourse with his fellow-men.
One stormy evening, as he was engaged in
drawing his little canoe into a safe and shel¬
tered situation, he descried through the sheets
of descending rain, a large boat struggling
through the waves, at no great distance. His
experienced eye soon discovered that the
helmsman was wholly unacquainted with the
navigation, and from the course which he
pursued, would probably conduct his crew
into a most perilous situation.
Our benevolent fisherman did not, for one
moment, hesitate to hasten to their relief.
Instantly his little skiff was launched into
SOLITARY ISLAND.
11
the raging surf; and borne along by tne wind
and tide, and his own sturdy strokes, he soon
found himself beside the distressed boat.
The crew proved to be a party of young men,
returning from a hunting excursion on one of
the neighbouring islands, who received with
warm expressions of joy and thankfulness,
this unexpected relief. Advised by their
new friend, they abandoned the course they
had taken, and gladly consented to shelter
with him for the night. Accordingly after a
short strife with wind and waves, they found
themselves safely landed on the solitary
island, and welcome guests in its humble hut.
But the kind creature, to whose 'exertions
(providentially directed,) they probably owed
their lives, was now earnestly intent upon
providing for their comfort. The rude fire¬
place, which occupied nearly one side of the
house, was piled with blazing faggots; and
while they were engaged in drying their
dripping garments, unmindful of his own ex¬
posure, he searched his bank for the largest
and finest oysters,—produced his smoked
venison and dried fish, and above all—the
12 THE FISHERMAN OF THE
choice treasure of tea and sugar, so long re*
served for an expected time of sickness, was
now liberally dispensed.
The young men delighted with this unex¬
pected display of good cheer, surrounded the
table with many thanks and compliments to
their kind host; and their spirits rising with
their enjoyment, the usual unlicensed liber¬
ties of extravagant hilarity appeared; and
the name of that merciful Being, who had so
recently rescu-id them from the watery abyss,
was heard w/ih many a profane accompani¬
ment.
Our good Spaniard had been sitting among
them, regarding their enjoyment with an ex¬
pression cf benevolent satisfaction upon his
grave features; but when the first impious
sally was uttered, his head was bowed down
in deep confusion and distress. For a lit¬
tle time he endured, in grieved silence, this
violation of his feelings, but the careless repe¬
tition of the offence, roused his honest indig¬
nation, and rising from his seat he addressed
the transgressors in a firm but respectful
manner:—
SOLITARY ISLAND.
13
61 Gentlemen," he said, '' you are this' night
the guests of the humble fisherman| mj house
and all that I have, I freely surrender to youj
but while this poor roof calls me its master,
it shall never shelter those who insult that
sacred Being, to whom I, and all that is
mine, belong."
The persons whom he addressed had too
nice a sense of propriety, to gainsay or ridi¬
cule this spirited but modest remonstrance:
they hastened to apologize for their uninten¬
tional offence; readily conceding to courtesy
what they refused to better principles.
There was one among them, a mere strip¬
ling in appearance, who seemed deeply af¬
fected by this deserved rebuke; he took the
fisherman's hard, and weather-stained hand,
between his, and pressing it with a look of
cordial admiration, warmly thanked him for
a reproof, which he said had been anticipated
by his own conscience.
This circumstance quelled the extravagant
merriment of the party, and a shade of em¬
barrassment stole over the whole company.
Supper was hurried over, and spreading their
B
14 THE FISHERMAN OF THE
cloaks upon the floor, thej hastened to re¬
pose. But the youth who had exhibited such
remarkable sensibility, instead of joining his
companions, drew his chair to the fire beside
the old Spaniard, and entered into a conver¬
sation with him, in the course of which, he
drew from him the following history of his
life.
"I was born in the Island of Cuba, where
I spent the first thirty years of my life. My
family enjoyed circumstances ol tolerable
comfort, and I was brought up to a kind of
lazy, vagabond life of indulgence, without ex¬
ertion, that would have ruined a better cha¬
racter than mine. My poor mother was a
zealous Catholic, and while I was a boy, she
constantly carried me to mass, and daily con¬
strained me to repeat a long string of prayers,
which were numbered upon her Rosary. As I
grew up, however, I broke through all these
restraints, and walked at liberty in every sin¬
ful indulgence. But it is strange how long
superstition will reign over those that spurn
at true religion. At the time of which I
speak, I verily believe, that I would soonot
SOLITARY ISLAND.
15
have parted with a right eye, or a right hand,
than the little golden crucifix, which had
hung around my neck from a child."—Here
the Spaniard drew this once valued relic from
a small purse that enclosed it, and handing it
to the young gentleman for examination, pro¬
ceeded—
(i Thus you see, I wore the cross upon my
Dreast, while the heart beneath it, was beating
high with uncrucified passions.
" My mother and father both died before I
was twenty; and ere ten more years had pass¬
ed over my head, I had wasted or spent, the
whole heritage I derived from them. I
strolled about for sometime not knowing what
to do—'too proud to dig, and to beg ashamed.'
At last the spirit of adventure seized, me; I
resolved to try a new country, and expended
all my little funds in procuring a passage in
a trading vessel. About twenty-five years
since, I was landed in your great metropolis,
with two dollars in my pocket, and scarcely
a second suit of clothes.
''You may easily guess, Sir, how it fared
with me: a stranger, scarcely possessing suf-
.16 THE FISHERMAN OF THE
ficient English to express my wants; dirty,
and slovenly in my appearance, and withal a
foreigner,—which, when accompanied by cer¬
tain appearances of meanness and poverty, is
sufficient in itself to prejudice some hasty
persons; you may suppose, therefore, that I
found little favour in the eyes of the new peo¬
ple among whom I had cast myself.
"My little store was soon spent, and I
' began to be in want.' And now for the
first time in my life, I tried seriously to ob¬
tain some employment. But there was no¬
thing in the world that I could do; and after
one or two trials, I was constantly turned off
with the comfortable assurance, that I was not
worth the salt which seasoned my food.
"You cannot conceive, Sir, the misery
which I suffered at this time: houseless, hun¬
gry, cold, and forlorn, I loitered about the
streets, which were now my home, ashamed
to be seen, yet having no place of retirement.
When evening came, how wishfully did I
look in at the windows, bright with cheerful
light, and enviously behold the happy parties
collected around the family board. Hunger
SOLITARY ISLAND.
17
had now sufficiently humbled me, and I could
willingly have acted the part of the dogs
'which eat of the crumbs which fall from
their master's table.'
"But the good God who alone witnessed
my misery, at last pitied my case and sent
'ne relief. A charitable gentleman became
interested for me; on inquiry, he found I could
fish, which had indeed been a favourite
amusement with me in iny days of plenty—■
and he gave me permission to come and live
on this island, which is his property; where,
he said, I might subsist comfortably upon the
provision which bountiful nature affords.
Like the good Samaritan, he left not his work
imperfect; he gave me my little boat and the
necessary implements for fishing, and for cul¬
tivating a small spot of ground, and also sup¬
plied me with stores for some time.
" After I had taken leave of my benefactor,
and just as I was pushing my boat from the
wharf, a gentleman dressed in black, with a
countenance singularly sweet and amiable,
stepped up to me, and presented me a Span¬
ish Bible, and one or two other small books,
b 2
18
THE FISHERMAN OF THE
in the same language, which he begged that
I would accept and read. There was some¬
thing so mild, and gracious in the manner of
the stranger, that civility constrained me to
receive the books, and thank him for them,
though they seemed of little value to me, for
I was still enough of a Catholic, to consider
the scriptures as forbidden knowledge to a
poor layman like myself. I put away the
books, therefore, and thought no more of them
for many a day.
" When I first arrived at this desolate place,
wild and lonesome as it is, I was grateful for
the food and shelter it afforded me. But this
did not last long: I soon grew weary of re¬
tirement, and felt my solitude a dismal ban¬
ishment; and to be sure, it is rather a gloomy
sort of a wilderness place, for those who have
no good thoughts to stay their minds upon—
no comfortable feelings here,—(he laid his
hand significantly upon his breast.) In the
evening when the sea-birds fly screaming over
the island, to roost in yonder woods; and the
sea sighs along the shore in that melancholy
way,—and all the croaking reptiles ot the
SOI.ITARY island®
19
morass, send up their doleful cry,'—a person
will naturally feel gloomy and uncomfortable,
unless they have better tilings to think upon.
