GENTLENESS. 
 
THE 
 
 TRUE PATH; 
 
 AND 
 
 to pal 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 h 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
 150 WORTH STREET, CORNER MISSION PI.A.CK 
 
Copyrighted by 
 HUBBARD BROTHERSo 
 
 1888. 
 
An 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To make the vision clearer, arid the way 
 plainer for all who are seeking the true path, is 
 the purpose of this volume. The editor has 
 sought through means of poem, allegory, sermon, 
 essay, and lighter narrative, to lead the earnest 
 thinker into a just appreciation of social and 
 moral duties for no man can walk safely 
 through this world, who, through neglect of 
 these, lives in cold indifference to his neighbour s 
 good. The true path is the path of self-denial ; 
 yet none enter this path who do not, sooner or 
 later, find that the way is smoother than was 
 expected, and that instead of leading through a 
 desert land, it winds pleasantly amid flowers and 
 greenness. 
 
 (9) 
 
 M270365 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POVERINA, Page 7 
 
 FILIAL LOVE REWARDED ...... .18 
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILD t .26 
 
 DON T RUN IN DEBT 33 
 
 LITTLE THINGS TUB INDEX o? CHARACTER .... 34 
 
 THE HAPPY LOT . .38 
 
 LABOUR 39 
 
 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS ....... 4 2 
 
 FRUITS OF SORROW 60 
 
 THE Two BEES G7 
 
 SPEAK KINDLY 70 
 
 TELL OF THEIR VIRTUES 73 
 
 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN ....... 70 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL . . 11 2 
 
 THE GENII OF THE GOLD MINES Ill 
 
 ADA S LIFE ROMANCE . . . . . . . .1122 
 
 THKRK S WORK ENOUGH TO DO . . . . . .137 
 
 THE STEP-DAUGHTER . . . . . . . .139 
 
 OH, WATCH YOU WELL BY DAYLIGHT UO 
 
 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS . . . . . . . .147 
 
 WOBK FOR HEAVEN . . . . t . . .152 
 
 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY 153 
 
 Do GOOD .... 107 
 
 OCR DAILY LIFE . . . . . . . . .108 
 
 (5) 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 ANGELS IN THE AIR 175 
 
 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL 176 
 
 RUB OR RUST 189 
 
 TALE-TELLING 190 
 
 BEAR ON, BEAR BRAVELY ON 207 
 
 BLESSED ARE THE BELOVED !" 208 
 
 THE LEGEND OF BROTHER ALFUS 210 
 
 How TO BE HAPPY 217 
 
 HE GIVETII HIS BELOVED SLEEP . . . . . .218 
 
 RELY ON YOURSELF 219 
 
 GOD is LOVE 225 
 
 THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS .... 226 
 
 "FREELY YE HAVE RECEIVED, FREELY GlVE" . . . 236 
 
 THE FRIENDS 237 
 
 WORDS 248 
 
 THE MERCHANT S SON ........ 249 
 
 LINES IN MEMORY OF MY LOST CHILD 266 
 
 CATHARINE BLOOMER 269 
 
 KEEP THYSELF PURE 290 
 
 " THE ANGELS WITH us NAWABB W 292 
 
 SABBATH EVE 296 
 
 SPARE MOMENTS 298 
 
 THE BURDOCK AND THB \ioun ...... W9 
 
THE TRUE PATH. 
 
 P V E R I N A. 
 
 AN old mechanic lay upon his death-bed. He had 
 lived an honest, pure, and blameless life, and therefore 
 awaited death with calm resignation. 
 
 He cast his eyes about him the house was old, yet 
 well built it was f filled with the comforts supplied by a 
 moderate income. The lands were well tilled and rich 
 in a summer verdure. 
 
 The old man, as he thought how old companions had 
 grown wealthy, built fine houses, and bought herds and 
 jewels, smiled meaningly as he had done, when his old 
 cronies cried, " Why, Hubert, man, thou must make more 
 than thy expenses." 
 
 As the first shudder of death crept over his soul, he 
 called unto his bedside three daughters, all young, fair, 
 and sensible. 
 
 " My beloved ones," he whispered, " I have passed 
 
 (7) 
 
POVERINA. 
 
 my youth and later years in endeavouring to find the 
 best way to live I have found it in moderation. You, 
 I cannot expect to be satisfied with my experience. You 
 shall judge for yourselves. 
 
 " When I commenced to grow rich, I looked around 
 me. Some friends had become wealthy in advance. 
 They bought and built, added luxuries to comforts and 
 replaced comforts with show. They were never satisfied ; 
 always grasping, hoping, wishing for more. I owned 
 my farm. My business was prosperous. I founded a 
 scheme I then believed the height of wisdom. I dug a, 
 trench in my cellar and placed therein all my overplus 
 funds. It is astonishing how fast they multiplied ; but 
 I cared not for them. I had the means of living like my 
 neighbours, and this rendered me satisfied. 
 
 " I feel now that this gold could have done much good 
 in the world. I have retained bread from hungry 
 mouths and clothing from suffering bodies. We have no 
 right to hoard money ; justice and right require that it 
 be constantly passing and exchanging, that the poor 
 may catch a glimpse of it, or the necessaries it brings 
 them. I leave to you, my children, the distribution 
 of my earnings. Take it seek ye each one the hap 
 piest life." 
 
 Soon after the old man expired. 
 
 Kis daughters truly grieved for so estimable a parent. 
 
 Three years after his death, they sat alone in the 
 Bitting room. The sun shone through the elm branches, 
 and imaged a shower of golden coins upon the painted 
 flx>r. 
 
 Reichen, the eldest, gazed upon them musingly. 
 
POVERINA. 
 
 9 
 
 "Sisters," she exclaimed, starting from a revery, 
 " the great wealth our father left us still lies buried in 
 the earth. His last wish is unfulfilled. Let us this day 
 choose our path and follow it. We can divide the gold, 
 take each her portion, and commence a search for hap 
 piness." 
 
 " I agree," replied Parnassa. "What say you, little 
 
 one?" 
 
 " Our father s wish should be fulfilled," answered the 
 
 youngest. 
 
