i:i V 
 
UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 School of Libta.y 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00022245232 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/henrylangdontaleOOhopk 
 
T ALES, 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SHORTER CATECHISM 
 
 voi. I. 
 
; It seemed very plain that I was made for something — what 
 is it mamma 1 " p. 12. 
 
HENRY LANGDON, 
 
 WHAT WIS H 1111 WQB, 
 
 DESIGNED TO ILLUSTRATE 
 
 THE FIRST QUESTION AND ANSWER 
 
 WESTMINSTER CATECHISM. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. LOUISA PAYSON HOPKINS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 GATES & STEDM AN, 
 
 114 WILLIAM STREET. 
 1846. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, 
 
 By GATES & STEDMAN, 
 
 in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States, 
 
 for the Southern District of New York. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 J|gpg||ENRY Langdon was a little 
 i?|R?M hoy about eight years old. 
 =?-==• -w He had no brother, but he 
 had a little sister, still a baby, whom 
 he loved very much. He was never 
 more delighted than when he could 
 make her crow, and laugh, and jump 
 in his mother's arms, or when he was 
 us allowed to take her himself, and amuse 
 •* her with his playthings. Henry was 
 
8 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 not as fond of boisterous plays as many- 
 boys are. Perhaps it was because he 
 was not very well, and play soon wea- 
 ried him. You would have known 
 from his looks that he was a delicate 
 child. His skin was so transparent that 
 you could see the blue veins in his fore- 
 head quite distinctly. 
 
 He would often leave his play, com- 
 plaining that his head ached ; and then 
 creeping off to the corner where he 
 kept his little trunk of books, would 
 take out one to read. He had read 
 them all many times; but no matter, 
 he loved to read them again. Or if 
 his mother was at work, he would sit 
 by her and lay his head in her lap, J 
 sometimes in silence, but oftener asking . 
 
HENRY LANGDON. V 
 
 her questions. He was a thoughtful 
 little boy, and liked to talk about some 
 things in which most children would 
 not be interested. 
 
 He was also an obedient boy. I do 
 not know that Henry ever wilfully dis- 
 obeyed his mother. He would forget 
 what she told him, and was sometimes 
 impatient for a moment, when he met 
 with a difficulty in his lessons; but a 
 look and a smile from his mother, gene- 
 rally called forth a pleasant smile in 
 return. I am sorry I cannot tell you that 
 Henry loved God. But I fear he did 
 not. He prayed every night and morn- 
 ing, because he had been taught to do 
 so from his infancy. But it is very 
 easy to know if a person loves another. 
 
10 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 No one who saw Henry could have 
 doubted whether he loved his mother, 
 or his little sister. And therefore I 
 think that , if he had loved God, it 
 would have been equally apparent in 
 his conduct. 
 
 One day when Henry had been sit- 
 ting by his mother some time, without 
 moving or speaking, she asked him 
 what he was thinking of. 
 
 " Mamma," said Henry, without rais- 
 ing his eyes from the green spot in the 
 carpet on which they had been fixed, 
 " I was thinking of the strange feelings 
 I had a little while ago in my room ; — 
 I wish I could tell you what they were 
 like." 
 
 " And why can you not tell me ? " 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 11 
 
 Cf Because, mamma, they were so 
 strange. I had been fixing my pic- 
 tures, and I was just going out of the 
 room, when all at once I had such a 
 queer feeling about myself, wondering 
 how I came to be, and how I should 
 be just myself and nobody else ; — I 
 can't make you understand it, mamma, 
 if you had never had such a feeling,— 
 but I thought about myself and won- 
 dered about myself just as if I had 
 been another person; or as if I were 
 divided into two, and one part of me 
 was thinking about the other part. And 
 then it seemed strange that I had not 
 been always — that there was a time when 
 there wasn't any /, and I wondered 
 what I was for, why I was made at all. 
 
12 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 It seemed very plain that I was made 
 for something — what is it mamma ? " 
 
 His mother reflected for a moment. 
 " My dear boy/' said she, " I could 
 tell you, but I wish you would think 
 longer about it first, and try to find out 
 for yourself. If you do not find out in 
 the course of one month from now, I 
 will tell you." 
 
 " A month ! Oh that is a very long 
 time," said Henry ; but just then the 
 baby woke, and in playing with her he 
 forgot his question. Not so his mother; 
 she hoped it would lead to a train of 
 thought and conversation which might 
 be of service to him. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 NE morning, a few days after 
 this, just as they had finish- 
 ed breakfast, Henry heard the 
 sound of wheels which seemed to stop 
 at the door. "I dare say it is uncle 
 John;" cried he, running to the win- 
 dow ; " yes it is ! it is ! and he has come 
 to carry us out to the farm, I know." 
 By this time Henry had opened the 
 door, and uncle John came in. Yes, 
 Henry was right. His uncle had come 
 to take them out to his new farm. 
 
 2 
 
14 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 Henry ran to call Rover, and to get 
 the new doll which he had ready for 
 his little cousin, Mary : and as soon 
 as his mother was ready, they set off. 
 Rover frisked along by the side of the 
 carriage, or sometimes ran a long way 
 before and came back to them. Henry 
 felt as if he should like to run with 
 him; he was so happy that he could 
 hardly sit still. " Isn't it the most 
 beautiful day you ever saw, mother?" 
 said he. " How green the grass is, and 
 the trees, and how sweet the air smells, 
 and what a beautiful blue sky ! " His 
 mother agreed with him. " Just sup- 
 pose, Henry," said she, " that God had 
 made the fields and trees and sky all 
 black, as he might have done." 
 
In less than an hour they arrived at the farm." p. 15. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 15 
 
 " Oh horrible ! mother, what an ugly 
 world it would have been." 
 
 " How much God has done for our 
 happiness then, by making every thing 
 beautiful." 
 
 " I wonder I never thought of that 
 before," said Henry to himself, and 
 then he amused himself by looking at 
 every object they passed, and consider- 
 ing how it might have been made ugly. 
 
 In less than an hour they arrived at 
 the farm, and then Henry was seized 
 upon by his three cousins, William, 
 Fanny and Mary, who hardly allowed 
 him time to kiss his aunt, so eager were 
 they to introduce him to the wonders 
 of their new residence. 
 
 " Come this way, Henry," said Wil- 
 
18 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 liam, " I want you to see the horses ; 
 one of them is a great trotter, and I 
 ride every day." 
 
 " Just as if Henry cared for old 
 horses, which he can see any day," 
 said Fanny ; " let him look at the bees, 
 he has never seen bees, I know." 
 
 " Oh, but my darling little chickens," 
 exclaimed Mary, "just let him peep at 
 them first, do Fanny dear; come Henry; 
 and Mary being an especial favorite 
 with Henry, he suffered himself to be 
 led first to the chickens. When he 
 had admired them to Mary's satisfac- 
 tion, and had seen her feed them, and 
 fed them himself, they went to the 
 
 bees, and next to the stable. There- 
 upon ensued a variety of rides and turn- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 19 
 
 bles, followed by other amusements of 
 which we cannot pretend to give any 
 account. However, it was three hours 
 before they returned to the house, with 
 glowing cheeks, and " as hot as fire," 
 to use William's expression, which I 
 would not however recommend for the 
 adoption of my young readers. While 
 they were fanning themselves with caps 
 and bonnets, Henry gave his mother an 
 account of all he had seen, and by the 
 time he had concluded, dinner was ready. 
 After dinner, Mary's doll was pro- 
 duced, and received by the little girl 
 with quite as much pleasure as Henry 
 had anticipated. Then they all repair- 
 ed to a bench in front of the house, to 
 enjoy the delightful weather. While 
 
20 HENRY LAKGDON. 
 
 the rest were talking, Henry sat quite 
 silent. At length he said suddenly, 
 "Mamma, how tired those poor cows 
 must be of having nothing to do, but 
 stand there all day. That one in the 
 corner has not stirred for half an hour, 
 and I dare say, she will stand there 
 till night." 
 
 They all laughed. " Is this the result 
 of your long re very, Henry ? " said his 
 uncle. " Really, you are very compas- 
 sionate. And how do you propose to 
 amuse the ' poor cows V" 
 
 " Oh ! he will take a book and read 
 to them, I dare say," said William. 
 
 " Or tell them a story," said Fanny. 
 
 Henry bore all this raillery very well, 
 and joined in the laugh with great good 
 
HENRY LANGBON. 21 
 
 humor. •■ But after all, Henry/' re- 
 sumed his uncle, " I do not see why 
 you should confine your pity to the 
 cows. There are the sheep and horses, 
 and ducks and chickens who are no 
 better off, and the pigs — certainly they 
 are the most to be pitied of all." 
 
 " Sure enough, so they are ; " said 
 Henry. " Poor creatures, how I pity 
 them ! " 
 
 " And there is your own dog, your 
 own Rover," interposed his mother, 
 " why do you not pity him ? " 
 
 " Oh mamma ! I hope you don't mean 
 to put Rover with those stupid old 
 cows. He knows a great deal, I assure 
 you, mother, and besides he has amuse- 
 ment enough; he follows me wherever 
 
22 HENRY LANGD0N. 
 
 I go, and he understands a great deal 
 that I say to him. Rover! Rover! 
 come here Sir ! see how quick he runs 
 to me ; he is not at all like those stupid 
 cows." 
 
 His mother and uncle smiled at the 
 warmth with which he defended his 
 dog. " But Henry/' said the latter, 
 you do not really suppose that the 
 cows and pigs are unhappy, because you 
 would he miserable in their situation ? 
 Don't you know that every of animal 
 has just the kind of life for which it is 
 fitted, and the best of which it is capa- 
 ble?" Fanny was afraid there was 
 going to be a " long talk," as she call- 
 ed it. " Oh come, Henry," said she, 
 " leave the cows and pigs to take care 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 23 
 
 of themselves ; they are happy enough, 
 I dare say, it's just what they were 
 made for. Come and have a swing." 
 