For a long time I lived in this miserable way,
scarcely caring to make sufficient exertion to
sustain life; I slept away half the day, and
spent the greater part of the remainder, seat¬
ed on the drifted wood that lies upon the
beach, gazing vacantly out to sea.
" One rainy day when I could not leave my
hut, I chanced to see the books which had
lain so long in my chest untouched. At first
I resisted the temptation to open them, but
the very circumstance of its being a forbidden
enjoyment, probably increased my desire for
it, and at last I surmounted my scruples and
took up the Bible.
" I opened it in the Gospel of Luke, and
soon became so engaged by the new and as¬
tonishing matter which it disclosed, that I
speedily forgot every thing but the page be¬
fore me. All day long and nearly all night,
I continued to pore over it with insatiable
curiosity, and the first gray streak of dawn,
saw me with my book again held up before
20 THK FISHERMAN THE
the firelight. The same intense attention
continued until I had nearly run through the
contents of the volume; but this proceeded, I
believe, merely from the natural interest of
the subject, connected with the circumstances
in which I was placed. Still some impor¬
tant truths were fastened upon my mind, and
even this cursory perusal was not without its
advantages.
"I now turned to the other books, which
I found to contain a refutation of the princi¬
pal Romish doctrines; upon these points I
soon became satisfied, and was thus delivered
from the yoke of superstition. My under¬
standing too, was greatly enlightened, though
my heart was still a stranger to the opera¬
tions of grace. Yet in spite of my natural
apathy, my feelings were often considerably
exercised as I mused upon the awful myste¬
ries of revelation, and " fearfulness took hold
of me,' as my sins rose as a mountain before
me. I reflected too that my days were all
passing away like the waves before me in idle
chafings, that their number must soon be
spent, and ' seed-time and harvest, cold and
SOLITARY ISLAND.
21
heat, summer and winter, day and night, re¬
turn in vain for me,—and I attempted some¬
thing like a feeble prayer, that God would
i be merciful to me a sinner.' And he who
knew the best course by which to lead me to
my desired object, answered my prayer in a
way that I neither sought nor expected: in¬
stead of removing my occasional sadness, he
filled me with still deeper heaviness, until I
was ready to cry out, 4 He hath led me, and
brought me into darkness, and not into light.
He hath made my chain heavy,—He hath re¬
moved my soul far off from peace.'
" But when the bitterness of my spirit gra¬
dually subsided into the tenderness of a con¬
trite heart, when I raised that humble and
sorrowful appeal, i Behold, 0 Lord, for I am
in distress,' he comforted me with his good¬
ness, and gave me to hope that my sin, which,
had been 4 written with a pen of iron, and with
the point of a diamond,' was blotted forever
from the book of his remembrance.
"This was indeed a blessed alteration, Sir;
I became 'a new creature,' and a happy
change seemed to pass upon all the objects
£2 THE FISHERMAN OF THE
around me. While the presence of God was
here, this poor rugged island was as Eden,—
' the wilderness and the solitary place were
glad, and the desert rejoiced and blossomed
as the rose.' All my sullen indolence was
gone. I rose in the morning with a cfieerful
spirit to labour, and ate my bread with glad¬
ness of heart, and at night I laid me down to
sleep in peace, for that eye that neither slum¬
bers nor sleeps, watched over me.
"I became too, more industrious and pains¬
taking, and soon surrounded myself with
many little comforts, but these are perishing
creatures$ 4 this, thishe said, laying his
hand upon his Bible, which lay upon a little
shelf beside him, ' this, is the staff to my
steps, and the light to my eyes; my song in
the land of my pilgrimage, and I trust too,
its truths will be my unspeakable joy above.
"Many years have passed since these
things happened, and though I have not always
possessed the same degree of religious enjoy
ment, yet at all times my mind has been
stayed upon the Lord, my strength, and my
Redeemer; at all times I have felt the rock
SOLITARY ISLAND.
23
beneath my feet, even when the light shone
no longer on my head.''
As the Spaniard concluded his narrative,
the young stranger returned him many thanks
and expressions of affectionate interest? he
said too, that it grieved him to leave him in
such a miserable place, and hinted that if he
could make up his mind to a change, he had
both the inclination and the power to place
him in a more comfortable situation. The
tear moistened the eye of the hardy fisher¬
man on this overture of kindness, and his
thanks were expressed humbly and heartilyj
but he said, he believed it was better that lie
should remain wher^ he was; he had grown
old in this situation, and he did not think he
would ever feel satisfied away from it. Be¬
sides, he modestly added, he believed that his
opportunities of usefulness to his fellow-crea¬
tures were greater here, than they could be
elsewhere.
The waters about the island were danger¬
ous, and he was often enabled to lend a help¬
ing hand to the distressed. "And you are
mistaken, dear Sir," he concluded, "in
24 THE FISHERMAN OF THE
thinking me so badly off. I have every com
fort that heart could wish, and for company,
here is my poor dog Carlos constantly at my
side; and when I see his shaggy face turned
up to me, and the dumb eloquence of love in
his eyes, I cannot but admire and bless that
goodness which has condescended to our low
estate in so many ways: I had, indeed, one
strong objection to remaining here, but that is
now happily removed: it grieved me to spend
all my Sabbaths alone5 to know nothing of the
communion of saints; of the beauty of the
Lord in the Sanctuary, but a church is now
building just across the water, where I shall
have regular opportunities of worship, and
then indeed my cup of blessings will be full."
The next morning was clear and pleasant,
and the bright sunshine shed cheerful beauty,
even over the desolate face of Ragged Key.
The youthful party were soon prepared for
departure, and after taking a kind farewell
of their host, they launched once more upon
the treacherous deep. The old Spaniard
stood upon the beach waving his adieus with
his hat, and gazing after the boat, until the
SOLITARY ISLAND.
25
swelling billows hid it from his view; then
turning calmly to his hut, he lifted up his
thoughts to that friend from whom " neither
height nor depth, nor any other creature can
separate" those who love him.
27
SCENES IN GEORGIA.
THE NEGRO NURSE.
" If the Son therefore shall make you free, you .shall be free
indeed."
Within a few miles of , is situated
a handsome country seat, the! property of a
wealthy planter. Its white walls look plea¬
santly through the green shade which encir¬
cles them, and the "richest verdure, carpets the
beautiful level extending before it. Fair
Lawn, as it was aptly named by its proprie¬
tor, was long his delight and pride, until it
became the grave of two lovely boys, his eld¬
est children. From that time melancholy
associations embittered all the satisfaction he
had derived from this favourite spot; he be¬
came restless and unhappy, and finally re-
£8
THE NEGRO NURSE.
moved with his wife and a delicate infant of
three years old, his sole surviving child, to
the neighbouring city, paying only occasional
visits to his former residence.
But Fair Lawn, though deserted by its pos¬
sessors, must still continue the scene of our
story. A little detached from the family
mansion, and only screened from it by a
slight thicket, stands an humble negro cabin.
The slender wreath of smoke which daily as¬
cends from its low roof, may be constantly
observed from the parlour windowj and the
bright shining of its evening fire, forms a
cheerful object from the same situation: yet
few, if any of the elegant visiters at Fair
Lawn, ever deign to bestow a single thought
or inquiry, concerning its lowly tenant. But
to the feeling heart, " the short and simple an¬
nals of the poor," are never destitute of inte¬
rest, and from such, even our humble " Negro
Nurse," may claim some attention.
Old Chloe—but why should I describe her
—she forms a member of almost every domes¬
tic establishment of the south, and few of
my young readers, but are acquainted with an
THE NEGRO NURSE.
29
" Old Chloe." She is a little, brisk old wo¬
man, with the wrinkles and gray hairs of
sixty, combined with all the lively alertness
of twenty-one. Her sawed teeth, and curi¬
ously branded cheek, bespeak her a native of
Africa; but her easy and contented demeanor,
shows that she has long since forgottep the
land of her freedom, and found in the " white
man's country," along with toil and privation,
those good lenitives which our kind Father
in Heaven has prepared for the heavy laden.
Her sleep is sound and peaceful; no anxious
care dissolves the g'olden bands of slumber,
nor disquiet the midnight hour, too often the
lot of envied freedom!—her homely fare is
pleasant to her accustomed taste, and never
did the rich man's "purple and fine linen,"
appear more goodly in his eyes, than Chloe's
holiday suit in her's: the coat of shining stuff,
the checked apron; and neatly folded around
her head the bright red handkerchief, con¬
trasting the polished blackness of her skin,
all impart that matronly decency of appear¬
ance, so remarkable in well dressed elderly
negroes.
o 2
so
THE NEGRO NURSE.