 " Let us then make our choice," cried the enthusias 
 tic Reichen. 
 
 " Commence then ; thou art eldest." 
 
 " Well, I will seek the rich and fashionable, the lovers 
 <yf fun and frolic, the leaders of mirth. They have always 
 appeared to me happy as the day is long." 
 
 "And thou, Parnassa," said the younger. 
 
 " I will remain here in our old home. I will seek for 
 knowledge and fame. Those whose name trembles on 
 every lip with praise, must be supremely happy. I will 
 exchange all my gold for a laurel wreath." 
 
 " Choose, our little one." 
 
 " I would try a lower path a descent is often happier 
 than an ascent. It is easier to rise than fall." 
 
 The sisters shook their heads and answered, "Thou 
 hast chosen badly, Poverina. Reconsider, there is yet 
 time." 
 
 But she smiled faintly and was steadfast. 
 
 All that week they passed in counting and dividing 
 the gold; the next in making preparations for their 
 departures. 
 
10 POVERINA. 
 
 One bright morning Reichen, dressed in silks and 
 jewels, stepped into an elegant carriage ; her gold was 
 in handsome trunks in the boot ; a liveried servant held 
 the reins, and another closed the door. As far as the 
 other two could see her, her gay bonnet-plumes waved in 
 the air, and her laced pocket handkerchief fluttered a 
 last farewell. 
 
 An hour after little Poverina, in a gray hood and 
 coarse blue gown, passed out on foot. She dragged be 
 hind her a little wagon filled with her share of the 
 treasure, and covered ostensibly wifti carrots and cab 
 bages for the market. 
 
 Parnassa watched the last fold of her dress as she 
 turned down the hill, and, wiping away her tears, cried, 
 " Now for books, books ;" and went into the house, closing 
 the door after her. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Ten years had passed since the sisters parted. The 
 day had arrived upon which they had agreed to meet 
 once more. In the old homestead all was unchanged, 
 but that it looked grayer and more neglected. In the 
 well-remembered sitting-room all wore a different aspect. 
 Statues filled the niches, flowers breathed odours com 
 mingled: books lay upon chairs, tables, and window- 
 seats books everywhere. At a desk filled with writing 
 materials sat Parnassa, a laurel wreath was upon her 
 brow ; but that brow was livid, and the eyes beneath it 
 dim and lustreless. Changes had been wrought on the 
 finite here. 
 
 The door opened, and a strange .figure entered ; a 
 woman bowed and shrunken. Her still luxuriant hair 
 
POVERINA. 11 
 
 was threaded with silver, and shone through the artifi 
 cial ringlets. The rouge upon her cheek and lip, the 
 carefully-pencilled eyebrow and richly-fashioned robe, 
 could not conceal the ravages of dissipation, or the 
 meagre form, grown old before its time. 
 
 " Reichen," cried Parnassa. 
 
 "Parnassa," replied the mummy; and the sisters ex- 
 changed embraces in silence too wonder-stricken for 
 
 O 
 
 words. 
 
 At this moment a little gray hood peeped in at the 
 door. The face therein was fresh and youthful, the form 
 round and the step elastic. Were not the cheeks much 
 paler than of yore, the sisters would have thought that 
 Poverina had not changed in the least since their sepa 
 ration. 
 
 " Sisters," she cried, hastening to greet them, " God 
 has permitted us all to live to meet once more, blessed 
 be His name !" 
 
 When they were composed, they seated themselves, 
 and prepared to recount each their progress toward hap 
 piness during their ten years search. 
 
 Parnassa, being the one who remained at home, 
 and believing her life less eventful than her sisters , com 
 menced 
 
 " When my tears had ceased to flow at your depar 
 ture, 1 came into the house, and taking a quantity of 
 gjld, sent it, with a list of books, by Gottlieb, to the 
 city. By the next day, a large car of these valuables 
 arrived. I had shelves placed around my room, and 
 filled thorn. I then procured one thousand reams of 
 paper, four gallons of ink, and a huge box of 
 
12 POVERINA. 
 
 Thus supplied, I commenced writing and reading, leav 
 ing to Gottlieb and Hanna the domestic avocations. I 
 spared myself neither time nor pains. I wrought early 
 and late. I lost sleep, took no exercise, and scarcely 
 allowed myself time to partake of my meals. 
 
 " When my first work was finished, with many hopes 
 and misgivings I published it. It pleased the public, 
 that public whose name is legion, and whose voice is life 
 or death. That public, so feared by a debutante 
 authoress, was pleased to shower upon me ;, lden 
 opinions. They cried for my name. It was givon. I 
 was inundated with invitations and congratulations. I 
 wrote again and again. I drank a full measure of fame : 
 but in the empty goblet found no solace. I had worked, 
 toiled, eight years for this laurel wreath : but when it 
 became mine, and action was no longer necessary to 
 secure it, life was all a blank page. Money filled the 
 old vault in the cellar, but all was lonely. There was 
 no one to love me : no one for me to love. Unsatisfied 
 I lived and longed to die, hoping, in another life, to 
 find that rest I longed for. My health is impaired from 
 constant sedentary habits and late vigils. I must now 
 care as much for my ailing body as I have heretofore 
 neglected it. 
 
 " I hope, dear Reichen, that your history will not be 
 BO sad in its termination. With me the belief lies that 
 there is no happiness on this earth. The endurance ia 
 here, the happiness in Heaven." 
 
 Reichen shook sadly her withered head. 
 
 " I drove far away from you, my sisters, to a distant 
 city. I put up at the largest and most imposing hoteJ 
 
POVERINA. lb 
 
 h. appearance. The splendour of the interior of thia 
 house quite dazzled me. There were many articles that 
 I did not know the use of, nor did I ever learn that they 
 were put to any useful purpose. At the table, I met 
 ladies in elegant attire. There was a preponderance of 
 jewelry about them, and a want of appropriate selec 
 tions for different forms and complexions. At the table, 
 1 was handed a bill of fare. I think I am right, in 
 the term. There were many French words thereon, 
 quite puzzling to one unacquainted with the language, 
 but I managed to get through the courses very well 
 until I arrived at the dessert. A gentleman beside me 
 had a dish of a most delightful appearance, and I 
 wished for some also. But, study my bill as I would, 
 there was nothing that read as that appeared. I made, 
 however, a bold stroke ; and, pointing to an unpro 
 nounceable name, I requested a waiter to bring me 
 some of that. It was a failure. I tried another and 
 another; but, at length, frightened at the untouched 
 dishes surrounding me, I desisted, and left the table. 
 