 Henry would have liked to think 
 longer about the animals, especially as 
 Fanny's last expression, " That is what 
 they were made for" recalled the question 
 he had asked a few days before about 
 himself. How strange that he had not 
 thought of it since ! However, as his 
 cousins were eager to play, he made an 
 effort and went with them. 
 
 After their swing, the boys had a 
 wrestling-match, but as William was 
 several years older than Henry, and 
 proportionably stronger, there was " not 
 much fun in it," as he said to him ; it 
 was too easy to conquer. They then 
 
24 HENRY LANGD0N. 
 
 put little Mary into a chaise which 
 stood in the yard; and the boys drew 
 her up and down to her great delight. 
 Then they went to tea, which had been 
 prepared early, so that uncle John 
 might take them home before dark. 
 There were four seats in the carnage, 
 and William petitioned to be allowed 
 to ride out and back again. His father 
 consented, and when the " good-byes " 
 were all said, and all the kisses given 
 and received, they set off. The two 
 boys kept up a tolerably brisk conver- 
 sation at first, but Henry's head began 
 to nod, and before they were half way 
 home he was fast asleep. Nor did he 
 wake the next morning until nearly an 
 hour after his usual time. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 JELL Henry, said his 
 mother, when he 
 came down to break- 
 fast, " are you quite rested ? " 
 
 " I believe so mamma," said Henry 
 smiling ; " I should think I might be 
 after such a long sleep ; didn't I get to 
 sleep in the carriage, mamma ? " 
 
 " I rather think you did Henry* At 
 any rate you gave no signs of life during 
 the latter half of the way. 
 
 " I can hardly remember how I got 
 
26 HENRY LANGD0N. 
 
 out of the carriage, or about going to 
 bed; nor about uncle John and Wil- 
 liam going away; how very sleepy I 
 must have been ! That was because I 
 played so much ; I do not think I have 
 played so much this whole month to- 
 gether." 
 
 " You were very happy I suppose all 
 day?" 
 
 " Yes, mother, very." " However," 
 added he, after a pause, " I don't think 
 I should like to spend every day so." 
 
 " Why not ? would you not like to 
 be happy every day ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother, of course, but I mean, 
 I do not think it would make me happy 
 to spend every day so — in doing noth- 
 ing but play ; I am sure it would not." 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 27 
 
 " No, Henry, it would not. God has 
 not made us to find our happiness en- 
 tirely in amusement." 
 
 " Mamma, isn't it strange that I 
 should have forgotten all about the 
 question I asked you, and which you 
 told me to think about, till yesterday ? 
 There are two days of my month gone, 
 and I have not found out any thing 
 about it yet." 
 
 " What made you remember it yes- 
 terday?" 
 
 " Mamma, it was something that un- 
 cle John said first, and then Fanny said, 
 ' That is what they are made for,' when 
 we were talking about animals. How 
 do we know what they are made for ? 
 mother ? " 
 
28 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " By seeing what they are capable 
 of. You remember your uncle John 
 said that every animal is placed just in 
 the condition for which it is fitted, by 
 its nature. Suppose now" you had a 
 little lamb, which you wished to make 
 perfectly happy; what would you do 
 for him?" 
 
 "I do not know what I could do, 
 except to keep him warm in winter, 
 and give him plenty to eat and drink." 
 
 " Very true, that is all you could do. 
 You would not expect then to please 
 him by books, or pictures, or conver- 
 sation ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, mother ; " said Henry, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Would you be satisfied with noth- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 29 
 
 ing but food — no other enjoyment than 
 that of eating?" 
 
 " Oh no, mamma, how very miser- 
 able I should be to live as they do ! " 
 
 " And yet you see they are not miser- 
 able, because they know nothing about 
 the enjoyments which are necessary to 
 you, and have no capacity for them. 
 Of course, we know they are not made 
 for them." 
 
 " So they can never want things they 
 have not, can they ? After all, mamma, 
 it seems as if they were better off than 
 we are, for how often we are unhappy, 
 and how many things we want that we 
 cannot have." 
 
 " Would you then be willing to be 
 made incapable of receiving any plea- 
 
30 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 sure from books, for instance, in order 
 that you might never be sensible of the 
 want of that pleasure ? would you like 
 to be capable of no other enjoyments 
 than those of eating and drinking, so 
 that you might never suffer from the 
 want of other pleasures 1 " 
 
 " Oh no, no indeed, mother. How 
 could I be so foolish as to think so ? I 
 would rather have such wants, even if 
 they cannot always be gratified ; for 
 after all, mother, it is a proof of our — it 
 is a proof that we are above the brutes, 
 that we can have such wants." 
 
 " Very true, Henry. It has been 
 remarked that the rank of every crea- 
 ture in the scale of being, is determined 
 by the greatness of its wants." 
 
HENRY LANGD0N. 31 
 
 " Then if I can find out how many 
 wants I have which brutes have not, I 
 shall know how much I am above them." 
 
 " And do not forget that if you are 
 superior to them in capacity, you were 
 created for a proportion ably higher 
 end." 
 
 " Mamma, I wonder what is the rea- 
 son that we cannot make the same 
 thoughts and feelings that we have had 
 once, come back whenever we please. 
 I cannot make that strange feeling 
 come back, which I had about myself, 
 when I wanted to know so much what 
 I was made for. It does not seem won- 
 derful now that there should be any 7, 
 as it did then ; it seems quite natural, 
 and it does not look to me so certain as 
 
32 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 it did then that I was made for some 
 particular object." 
 
 " As to the latter point it is very easy 
 to decide whether you were made for 
 any thing or not. When men make 
 things, — houses, watches, machines, for 
 instance, do they make them for any 
 end, with any design, or not ? " 
 
 " Yes mamma, with some design, cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 " If a man should spend his whole 
 life in making things, without object or 
 design, would you consider him a wise 
 man or a foolish one ? " 
 
 " A foolish one." 
 
 " Who made you, Henry ? " 
 
 " God." 
 
 " Then, unless God is less wise than 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 33 
 
 men, you were made for some purpose, 
 with some design ? " 
 
 " Yes mamma, it is plain enough. But 
 somehow it does not seem as it did then." 
 
 " I know what you mean, Henry. 
 There are times when truths that we 
 knew before, flash upon us suddenly, 
 as entirely new. It is as if God lifted 
 the curtain which shuts out from us 
 eternal truths, and permitted a ray of 
 light to dart forth, and show us for one 
 moment, where we are." 
 
 " Yes, mamma, that is just it — like a 
 sudden light. I wish it would look so 
 all the time." 
 
 Before his mother could reply, the 
 door-bell rang. It was a visiter, and 
 the conversation was interrupted. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 g*S3feHE next day Henry took his 
 station by his mother. 
 
 "Mamma, I was sorry that 
 lady came yesterday just as we were 
 talking; — won't you talk to me now, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 " About what, Henry ? " 
 
 " About animals, and the difference 
 
 between them and us. In my ( Child's 
 
 Book on the Soul/ it says that animals 
 
 have not souls like ours, and that what 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 35 
 
 they have, does not deserve to be called 
 a soul. Do you think so, mother ? " 
 
 "Yes, I think there is so wide a 
 difference between the mind of an ani- 
 mal, and a rational, immortal soul, that 
 this term cannot be applied to them, 
 when we intend to speak accurately. 55 
 
 Henry thought for a moment. " But 
 still, mother, 55 resumed he, "I should 
 like to know what animals have, if they 
 have not souls. 55 
 
 " Do you know what instinct means ? 55 
 
 " I know that it is what teaches bees 
 to build their cells, and birds their nestSj 
 and all such things, but I do not know 
 how to tell what it is. 55 
 
 "Can you tell any respect in which 
 it differs from human intelligence ? 55 
 
36 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " No, mother , it seems as if I knew, 
 but I cannot tell." 
 
 "Well, I will help you to find out. 
 You know how admirably the cells of 
 bees are constructed ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, mamma ; I read all about 
 that in my 'History of Insects.' It 
 says that they know how to make them 
 just the very best form, and that which 
 will occupy the least space, and take 
 the least wax. Isn't it strange ? " 
 
 " Well now suppose you should set 
 them to building houses for the ants, 
 or nests for the humming birds, do 
 you think they would succeed equally 
 well?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma, they would not know 
 any thing at all about it." 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 37 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because they only know how to 
 build their own. They do not know 
 how to do every thing, only particular 
 sorts of things. And mother, I guess 
 this is what you mean is the difference 
 between them and us, for we can do all 
 sorts of things, and each kind of animals 
 only knows how to do one thing." 
 
 " Or to express it in other words, 
 instinct is limited in its objects; under- 
 standing is not." 
 
 " That is a great difference after all, 
 isn't it, mother ? For what thousands 
 of things men can do — build houses 
 and bridges, and ships and carriages, 
 and towns." 
 
 " Yes, and not to confine our illustra- 
 
 4 
 
38 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 tions to building, or to any mechanical 
 employment, men can study the laws 
 of nature ; they can observe the plan- 
 ets, and give names to them, determine 
 their motions and distances, penetrate 
 into the earth and learn its structure, 
 and many other things; but I believe 
 you never heard of a bee studying 
 astronomy, or geology." 
 
 " No, indeed, mamma," said Henry 
 laughing. 
 
 " But you said bees would not know 
 how to build for other animals than 
 themselves ; — could they not be taught ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, mother, that would be im- 
 possible ; they were never taught how 
 to build their own cells, they always 
 knew how." 
 
HENRY LANGDOJV. 39 
 
 " It is not then by reasoning, and 
 comparing, and reflecting upon their 
 own wants that they come to build 
 their own cells so perfectly ? " 
 
 " No, mother, they know at first just 
 as well as they do after they have tried 
 ever so long — their instinct teaches 
 them how. And I suppose that is the 
 reason they can only do a few things, 
 for if they had learned how to make 
 their own cells by thinking, then they 
 could think how to make other things. 
 After all, mother, they seem almost like 
 machines." 
 
 " At least, you have discovered two 
 more respects in which they differ from 
 men; they cannot be taught, and they 
 never make improvements. 31 
 
40 HENRY LAXGDOX. 
 
 " Yes, mother; the bees now, I sup- 
 pose, are just like the bees that lived 
 before the flood, and only think how 
 much man has changed." 
 