Thus forty years had passed since this poor
African first sojourned in a christian country;
none had yet said to her "Know the Lord."
Every Sabbath she listened to the distant
sound of "the church going bell," calling
" the great congregation to the house of God;"
but she heeded it not. -No "holy time"
'came to her—no sacred feeling hallowed the
day of rest; the distant stroll, or busy traffic,
formed its peculiar pleasures; and, within the
borders of light, she still continued to " sit in
the region of the shadow of death."
Such was the state of " Old Chloe," when
she received the welcome news, that her mas¬
ter's family, who had been absent for nearly
four years, were about to return for a few
months to their former residence. To Chloe
this intelligence was particularly interesting;
she had acted as an occasional nurse to his
infant daughter, and in this way had contract¬
ed that strong attachment for her, so often
exhibited by those who serve in this capacity.
Those who have never witnessed it, can
scarcely conceive the affecting tenderness dis
played by the negro nurse to her little charge.
THE NEGRO NUBSE
31
It seems even to exceed the force of natural
affection for her own offspring, combining
strong maternal love with the enthusiastic de-
votedness of loyalty. She considers her mas¬
ter's child as a superior being, and receives,
with overflowing gratitude, the fond endear¬
ments of infantine affection: hence no fatigue
can tire, and no waywardness provoke her;
her patient offices of cherishing kindness,
know no suspension, and perhaps a more in¬
teresting picture is seldom seen, than that
which was often exhibited by old Chloe with
her little nursling; its fair face fondly pillowed
on her faithful bosom, contrasting the sable,
but loving countenance, which bent above it,
while
" Sweetly folded in her arms,
The careless baby slept."
Nor was the little Frances unmindful of
all this tenderness; before she could speak
she would stretch out her arms whenever her
nurse appeared; and as she grew a little older,
her fondness for the poor slave was displayed
with all the innocent simplicity and passion
THE NEGRO NURSE.
ate fervour of childhood. Her lap was the
loved asylum in every trouble, and all her
little griefs were poured into her sympathising
bosom; no voice but her's could sing the even¬
ing lullaby; and no hand but her's guide her
faltering steps.
Nor did absence diminish their mutual af
fection. Every opportunity from Fair Lawn,
conveyed to Frances a little present of eggs
and ground nuts; or a melon that Chloe had
raised in her own patch, or a basket of peaches
from her tree: and many a gay coloured
handkerchief, and gaudy calico were returned.
Such being her attachment to the little girl,
it may be supposed that Chloe hailed her re¬
turn with delight. The day appointed for it,
she posted herself at one of the upper win¬
dows which overlooked the road, and strained
her dim eyes for many an hour to discover
the expected carriage. At last she heard the
distant rattle of its wheels, and saw its bright
pannels flashing in the sun; in a moment she
was down the stairs, and standing at the gate
to receive them. But when the carriage door
was opened, and she saw, instead of the little
THE NEGRO NURSE.
S3
child she had parted with, a tall girl of eight
or nine years old, dressed according to the
fashion of the city, she felt confused by the
change, and afraid to approach her with hei
wonted familiarity: but Frances saw no alter¬
ation in her dear nurse, and her affectionate
manner soon dissipated her reserve. She
soon ventured to stroke back the glossy ring¬
lets from her foreheadto finger her ribbons,
and admire the sparkling buckles in her shoes?
in short, to take all those affectionate liber¬
ties to which her privileged character enti¬
tled her.
I pass over her repeated visits to her young
mistress, and all thp kindnesses exhanged be¬
tween them, to relate a circumstance which
led to important consequences.
One Sabbath afternoon, Frances obtained
her mother's permission to go and see her
nurse, wh<j> had been unwell for several days.
On her return, her mother observing that the
little girl wore an expression of uncommon
thoughtfulness and concern, immediately in¬
quired if her nurse was ill,—" No, she was
better." Still she continued leaning on the
54
THE NEGRO NURSE.
back of her mother's chair, and hanging abou1
her as though she had something to say, whicb
she hesitated to speak. At last her mother
laid down her book, and kindly drawing hei
towards her, inquired what was the matter.
"'Mamma," she replied with emotion, "1
found nurse platting straw and sewing it to¬
gether to make a basket; but indeed she did
not think it was wrong; she said she did not
know there was any harm in doing it. And
what do you think mamma, though nurse is
so old, she does not-eveo know 'Our Father,
who art in Heaven,' nor the Catechism, nor
any thing at all that is good."
Mrs. Uidgely sighed, buf: did not immedi¬
ately reply. She had never experienced the
power of religion herself, until after the death
of her little boys. From that time she had
been so little at Fair Lawn, that she had no
opportunity of fulfilling her religious duties to
the slaves at that place. But Frances had
been most carefully and strictly instructed,
and she was pleased to witness her pious sen¬
sibility upon the subject; she accordingly ob¬
served "If Chloe were my nurse Frances, I
TlIE NEGKO NURSE.
35
think I would try to teach her all the good
things I knew."
"Q may I, mamma," she exclaimed, spring
ing up with eager animation, " I will go this
minute."
Mrs. Ridgely gently detaining her, suggest
ed that it was late, and she unaccustomed to
exposure; that the morrow, when her nurse
came to visit her, would be a better opportu¬
nity. Frances reluctantly complied, and the
whole evening was spent in receiving direc¬
tions from her mother how to proceed in her
instructions to Chloe. That lady thought it
best that Frances should communicate in her
own simple language, what she knew of the
principal christian doctrines, and afterwards
read to her such selections from scripture as
she should point out; such a course she thought
more likely to engage her attention, than any
formal system of questions and answers.
The next morning Frances was up before
the sun, it seemed to her very long before
breakfast was over, and still longer afterwards
before Chloe appeared. Every minute she
was at the window, or upon the steps, look'
36
THK NEGRO NURSE.
ing up the narrow pathway, which led towards
her house: at last she espied her entering the
gate, and running up into the nursery, she
seated herself, and tried to compose her
thoughts, and recall all that she had intended
to say. It was not long before she heard the
old woman's voice below inquiring for her, and
soon afterwards her quick step ascending the
stairs.
I will not repeat the conversation which
passed between Frances and her nurse, be¬
cause the subject is probably familiar to my
little readers, though it was perfectly new to
Chloe.
At first she listened to Frances with some
appearance of interest, but this soon ceased:
she became restless, yawned, looked about
her, and at last starting up in the midst of an
interesting communication, declared that she
could stay no longer, she must attend to her
business.
Poor Frances was sorely distressed at this
termination of an interview she had antici¬
pated with so much eagernessand when her
mother ealled her to inquire about it, she
THE NEGRO NURSE.
37
blusned deeply, and the tears gushing into
her eyes, was constrained to confess, that
''Nurse did not seem to mind any thing she
said " Her mother wiped her tears away
and said, "You must not be so easily dis¬
couraged my love; the Son of God, who 4 spake
as never man spake,' often found among his
hearers, those who having ears, heard not,
and having understandings did not perceive.
You must learn to imitate his long suffering
and persevering charity, which no careless¬
ness nor stupidity, could exhaust. Your
nurse will not attend to you now, perhaps at
some future time she maybe better disposed."
Several days passed before Chloe renewed
her visits, and it was so evident to Mrs.
Ridgely, that her little daughter's attempts to
instruct the old woman, were disagreeable to
her, that she cautioned her against pressing
the subject at present, lest she should produce
an unconquerable disgust to it.
But Providence soon opened a way for the
renewal of the pious exertions of Frances.
Old Chloe fell sick, and for nearly a week
appeared to be hastening to that place, where
S8 THE NEGRO NURSE.
there is neither "device, nor knowledge, noi
wisdom." And now her stupid apathy t«
eternal things disappeared. Revelation had
never opened to her its awful mysteries; she
- did not know that we must all stand before
the judgment seat of Christ, and account foi
the deeds done in the body,—but there was a
troubled consciousness of guilt about her
heart, a sad misgiving of coming vengeance.
Her untutored mind, indeed, could form no
definite conception of that dreaded future,
but, "a horror of great darkness'? rested on
it, and gloomy confusion swallowed up the
: faint glimmerings of natural light. She felt
the woful evil of her condition, but none had
taught her its remedy; none had pointed her
"to that "strong tower," into which she might
flee and be safe."