 " Having nothing to do but to amuse myself and 
 assist many others, with whom I became acquainted, in 
 passing the time as rapidly and giddily as possible, we 
 walked out. I dressed as they did, in a most peculiar 
 style. My robe of heavy silk dragged upon the ground. 
 The day was muddy, and, to avoid being thrown down, 
 I followed the example of those I met. I gathered my 
 e in my hands, displaying not only my elaborately 
 embroidered skirts, but the new-fashioned gaiters then 
 in vogue. I suspected, afterwards, that many of the 
 ladies, accustomed to long robes, held them on high for 
 
14 POVERINA. 
 
 the especial purpose of displaying their high-heeled 
 Chinese junks ; for they were so dear in price as to 
 enable ladies only to purchase them. My bonnet was 
 a Lilliputian, and stuck on to the back of my head with 
 a wafer. My mantle was embroidered in Paris, and 
 represented, in crimson thread, a family seal: a lion 
 rampant on green fields, thirteen crosslets, and a tur- 
 bot s head. I carried in my hand a lachrymal, made 
 of cobweb, just patented. Thus equipped, I walked 01 
 rode daily. Our carriages were made of a species of 
 quicksilver, so shining and glasslike that they mirrored 
 the poor wretched beings who, with naked feet and 
 shrunken forms, crawled by. I used to notice the- poor 
 much, when I first went there, but I imagine, afterward, 
 they did not frequent the fashionable streets, for I do 
 not remember seeing them. Our coachmen we clothed 
 in livery, with the most magnificent furs wrapped about 
 them. Each one endeavoured to surpass the others in 
 equipage, and thus many millions were placed in the 
 hands of wealthy financiers. 
 
 u Sometimes, a poor woman ventured to accost us, 
 begging for aid; but most of the ladies would be so 
 shocked at her want of manners, or knowledge of the 
 language, that they frowned upon her in contempt. 
 Some advised her to wear better shoes ; but, when the 
 half-frozen wretch asked how she could obtain them, 
 cried, 
 
 " Work, work I Is the woman crazy ? 
 
 " The wretched creature turned her eyes to heaven, 
 and passed on. 
 
 " I will give you an idea of our manner of passing 
 
POVERINA. 
 
 15 
 
 time. We all rose late, and threw on a rich rnorning- 
 robe and elaborate cap. The one who appeared in the 
 greatest disorder was pronounced to be in the most 
 charming dishabille. We talked over much gos?ip and 
 nonsense at our meals, lounged in the parlour, looked 
 at the late fashions, or read any work that was quite the 
 ton (for you know one likes to be thought to be literary 
 without the trouble of being so). I generally skimmed 
 over the story, then I asked the opinion of those who 
 had read it carefully, and adopted their opinion, gene 
 rally remembering the language in which it was given. 
 "At eleven we rode called later shopped, met at 
 
 s to gossip, pulled over goods, and gave as much 
 
 trouble as we could, consistently with politeness. Our 
 afternoons were engaged in joyous amusements. Our 
 evenings passed at the opera, theatre, or any other 
 fashionable places. When any celebrity lectured, we 
 heard him. But we liked only the stars that were fixed 
 planets, those that were rising, or those likely to set, we 
 never troubled ourselves about. 
 
 " Parties were our great abominations, yet we never 
 missed one, ana dressed ourselves in rivalry as well aa 
 our coachmen. We wore long trains in the evenings, 
 and might have been taken for peacocks by a casual 
 observer. Having been called * angels without wings, 
 we determined to have them (the wings). Emulating 
 Mercury s cap, we wore our hair puffed out to the last 
 degree, filling all the spaces with green-houses. 
 
 " Had the flowers bloomed within our heads, rose- 
 leaves of thought and lily-bells of charity might have 
 dropped from our lips, equal to the pearls and dia- 
 
16 POVERINA. 
 
 monds of the fairy tale. Here we smiled and chatted, 
 danced, sang, played cards, and drank wine, returning 
 to our homes at a very late hour of the night. 
 
 " It is needless to say, my dear sisters, that in this 
 jiappy life I enjoyed myself to perfection at first. But, 
 after awhile, quarrels ensued. One friend spoke evil of 
 another ; some were less discreet and prudent than I 
 could have wished. I became fatigued there was no 
 thing new to engage in. I was restless and unhappy. 
 As my health gave way my beauty faded. 
 
 " When our prescribed limit of time drew near, I was 
 not sorry to return to my childhood s home. No one 
 regretted my loss. I had no friend. I am firmly con 
 vinced, that as in these joys I found not happiness, 
 there is no such reality. It is a chimera of the brain. 
 One imagines they have found it often, but time disen 
 chants them. As for me, I detest it. I have lost health 
 in seeking it. There is nothing in the future for me. 
 In the next world I shall find none of my best loved 
 joys. I can look back upon nothing that gives me 
 comfort. Life is a stubble-field death a desert. Speak 
 thou, Poverina." 
 
 "Be not disturbed, my beloved Reichen," cried the 
 tender Poverina, embracing her. 
 
 " It is never too late to learn goodness. When I left 
 thee, Parnassa, looking with tearful eyes adown the road 
 after me, I, too, jouineyed to the city. I hired a cosy 
 room in a small plain house. I hid my gold in the 
 hearth, and started forth ostensibly to sell ny little 
 produce. Ah, sisters, how many wretched forms I met ; 
 not unhappy with ideal wants, but the lack of nece* 
 
TOVERINA. 17 
 
 saries staring them in the face driving them, they 
 knew not, cared not, whither, to drown them. I wished 
 to help all, but I waited to look well. The little child 
 ren cried to my heart the most imploringly those sent 
 by parents to steal or beg, beaten by them, if unsuccess 
 ful, and beveraged on poisonous drinks if they brought 
 in gains ; those who have no childhood, but were born 
 old old in cunning and guilt. These little fire-brands 
 I plucked from the burning. I built a house for them, 
 tore them from their unnatural parents. I employed 
 poor but educated girls to teach and oversee them. 
 Daily I added to my number. Then I took by the 
 hand the erring and intoxicated. I pointed toward a 
 ray of escape ; I watched over them, arid when the 
 cavern of despair ceased to cover them, and they stood 
 in the free air, men and women, they blessed God and 
 wept. 
 