 " There is another thing which I wish 
 to notice about instinct. It has not the 
 power of adapting itself to circumstan- 
 ces. Birds will hatch the eggs of other 
 birds hostile to them, if placed in their 
 nests; and a hen that has hatched a 
 brood of young ducks is terribly dis- 
 tressed when she sees them running 
 into the water. Then they build their 
 habitations alike in all countries and 
 climates, whereas men adapt their 
 houses to their particular wants in dif- 
 ferent circumstances. Do you under- 
 stand this ? " 
 
HENRY LANGDOJN. 41 
 
 '" Yes, mamma ; and yet it seems to 
 me instinct will not account for all that 
 animals do. The dogs of St. Bernard 
 — only think of them — they know how 
 to adapt themselves to circumstances, 
 mamma ; you know how ingenious they 
 are in finding ways to get the travellers 
 out of danger, and I think Rover knows 
 almost as much— or at least he knows 
 a great deal." 
 
 " I was going to tell you that animals 
 have some understanding, in addition to 
 instinct. There is a great difference in 
 the degree of this power which they 
 possess, and the dog is distinguished 
 above most other animals." 
 
 " The dog and the elephant are the 
 first, I guess." 
 
42 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " But I can tell you an anecdote 
 about some bees which proves that they 
 too have some understanding." 
 
 " What is it, mamma ? — I do love to 
 hear stories about animals." 
 
 " It is so long since I read the anec- 
 dote, that I may not recollect all the cir- 
 cumstances, but this was the substance. 
 A gentleman who had many beehives, 
 observed that the bees were troubled 
 by insects somewhat larger than them- 
 selves, which made incursions into the 
 hives, and consumed the honey. After 
 some deliberation on the best mode of 
 remedying the evil, he had some tin 
 gratings prepared, with holes large 
 enough to permit the bees to pass 
 through them, but not of a sufficient 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 43 
 
 size to admit their enemies. These he 
 intended to place over the mouth of 
 each hive, but on going out for that 
 purpose, he found that the bees had 
 already, during the night, constructed 
 for themselves similar gratings of wax." 
 
 " What, mamma, with holes just so 
 large?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh, how wonderful ! — I can hardly 
 believe it — that could not have been 
 instinct, could it, mother ? " 
 
 " No, because here there was an 
 evident adaption to circumstances, to 
 which instinct cannot attain." 
 
 " Have you any more such stories to 
 tell me, mamma ? " 
 
 " I will tell you more at some other 
 
44 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 time, but now I can only tell you one 
 thing, which will perhaps surprise you ; 
 that we have instinct as well as the 
 lowest animals." 
 
 " We have, mother ! I am sure I 
 did not know that. What is there that 
 instinct teaches us to do? I thought 
 little babies did not know how to do 
 any thing." 
 
 " It is true that the instincts of men 
 are much fewer and less strongly devel- 
 oped than those of brutes, but it is 
 nevertheless true that we do some 
 things instinctively. For instance, a 
 baby or a grown person will shut his 
 eyes instantaneously, if you make a 
 sudden motion of darting something at 
 them. This is not the result of reflec- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 45 
 
 tion, because babies do it, as I said, and 
 because it is done too quickly to allow 
 of any previous reasoning." 
 
 " Yes, and besides, mother, we can- 
 not help doing so if we try ever so hard, 
 for I have very often tried to keep from 
 winking, when any body moved any 
 thing quickly, close to my eyes, and I 
 never could. May I see if you can, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear, if you choose." 
 
 Henry was much amused in making 
 his mother wink, and then he wished 
 the baby would wake up, so that he 
 might try the experiment upon her. 
 
 " Mamma, how long Helen sleeps 
 to-day." 
 
 " Not longer than usual, my dear." 
 
46 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " It seems longer, mother, but she 
 looks so sound asleep that I don't be- 
 lieve she will wake up for some time 
 yet, so I will go and find Rover, and do 
 something to make him show that he 
 has under standing." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 BOUT this time Henry receiv- 
 
 rn^fL ec ^ a P resen ^ °f two little 
 ^^,^ white mice. They were in a 
 cage with a revolving projection, like 
 those in which squirrels are sometimes 
 kept. Nothing could have delighted 
 Henry more. He was never tired of 
 watching them, and admiring them, and 
 wondering about them. It was so much 
 better to have things that are alive, he 
 said, than mere wooden playthings, that 
 he would rather have his mice than all 
 his other playthings together. 
 
48 HENRY LANGDOIN. 
 
 " I wonder what this little mousey is 
 thinking about," said he, one clay, as 
 he sat looking at them; "he must be 
 thinking about something, he sits so 
 still. How nice it would be if we could 
 look into the minds of such creatures, 
 wouldn't it mother ? " 
 
 His mother smiled. " Without pos- 
 sessing that power, Henry, I can tell 
 you what he is not thinking of." 
 
 "What, mother?" 
 
 " Himself, for one thing." 
 
 " How do you know that, mother ? O 
 yes I suppose, to be sure, such creatures 
 can't think about themselves, as w T e 
 can; — and yet I don't know; can't 
 they, mamma ? " 
 
 " No, the power of self-conscious- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 49 
 
 ness and self-reflection is given to man 
 alone." 
 
 " I was thinking about that, this very 
 morning, before I got up; at least, I 
 don't mean about that exactly; but 
 about the difference between us and 
 animals, and I thought, from what you 
 said the other day, that the only differ- 
 ence was that we have the most under- 
 standing, and they, the most instinct; 
 and yet it seemed as if that could not 
 be all." 
 
 "No indeed, there are many more 
 
 important, and this self-consciousness is 
 
 one. You recollect what you told me 
 
 about your strange feelings when you 
 
 seemed divided into two." 
 
 "Yes mother; I- have tried to make 
 5 
 
50 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 them come back again, but they will 
 not." 
 
 Well, something like that really takes 
 place whenever we make ourselves the 
 object of our thoughts, for we are at 
 the same time the thinkers, and the ob- 
 ject thought about. Do you understand 
 me?" 
 
 " Yes mother, I believe I do." 
 " But this self-consciousness is not 
 usually accompanied by any sensation of 
 strangeness, nor by any feeling of being 
 divided. We think of ouselves just as 
 we should of any other persons or things, 
 and forget to wonder at ourselves, ex- 
 cept when occasionally, a flash of light 
 makes us attentive to the mysteries of 
 our own being." 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 51 
 
 " Then animals can have thoughts, but 
 they cannot think about those thoughts; 
 and we can." 
 
 " Yes, and it is in that way only that 
 we learn the meaning of all words that 
 describe thoughts and feelings. For in- 
 stance, how did you learn the meaning 
 of the word, fear ? " 
 
 " I don't know, mother, I cannot 
 remember now, but I suppose you, or 
 somebody else told me." 
 
 " But how could we tell you, if you 
 had not known the feeling first ? " 
 
 Henry looked as if he did not quite 
 understand. 
 
 " Suppose you had never felt, even 
 for a moment, the emotion of fear, how 
 could I make you understand it?" 
 
52 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Why you could tell me that it meant 
 — that it meant — " 
 
 " That it meant fear, and that is all I 
 could tell you ; or if I used any other 
 words, such as fright, or terror, or alarm, 
 do you not see that without having 
 known the feeling, you could not under- 
 stand me ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, I see it now, it is very plain 
 now; and it would be just the same 
 about love and hatred, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the same is true of all emo- 
 tions, and of all mental operations, such 
 as comparing, judging, reflecting. It is 
 by thinking upon your own conscious- 
 ness, in other words, by looking into your 
 own mind, that you learn to understand 
 the ideas connected with these words." 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 53 
 
 " Does consciousness mean the know- 
 ledge of what goes on in our own minds ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Henry paused. " Then it seems as 
 if there must always be a thought, and 
 then another, and so on without any 
 end. I mean that as soon as I have 
 thought one thought, I must begin to 
 think about that, and then about that, 
 and so on. Then I should not have time 
 for any thing else; besides, I do not 
 remember ever doing so." 
 
 " There are two kinds of conscious- 
 ness," his mother began, but stopped 
 short. " I do not think you can under- 
 stand this, Henry." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say I can ; do try, mam- 
 ma," said Henry, beseechingly. 
 
54 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Well, there is a kind of conscious- 
 ness which accompanies every act of the 
 mind, which may be called ordinary 
 consciousness. It simply implies that 
 we know, when we think, or love, or 
 hate, and does not imply that we reflect 
 upon every thought or feeling. For in- 
 stance, when you waked this morning, 
 you began to think about animals ? " 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 " And you must have been conscious 
 of that thought, that is, you must have 
 known that you had it, else you could 
 not have remembered it afterwards." 
 
 " Yes, mamma.' 
 
 " But did you stop to reflect at the 
 moment, Now I have had a thought, 
 
HENRY LANGDOJV. 55 
 
 and then again; Now I have had an- 
 other." 
 
 " No indeed, mother/' said Henry, 
 laughing ; " if I had, I might have kept 
 on till this time." 
 
 " This kind of consciousness is in- 
 separable from every mental operation, 
 and it is involuntary, that is, it does not 
 depend on an act of the will ; we can- 
 not help it. But we have the power of 
 fixing our attention particularly on any 
 of our past or present mental operations, 
 and this we call voluntary ', or reflective 
 consciousness." 
 
 " Then when I thought about those 
 strange feelings I had the other day, 
 that was reflective consciousness." 
 
 " Yes, and to take another illustra- 
 
56 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 tion ; you love Helen all the time, and 
 of course you are conscious of loving 
 her. But you are not constantly flunk- 
 ing that you love her." 
 
 " No mother, I understand it perfectly 
 now. And so animals cannot think 
 about themselves. What a great differ- 
 ence that makes between them and us. 
 How strange it would be if / could not 
 think about myself. I should not be 
 much better than a machine, should I, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 " No, I do not think you would. Now, 
 by studying yourself, you can find out 
 what you were made for, and whether 
 you are accomplishing this end. But if 
 you had not this power of self-know- 
 ledge, you could not voluntarily fulfil 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 57 
 
 the end for which you were created; 
 you would do it as plants do, without 
 any intention, or purpose, any more than 
 a watch has, which goes when it is 
 wound up." 
 