Mrs. Ridgely and Frances were much with
lier during her illness; indeed all the medi¬
cine and nourishment which she receive^!,
ivere ministered to her by the affectionate
child; but while her disease continued to
«rage, it seemed an inconvenient season to in¬
troduce a subject, on which it was necessary
THE NEGRO NURSE.
39
to teach, her so much, before she could receive
any beneficial communication.
One afternoon, however, when she was con¬
siderably relieved, Frances observing the
tears in her ejes, said to her, "dear mammy,
what hurts you? What's the matter?"
" O Miss Frances," replied the poor crea¬
ture, in her broken speech, " me don't know
what ails me—me heart so heavy—me heart
so trouble—me fear to die."
"The great God," replied the little girl,
"is very angry with the wicked, yet he is
good; and if the sinner forsake his way, and
cry earnestly to him for mercy, he will for
Christ's sake pardon him, and receive him as
a dear child."
" Who is Christ?"
" Jesus Christ," she answered in that low,
reverent tone, which showed, that that vener-
ble name was never lightly taken upon her
lips, "Jesus Christ is the Son of the Most
High; he sits on his right hand, far, far above
the skies, yet he is near to every one of us,
and can hear the softest sigh that we breathej
the lowest prayer that we whisper."
40
THE NEGRO NURSE.
After a few minutes pause, she went on.
" Before this worlcl was made, God our Fa¬
ther and Creator, knowing that men would
become very wicked, and that unless he found
a Saviour for them, they must at last go down
into that dark and miserable place,, where evil
spirits dwell; being sorry for us poor, helpless
sinners, determined that his own Son, whom he
loved, should suffer and die for us; so that
those who should believe on him, might have
everlasting life. "And now dear mammy,"
continued she, eagerly turning over the leaves
of the Bible she held in her hand, "see how
willing the Son of God was to take our sor¬
rows on him:" she read, "Then said I, Lo I
come; in the volume of the book it is written
of me, I delight to do thy will, O God."
" Many hundred of years after the world
was made, when men were very wicked,
Jesus who was rich in glory, for heaven was
his throne, and this earth his footstool, for our
sakes became poor. He was born of an hum¬
ble woman, lived a poor and sorrowful life,
and at last, died the ' cruel death of the
cross.' But after three days," continued
THE NEGRO NUKSE.
41
the pious child, her face lighting up with holy
rapture, "after three days he rose from the
grave; and when he had shown himself alive
to his friends, and comforted their sorrowful
hearts, he was carried up into heaven in a
bright cloud. And now, the apostle says,
'he ever liveth to make intercession for us.'
When we cry to him for help, he prays the
Father for us, and we are pardoned, and the
Holy Spirit sen^; down into our hearts, to
make us good; and besides all this, he has
given us this book to teach us how we may
please him."
The old woman listened with breathless
eagerness to Frances's simple relation of di¬
vine mysteries, and when she concluded,
earnestly asked, " But how do you know all
this, Miss Frances?"
In reply Frances read to her many passages
which her mother had marked in her Bible,
adding her own simple commentary as she
went on.
A part of the next day, and of many suc¬
ceeding days, were spent in the same way,
until Chloe was so far recovered, as to be able
d 2
42
THE NEGRO NURSE.
to visit Frances in the nursery, whither she
now regularly resorted for instruction.
It was not very long before Mrs. Ridgely
saw reason to hope, that her poor slave had
received that freedom which cometh down
from above, and walked in the liberty and
light of the gospel. It is impossible to de¬
scribe the joy and solid satisfaction which
Frances derived from this circumstance; her
little heart beat with delight and holy thank¬
fulness, whenever she beheld her humble
friend; nor did she who thus found in her fos¬
ter child, a spiritual mother, exercise less fer¬
vent and grateful emotions: the name of
Frances mingled with every prayer which she
offered, and dwelt upon her lips in many a
simple but ardent expression of thankfulness.
In such blessed occupations, the months
and years glided peacefully over the happy
family at Fair Lawn.
43
SCENES IN GEORGIA.
THE TWO COUSINS;
or,
THE EXAMPLE AND THE WARNING.
" Say ye to the righteous, it shall be well with them, for they
shall eat the fruit of their doings." "Wo unto the wicked! itshall
be ill with him, for the reward of his hands shall be given him."
CHAPTER I.
Little Alice and Annette were cousins.
They lived in a small sea-port town, and their
mothers' houses were separated only by a
narrow street; hence the children were con¬
stantly together, and there grew such an af¬
fection from this early intimacy, as made
these little girls very interesting to all who
knew them. The neighbours often noticed
it, and even strangers would stop to admire
44
THE TWO COUSINS.
the beautiful picture which they presented of
sisterly fondness, as they were frequently
seen, straying hand in hand along the sea
beach, searching for shells: the print of their
small foot-steps in the soft sand, might often
be traced to the very edge of the water, but
no danger was apprehended for themj the
tentler carefulness of Annette, the eldest,
always interposing to restrain them from im¬
proper hazards.
Their parents delighted to encourage these
sentiments in their children. Alice was per¬
mitted to watch for Annette, the most for¬
ward peach on her mother's tree, from the
first faint tinge of pink, until its velvet down
grew rich with crimson ripeness; and in like
manner, Annette was always reminded to
share with her little cousin, all the good
things which her father's fondness lavished on
her.
It was the spring-time of life with them
nowj the sun never rose or set upon lighter
hearts: for placed in a station of lowly com¬
fort, their time was left pretty much at theii
own disposal, provided they accomplished their
THE TWO COUSINS.
45
little tasks, and observed the stated hours for
meals. They might usually be seen, seated
under the shade of an old mulberry, which
grew upon the borders of the green village
common, enjoying their mimic feast of wild
fruit and gingerbread, served up on acorn
cups, and shining bits of broken china. Here
they would continue, until the meridian sun
warned them that " dinner time was come,"
then with loitering steps they turned home¬
wards ; but if the large spring butterfly with
its bright yellow wings, chanced to cross their
path, they were soon diverted from their
course, and the eager chase commenced
across field and thicket, to gain nothing at
last, but the traces of its golden dust upon
their fingers, as the reward of their wearisome
pursuit.
Such was the happy childhood of Alice and
Annette. Their mothers were sisters by
birth, but not in character. The mother of
Alice had ''remembered her creator in the
days of her youth," walking in all the ways
of his commandments with humble and affec¬
tionate diligence; and she had felt it her de-
46
THE TWO COUSINS.
light, as well as her duty to allure her child
after her, in the same course. Often was the
rosy face of Alice wet with her tears, as she
offered fervent aspirations over the sleeping
babe; and as her infant mind advanced, that
" fear of the Lord which is the beginning of
wisdom," was constantly instilled into it, so
that a tender awe inspired her youthful spirit;
preserving her from those immoralities, which
are so common in childhood, and leading her
gently forward to the knowledge of more ex¬
cellent things.
But the lot of Annette was not so happy;
her mother was one of those careless women
who live at ease, "without God and without
hope in the world."
" What shall I eat, and what shall I drink,
and wherewithal shall I be clothed?" were
the busy and restless thoughts constantly re¬
volving in her mind; and though she often
went to church, and sometimes read her
Bible, yet it was evident that the bustling
activity of her profession, with occasional
pastime, shut out all serious thoughts, and
there was no room for God in a heart which
THE TWO COUSINS.
47
was filled with "the cares and pleasures of
this life." Besides this, as is too common
with those who have " no fear of God before
their eyes," her sense of morality was not
very strict. She was violent against gross
offenders, but "sinning in the small way,"
did not, in the least, disturb her conscience.
She kept a little confectionary, and Annette
was often desired to tell the customers that
cakes, which had been in the shop for more
than a week, were " quite fresh;" and she
well recollected, that on a certain occasion,
when her mother, through the mistake of a
child, received twenty-five cents instead of
twelve and a half, she had observed, that if
it had been a dollar she would have returned
it, but that there was no harm in a little
cheating. But "he that is unjust in the least,
is unjust also in much." 1
Thus poor little Annette was early trained
to sinj yet her , amiable and affectionate tem¬
per, recommended her to all her friends, and
she generally passed for a very good child;
but her loose and unprincipled education was
48
THE TWO COUSINS.
secretly at work, and its operation might be
traced in many a characteristic action.