 " I walked with the poor ; I was of them. I toiled, 
 suffered, grieved, and endured with them. I could 
 always relieve. God knows, how I should have felt 
 had I been unable to do so ! I had my own pleasures, 
 too, which they had not. I read passed stolen hours 
 with intelligent friends interchanged confidences and 
 hopes, When labour was numbing to my faculties, I 
 sought some congenial amusement. When my gold had 
 vanished, more poured in. I received contributions, 
 and with economy and judgment it sufficed. I tore 
 myself with pain from my beloved ones, to fulfil our 
 compact. I have a monitor here," she continued, plac 
 ing her hand upon her heart, " who bids me prepare for 
 a long journey. I, sisters, have found happinesy on 
 
18 FILIAL LOVE REWARDED. 
 
 earth, in doing good, in constant occupation in follow 
 ing in the footsteps of Him, who has said, < I was hun 
 gered, and ye fed me ; naked and ye clothed me. I 
 have lived I leave in the hearts of many my monu 
 ment. I die in peace with all, assured of becoming 
 happier in the next world than in this." 
 
 Here lived the sisters, all awaiting the angel of death. 
 
 Parnassa, cold, haughty, and passive, received in 
 silence his summons. 
 
 Reichen, peevish, fretful, and despairing, gazed at 
 her own image in his polished scythe, as she was mowed 
 into the outer field. 
 
 Poverina, smiling, patient, and hopeful, hailed with 
 joy the rustle of his wings, and rose, with a song of 
 praise upon her lip, into the glorious light of heaven. 
 
 FILIAL LOVE REWARDED. 
 
 "You are too parsimonious, Henry," said Mr. D. to 
 one of his clerks, as they were together in the counting- 
 house one morning : " give me leave to say, that you do 
 not dress sufficiently genteel to appear as clerk in a 
 fashionable store." Henry s face was suffused with a 
 deep blush, and, in spite of his endeavours to suppress 
 it, a tear trembled on his manly cheek. " Did I not 
 know that your salary was sufficient to provide more 
 genteel habiliments," continued Mr. D., " I would in 
 
FILIAL LOVE REWARDED. 19 
 
 "My salary is sufficient, sir," replied Henry, in a 
 voice choked with emotion, but with that proud inde 
 pendence of feeling which poverty had not been able to 
 divest him of. His employer noticed his agitation, and 
 immediately changed the subject. 
 
 Mr. D. was a man of wealth and benevolence ; he was 
 a widower and had but one child, a daughter who was 
 the pride of his declining years. She was not as beauti 
 ful as an angel nor as perfect as a Venus ; but the good 
 ness, the innocence, the intelligence of her mind shone 
 in her countenance, and you had but to become ac 
 quainted with, to admire, to love her. Such was Caro 
 line Delancy, when Henry first became an inmate in 
 her father s house. No wonder he soon worshipped at 
 her shrine no wonder he soon loved her with a deep 
 and devoted attention and, reader, had you known him, 
 you would not have wondered that his love was soon 
 returned, for their souls were congenial ; they were cast 
 in virtue s purest mould and although their tongues 
 never gave utterance to what their hearts felt, yet the 
 language of their eyes was too plain to be misunderstood. 
 Henry was the very soul of honour ; and although he 
 perceived with pleasure that he was not altogether in 
 different to Caroline, he felt as though he must control 
 the passions that glowed in his bosom. I must not 
 endeavour to win her young and artless heart, thought 
 he I am penniless, and cannot expect that her father 
 will consent to our union he has ever treated me with 
 kindness, and I will not be ungrateful. Thus he rea 
 soned, and thus heroically endeavoured to subdue what 
 he considered an ill-fated passion. Caroline had many 
 
20 FILIAL LOVE REWARDED. 
 
 suitors, and some who were fully worthy of her ; hut she 
 refused all their overtures with a gentle and decisive 
 firmness. Her father wondered at her conduct, yet could 
 not thwart her inclination. 
 
 He was in the decline of life, and wished to see Caro 
 line happily settled ere he quitted the stage of existence. 
 It was not long before he suspected that young Henry 
 was the cause of her indifference to others. The evident 
 pleasure she took in hearing him praised ; the blush that 
 overspread their cheeks whenever their eyes met, all 
 served to convince the old gentleman, who had not for 
 gotten that he was once young himself, that they felt 
 more than common interest in each other s welfare. He 
 forbore making any remarks on the subject, but was 
 not so much displeased as penniless Henry would have 
 imagined. 
 
 Henry had been about a year in his service. Delancy 
 knew nothing of his family ; but his strict integrity, his 
 irreproachable morals, his pleasing manners, all con 
 spired to make him esteem him highly. He was proud 
 of Henry, and wished him to appear as respectably as 
 any one. He had often wondered at the scantiness of 
 his wardrobe, for, although he dressed with the most 
 scrupulous regard to neatness, his clothes were almost 
 threadbare. Mr. D. did not wish to think that this 
 proceeded from a niggardly disposition, and he deter 
 mined to broach the subject, and if possible, ascertain 
 the real cause this he did in the manner before related. 
 
 Soon after this conversation took place, Mr. D. left 
 home on business. As he was returning, and riding 
 through a beautiful village, he alighted at the door of a 
 
FILIAL LOfE REWARDED. 21 
 
 little cottage and requested a drink. The mistress, with 
 an ease and politeness which convinced him that she had 
 not always been the humble cottager, invited him to 
 enter. He accepted her invitation and here a sceno 
 of poverty and neatness presented itself such as he had 
 never before witnessed. The fuiniture, which consisted 
 of nothing more than was necessary, was exquisitely 
 clean, so that it gave a charm to poverty, and cast an 
 air of comfort on all around. A venerable-looking old 
 man, who had not seemed to notice the entrance of Mr. 
 D., sat leaning on his staff; his clothes were clean and 
 whole, but so patched that you could scarcely have told 
 which had been the original piece. 
 