 "Yes mamma, I am very glad I am 
 not like a watch, or like a dog, or even 
 my poor little mice. Mousey, you don't 
 know that we are talking about you ; '* 
 and Henry ran off to the cage. " I 
 declare they have eaten up all I gave 
 them, I must go and get them some 
 bread," 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 ,0R several days after this Hen- 
 ry was not well. He com- 
 
 
 plained more than usual of 
 the head-ache, and seemed to lose his 
 interest in his ordinary pursuits. His 
 mother thought it might amuse him if 
 his cousin Mary should pass a week 
 with him. Henry was delighted with 
 the proposition. He was very fond of 
 Mary, and indeed her sweetness of dis- 
 position, and desire to make every body 
 happy, rendered her a general favorite. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 59 
 
 She was a little younger thaft Henry, 
 and as he was not fond of boisterous 
 plays, her being a girl did not detract 
 from the pleasure of her company. 
 
 His mother wrote the invitation di- 
 rectly, and Henry set about arranging a 
 baby-house for her, in one corner of his 
 play-room. This house was neither 
 more nor less than a tea-chest, turned 
 on one side, and divided into four apart- 
 ments, by little blocks of wood. The 
 animals from Noah's ark were arranged 
 round the sides of the different rooms, 
 Noah and his family being promoted to 
 a place in the parlor, while the brute 
 inhabitants were consigned to the kitch- 
 en and sleeping apartment. It is true 
 that there was as yet no way of distin- 
 
60 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 guishing one room from another, and 
 Henry had thoughts of pasting up an 
 inscription to tell which was the parlor 
 and which the kitchen. But this plan 
 did not quite suit him, besides, what was 
 the use of a house without furniture. 
 
 Henry therefore asked permission of 
 his mother to expend some money which 
 had been given him, in furnishing the 
 baby-house. His mother consented, and 
 accompanied him to a toy-shop, to give 
 her advice in the important matter of 
 selection. And it was well that she did 
 so, for Henry was so distracted by the 
 variety of pretty things before him that 
 he could make no choice. 
 
 " Oh mamma ! look at this little ma- 
 hogany table, and this fire-place, and 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 61 
 
 tongs and shovel — and oh mother! see 
 these darling little cups and saucers, I 
 must buy them, mayn't I ? — wouldn't you, 
 mother ? " 
 
 "My dear, Mary has cups and sau- 
 cers." 
 
 "But not half so pretty as these." 
 
 " True, but as you cannot buy every- 
 thing you would like, will it not be bet- 
 ter to select something which she has 
 not?" 
 
 Henry acknowledged the wisdom of 
 this advice, and, with some difficulty 
 turned away his head from the cups and 
 saucers. He was next attracted by a 
 beautiful doll's bureau of mahogany; 
 but this was found to exceed his finan- 
 ces. He was able to purchase, however, 
 
 6 
 
62 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 a minature bedstead, which next struck 
 his fancy, the fire-place and its accom- 
 paniments, two chairs, two candlesticks, 
 and a doll's looking-glass. With these he 
 was satisfied, after he had escaped from 
 the dangerous vicinity of the toy-shop, 
 and now he was in so great haste to 
 reach home with his treasures, that his 
 mother could hardly keep pace with him. 
 She was glad to see him so interested 
 and happy, and glad that he was made 
 so by the hope of giving pleasure to 
 another. 
 
 "Mother, I hope you did not forget 
 to tell Mary to bring her doll in the let- 
 ter." 
 
 " I certainly did not tell her to bring 
 it in a letter," said his mother smiling. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 63 
 
 "Well mamma, you know what I 
 mean — did you tell her in the letter to 
 bring it ? " 
 
 " Yes, but I imagine the admonition 
 was quite unnecessary." 
 
 " How soon to-morrow do you think 
 she will be here, mother ? " 
 
 "I cannot tell my dear: your uncle 
 will bring her when it is most conveni- 
 ent for him. But I advise you to employ 
 yourself while you are waiting : other- 
 wise the time will seem very long." 
 
 " I know that, I found it so when I 
 was watching for you, last summer, 
 mamma; I did nothing but run back 
 and forwards from the clock to the win- 
 dow, and it seemed as if the hands of 
 the clock stood still." 
 
64 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 Acting upon this experience, Henry- 
 asked his mother for a skein of silk to 
 wind, as soon as he had finished break- 
 fast the next morning ; and he had just 
 finished it, and begun to play with the 
 baby, when his uncle and Mary arrived. 
 The former was obliged to return di- 
 rectly, and Mary was led into the house 
 in triumph by Henry. He had no need 
 to ask if she had brought her doll, as 
 the said young lady, carefully enveloped 
 in cloaks and shawls, (though it was 
 almost July,) was visible in her arms. 
 Henry would have liked to conduct 
 them immediately to the doll's resi- 
 dence, but he had the forbearance to 
 wait till Mary had delivered all the 
 messages with which she had been en- 
 
Mary was led into the house in triumph by Henry. p. 64. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 67 
 
 trusted by her mother, answered all her 
 aunt's questions, admired the white mice 
 for a quarter of an hour, and talked to 
 little Helen for the same length of time. 
 As she had no presentiment of what 
 was in store for her, it cannot be suppo- 
 sed that this time appeared as long to 
 her, as it did to her impatient cousin. 
 However, when she at length turned to 
 the doll, and began to disrobe her of 
 some of her outward garments, Henry 
 thought the proper moment had arrived, 
 and proposed that they should adjourn 
 to his play -room. Mary, not at all 
 averse to the proposition, took his offer- 
 ed hand, and off they went. 
 
 " How strange it seems to be in the 
 city again," said she ; " and to hear the 
 
68 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 carriages and all the noise ; it is so still 
 in the country." 
 
 " How are your chickens ? " asked 
 Henry. 
 
 " Oh they are very well, I thank you; 
 they have grown larger since you were 
 there, and I have some more. I was 
 sorry to leave them, but I wanted to see 
 you so much, and Fanny promised to 
 take care of them, and she is going to 
 write to me too, and tell me how they 
 do." 
 
 By this time they had reached Hen- 
 ry's room, and he led her to the won- 
 derful corner. " Why, whose are all 
 these ? yours, Henry ? — but you don't 
 play with dolls :" she was beginning to 
 say, when looking at his smiling and 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 69 
 
 significant face, " Oh I know ! what a 
 darling you are ! you are the best cous- 
 in in the world, and where did you get 
 them all?" 
 
 The little girl then entered into a de- 
 tailed examination of the various pieces 
 of furniture, commenting on each, and 
 expressing her delight, very much to 
 that of Henry who stood watching her. 
 The bedstead especially pleased her, 
 and she wished it was time for the doll 
 to go to bed, that she might put her in 
 it. 
 
 After they had become tired of play, 
 books and pictures amused them for the 
 rest of the afternoon. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FTER dinner Mary produced 
 a bag containing some patch- 
 work, and all the necessary 
 implements for sewing. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Mary ? " 
 inquired Henry. " Mamma wished me 
 to sew at least one hour every day," re- 
 plied the little girl. "So what will you 
 do in the mean time, Henry ? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Henry. "I 
 wish mamma was not busy and she 
 would talk to us." 
 
 "So do I. But I know what I should 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 71 
 
 like, if you would, and that is to have 
 you read to me ; I love dearly to have 
 somebody read aloud when I am at 
 work." 
 
 " Henry was sure to like reading in 
 any shape, so after some discussion as 
 to the book, " Rosamond " was fixed 
 upon. The hour passed very quickly in 
 reading and work, and then another 
 was divided between the mice and lit- 
 tle Helen. Henry's mamma next pro- 
 posed that they should walk with her 
 — a proposition gladly acceded to by 
 both. The walk proved very pleasant; 
 and when they returned, tea was ready. 
 
 After tea, Henry placed a chair for 
 his mother, where she could see the sun 
 when it should set, and one on each 
 
72 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 side of her, for Mary and himself It 
 was the hour commonly devoted to con- 
 versation, but no one seemed disposed 
 to talk, for a while. They sat, silent, 
 looking at the beautiful sky, and rich 
 clouds, and the sun just about to set. 
 
 Henry first broke silence. " How 
 beautiful it is ! " said he, " and what a 
 different feeling there is about morning 
 and evening. Even the sun does not 
 seem the same as he did in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Can you describe the difference ? " 
 said his mother. 
 
 " No mother, not very well ; but in 
 the morning we feel bright, and active, 
 and bustling, and every thing about us 
 seems so too ; and at night every thing 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 73 
 
 looks and feels still, and we want to be 
 still ; and there is a sort of melancholy 
 feeling about evening too — not exactly 
 melancholy either, mamma ; it is a feel- 
 ing which I like very much, it makes 
 me want to hear poetry. I wish you 
 would repeat some, mother." 
 His mother began : 
 
 " That setting sun — that setting sun ! 
 What scenes since first its race began ; 
 Of varied hue, its eye hath seen, 
 Which are as they had never been. 
 
 That setting sun ! full many a gaze 
 Hath dwelt upon its fading rays, 
 With sweet according thought sublime, 
 In every age, in every clime ! 
 
 'Tis sweet to mark thee sinking slow 
 The ocean's fabled caves below ; 
 And when the obscuring night is done, 
 To see thee rise, sweet setting sun. 
 
 7 
 
74 HENRY LAXGDON. 
 
 So when my pulses cease to play, 
 Serenely close my evening ray. 
 To rise again, death's slumber done, 
 Glorious like thee, sweet setting sun ! " 
 
 As this was not enough to satisfy 
 Henry, his mother went to the book- 
 case, and took down Milton. She read 
 him some extracts from different parts, 
 and both the children listened with a 
 quick but pleased attention. " How 
 much pleasure we should lose," said 
 she, as she closed the book, " were it 
 not for the alternations of day and night. 
 Morning and night — ' bright dawn, and 
 thoughtful eve,' each has its peculiar 
 character and its peculiar charms. If 
 God had given us one eternal, and un- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 75 
 
 varied day, we should have been de- 
 prived of these pleasures." 
 