When Annette was about nine years of
age, and Alice seven, a very excellent young
lady took charge of the village school. Both
of the children'were sent to her, and Miss
Sydney soon became attached, by the intelli¬
gence and sweet behaviour of her little scho¬
lars. It happened that their way to school
led them by an elegant garden, and the chil¬
dren often stopped to admire the bright
flowers and dark evergreens, with which it
was adorned.
One pleasant morning, as they stood as
usual, gazing on this brilliant scene, their at¬
tention was attracted by a very beautiful and
uncommon rose bush, which had been trained
along the garden rail, and now hung in rich
and tempting clusters of the brightest carna¬
tion. As they stood enchanted with its
beauty, the morning breeze bore its delicious
perfume by them, and Annette standing upon
tiptoe, stretched her hand up to one of the
lowest flowers, and said, " See, Alice, I can
reach it."
THE TWO COUSINS.
49
"0 do not touch it cousin," replied the
frightened Alice.
" Why, what harm is there in taking a
flower," answered Annette, at the same time
breaking oft' one of the lowest branches. At
this moment they heard some one speak in
the garden, and both the terrified children
ran away as quickly as possible.
Annette was now heartily sorry that she
had taken the roses, for though she was not
ashamed to do what was wrong, the thought
of detection alarmed her very much. How¬
ever, when they had reached some distance,
and she found that they were not pursued,
she dismissed her fears, and began to enjoy
her prize. Not so, Alice. With a heavy
heart and dejected countenance, she entered
the school room, and instead of joining as
usual, in the sports of her companions, seated
herself sorrowfully at her desk.
The little girls all crowded around Annette.
" 0, what beautiful roses! where did you
get them Annette?"
"In my mother's garden," replied the
ready inventor.
50
THE TWO COUSINS.
«Why, I did not know that your mothe»
had any garden."
" 0 yes, she has a rose bush."
" What will you do with them, Annette?"
" I shall give them to Miss Sydney." Ac
cordingly, soon after Miss Sydney appeared,
and the little laughing, chattering throng dis
persed to their seats, and the buz of study
succeeded the noise of play. As soon as she
was seated, Annette presented her flowers,,
and received an affectionate-smile in reward.
The rare beauty of the roses, induced Miss
Sydney to make the same inquiries, which
Annette had before received from the little
girls, and with great confidence, she made the
same replies.
Who now so happy and triumphant as
Annette? She cast an exulting glance to¬
wards the downcast Alice, and proceeded
with alacrity to her lessons.
But her satisfaction was of short continu¬
ance, for very soon they heard a tap at the
door, and when it was opened, the gentleman,
whose garden she had robbed, appeared.
The two girls were standing up ta read,
THE TWO COUSINS.
51
when he entered, and the consternation
painted in their countenances, could not es¬
cape the observation of their instructress.
The gentleman took Miss Sydney apart, and
after a short conversation withdrew; but it
was some minutes before Miss Sydney re¬
turned to them, and when she did, there was
an expression of concern and perplexity in
her countenance, which greatly increased the
alarm of the little offender. Taking the Tes¬
tament from them, she turned to the chapter
containing the history of Ananias and Sapphi-
ra, and desired them to read it. When they
had finished the lesson, she took the book
from Alice, who had read the last verse, and
fixing a scrutinizing glance upon her, inquired
what she thought of this history.
" 'Tis very dreadful, very awful ma'am,"
stammered the distressed child, who now felt,
by the coldness and severity of her manner,
that Miss Sydney included her in the offence
of her cousin.
44 It is indeed an awful warning," replied
Miss Sydney," and against what sins is it par¬
ticularly directed?"
52
THE TWO COUSINS.
Alice's face was now nidden in her apron,
but she murmured out, " against lying."
" Against falsehood, and the unrighteous
taking of that which does not belong to us.
And how do you feel Alice, when you read
this awful account of the wrathful judgments
of God? Do you remember that the command¬
ments of the Lord are very broad, that they
reach even to the thoughts and desires of the
heart?
" It is impossible that you should have sinned
in the same degree with Ananias and Sapphi-
raj but say, did you never wrong the property
of another, even in trifles ? Did you never
take even a flower, to which you had no right?"
Poor Alice was sobbing ready to break her
little heart, during this address, but when
Miss Sydney made this direct allusion, the
consciousness of her innocence armed her
with courage, and wiping away her tears, she
looked up with a serene countenance, and
said mildly, but steadily, " No ma'am, I
never did."
There was something in her manner thai
removed, at once, the suspicions of Miss Syd
the two cousins.
53
ney; she held out her hand, and kindly drew
the little girl to her, saying " I hope and be¬
lieve that you never did. Eut you, Annette,
what shall I say to you? of your guilt there is
no doubt, and I fear that your tears, flow
rather from shame and fear, than repentance."
Miss Sydney continued to speak to Annette
for some time; she told her that the property
of others, ought to be sacred in our sight; that
if we allow ourselves to tamper with this feel¬
ing in trifles, we shall gradually grow bold in
sin, and sink deeper and deeper into corrup¬
tion. She also taught her, that the God of
truth, looks with deep indignation on the false¬
hearted, whose " lying lips" are an abomina¬
tion to him: and though his wrath may not
always flame out against them in this world,
yet, "whosoever loveth and maketh a lie,"
shall most surely be shut out forever, from his
presence.
The offence of Annette had been public,
Miss Sydney judged it proper, therefore, to
make her punishment so: she caused a seat
to be placed for her apart from the other
children, and forbade her holding the least
e 2
54
THE TWO COUSINS.
communication with them during the follow¬
ing week. The spirit of Annette revolted at
this disgrace—the whole day was consumed in
passionate crying and sobbing, and when she
returned home, she relieved her mortification
and distress, by the most violent expressions
of resentment against her teacher. It may
be readily supposed, that her mother's loose
notions of morality prepared her to view the
conduct of Miss Sydney as over-rigorous.
Her daughter's disgrace, irritated her natu¬
rally violent temper, and in the heat of ex¬
citement, she sent, an insolent and threatening
message to Miss Sydney, which produced the
immediate dismission of Annette from her
school. This unhappy step sealed the ruin
of Annette; she was thus withdrawn from the
salutary influence of Miss Sydney's instruc¬
tions, and left to mould her character by the
evil example of her mother. Added to this,
there were peculiar temptations in the circum¬
stances in which she was now placed; for her
mother finding her useful in her shop, de¬
volved almost the whole care of it upon her.
At first a handful of raisins, or one or two
THE TWO COUSINS.
55
sugar plums, formed the extent of her theftsj
but gradually enlarging her desires, she in¬
creased her guilt, seldom failing to gratify
them by some unlawful indulgence. So that
the little girl at the confectionary, became
noted through the whole town, for falsehood
and dishonesty.
But let us turn for a time from this melan¬
choly picture of youthful depravity, to trace
the gradual and beautiful development of bet¬
ter principles in the happier Alice. Alice
was not faultless. By nature, she, as all
others, was a child of wrath: but wholesome
instructions, and good habits had greatly re¬
strained this natural evil; and we may hum¬
bly conclude, that that Holy Spirit, whose
assistance her infant lips had daily asked with
reverent feeling, (even before she fully un¬
derstood the meaning of her own words,) was
well pleased with this early sacrifice; and ac¬
cording to the simple language of her petition,
gave her " a new heart, and taught her to love
God, and all the world."
But while I describe Alice as a religious
child, my little readers must not suppose that
56
THE TWO COUSINS.
she was melancholy, moping, and dejected.
These are not the "peaceable fruits of righ¬
teousness;" on the contrary, no step upon the
village green, was lighter, or more joyous
than hers; and among the rosy, laughing faces,
which mustered there at evening play, none
shone with more heartfelt gladness and con¬
tentment. Yet she had her seasons of serious
and solemn feeling. When the rising sun
shot his crimson beams, through the white
curtain, which shaded the window of her lit¬
tle room, Alice arose from her peaceful pil¬
low, which prayer had consecrated; and while
dressing, she composed her thoughts to se¬
riousness, by repeating little prayers, taught
her for the purpose, by her mother. '' I laid
me down and slept," the pious child would
say, " and rose up again, for the Lord sus¬
tained me." "My voice shalt thou hear in
the morning, O Lord; in the morning will
I direct my prayer to thee, and will look
up."