 " This is your father, I presume," said Mr. D., ad 
 dressing the mistress of the house. 
 
 "It is, sir." 
 
 " He seems to be quite aged." 
 
 " He is in his eighty-third year ; he has survived all 
 his children except myself." 
 
 "You have once seen better days ?" 
 
 " I have my husband was wealthy ; but false friends 
 ruined him he endorsed notes to a large amount, which 
 stripped us of nearly all our property, and one mis 
 fortune followed another until we were reduced to com- 
 plete poverty. My husband did not long survive hia 
 losses, and two of my children soon followed him." 
 
 " Have you any remaining children ?" 
 
 " I have one, and he is my only support. My health 
 is so feeble that I cannot do much, and my father being 
 blind, needs great attention. My son conceals from my 
 knowledge the amount of his salary, but I am convinced 
 
22 FILIAL LOVE REWARDED. 
 
 that he sends me nearly all, if not the whole amount 
 of it." 
 
 " Then he is not with you ?" 
 
 "No, sir, he is clerk for a merchant in Philadelphia." 
 
 " Clerk for a merchant in Philadelphia ! What is 
 your son s name ?" 
 
 " Henry W ." 
 
 " Henry W !" reiterated Mr. D., " why he is my 
 
 clerk ! I left him at my house not a fortnight since." 
 
 Here followed a series of inquiries, which evinced an 
 anxiety and solicitude that a mother alone could feel 
 to all of which Mr. D. replied to her perfect satisfaction. 
 
 "You know our Henry," said the old man, raising 
 his head from his staff. "Well, sir, then you know as 
 worthy a lad as ever lived. God will bless him for his 
 goodness to his old grandfather," he added in a tremu 
 lous voice, while the tears ran down his cheeks. 
 
 "He is a worthy fellow, to be sure," said Mr. D., 
 rising and placing a well-filled purse in the hands of 
 the old man. " He is a worthy fellow, and shall not 
 want friends." 
 
 "Noble boy," said he, mentally, as he was riding 
 alone, ruminating on his late interview " noble boy, 
 lie shall not want wealth to enable him to distribute 
 happiness. I believe he loves my girl, and if he does, he 
 shall have her and all my property in the bargain." 
 
 Filled with this project, and determined if possible to 
 ascertain the true state of their hearts, he entered the 
 breakfast room the next morning after his arrival home. 
 
 " Do you know that Henry is about to leave us to go 
 to England, and try his fortune ?" he carelessly observed, 
 
FILIAL LOVE REWARDED. 
 
 " Henry about to leave !" said Caroline, dropping the 
 work she held in her hand 4 about to leave us and going 
 to England !" she added, in a tone which evinced the 
 deepest interest. 
 
 "But what if he is, my child?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir, nothing ; only I thought we should be 
 rather lonesome." 
 
 " Tell me, Caroline," said Mr. D., tenderly embracing 
 her, " tell me, do you not love Henry ? You know I 
 wish your happiness, my child. I have ever treated you 
 with kindness, and you have never until now hid anything 
 from your father." 
 
 "Neither will I now," she replied, hiding her face in 
 his bosom. " I do most sincerely esteem him ; but do not 
 for worlds tell him of it, for he has never said it was 
 returned." 
 
 " I will soon find that out, and without telling him, 
 too," replied the father, leaving the room. 
 
 "Henry," said he, as he entered- the counting-house, 
 " you expect to visit the country shortly, do you not ?" 
 
 "Yes, in about a month." 
 
 "If it would not be inconvenient," rejoined Mr. D., 
 " I should like to have you defer it a week or two longer." 
 
 " It will be no inconvenience, sir, and if it will oblige 
 you, I will wait with pleasure." 
 
 " It will most certainly oblige me, for Caroline is to be 
 married in about five weeks, and I would not miss having 
 you attend the wedding." 
 
 " Caroline to be married, sir !" said Henry, starting 
 as if by an electric shock " Caroline to be married ! 
 is it possible?" 
 
"^ FJLJAL LOVE REWARDED. 
 
 " To be sure it is but what is there wonderful in that : 
 
 " Nothing, sir, only it was rather sudden rather un 
 expected that is all." 
 
 "It is rather sudden, to be sure," replied Mr. D. ; 
 " but I am an old man, and as the man of her choice is 
 well worthy of her, I see no use in waiting any longer, 
 and am very glad you can stay to the wedding." 
 
 "I cannot stay, sir, indeed I cannot," replied Henry, 
 forgetting what he had previously said. 
 
 " You cannot !" rejoined Mr. D., " why, you said you 
 would." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but business requires my presence in the 
 country, and I must go." 
 
 " But you said it would put you to no inconvenience, 
 and that you would wait with pleasure." 
 
 " Command me in anything else, sir, but in this respect 
 I cannot oblige you," said Henry, rising and walking 
 with rapid strides across the floor. 
 
 Poor fellow ! he had thought his passion subdued ; but 
 when he found that Caroline was soon so irrevocably to 
 become another s, the latent spark burst forth in an un- 
 extinguished flame ; and he found it in vain to endeavour 
 to conceal his emotion. 
 
 The old gentleman regarded him with a look of earnest- 
 ness. " Henry," said he, " tell me frankly, do you love 
 my girl?" 
 
 " I will be candid with you, sir," replied Henry, con- 
 scious that his agitation had betrayed him, " had I a for- 
 tune such as she merits, and as you, sir, have a right to 
 expect, I should think myself the happiest of men, could 
 I gain her love." 
 
FILIAL LOVE REWARDED. 25 
 
 " Then she is yours," cried the delighted *ld m;m ; 
 " say not a word about property, my boy ; true worth is 
 better than riches. I was only trying you, Henry, and 
 Caroline will never be married to any other than your 
 self." 
 