 " Sure enough mamma, I never 
 thought of that before. And I have just 
 remembered a verse in the Bible, about 
 the morning sun. It is in the Psalm 
 which you gave me to learn, Sabbath 
 before last. It says, he is like a bride- 
 groom, coming out of his chamber, and 
 rejoiceth like a strong man to run a 
 race. That is exactly the way he seems 
 to me, in the morning. Are there any 
 descriptions of evening in the Bible, 
 mother ? " 
 
 His mother in reply, read to him some 
 verses from the 104th Psalm, and from 
 the book of Job, which referred how- 
 ever, she observed, rather to night than 
 
76 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 to evening. It was now dark, and time 
 for the children to go to bed. " And I 
 will give you this verse to think of, my 
 dear children/' said Henry's mother, as 
 he gave her the accustomed kiss, ' I will 
 lay me down in peace and sleep, for 
 thou Lord only makest me to dwell in 
 safety. 5 .' 5 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HE next clay as soon as dinner 
 was over, Mary was again 
 ready with her work, and sta- 
 tioned herself by her aunt's side. 
 
 " I am glad you are working, too, 
 aunt," said she, "it is so much plea- 
 santer to have somebody sewing with 
 you." 
 
 Henry was looking wistfully at the 
 two workers. " I wish I knew how to 
 sew," said he. 
 
 Mary laughingly offered to teach him. 
 

 78 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " But how funny it would be for a 
 boy to sew." 
 
 " Some boys do sew/' said bis mo- 
 ther. 
 
 " Yes, very little boys. I used to sew 
 when I was little — don't you remember 
 mother ? " 
 
 " I remember you used to do some- 
 thing with a needle and thread which 
 you called sewing." 
 
 Henry and Mary both laughed, and 
 then Henry yawned for the fourth time 
 since dinner, stretched his legs and 
 arms in a strange manner, and went to 
 look at his mice. 
 
 " I wish my mice were rabbits," said 
 he. 
 
 " You seem to have a great many 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 79 
 
 wishes, this afternoon/' observed his 
 mother. "But that is always the case 
 with idle people, I believe. What put 
 this last wish into your head ? " 
 
 " I don't know, mamma, I believe it 
 was reading about the rabbits yesterday 
 in Rosamond." 
 
 " I think Rosamond was very good 
 and patient about her laburnums," said 
 Mary. 
 
 " So do I ; I don't believe I should 
 have been so patient; I remember I 
 was provoked enough with the mouse 
 who gnawed my Robinson Crusoe — did 
 I ever tell you about it Mary ? He 
 gnawed the binding, and ever so many 
 of the leaves." 
 
 " Did he ? — no you never told me." 
 
80 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " You say with the mouse, Henry ; 
 did you know what mouse it was ? " 
 asked his mother. 
 
 " No, mamma, but it must have been 
 some mouse, I suppose." 
 
 " And what do you conjecture was 
 his motive for spoiling your book ? " 
 
 " I don't suppose he had any, mam- 
 ma," said Henry, laughing ; he eat be- 
 cause he was hungry, I suppose." 
 
 " And is it a crime to eat when one 
 is hungry ? " 
 
 " What funny questions you ask, to- 
 day mother. I don't suppose it is if 
 people eat their own things, and not 
 other folk's books. But then I did not 
 mean that the mouse was really to 
 blame, because he didn't know any 
 
HENRY LANGD0N. 81 
 
 better; only you know, mother, we 
 often feel a little angry with such crea- 
 tures, even if they don't know any bet- 
 ter, just as we do with a table when 
 we bump our heads against it, or with 
 a stone when we hit our feet." 
 
 " We ? " said his mother, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, I don't suppose you do, mamma, 
 but I do, and I think it is very hard to 
 help it, when one is hurt. Don't you, 
 Mary?" 
 
 Mary agreed that it was rather hard. 
 
 " But, Henry," said his mother, you 
 say the mouse did not know any better; 
 what do you mean by that ? " 
 
 " Why, mamma, I mean that he did 
 not know that it was wrong." 
 
82 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Is there any thing that he does 
 know to be wrong ? " 
 
 " No, mother, he does not know that 
 there is any such thing as right or 
 wrong/'' 
 
 " Very true, Henry. He not only 
 does not know the meaning of those 
 words, but he has not any ideas, or 
 thoughts corresponding to them. This 
 is another great difference between you 
 and him, is it not ? " 
 
 " Yes, mamma ; I have known what 
 right and wrong mean ever since I can 
 remember." 
 
 " And when you have done any thing, 
 is it in your power to refrain from think- 
 ing whether it is right or wrong ? Can 
 you help deciding that it is one or the 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 83 
 
 other, and feeling happy or unhappy in 
 consequence." 
 
 " No, mother, I believe not — I am 
 sure not; for sometimes when I have 
 done wrong, I have tried very hard to 
 make the unhappy feeling go away, and 
 it would not!" 
 
 " Do you think the feeling caused by 
 a sense of having done wrong, is as bad 
 as bodily pain ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, mother, a great deal 
 worse, sometimes ; it is just like a great 
 load pressing upon my heart." 
 
 " So it is," said Mary, " exactly. 
 Father told me that it is called remorse ; 
 and that sometimes men have suffered 
 much from it, that they have killed 
 themselves." 
 
84 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Poor creatures ! " said Henry. 
 
 " And father said it was very foolish, 
 besides being wicked, because they will 
 feel remorse just as much, and a great 
 deal more in the other world." 
 
 " Foolish, indeed ! " said her aunt. 
 " Conscience, which, inflicts the pain of 
 remorse, will live forever. But to go 
 back to the mouse. Do you suppose, 
 Henry, that if he knew the difference 
 between right and wrong, he would be 
 to blame for not doing right, and would 
 feel remorse for it, as you do V 3 
 
 " Yes, mother ; I should think so." 
 
 "Suppose a giant should put a knife 
 into your hand and then take your hand 
 and force you to plunge the knife into a 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 85 
 
 man's breast and kill him, would you 
 be to blame at all, for the act ?" 
 
 "No, mother, because I could not 
 help it." 
 
 "Then you see that in order to 
 constitute guilt, there is something else 
 necessary besides conscience ; there 
 must be a will — the power to choose right 
 or wrong." 
 
 " But, mamma, I should think the 
 mouse has a will ; he does just what he 
 has a mind to." 
 
 " That is, he follows his instinct, his 
 appetites and desires ; but he has 
 nothing like a will, in the proper sense 
 of that word. If he had, you could pre- 
 sent motives to him, and he could weigh 
 them, and decide between them." 
 
86 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 "Yes, I see now mamma. Then 
 when I am hesitating whether to do 
 something or not, and finally conclude to 
 do it, is it my will that decides ?" 
 
 " Yes ; the will lies at the foundation 
 of our whole character. You can see 
 too how closely it is connected with 
 conscience. What would be the use of 
 having a conscience to tell us what is 
 right and what wrong, if we had not a 
 will, by which we might choose the 
 right ? And what would be the use of 
 a will to choose, if we did not know any 
 thing worth choosing ? The two toge- 
 ther constitute our moral nature, and the 
 greatest difference between us and the 
 brutes." 
 
 " There is a great deal more differ- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 87 
 
 ence between us and them than I 
 thought there was when we began to 
 talk, mamma. I am very glad that I 
 am a man — a boy at least, and not a 
 mouse." 
 
 " And well may you be glad, my dear 
 son. For this moral nature of yours 
 may be so improved and perfected that 
 you shall become equal to the angels, 
 and like to God himself. It may go on 
 expanding forever, and ascending to 
 higher degrees of holiness and happi- 
 ness, while the mouse, even if he should 
 live forever, would be no wiser or better 
 at the end of millions of ages than now." 
 
 " That is the reason, I dare say, why 
 he will not live forever, and we shall. 
 How plain every thing seems ; and how 
 
88 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 every thing fits together, doesn't it 
 mother. I mean, it seems so natural 
 and right that we should live forever, 
 that we do not need the Bihle to tell us 
 so; I should think we could not help 
 believing it." 
 
 " Yes, Henry; every thing in the soul 
 of man shows that it was meant for 
 immortality. God has not created such 
 a wonderful nature, with such wonder- 
 ful powers of progression to perish in a 
 day." 
 
 " Mother, you can't think how many 
 thoughts are coming into, my mind — it 
 almost frightens me when I say over, 
 forever and ever, and think that I shall 
 live so long." 
 
 His mother did not reply ; she thought 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 89 
 
 it best to leave him to the influence of 
 such reflections. He sat silent for some 
 time, but was roused by Mary's putting 
 up her work, and they went up stairs 
 together. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 pQjOTHER," said Henry, 
 
 ^■^-^^ afraid I have found out 
 the answer to my question, which I 
 asked you the other day, and I am ever 
 so much disappointed." 
 
 " Disappointed, Henry ! I thought 
 you wanted to find it out." 
 
 " Yes, but if it is what I think it is, I 
 knew before ; I have known ever since 
 I can remember, almost." 
 
 " Then if you knew before, why did 
 you ask ?" 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 91 
 
 " Because mamma — it is strange — 
 but I knew, and yet I did not know. I 
 had heard it said, and said it myself ever 
 so many times, but I did not think what 
 it meant, and when that strange feeling 
 came of wondering what I was for, it 
 seemed as if I did not know any thing 
 about it." 
 
 "And why are you disappointed to 
 find that you do know ?" 
 
 "Because I thought it was going to 
 be something quite different. I thought 
 that as soon as you told me, I should 
 see in a minute, that it must be so, as 
 plain as I saw what animals are made 
 for." 
 
 " Well, don't you find it so ? " 
 
 " No indeed, mamma, I don't see why 
 
92 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 we were made for that, more than for 
 any thing else." 
 
 " All this time you have not told me 
 
 what that is, which you have always 
 
 known to be the end of your creation." 
 