Then reaching down her Bible, from its
little nook upon her shelf of books, she read
with reverent attention, a certain portion ap-
THE TWO COUSINS.
67
pointed by her mother. And who can tell,
how often a heavenly light, has beamed from
the sacred page, upon its lowly student; or
how the simple child went forth from these
lonely readings, with a mind more deeply
enriched with that knowledge which " maketh
wise unto salvation," than attends the labo¬
rious researches, and careful investigations of
the mere scholastic reader?
It was thus that Ali£e was prepared for her
morning devotions; but it must not be sup¬
posed, that being " fervent in spirit," she was
therefore " slothful in business"—by no
means. Through all her duties ran the spirit
which is breathed in an excellent precept,
often addressed to her by her mother: "What¬
soever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy
might, for there is no work, nor device, nor
knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither
thou goest;" and, she would sometimes add,
with affecting emphasis, "Whither thou goes t.
my Alice, most certainly, and perhaps soonei
than you now expect; for your golden ring
lets may find their place in the dust, even be
fore these silver hairs."
58
THE TWO COUSINS.
Thus habitually familiar with the idea of
death, Alice learned to contemplate it with
serious composure, always accompanied with
a solemn awe; and if these thoughts some¬
times chastened the extravagance of youthful
spirits, they did not in the main lessen her
cheerfulness, for that was founded upon the
u answer of a good conscience towards God."
In church, Alice was always quiet and at¬
tentive, for though she could not understand
the whole sermon, she seldom failed to find
something that was level with her capacity:
and the instruction which she gleaned in this
way, was not small or unimportant. And
when their aged pastor called the children
around him to catechise them, her correct and
feeling replies, always attracted his particu¬
lar attention; his countenance softening into
complacent approbation whenever she spoke,
and he seldom passed her without laying his
hand upon her head in affectionate benedic¬
tion.
But the "ways of wisdom are*ways of
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace."
The serene and happy days of Alice, glided
THE TWO COUSINS.
59
swiftly away, and the child was fast chang¬
ing into the woman. Her light curled hair,
was shading into deeper brown, and she was
rapidly increasing both in stature and wisdom.
Childhood's careless sports, and simple de¬
lights were gone, but in their place, came the
substantial satisfaction of growing: knowledge,
O © O 7
and active usefulness. She was no longer
the little, fearful child, holding by her mother's
gown, as she walked beside her to church,
but the tall maiden, whose arm sustained the
feeble steps of her declining parent. In like
manner every toil was lightened, and every
infirmity softened, by her industrious care,
and soothing attention.
When Alice had reached her fourteenth
year, her excellent friend and instructress,
was seized with a lingering illness, which
terminated in her death. During the weari¬
some months which were appointed her, the
grateful girl was her constant and indefatiga¬
ble attendant; every moment which could be
spared from her necessary business at home,
was spent in Miss Sydney's sick room; and
many a lesson of meek endurance did she re
60
THE TWO COUSINS.
ceive, whilst ministering to the patient suf¬
ferer. Her conversation too, was peculiarly
instructive and useful to her young friend}
and often did Alice in after life, recall those
wise and affectionate counsels, which had
proved to her indeed more precious than
rubies.
One dull rainy September evening, she was
detained later than usual with Miss Sydney.
As she was lying very still and apparently
asleep, Alice drew the curtains around her
bed, and placing herself by one of the win¬
dows, she sat watching the rain as it pattered
against the glass, with a countenance which
showed that her thoughts were much, and se¬
riously engaged. After a little, she turned,
and discovered that Miss Sydney had with¬
drawn the curtain, and was looking very in¬
tently at her.
" I should like to know what you are think¬
ing of, my dear Alice, with such an appear¬
ance of emotion," she inquired.
Alice blushed, and drawing her chair near
the bed, replied, 41 was thinking of an obser¬
vation that you made this morning ma'am.
THE TWO COUSINS.
61
I understood you, that we might observe
many things that the Bible commands; might
pray often, read the scriptures, go to church,
give alms, and do many other excellent things,
and yet fall short of salvation. 0 my dear
Miss Sydney, I know that I shall never be
perfect, and this makes me very uneasy.'5
Misk Sydney. My good girl, I find, that
rou do not exactly understand this matter,
and if you can stay with me a little longer,
we will converse further about it. You are
acquainted with the history of our first pa¬
rents, how they fell from their happy estate,
and by their transgressions brought the righ¬
teous displeasure of God upon themselves and
all their posterity, so that we are all by nature
children of wrath; but there is a way in which
we may escape God's righteous indignation
and enjoy his favour.
Miss Sydney paused, and after a moment's
hesitation Alice timidly replied, "God so
loved the world, that he gave his only begot¬
ten Son, that whosoever believeth on him,
should not perish, but have everlasting life,"
Miss Sydney. Most true: and can we sup¬
s'
THE TWO COUSINS.
pose my dear child, that the God of infinite
love, would have given up the Son of his bo¬
som, to a life of wearisome wanderings, and
distressing persecutions, to taste at length
the bitterness of death, with peculiar aggrava¬
tions, if it had been possible for him in any
other way, to receive us into happiness? If
tears, and prayers, and deeds of ours, could
purchase peace with God, and reconcile our
offended Creator, the sorrows of Christ had
never been: the crown of thorns had never
pressed his sacred temples, nor unspeakable
anguish, wrung from him that mournful com¬
plaint, " My soul is exceeding sorrowful,
even unto death."
Alice. 0 no, Miss Sydney, I never meant
that—I never thought that. I only supposed
that a real christian must be very, very good.
Miss Sydney. I would have you Alice, in
the first place, fully establish this truth in
your mind, that christians are not saved by
their own goodnessj but simply, because they
believe on the Son of God. You remember
that when the Jews inquired of Christ,
" What shall we do. that we may work the
THE TWO COUSINS.
63
works of God?" he replied, " This is the
work of God, that you believe on him whom
he hath sent." "By his stripes we are
healed," and if we shall see the face of God
in comfort, it is because "the chastisement
of our peace was laid on him." Do you un¬
derstand this?
Mice. I believe I do: " He hath borne our
sins in his own body on the tree," that " God
might.be just, and the justifier of him which
believeth in Jesus."
Miss Sydney. Let us return to the remark
which drew on this conversation. You fear
that you will never be perfect, my dear Alice,
I know, that you will never be all you wish,
until you have joined that blessed company
in whose hands are the palms of victory, and
whose robes are the white and spotless gar¬
ments of immortal righteousness. Yet be not
discouraged, the promises of God are full of
cheering. " Him that cometh to me," says
the Redeemer, " I will in no wise cast out;"
and he delights to describe himself, as that
good shepherd, who bears the young and fee¬
ble lambs of his flock in his own bosom, and
64
THE TWO COUSINS.
who far from despising their weakness, che¬
rishes them with the more abundant love and
carefulness. But remember, mj dear child,
these blessed comforts of religion, belong only
to those who are earnestly and sincerely
striving after holiness^ if we love Christ we
will keep his commandments, and if we would
dwell with God hereafter, we must walk with
him here, for no unholy thing shall enter the
gates of that heavenly city, which is the
dwelling of him who is of purer eyes than to
behold iniquity.
Miss Sydney was now so much fatigued
witli speaking, that Alice begged her to say
no more at present^ and after taking an affec¬
tionate leave, she returned home " to ponder
these sayings, and lay them up in her heart."
The next day was still more rainy and un¬
comfortable, and Alice was constrained to
forego her usual visit to her friend. But
though deprived of this opportunity of im¬
provement, and alone in her quiet chamber,
she found it good " to commune with her own
heart, and be still."
One subject fdled her anxious thoughts.
THE TWO COUSINS.
65
" Did she indeed believe?" was her's the
blessedness of that man " whose sin is cover¬
ed, to whom the Lord imputeth not iniquity?"
Many difficulties occurred to embarrass her.
She did not fully understand what believing
meant; it was still less easy to know her own
deceitful heart; and young and timid, she dis¬
trusted herself, and feared that she was at¬
tempting things too high for her.