 The transition from despair to happiness was great. 
 For a moment, Henry remained silent ; but his looks 
 spoke volumes. At last, "I will not deceive you, sir," 
 eaid he ; * I am poorer than you suppose I have a 
 
 mother and grandfather, who are " 
 
 "I know it, I know it all, Henry," said Mr. D., in 
 terrupting him. " I know the reason of your parsimony, 
 as I called it, and I honour you for it. It is that which 
 first put it into my head to give you Caroline she will 
 be yours, and may God bless you both." 
 
 Shortly after this conversation, Henry avowed his love 
 to Caroline, and solicited her hand, and it is needless to 
 say he did not solicit in vain. Caroline would have de 
 ferred their union until the ensuing spring, but her father 
 was inexorable. He supposed he should have to own to 
 one little deception, he said, and they would have him 
 shoulder two ; but that was too much, entirely too much, 
 arid he would not endure it ; he had told Henry that she 
 was going to be married in five weeks, and he should not 
 forfeit his word. " But, perhaps," added he, apparently 
 recollecting himself, and turning to Henry, " perhaps we 
 Bhall have to defer it, after all, for you have important 
 business in the country about that time." 
 
 " Be merciful, sir," said Henry, smiling; " I did not 
 
 to witness the sacrifice of my own happiness." 
 " I am merciful," replied the old gentleman, " and for 
 
26 THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 that reason I would not wish to put you to the inconve 
 nience of staying. You said that you would willingly 
 oblige me, but you could not, indeed you could not." 
 4 You have once been young, sir," said Henry. 
 
 " I know it, I know it," replied he, laughing heartily ; 
 " but I am afraid that too many of us old folks forget 
 it luvTever, if you can postpone your journey, I sup 
 pose we must have a wedding." 
 
 We have only to add, that the friends of Henry were 
 sent for, and the nuptials solemnized at the appointed 
 time ; and that, blessed with the filial love of Henry and 
 Caroline, the old people passed the remainder of their 
 days in peace and happiness. 
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 This little nursling, take it to thy love, 
 And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove. 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ONE day I was rambling about the outskirts of the 
 lovely village of Syderiham, in Kent, when a shower 
 drove me to take refuge in a little way-side cottage. 
 Immediately afterwards, a lady entered, and asked per- 
 mission to wait till the rain was over. The good woman 
 of the cottage placed a chair for her visiter, with a hearty 
 welcome, and then resumed her occupation of looking 
 anxiously along the road, from which this momentary 
 interruption had withdrawn her. In a few minutes J 
 
THE ADOPTED CHILD. 27 
 
 heard the pattering of a pair of small feet along the 
 muddy road. 
 
 " Poor little lamb ! she s wet to the skin !" said the 
 woman, receiving into her open arms the owner of tho 
 small feet, a little girl about six years old. "Ain t you 
 wet, dear?" 
 
 " Yes, I m very wet," replied the child. 
 
 " We ll soon set that to rights. Come by the fire, 
 there s a darling. I hope you ll please to excuse me, 
 ma am," she continued, addressing the lady; "but you 
 see, if I left her wet things on she d be sure to catch 
 cold." 
 
 " I should be very sorry indeed, if you were to do 
 so on account of my being here," replied the visiter, 
 watching with much interest the maternal cares that 
 were bestowed upon the little wanderer s comfort. " You 
 seem very fond of your little girl. I suppose she is your 
 youngest, is she not?" 
 
 44 La, ma am ! she s no child of mine, nor noways 
 related," said the woman, affectionately kissing the ob 
 ject that truth obliged her to disown ; " but that don t 
 make no kind of difference. I m as fond of her as if 
 Bhe was my own flesh and blood, every bit." 
 
 44 Indeed you seem so. I quite thought she was tho 
 youngest, and the pet." 
 
 44 She is the pet, ma am, bless her little heart ; but 
 ihe s noways related to me nor my husband." 
 
 44 Whose child is she, then?" inquired the lady. 
 
 44 Why, ma am, she s the child of the man that lives 
 in the next cottage down the road you can see the 
 chimney from our door; and just two years ago he lost 
 
THE ADOPTED CHILD 
 
 his wife. She died, poor thing ! just when, one may 
 Bay, she was most wanted, for this dear child was barely 
 four years old, and there were two boys older, and one 
 baby in arms. Well, you see, ma am, it was like to 
 drive him beside himself to have four babies to take 
 care of, and go to his work besides. So me and another 
 neighbour, we just thought we might help him a bit if 
 we took the two youngest off his hands. So as she had 
 lost her baby, that was a few months old, she took quite 
 natural to the little one ; and I had this darling. All 
 my own children were off my hands, and out in the 
 world earning their own bread ; so what difference could 
 this little thing make to us ? We don t feel the want 
 of her bit of victuals ; and her little clothes and things, 
 they are nothing hardly. I can make most of them out 
 of my own old ones ; and what I buys neAV for her, why 
 as things is so cheap, as one may say, we gets em for 
 nothing almost." 
 
 "I hope she is a good child," said the visitor, "and 
 that she repays you by her love and gratitude for the 
 care you bestow upon her." 
 
 " She s the best little soul in the world," returned 
 the cottager, hugging the half-naked child affectionately 
 in her arms ; "and I really think she has brought luck 
 to us, for we ve seemed to thrive ever since she came, 
 Mayhap my husband would stop, once in a way, of a 
 Saturday night, and take a pint of beer at the public- 
 house, but he never does so now. He says, if he fec;la 
 inclined to go in, he stops and thinks that Nancy wants 
 a pair of shoes, or a warm frock, or something of that 
 lort, and a sixpence or a shilling will go a good way 
 
THE ADOPTED CHILD. 29 
 
 towards it, an 1 then he comes home. Arid he s so 
 fond of her, too. I don t think he ever loved one 
 of his own children so well as he does her. But I cau 
 hardly wonder at it, neither, ma am, for she is such a 
 good, obedient child, though I say it before her face, 
 which I shouldn t, I know, only she is too good to be 
 spoilt. And then she begins to be quite useful now, 
 ma am. She goes of many a little errand for me, and 
 fetches things out of the garden, and puts in the seeds 
 after her father that s my husband, I mean, ma am ; 
 but she always calls him father. There, ma am, all 
 those two rows of French beans were her planting ; and 
 many little things she can do besides to help father and 
 me." 
 