 " Because I am not certain yet, 
 
 mamma, that what I think of, is the same 
 
 that you are going to tell me ; so I 
 
 would rather not tell you, if you please." 
 
 " Very well, my dear ; I can wait." 
 
 " But I will tell you another thing I 
 
 have thought mamma, and that is the 
 
 reason why you expect that telling me 
 
 about the difference between us and the 
 
 other animals, will help me to find out 
 
 what I am made for." 
 
 " Well, Avhat is the reason ? " 
 
 " Because if there is so much differ- 
 
HENRY LANGDOJV. 93 
 
 euce between us and them, in our — 
 our—" 
 
 " Natures and capacities ? " 
 
 " Yes mother ; — there must be just as 
 much difference in what we were made 
 for. I can't say what I want to, at all, 
 mother." 
 
 "No matter, my dear; I understand 
 you, and you are right. There are two 
 ways in which we judge of the end for 
 which any creature is made. First, by 
 that of which it is capable ; and, secondly, 
 by that which makes it happy. If God 
 gives an animal certain powers and 
 faculties, we conclude that it was meant 
 to exercise those faculties. And if he 
 so constitutes it that certain things are 
 necessary for its happiness, we conclude 
 
94 HENRY LANGDQN. 
 
 that it was made to enjoy those things." 
 " Yes mamma, that seems very plain." 
 "Now in our conversations I have 
 begun to show you, or rather have 
 helped you to find out for yourself, what 
 you are capable of. You have found 
 that you are capable of knowing your- 
 self, of knowing right and wrong, and of 
 choosing right." 
 
 " Yes, and that in all this I am better 
 off, than mice and such creatures. And 
 now, mother, won't you go on and tell 
 me some more ? " 
 
 a Yes, if it will interest Mary; you 
 
 should think of what will please her." 
 
 "Oh! that will please me, aunt," 
 
 said Mary, " I love dearly to have you 
 
 talk while I am at work." 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 95 
 
 " So, mamma, please begin." 
 
 " I want you to begin, Henry ; you 
 ought to be able to tell me what else 
 you know which brutes — which your 
 mouse for instance, does not know and 
 cannot be taught." 
 
 Henry considered a moment. " You 
 do not mean knowing how to do things, 
 mother, but understanding about them, 
 just as you meant about right and 
 wrong ? " 
 
 "Yes, certainly." 
 
 "Well, mamma, I can't think. All 
 the things round him, he can know some- 
 thing about." 
 
 " Yes, for he has senses as well as 
 you ; therefore you must not look among 
 the objects of sense." 
 
96 HENRY LANG DON. 
 
 " What other things are there ? — oh ! 
 spirits ; I know myself, and I am a 
 spirit, and — oh, yes ! I see what you 
 mean, mamma; I can know G-od, and 
 the mouse cannot. Is that what you 
 meant ? " 
 
 " Yes, Henry. This is the third and 
 last particular which I was going to 
 name to yon, in which you are superior 
 to the brute creation. You know who 
 made you; you are able to understand 
 his character, to study his perfections, 
 to know and obey his will. You can 
 trace the proofs of his wisdom and good- 
 ness, in the things which he has made, 
 and in the daily events of his provi- 
 dence ; and can contemplate, in his 
 word, the brightest display of his per- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 97 
 
 fections, in the person of Jesus Christ." 
 
 After a few moments silence, Henry 
 replied : 
 
 "Mamma, I almost wish I did not 
 know any thing about God." 
 ■ " What can you mean, Henry ? " 
 
 "Because, mamma, I should like to 
 see how it would seem, if I should hear 
 about him for the first time. You know 
 when we get used to any thing, we 
 don't care much about it; and I have 
 always been used to hearing about 
 God." 
 
 " So have the angels always known 
 God, but do you suppose that they are 
 tired of looking at his character on that 
 account, or that their interest is at all 
 
 diminished ? " 
 
 9 
 
98 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Oh ! no, mamma, but then that is 
 different ? " 
 
 " How, different ? " 
 
 " Oh ! angels are so holy, you know." 
 
 " Very true, Henry, that is the differ- 
 ence. For though we may get tired of 
 a subject which is limited, which can 
 be fully comprehended, because it is the 
 nature of the mind to be dissatisfied 
 with every thing finite, yet this cannot 
 apply to God, who is infinite. Men and 
 angels may study his perfections for 
 millions of ages, and there is still as 
 much left to study as when they began. 
 Therefore it must be the fault of our 
 hearts — it must be because we do not 
 love God, if we do not feel interested in 
 his character." 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 99 
 
 "I wonder whether I should ever 
 have found out any thing about God, if 
 I had never seen the Bible, and if you 
 and father had never told me any thing 
 about Him. Don't you think I should, 
 mother ? because I should have known 
 that somebody must have made me ? I 
 dare say if the animals could think 
 about themselves, they would think 
 something about God — I mean about 
 some sort of God — don't you think so, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 "It seems hardly possible that man 
 should look into his own soul, without 
 finding there some proof of a God ; and 
 besides, there is the world around him, 
 full of God. ' The invisible things of 
 Him,' in his perfections are clearly seen, 
 
100 HENRY LANGDOJV. 
 
 being understood by the things that are 
 made. But this is supposing man to be 
 holy, for in his present state his mind is 
 so clouded by sin, as to be incapable of 
 discerning these things." 
 
 "That is the reason the heathen do 
 not find out about God/ 1 suppose ?" 
 
 " Man is more exalted by this capa- 
 city for knowing God, than by any of 
 his other faculties. It implies some 
 degree of likeness to God, for we can- 
 not know that which is entirely foreign 
 to. us. And here too you may see the 
 use of man's immortality." 
 
 " Then that is one thing we are made 
 for, isn't it ? I was thinking yesterday 
 that it must be something that will last ; 
 it cannot be anything about this world, 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 103 
 
 for then it would not live so long as we 
 shall. And now I will tell you, mamma, 
 what it was that I meant, the other day, 
 which I said I had always known. It 
 was the first question of the Catechism, 
 What is the chief end of man ? Isn't it 
 strange that I should have said that over 
 so many times, and never thought what 
 it meant ? But after all, I am disap- 
 pointed" 
 
 "Why, my dear?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, mamma; it 
 doesn't seem so plain as I thought it 
 would." 
 
 "I hope it ivill seem plain to you, 
 some time or other, my dear boy. It 
 certainly will, if you begin to love God, 
 for then you will feel that this is exactly 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 S>fl|T must not be supposed that the 
 Ji"|B conversations we have narrated 
 F were the only ones that passed 
 between Henry and his mother. She 
 often talked with him about his soul, 
 and the necessity of a new heart, if he 
 would be happy forever ; and very often 
 did she pray for him and with him, that 
 the Spirit of God might incline him to 
 love the Savior. Henry always listened 
 with attention, but without any particu- 
 lar concern. For the last few days, 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 105 
 
 however, he had not been entirely free 
 from uneasy thoughts respecting himself 
 Something seemed to whisper to him 
 that he could never be saved with his 
 present character; that he needed a 
 new heart, and that it was dangerous 
 to put off repentance when he knew not 
 how soon he might die. He did not 
 encourage these thoughts because they 
 made him unhappy, and Mary's society 
 helped him to banish them. 
 
 At length the last day of her visit 
 came, and William and Fanny were sent 
 for to pass it with them. Henry antici- 
 pated a great deal of pleasure on this 
 day; he had a great many things to 
 show his cousins — among others, his 
 mice, which they had never seen. He 
 
106 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 and Mary were up very early on the 
 eargerly expected morning, making 
 their preparations. Mrs. L. had pro- 
 mised that if the weather should prove 
 pleasant, they should have a little colla- 
 tion prepared in the arbor ; and the 
 children determined to put in requisition 
 all their ingenuity to keep their visiters 
 away from this arbor, till the appointed 
 time. 
 
 The day was pleasant, as Mary per- 
 ceived the moment she opened her 
 eyes; and before she was half dressed 
 Henry knocked at her door to ask if she 
 was up, and if she was not glad of the 
 beautiful day. • They had time to make 
 all their arrangements before breakfast, 
 and during breakfast, nothing was 
 

 Oh ! Henry ! what is the matter 1 oh dear ! dear ! " p. 107. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 107 
 
 talked of but expected pleasures. 
 Henry, it is true, was not without appre- 
 hensions that one of his dreaded head- 
 aches was coming on, as he felt some 
 symptoms of it, but he hoped not. 
 
 He finished his breakfast, and was 
 collecting some crumbs of bread for his 
 mice, when Mary who had gone to the 
 cage, screamed out, " Oh ! Henry ! 
 what is the matter ? oh dear ! dear !" 
 Henry ran — both the mice were ex- 
 tended lifeless on the bottom of the 
 cage. He looked stupified with horror, 
 then hoped for a moment that they were 
 not dead, — he touched one — it was c#ld. 
 He was ashamed that his mother and 
 Mary should see him cry, and yet he 
 could not restrain himself. He ran out 
 
110 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 of the room, up stairs, locked the door 
 of his room, and throwing himself, face 
 downwards, on the bed, burst into an 
 agony of tears. Mary was crying too ; 
 she wished to follow Henry and try to 
 console him, but her aunt advised her 
 not. "It is best to leave him alone, 
 dear; he will feel better directly." She 
 then endeavored to ascertain the cause 
 of the misfortune, but in vain. It did 
 not appear that the mice had been fed 
 with any thing unusual, nor was any 
 other probable cause of their death to be 
 assigned. 
 
 After waiting some time and finding 
 that Henry did not come down, his 
 mother went to his room. He had been 
 trying in vain to conquer his grief so far 
 
HENRY LANGDON. Ill 
 
 as to be able to go down stairs ; but 
 whenever he supposed he had suc- 
 ceeded, a new thought of his misfortune 
 would cause the tears to break forth 
 afresh. When he heard his mother's 
 knock, he wiped his eyes hastily, endea- 
 vored to look calm and opened the door. 
 But the first glance at her tender, sym- 
 pathising face, overcame his firmness, 
 and he sobbed aloud. His mother put 
 her arms around him, but did not speak ; 
 at last, in a voice interrupted by sobs, 
 he said, 
 
 " I know — you — you think me very — 
 very silly, mamma — but — " 
 
 " No, my dear child, not in the least 
 silly ; I know how hard such a thing is 
 
112 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 to bear. At your age I should have 
 felt it as acutely as you do." 
 