But He who guides the helpless sparrow
through the air, will never abandon to hope¬
less and bewildering doubts, that lowly and
tender spirit, whicli " trembleth at his word,"
and whose asking eyes are towards the habi¬
tation of his mercy. Such he will satisfy
early with his goodness; and Alice, perplexed
and disquieted, was yet not utterly cast
down. Doubtful and uncertain of other
things, she could say, with the affecting earn¬
estness of the heart-stricken Peter, "Lord,
thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I
love thee." The actings of our own spirits
are often mysterious to us; but this was a
simple feeling, and she clung to it with the
placid assurance that it had come down to
f 2
66
THE TWO COUSINS.
her from above. The history and imagery
of scripture, were perfectly familiar to her,
and now she called to mind all the loving
tenderness of the Redeemer, while he sojourn¬
ed among men. She remembered that when
the sinful Mary, kneeled at his feet, washing
them with tears, and " did wipe them with
the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet,"
her mournful caresses were more precious to
the Saviour, than all the Pharisee's stately
hospitality, because she loved much. It was
recorded too, that Jesus loved the family of
Bethany, and Alice thought she could per¬
ceive the reason; for Mary sat at his feet, and
heard his words with delight and devotion;
and Martha, full of affectionate zeal for his
comfort, ministered unto him. Above all,
she dwelt upon that direct promise: " Them
that love me, I will love, and those that seek
me early shall find me."
In musings such as these, the heart of
Alice was comforted with that "peace which
passeth understanding." With meek confi¬
dence, and ineffable tenderness, she could
now look up to him that seeth in secret,
THE TWO COUSINS.
67
and say, " Abba, Father," " Whom have 1
in heaven but thee, and there is none upon
earth that I desire besides thee."
But the affections of Alice were not ex¬
hausted in tears, and sighs, and glowing feel
ings. Ardent in all these things, she yet re¬
flected that such are not the only fruits of
love. It was not permitted her, like Martha,
to receive that weary pilgrim, who " had not
where to lay his head;" nor yet like Mary, to
bring her most costly treasures, and pour them
upon his sacred person, in token of affection¬
ate gratitude. Christ, the man of sorrows and
privations, was now exalted at the right hand
of God, to be a Prince and Saviour; still, has
he not made himself one witli his poor and
suffering children upon earth? has he not
said, " inasmuch as you do it unto one of the
least of these, my brethren, ye do it unto me
How delightful the thought! that she might
constantly testify her love to him, who though
rich in glory, possessing the earth and the
fullness thereof, has declared that he will not
forget even a cup of cold water which is given
68
THE TWO COUSINS.
to a disciple for his sake; and, on the contrary,
how dreadful to meet his angry frown, when
he shall come in the clouds with power and
great glory, and hear him saying unto her,
" I was a hungered, and ye gave me no meat;
I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink; I was
a stranger and ye took me not in; naked and
ye clothed me not, sick, and in prison, and ye
visited me not."
Such thoughts and feelings could not pass
away in unfruitful forgetfulness, and the ef¬
fect of that morning's meditation upon Alice,
might be traced in habits of charity and self
denial, which continued in steady operation
throughout her long and useful life. It is
true that Alice was poor, but the "law of
kindness," was in her heart as well as on her
tongue; and hence her tender zeal for suffer¬
ing humanity, wrought more heavenly chari¬
ties than ever flowed from careless profusion.
The rich man .clothed with purple and fine
linen, and faring sumptuously every daj,
wrapped in soft indulgence himself, is too apt
to forget the wretched beggar lying at his gate,
THE TWO COUSINS.
69
and desiring to be fed with the crumbs which
fall from his table." But the* poor widow
who sees her scanty stores, wasted to a sin¬
gle cake, yet freely shares that last morsel
with a hungry stranger; surely her humble
offering is of greater price in his eyes by
whom "actions are weighed," than "much
fine gold." So the charities of Alice were all
supplied by savings from her little expenses;
some indulgence denied herself that she might
cast it into the treasury of God, or some
added exertion, by which she gained a pit¬
tance more for his use. Even when like
Peter she was constrained to say, " Silver and
gold have I none," yet "such as she had,"
was ever freely bestowed; the ready hand of
assistance, the looks of kindness, the words
of comfort, all the precious coinage of the
heart; and the blessings of those who " were
ready to perish," have often descended upon
her youthful head, when she had little more
to offer than tears of affectionate sympathy.
* 1 Kings vii. 10—16.
0
the two cousins.
44 It is more blessed to give than to receive,"
and the poor Alice often tasted the holy
sweetness of this blessing.
CHAPTER II.
But the time was now at hand, when this
kind and affectionate girl was to taste the
bitterness of grief. Not many days after her
last visit, Miss Sydney died; but for her,
Alice sorrowed not as one without hope; her
death filled her with solemn sadness, not with
violent distress. She wept with the village
children around the grave of their good and
kind instructress, but even then she enjoyed
peaceful consolation. No costly marble mark¬
ed the spot where this sainted dust reposed,
but the grateful children erected an humble
enclosure around her honoured grave; and
Alice planted with her own hand, a willow twig
above the head of her best, and almost her
dearest friend. Many years have passed
THE TWO COUSINS. 71
since then, and that little twig has grown into
a lofty tree, whose melancholy streamers
wave over many an added grave; and the
painted railing too, the lowly monument of
grateful affection, has gradually fallen to de¬
cay: but the moral feeling which prompted
its erection, is not so perishable. In that day,
when the earth shall melt with fervent heat,
and the heavens be rolled together as a scroll,
it shall appear in the faithful records of Him
by whom no deed of love, however small or
unimportant, is forgotten.
But we must not entirely lose sight of An¬
nette, the beloved play-fellow and companion
of Alice. Many circumstances tended gra¬
dually to estrange the two girls from each
other, and to lessen their early intimacy.
The mother of Alice pointedly discouraged
their frequent intercourse, and Annette her¬
self, was too often pained and reproved by
the strict principles of Alice, to feel much
pleasure in her society. Still they loved each
other, and though seldom together the con¬
stant exchange of little kindnesses, maintain
ed something of their former affection. The
72
THE TWO COUSINS.
illness of Miss Sydney had occupied Alice
so entirely, that sometime had elapsed with¬
out her seeing Annette.
It was Christmas Eve, the season of mirth
and holyday sport. Alice looked out, and
saw every window bright with the merry blaze
of Christmas fires, and all along the streets,
bands of shouting school boys, full of boister
ous happiness. She felt sad, for she remem¬
bered Annette, and the pleasant days of
childhood: how eagerly they counted the
weeks and months towards this joyous festi¬
val ; and when it came at last, how they
shared together its peculiar pleasures; the
pleasant romp in the frosty moonlight, or
happy play beside the evening fire, and best
of all, the Christmas gift, token of mutual
love and? recollection. "I must go to see
Annette, directly," thought Alice, " and
carry her a Christmas gift." Accordingly
she hastened to a drawer, which contained all
her little treasures: here were ranged in neat
order, and all strewed over with withered
roses, the various prizes which she had ob¬
tained at school, and many other pretty trifles,
THE TWO COUSINS. 73
each of which had been a keep-sake from An¬
nette or some other friend. She took up a
small silver thimble, which she had received
from her the day that she was seven years
old, well remembering how happy Annette
was, when she put it on her finger, and how
fondly she had kissed her in return for itj
and Alice shed tears over this simple memento
of former days. " 0 that Annette were only
as good as she is kind," she thought, and
many plans were present to her mind, for the-
amendment of her friend. With a heart full
of such affectionate feelings towards her, she-
selected from among her Sabbath school
prizes, a neat little morocco hymn book, and
writing the name of Annette, with some kind
expressions, upon the first blank leaf, she has¬
tened to her Aunt's. It was about the supper
hour, and Alice found the shop lighted up,
and her Aunt busily engaged in satisfying a
throng of little customers, who had come to
spend their " Christmas money," in good
things. Annette was not in the shop, and
Alice stepped into the parlour expecting to
find her there, but the servant informed her
G
74
THE TWO COUSINS.
that Annette had gone late to the stores and
had not returned. While she sat waiting for
her cousin, the girl amused her with an ac¬
count of the finery, which her young mistress
had purchased for the Christmas festivities.
But Alice grew uneasy at Annette's long stay,
and often went to the window to look for her,
wliile she was making some anxious inquiry
concerning her, a loud screaming in the shop
attracted her attention. In a moment Alice
was there, and the first object that met her
view, was Annette clinging wildly to her
mother, and a dark looking man, whom she
> knew to be the constable, standing by with
i his hand upon her arm. Alice had no power
- to inquire the meaning of all this, but hasten¬
ing to Annette, she threw her arms with pro¬
jecting fondness around her, and strove to
^soothe her distress and terror. But the whole
-scene was soon explained, for many persons
■ ran in to inquire the cause of this strange out-
f crys and the constable related, that Annette
' had long been suspected of pilfering from a
certain store, though in so artful a manner as
to elude detection. This evening, a consider-
THE TWO COUSINS.