 * 4 Your garden looks very neat," observed the lady. 
 
 Well, and I may say, ma am, that s her doing 
 mostly. Not that she can do it all herself, or dig and 
 that, poor thing ! but father takes a pride in it when 
 she s helping him. Don t he, dear?" 
 
 " Yes," said the child; " and we planted such a lot 
 of taters !" 
 
 " So you did, my dear. Father digged up the ground, 
 and Nancy planted every one of them, so she did." 
 
 " Yes ; and mother cut them all up into bits ready 
 to plant." 
 
 " So I did, darling ; but you could have done that 
 too, only I was afeard you should cut your little fingers 
 into the bargain. I m sure she could have done it, 
 ma am, she s so wonderfully cute and sensible for her 
 age. 
 
 " I have no doubt at all about it," replied the visitor. 
 
30 THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 rising ; " and now, as the rain seems to have ceastd, 1 
 will wish you a good-morning, and thank you for yom 
 kindness in giving me shelter so long." 
 
 " Good-morning, ma am, and thank you for coming 
 into my poor place. Say Good-morning to the lady, 
 Nancy." 
 
 " Good-morning, ma am," said Nancy, with one finger 
 in her mouth. 
 
 " Good-by, little dear," said the lady, and went her 
 way ; but I remained to see a little more of Nancy and 
 her kind-hearted foster-mother. In the evening, the 
 " father" came home, and after some preliminary exci 
 tation of Nancy s curiosity, he opened a parcel that he 
 had taken from his pocket, and disclosed a pair of thread 
 gloves, and two pink-checked pocket handkerchiefs, all 
 for Nancy. It was a pleasure to see the glow of delight 
 that beamed over the good-natured face of the rough 
 labouring man, as the grateful child expressed her rap 
 ture at this "beautiful present;" beautiful indeed it 
 was to her simple taste, and to a higher perception it 
 was invested with a moral beauty that made it outshine 
 the Koh-i-Noor itself, for it was the result of the small 
 daily savings and self-denial of a kind heart that pre 
 ferred the pleasure of another to selfish gratification. 
 
 Then aftei tea, for twas in the summer time, an hour 
 was spent in attending to the garden, and Nancy drew 
 a dish of young onions, of her own sowing, for supper. 
 Don t be shocked at this, fair reader ; they were not so 
 odoriferous by a great deal, as the garlic so plentifully 
 eaten by all ranks in Spain, that land of romance, and 
 guitars, and serenades. There was company expected 
 
THE ADOPTED CHILD. 31 
 
 to supper too ; Nancy s father, or " daddy," as she 
 called him, to distinguish him from her father by adop 
 tion, and "father s" sister Mary. Mary was a nice, 
 tidy-looking young woman, of about five or six and 
 twtity. She had just left her place, and had come to 
 stay with her brother till she got suited again, which I 
 thought she would not have to wait for very long, when 
 I observed the deep impression that she seemed to make 
 upon Nancy s daddy as soon as he came in. He took 
 care, during the course of the evening, to let her under 
 stand that he was only thirty-two, and that his wages 
 were to be raised next week. Then he talked about his 
 two boys at home, how handy and clever they were ; 
 but that they sadly wanted some tidy young woman to 
 look after them. Then he told her about his cottage, 
 saying it was just as comfortable a one as her brother s, 
 only not so orderly and still, for the want of some tidy 
 young woman to take care of it. And when she was 
 out of the room, he even went so far as to ask her bro 
 ther, as they sat smoking their pipes together, whether 
 he thought Mary would have him. 
 
 You d better ask her, yourself, John," was the 
 reply ; " she s a good, steady girl, and would make a good 
 wife to any man. She s not single now for want of 
 being asked, for she s had lots of lovers." 
 
 " Well, I wonder if she d have me ? To-morrow will 
 be Sunday, so I ll come up in the evening, and ask her 
 to take a walk, and then we ll see." He smoked anothei 
 pipe almost in silence, and then departed. 
 
 "I say, Mary," said her brother, jocosely, after he 
 was gone, " wilt thou have John ?" 
 
32 THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 " Don t bother," replied Mary, blushing. 
 
 " But he s asked me if I thought you would. What 
 shall I tell him ?" 
 
 " You d better not tell him what you don t know ; 
 and I won t say before he asks me," was her cautious 
 answer. 
 
 " Well, he s coming to-morrow to go for a walk with 
 you." 
 
 " Don t be foolish," said Mary, reprovingly. 
 
 " Didn t you hear him say so, mother ?" he persisted, 
 appealing to his wife. 
 
 " He did say so, Mary, for I heard him." 
 
 " La !" exclaimed Mary ; " but that ain t asking mo 
 to marry him." 
 
 " No, but he will ask you. What will you say ?" 
 
 " I shan t tell you beforehand, because I know he 
 ain t agoing to ask me," said Mary. Sure as she was 
 of this, it did seem a little odd that she should spend 
 more than an hour before going to bed, in re-trimming 
 her Sunday bonnet, and otherwise doing up her best 
 clothes. 
 
 I was prevented witnessing what took place during 
 the walk on the following evening ; but I suppose all 
 went smoothly, for when I visited the cottage again, 
 which was not till the following Saturday, I found they 
 were to be asked in church the next morning. 
 
 " You see, father," observed the wife to her husband, 
 "it s just what I said. Nothing but good ever doea 
 C -rau of our taking that dear child. But who d have 
 thought it would have got such a good husband for our 
 Alary?" 
 
DON T RUN IN DEBT. 
 
 Oow r run in debt! never mind, never mir.d, 
 
 If the old clothes are faded and torn ; 
 Fit them up, make them do, it is better by far, 
 
 Than to have the heart weary and worn. 
 Who ll love you more for the set of the hat, 
 
 Or your ruff, or the tie of your shoe, 
 The shape of your vest, or your boots, or cravat, 
 
 If they know you re in debt for the new ? 
 