 Henry was comforted by this assu- 
 rance, and in a few minutes he became 
 more composed. 
 
 " It seems as if it would not be half 
 so hard to bear, if it had come any other 
 day, but just to-day, when I expected" 
 — his lip quivered and he could not 
 go on. 
 
 " When you expected to be so happy. 
 Yes, dear, this does make it harder; 
 but you must try to bear it with as 
 much fortitude as you can, for your 
 cousins' sake." 
 
 " I know it, mamma, I am afraid I 
 shall spoil all their pleasure, for I cannot 
 be happy if I try ever so hard. I do 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 113 
 
 not care for any thing now, I wish I 
 could stay alone all day." 
 
 " Try, my dear boy, to do what will 
 make others happy, and think as little 
 of yourself as possible. This is the best 
 remedy for sorrow I know of. And 
 remember that this did not happen by 
 chance; even the smallest events are 
 ordered by God, and perhaps he in- 
 tended to teach you a lesson by it." 
 
 Henry was silent a moment ; then he 
 said, 
 
 " Mamma, how do you suppose it 
 happened ? What made them die ? " 
 
 " I do not know, my dear. What did 
 you give them to eat, yesterday ? " 
 
 Henry had given them nothing but 
 what he did every day, as well as he 
 
114 HENRY LANGD0JY. 
 
 could remember, and the subject con- 
 tinued to be a mystery ever after. 
 
 However, he felt so much relieved by 
 this conversation, that he was able to go 
 down stairs, to Mary, who was anxiously 
 waiting for him, with a tolerably cheer- 
 ful countenance. They mourned toge- 
 ther and wondered together, till William 
 and Fanny arrived, and then the con- 
 dolences and wonder were repeated. 
 However, they could not talk forever of 
 one subject, and as the new coiners had 
 much to tell, cheerfulness was soon re- 
 stored, and the various plans of amuse- 
 ment which had been devised were put 
 into execution. 
 
 After dinner they all set off on a walk, 
 and William bought for Henry a beauti- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 115 
 
 fill knife with two blades. During this 
 walk Mrs. L. had prepared the repast, 
 and soon after their return they ad- 
 journed to the garden. Those who 
 were in the secret, as if by accident, 
 directed the steps of their unconscious 
 companions to the spot where all the 
 glories of the feast were to burst upon 
 them at once. They manifested as 
 much surprise and pleasure as had been 
 expected ; Mary and Henry did the 
 honors with great propriety, and all ter- 
 minated to their satisfaction. But ah ! 
 just as they had finished, and before 
 they were half ready to separate, uncle 
 John had come to take home his chil- 
 dren. Henry found it very hard to part 
 from Mary. His grief of the morning 
 
116 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 was renewed, the temporary excitement 
 of their visit passed away as soon as 
 they were gone, and he told his mother 
 that he felt as desolate as if he had 
 nothing left. The moment he had said 
 this, he felt afraid that his mother would 
 think he had forgotten or undervalued 
 her affection. 
 
 " I don't forget you, dear mother," he 
 said, " who are better than a thousand 
 mice, or even cousins." 
 
 "And your dear father, and little 
 Helen," said his mother. 
 
 " Yes mamma, I know I ought not to 
 be unhappy, when I have so many 
 things ; but somehow I can't help it ;" 
 and he hid his face in his mother's lap. 
 
 She stroked his head affectionately. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 117 
 
 'You did not know how much you 
 (oved your mice before, did you ? " 
 
 "No indeed, mamma. I shall be 
 afraid ever to love any thing again ;" 
 added he mournfully. 
 
 " It is indeed dangerous, my dear boy, 
 to love very ardently any thing in this 
 world for all is perishable. But there 
 is one object that will endure — you 
 need not be afraid to love Christ, 
 Henry ; he will never die, never forsake 
 you." 
 
 " I wish I did love him," said Henry 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " And what is to prevent you, my 
 dear, dear boy ? Why can you not this 
 moment begin to love so precious a 
 Savior ? " 
 
118 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 Henry did not reply — his heart was 
 sad, and he wished to be alone. He 
 therefore bade his mother good night 
 and went to bed. But he could not 
 sleep. His mother's last words fol- 
 lowed him. "Why should I not love 
 Christ 1 " he continually asked himself. 
 He tried to pray, but all looked dark 
 and cheerless, and he seemed to be 
 speaking into the air. At last, he fell 
 into an unquiet slumber. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 gvg^HE next morning when Henry 
 ^fjBj awo ^ e ne had a confused 
 ^ feeling that something dis- 
 agreeable had happened the preceding 
 day, without recollecting what it was. 
 In a moment he remembered that he 
 had lost his mice and that Mary was 
 gone ; and then his mother's words and 
 his own unhappy feelings the night 
 before recurred to him. 
 
 " Oh dear ! I wish I knew what is to 
 become of me/' thought he ; " I wish I 
 
120 HEXRY LANGDON. 
 
 knew whether I shall be miserable for- 
 ever." 
 
 He dressed himself and went down 
 stairs; his mother was there and they 
 sat down to breakfast. He tried to eat 
 but could not ; there was a sickness, a 
 load at his heart, that he could not get 
 rid of, and he longed to tell his mother, 
 but something kept him back. She 
 looked at him tenderly, but did not say 
 anything. After breakfast, she was 
 occupied for a time, as usual, with 
 various domestic concerns, and Henry 
 was left alone. The moment his mother 
 was out of the room, it seemed easy 
 enough to tell her, and he wondered 
 why he had hesitated so long. He for- 
 got that his mother could give him no 
 
HENRY LANGD0N. 121 
 
 relief so long as he refused to admit the 
 Savior into his heart, and determining to 
 tell her all his feelings as soon as she 
 should come in, he endeavored in the 
 mean time to amuse himself with read- 
 ing. But this effort was vain. The 
 Holy Spirit who had begun to strive 
 with him, would not he so repulsed. 
 His eyes were fixed on the book, but 
 his mind was disquieted with apprehen- 
 sions, and he could think of nothing 
 but the wrath of God. He threw away 
 his book and took the Bible, but every 
 verse seemed to be a sentence of con- 
 demnation against him. 
 
 At length a hurried knock was heard 
 at the door ; it was a messenger to say 
 
 that William Barclay, whose parents 
 11 
 
122 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 lived next door, had just been drown- 
 ed ; that his mother was almost dis- 
 tracted and begged that Mrs. L. would 
 come to her directly. William Barclay 
 drowned ! He was Henry's friend, had 
 been his school-fellow; he had seen 
 him well and happy a week before. 
 Mrs. L. went immediately, giving Henry 
 only one look of admonition, concern 
 and love, which he well understood, but 
 which was unnecessary, to increase the 
 impression already made upon him. 
 His heart was full almost to bursting. 
 His mother too gone, just when he 
 needed her most ; it seemed as if she 
 would certainly be able to give him 
 some relief; she would at least tell him 
 what to do. " But don't I know what 
 
HENRY LANGDOJV. 123 
 
 she would tell me ? " he said to himself. 
 "She would tell me to go to Christ. 
 Oh if I could !— if I knew how !" He 
 threw himself on the floor and groaned 
 and sobbed aloud. "Oh God, have 
 mercy upon me ! I am a poor sinful 
 child — have mercy upon me ! " this was 
 all he could say. For half an hour he 
 lay in this distress ; all the sins of his 
 life seemed to come up before him — 
 faults that he had committed when he 
 was a very little boy, and which he had 
 quite forgotten. In particular, he re- 
 membered a lie which he had told when 
 he was four years old, and it pressed 
 upon him with an inconceivable weight. 
 But above all, the sin of having rejected 
 Christ, began to look blacker than any 
 
124 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 other. He could not but wonder at his 
 own perverseness in refusing to accept 
 a Savior already provided for him. 
 " And it is so ungrateful, when he had 
 died to save me !" thought he, and the 
 thought sent a fresh gush of tears to his 
 eyes. And those were the first tears of 
 real penitence he had ever shed. Yes, 
 at that moment the first emotion of love 
 to Christ, of gratitude for his goodness, 
 of true sorrow for sin, was awakened in 
 his heart. But he did not know it. He 
 still lay upon the carpet, weeping, but 
 his tears were not now hard and bitter, 
 like those he had just shed. There was 
 a sweetness mingled with them. He 
 did not at first notice this change in his 
 feelings, because he was not now think- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 125 
 
 ing of himself but of Christ. The love 
 of the Savior in dying for him seemed so 
 wonderful that he could think of nothing- 
 else. It was not till the recollection of 
 William came again, and with that, the 
 thought of his own distress an hour 
 before, followed by the wonder why he 
 was not distressed now, and then the 
 sweet feeling that Christ would take 
 care of his soul — that he began to see 
 that his feelings had changed. " Do I 
 really love Christ; oh, why did I not 
 love him sooner ? " — and then followed 
 a new outpouring of love and gratitude. 
 How he longed for his mother's return. 
 Yet when he remembered on what 
 errand she was gone, he would not 
 allow himself to wish for her, he thought 
 
126 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 with compassion of poor Mrs. Barclay, 
 and when he compared William's fate 
 with his own situation, he was lost in 
 thankfulness. 
 
 At last his mother came, looking very- 
 sad and weary. Henry could not 
 speak, but threw himself into her arms. 
 She saw that he had been weeping and 
 yet looked happy. After returning his 
 kiss, she held him off that she might 
 look in his face, and read its expression. 
 Henry understood her inquiring look. 
 He could restrain himself no longer. 
 " Oh ! mother, Christ is so — so pre- 
 cious," he sobbed out. 
 