75
able sum of money had been purposely left in
her way, and persons stationed so as to watch
and seize her. All that the unfortunate girl
could say in her own defence was, that she
had thought it was a small bill, that nothing
in the world would have tempted her to take
so much. And even in this characteristic
speech, her wretched mother might trace her
evil influence upon her ruined child. But
it was now too late to think of these thingsj
she saw her forced away, and in the bitterness
of her gvief, acknowledged that her own hand
had closed the prison doors upon her.
All night long Alice sat by her aunt's bed,
vainly striving to soothe her distress, and
minister to her comfort; wiping away her own
quiet tears, and sending up many a fervent
petition for her unhappy cousin.
Christmas morning rose mournfully upon
this distressed family. Alice left her aunt
with her mother, and walking sorrowfully to
the gaoler's house, begged his permission to
see Annette. The gaoler was a kind man, he
had known the children from their infancy,
and often had noticed their remarkable at-
76
THE TWO COUSINS.
tachment; he pitied the dejected Alice, and
tried to persuade her not to go; but when she
persisted in her petition, he consented, and
accompanied her to the prison.
When the door was unlocked and Alice
saw the wretched Annette, seated upon a
poor mattress, in the corner of a dark ami
comfortless room, her heart felt almost break¬
ing. Slowly and sorrowfully, she moved to¬
wards her, and sinking down upon the bed
beside her, put her arms fondly about her and
wept ill silence on her shoulder, only whis¬
pering, as she pressed her cheek to her own,
" dearest Annette, dearest cousin."
Annette was too much overcome by shame
and grief to return the caresses of her cousin:
turning her face away, she vented the bitter¬
ness of her spirit, in simple, but 'affecting
lamentations; wringing her hands, and sobbing
out incessantly, "poor nie, pyor me."
But 1 will not dwell upon this melancholy
scene; it is not my wish to awaken unprofit¬
able sympathy, but rather to impress this use¬
ful lesson, that " the way of transgressors is
hard," and that painful thorns shall wound
the two cousins.
77
the feet that travel it." Poor Annette abun¬
dantly proved the truth of this assertion.
Alice continued in the prison sometime
longer, but though she longed to direct the
attention of her friend to the concerns of her
soul, she was too judicious to force the sub¬
ject upon her, while she continued so much
occupied by her present distress. She con¬
tented herself with silently laying upon the
bed beside her, as she withdrew, her own well
used Biblej offering an earnest petition, as she
did so, that it might become the fountain of
life to her beloved Annette.
Several weeks elapsed before the trial of
Annette, and Alice continued to visit her as
often as she could obtain permission; and she
failed not to employ her time as usefully as
possible for her friend; exhorting her with
exceeding earnestness, accompanied by the
gentlest delicacy, to seek reconciliation with
her offended creator.
The character of Annette for dishonesty,
was so notorious, and her repeated offences
had produced such a strong feeling against
g 2
78
THE TWO COUSINS.
her, that most persons considered her sen¬
tence, to two years imprisonment in the peni¬
tentiary, as very mild. The parting between
the wretched girl and her friends, was indeed
grievous. From that hour her unhappy
mother sunk into a state of pining melancholy,
from which no efforts could recover herj and,
after lingering for a few months, she dropped
into the grave, the wretched victim of her
own forgetfulness of God in the management
of her child.
The meek and lowly spirit of Alice, though
sorely bruised by this calamity, was too sin¬
cerely submissive to the will of her Maker, to
indulge a repining sorrow. After a time she
recovered her wonted cheerfulness and ac¬
tivity in duty. Still the distresses of hex
friend were often present to her, and her let
ters to Annette, were frequent and affection¬
ate. On the death of her aunt, it was disco
vered that her little property was not suffi¬
cient to answer the debts, contracted by her
daughter and herself; there was nothing there
fore left for Annette. The generous Alice>
THE TWO OOUSINS.
79
with the permission of her mother, wrote to
entreat Annette as soon as she was released,
to come to them and share all that they had.
As the time drew near, she gathered to¬
gether all her little savings, and transmitted
them by a safe hand to Annette, to defray the
expenses of her journey.
But the time passed and no Annette camej
weeks, months, and even years, and still they
heard nothing of her. At last, after many an
eager expectation and sorrowful disappoint¬
ment, they learned that the unhappy girl had
been cast, during her confinement, into the
society of many vile and profligate characters,
whose evil habits she had too easily contract¬
ed; so that when the period for her liberation
arrived, she felt little disposition to share in
the habits and society of the strict and self-
denying Alice.
But some of my readers may wish to follow
still further, the subject of this little sketch.
Alice the good and happy child, in the pro¬
gress of time, became as happily a wife and
mother. About two miles from her native
village, is situated a neat, though humble es-
80 THE TWO COUSINS.
k
tablishment, which often attracts the travel
ler's approving glance. This is the home of
Alice. Substantial comfort pervades the
wholej the little garden, with its squares of
useful vegetables; behind it a grassy lot
which feeds her cherished cow; the clamour¬
ous poultry-yard $ and close beside the west¬
ern window, the hive, whose busy hum,
soothes her listening ear with thoughts of in¬
dustry and comfort.
Nor has Alice entirely neglected orna¬
ment: she has found time to train against her
cottage wall, seveyal beautifully luxuriant
vines. The golden bloom of the jessamine is
mingled there, in rich contrast with the wood¬
bine's coral tubesj and the splendid plumage
of the humming bird, is often seen glancing
around the rose, which Alice favours with her
special care.
But far more delightful than the pleasant
fragrance which breathes around it, % the
sweet incense which rises from this lowly
dwelling, when her heart-felt thanksgivings
ascend to him, whose holy keeping has been
around her, from her cradle slumbers, even
THE TWO COUSINS.
81
onward to the prime and meridian of her life.
And well does Alice, the christian matron,
fulfil the promise of Alice, the pious child.
" She stretcheth out her hands to the poor,
yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.
She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in
her tongue is the law of kindness. She look-
eth well to the ways of her household, ami
eateth not the bread of idleness. Her chil¬
dren arise up and call her blessedj her hus¬
band also, and lie praiseth her."
Yet reflections on the wretched lot of An¬
nette, sometimes shade the cheerful counte¬
nance of Alice with sadness, and many tri¬
fling circumstances betray the lingering fond¬
ness which she still retains for her early
friend. In the frank, lively countenance of
her second daughter, she traces a strong re¬
semblance to the beloved playmate of her in¬
fancy; and though she shrunk from imposing
on her innocent child, a name which was now
connected with reproach, yet the memory of
their cradle friendship, probably survives in
a common abbreviation by which she called
the little girl: and Ann, is seldom named,
82
THE TWO COUSINS.
without awaking tender recollections of
netle.
Poor Annette! the lovely and happy child,
how have sin and suffering worn away her soft
expression of peaceful innocence! In het
sullen, wo-begone countenance, bloated with
intemperance, and sallow with the colouring
of disease, who would now retrace the rosy,
shining face of health and joy; or recognise
the well tempered, affectionate child, in the
fierce, and bold virago. No signs of indus¬
trious comfort, distinguish the sinner's
wretched home: filth and poverty are there;
the comfortless hearth, whose scanty embers
impart no warmth to the quaking form which
bends above them; the stinted meal, and rags
of misery—and ah! worse than all, the slow
fire of remorse which burns within her guilty
bosom. She feels that the sands of life are
running out apace; that, that night which
shall extinguish forever the light of hope, is
hastening on, and "fearful looking for of
judgment and fiery indignation," hangs, like
a gloomy shadow, over her devoted head.
Behold the wages of guilt and tremble, ye
THE TWO COUSINS.
83
whose young hearts are yet unsullied by the"
gross defilements of sin! Behold the awful
progress of evil!
Beware then of its beginning, and learn
from the simple history of Alice and Annette,
the awful difference which sin makes among
men. " The path of the just is as the shining
light, which shineth more and more unto the.
perfect day;" but " the light of the wicked
shall be put out, and the spark of his fire shall
not shine; the light shall be dark in his taber¬
nacle, and his candle shall be put out with
him."
THE END