 He needed not to say more — he 
 was understood. With unutterable joy 
 his mother saw that her daily and 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 127 
 
 nightly prayer was answered, and her 
 tears of thankfulness mingled with those 
 of her son. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 will be supposed that the 
 change in Henry's feelings, which 
 we have described imparted a 
 new interest to his conversations with 
 his mother. During the remainder of 
 the day they talked much on the sub- 
 ject which was now most interesting to 
 Henry — the love of Christ. 
 
 " If I had been allowed to choose a 
 Savior for myself, mamma," said he, 
 " to imagine just such a one as I needed, 
 he would have been just like Christ. 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 129 
 
 He is exactly such a Savior as we need, 
 isn't he?" 
 
 " He is indeed, my dear boy. In him 
 dwells all the fulness of the Godhead ; 
 he is the very brightness of the Father's 
 glory, and yet he is our Friend and 
 Brother." 
 
 "Mamma, I can't love him half 
 enough ; it seems as if my heart ached, 
 wanting to love him more." 
 
 " Your heart will grow larger in 
 heaven, and you will love him more." 
 
 " Yes mother, how sweet it is to think 
 of that. And how strange it is that I 
 have been so blind all my life. Only 
 two or three days ago you know I told 
 you mother, that I did not see why we 
 were made to find our happiness in God, 
 
130 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 more than anything else. And I could 
 not think how there could be any plea- 
 sure in living with him forever, and 
 praising him. Oh how different it looks 
 now ! " 
 
 " Don't you think now, that the soul 
 of man shows as plainly that it was 
 made for God, as the natures and capa- 
 cities of brutes show that they were 
 designed only for the use of man ? " 
 
 " Yes mother, but I wish you would 
 talk to me about it, just as you were 
 going to before, just as you promised to, 
 when Mary was here." 
 
 "Very willingly, my dear; it is a 
 delightful subject and one I love to talk 
 about. And in the first place I wish 
 you would tell me whether you ever 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 131 
 
 had any thing, or enjoyed any thing, 
 which made you perfectly happy, so 
 happy that you had nothing left to 
 desire." 
 
 "No mamma, I don't think I ever 
 had. I have often thought that I should 
 be perfectly happy if I could have or 
 do a particular thing ; but when it came 
 there was always something bad, mixed 
 with it, which I did not expect. Or 
 even if it was all just the same, it did 
 not make me so happy, but what I could 
 think of something better." 
 
 "You will find this to be more and 
 more true as you grow older. There is 
 no earthly pleasure without alloy, some- 
 thing bad mixed with it, and this is the 
 reason why our souls are not satisfied 
 
132 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 with it. For our souls are so made that 
 they can he satisfied with nothing vjhich is 
 not perfect. The least blemish or imper- 
 fection, diminishes, if it does not wholly 
 destroy our pleasure. Do you under- 
 stand this ? " 
 
 "Yes mother, very well. I know it 
 is so about my books and pictures, and 
 even about persons ; boys and girls, that 
 I play with : if they have the least bad 
 thing about them, it spoils half my plea- 
 sure." 
 
 "This is the first thing then which 
 shows us that our souls -are made for 
 God, since He is the only perfect Being or 
 object in the universe. He is absolutely 
 without spot or blemish, and all created 
 goodness is but a faint shadow of his, 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 133 
 
 and would cease to exist, if he should 
 cease." 
 
 " Just as light would cease if the sun 
 was taken away, isn't it mamma ? I 
 see now why God is called a Sun." 
 
 " Yes, and you can see why God 
 ought to be loved more than all other 
 beings, since he is the source of all that 
 is lovely and excellent in them. But to 
 go on to another point. Although you 
 have never met w r ith any thing abso- 
 lutely perfect, yet you have found things 
 which have made you tolerably happy 
 for a time. Now when you found such 
 a thing why did you not keep it, that it 
 might make you happy always ? " 
 
 "I don't know exactly what you 
 mean, mother." 
 
 12 
 
134 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Well, just tell me some of the 
 things which have ever made you 
 happy." 
 
 "There are so many I hardly know 
 where to begin. Reading pretty books 
 has made me happy, and playing with 
 Helen, and with Rover, and my mice, 
 when I had them, and my cousins, and 
 walking with you, mamma, and with 
 papa, and riding, and hearing the birds 
 sing, and" — 
 
 "Well that will do. Playing with 
 Rover, you say is one thing that gives 
 you pleasure ; — then why don't you play 
 with him all the time, so as to be sure 
 of being happy all the time ?" 
 
 "Oh, but mother," said Henry in a 
 tone of wonder, " it wouldn't make me 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 135 
 
 happy to play with him all the time, not 
 by a great deal ; I should be as misera- 
 ble as possible if I had nothing else to 
 do." 
 
 " Can you think of any thing else 
 which it would make you happy, to do 
 all the time — any sort of worldly 
 employment I mean ? " 
 
 " No mamma ; you know once I 
 thought I should like to play all the 
 time, when I was a very little boy ; so 
 you let me stay at home from school, 
 and took away all my books, and made 
 me do nothing but play all the time. 
 But I soon got tired of it." 
 
 "You would not like then to spend 
 eternity in doing any of those things 
 which you named ? " 
 
136 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Eternity ! oh mother ! If it was the 
 most delightful thing in the world, I 
 should be tired of it long and long 
 before — I was going to say before eter- 
 nity was through, when it will never be 
 through." 
 
 " Well, this shows us another thing 
 about the soul. It is discontented with 
 every thing finite : that is, with every 
 thing that has bounds or limits, that can 
 be measured ; and this is the case with 
 every earthly enjoyment. However 
 delightful it may be, it is soon exhausted ; 
 the soul becomes dissatisfied with it and 
 craves something more. And if this is 
 the case even here, how much more 
 would it be true of a future state of 
 existence : when the soul will be con- 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 137 
 
 tinually enlarging and expanding in its 
 capacities, and when consequently it 
 will need something infinite, that is, 
 without bounds, to satisfy it." 
 
 te Mamma, it seems strange to think 
 that there can be any thing infinite. — I 
 do not understand how it can be." 
 
 " No, we do not any of us understand 
 how it can be, but we can believe that 
 there is such a thing, just as we believe 
 that our soul and body make one per- 
 son, though we cannot understand how 
 it is. If God were not infinite, though 
 he were ever so great, there would 
 come a period, somewhere in eternity, 
 when we should have comprehended 
 him fully, should have learned every 
 thing that is to be known about him, 
 
138 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 and then we should become dissatisfied, 
 and want something more." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, I am so glad it is not 
 so, and so glad that we shall have a 
 whole eternity to find out about God 
 in!" 
 
 " You know how much pleasure there 
 is in knowing, even finite and imperfect 
 things ; think then what infinite delight 
 there must be in knowing the most 
 glorious, exalted and perfect Being that 
 exists or that could exist, and to go on 
 knowing him better forever ! " 
 
 Henry looked the reply which he did 
 «ot utter, and the conversation closed. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 next day, Henry felt quite 
 unwell, but he did not tell his 
 mother, and asked her to go 
 on with what she had been saying the 
 day before. 
 
 " You have seen how God, being infi- 
 nite and perfect, is adapted to man's 
 intellectual nature, or mind, — his power 
 of knowing; his moral attributes are 
 equally adapted to satisfy the wants of 
 man's moral nature." 
 
 " What are moral attributes, mother ?" 
 
140 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 " Those which have a holy or unholy 
 character. Power has no moral charac- 
 ter ; it might belong to a holy or unholy 
 being ; justice, goodness, truth and holi- 
 nesss, are moral attributes. And we 
 say that these are adapted to man's 
 moral nature, because he cannot but 
 approve and admire these qualities, 
 even in his fallen state, nor can he love 
 any being who is entirely destitute of 
 them." 
 
 "No, I am sure we could not love 
 God, if he were not holy. Then I 
 suppose even the evil spirits approve 
 holiness ? " 
 
 " Yes, and this will be a great source 
 of their misery. To sin, that goodness is 
 lovely, and sin hateful ; and yet to know 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 141 
 
 that they are destitute of holiness and 
 full of sin." 
 
 "And besides, they won't have any 
 thing to love, will they mamma ? " 
 
 " No. I was just about to mention, 
 as another way in which we shall enjoy 
 God, besides merely knowing him, we 
 shall love him and be loved by him." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, it seems almost too 
 much to believe, that God can love such 
 creatures." 
 
 "It is wonderful indeed, as is every 
 thing about God. And if there is so 
 much happiness in loving, and being 
 loved by imperfect creatures, whose very 
 love is in a measure selfish, what will 
 it be> to be loved by the All-Perfect 
 Jehovah — to be wrapped up, as it were 
 
142 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 in his love, encircled and upheld by his 
 everlasting arms ! And in return, we 
 shall love him with our souls. He will 
 continually unveil to us new glories and 
 beauties through eternity, and we shall 
 continually become capable of higher 
 degrees of love and happiness." 
 
 " Mamma, I wonder Christians are not 
 more impatient to die. I should think 
 they would so long for heaven, that they 
 would hardly be willing to live." 
 
 " If Christians had more faith, it would 
 make them willing to die, at least, but 
 not impatient, because that would imply 
 a want of submission to the will of God. 
 Besides, they wish or ought to wish to 
 labor for Christ, in this world." 
 
 Henry began to think what he could 
 
HENRY LANGDON. 143 
 
 do for Christ, and did not reply imme- 
 diately. After a while he asked, 
 
 " Mamma, what day of the month is 
 it?" 
 
 " I believe it is the fifteenth." 
 
 "Then mamma, it will be a month 
 next Wednesday, since I asked you that 
 question ; it is a little more than three 
 weeks now. When you hoped I should 
 find out before the end of a month, you 
 did not think how it would be, did you 
 mother ? " 
 
 "No dear, I did not expect it, though 
 of course, I have never been without the 
 hope that God would be so gracious to 
 you." 
 
 This was the last of the series of con- 
 versations held by Henry and his 
 
144 HENRY LANGDON. 
 
 motner on this subject. The design of 
 the book has been to illustrate the first 
 question and answer in " The West- 
 minster Catechism;" a book which I 
 hope all my young readers have studied. 
 
II