 Don t run in debt. If canary s the go, 
 
 Wear blue, if you have not the cash, 
 Or no matter what so you let the world know 
 
 You won t run in debt for a dash. 
 There s no comfort, I tell you, in walking the street 
 
 In fine clothes, if you know you re in debt, 
 And feel that perchance you some tradesman may mo0^ 
 
 Who will sneer " They re not paid for yet!" 
 
 Good friends, let me beg you, don t run in debt, 
 
 If the chairs and the sofas are old 
 They will fit your back better than any new set 
 
 Unless they are paid for in gold ; 
 If the house is small, draw it closer together, 
 
 Keep it warm with a hearty good-will ; 
 A big one unpaid for, in all kinds of weather, 
 
 Will send to your warm heart a chill. 
 
 Don t run in debt now, dear girls, take a hint; 
 
 (If the fashions have changed since last seasjn,) 
 Old Nature is out in the very same tint, 
 
 And Old Nature, we think, has some reason. 
 Just say to your friends you cannot afford 
 
 To spend time to keep up with the fashion ; 
 That your purse is too light, and your honour too Vright, 
 
 r o be tarnished with such silly 
 
84 x LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 Gents, don t run in debt let your friends, if they can, 
 
 Have fine houses, feathers, and flowers, 
 But unless they are paid for, be more of a man, 
 
 Than envy their sunshiny hours. 
 If you have money to spare, I have nothing to say ; 
 
 Spend your dimes and your dollars as you please, 
 But mind you the man that has his note to pay 
 
 Is the man that is never at ease. 
 
 Kind husbands, don t run in debt any more ; 
 
 Twill fill your wife s cup full of sorrow ; 
 To know that a neighbour may call at your door, 
 
 With a bill you can t settle to-morrow, 
 Oh ! take my advice it is good, it is true, 
 
 (But lest yon may some of you doubt it,) 
 I ll whisper a secret now, seeing tis you 
 
 I have tried it, and know all about it. 
 
 The chain of a debtor is heavy and cold, 
 
 Tts links all corrosion and rust, 
 Gild it o er as you will it is never of gold, 
 
 Then spurn it aside with disgust. 
 The man who s in debt is too often a slave, 
 
 Though his heart may be honest and true; 
 Can he hold up his head, and look saucy and brave, 
 
 When a note he can t pay becomes due? 
 
 LITTLE THINGS-THE INDEX OF CHARACTER. 
 
 THOSE trifling acts which show consideration for 
 others, where neglect might perhaps pass unobserved, 
 but to which true kindness will prompt, are better tests 
 of real goodness of heart than courtesy of manners in 
 society, or deeds of public charity which may spring 
 
LITTLE THINGS. 35 
 
 from a desire of approval. This genuine benevolence 
 is more clearly observable in the deportment towards the 
 neglected, or when shown in a solicitude for the guilty, 
 where its manifestation may bring censure rather than 
 eclat. I remember an instance which illustrates what 
 seeming trifles are, sometimes, true indications of 
 character. 
 
 A few years since, in travelling, it chanced that L 
 spent the night at the house of some friends of my 
 mother, who were previously strangers to me. The time 
 of my arrival proved rather an unpropitious one for a 
 first visit. A general house-cleaning was in progress, 
 and the good lady of the house was fearful there was 
 not a place in it fit for me to sit or sleep in. It was 
 evening when I arrived, and operations had been 
 suspended for the time; but everything was in con 
 fusion. 
 
 Much fatigued, and suffering from a severe pain in 
 my head, I retired at an early hour. The room assigned 
 me for the night, was the same to be occupied by the 
 two daughters of my hostess, whom, as they had gone 
 out with some young companions for a moonlight walk, 
 I had not yet seen. A portion of the furniture of the 
 apartment had been removed, but the nice bed that had 
 been placed there for temporary convenience, was so 
 fresh and neat, and its delicious softness so grateful to 
 my frame, worn by long journeying, that, despite my 
 weariness and pain, I soon fell asleep. 
 
 I was awakened from a pleasant dream by the sound 
 of voices below stairs. The sisters had returned from 
 
LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 their walk, and I heard their mother announce to them 
 my arrival. 
 
 Again I fell into a slumber, and was aroused by some 
 one in the room. On opening my eyes, I saw a figure 
 leaving my bedside, which I suppose to be one of the 
 young ladies who had been taking a peep at me in my 
 sleep, as she proceeded to the other bed, and 1 heard 
 her preparing for rest. Pain forced me to close my 
 eyes again ; but how do you think I was enabled to 
 decide, and correctly, upon the dispositions of these two 
 girls, without- seeing their faces, or hearing them speak 
 one word or, but one ; and how, on the next morning, 
 I knew, just by looking at them, which retired first? It 
 was simply in this way when the first who entered the 
 room left my bedside, she went to her own, and, drawing 
 towards her a chair, she took off her heavy walking shoes, 
 and, throwing them to a little distance, they met the 
 un carpeted floor with a concussion which made me start. 
 1 then heard her go to a closet, near her bed, and com 
 mence rummaging among its contents, apparently for 
 some missing article. Then opening the door of the 
 apartment, she called "Frances ;" but, her sister not 
 hearing, she closed it heavily, and jumping into bed, 
 drew a stand towards her, and Appeared to be busied in 
 reading for a few moments; then she extinguished the 
 light, and her breathing soon indicated that she slept. 
 
 Now these things, slight as they might seem, jarre-l 
 very disagreeably on my feelings; the more so, from 
 my peculiar state of mind and body at the time, 
 not merely the sounds themselves, but the want of sen 
 sibility they implied, -which, I thought, would instinct 
 
LITTLE THINGS. 37 
 
 ively prompt the noiseless step and gentle hand, when 
 in the apartment of the weary who are seeking rest. 
 While these thoughts were passing in my mind, for I 
 was now thoroughly awakened, the other sister entered 
 the room. 
 
 Gently closing the door, she slipped off her shoes at 
 the threshold, and going on tiptoe to the bedside, she 
 softly whispered " Mary ?" but her sister was sleep 
 ing, and she soon carefully took her place at her side. 
 
 "Mary," I said to myself " tis a sweet name, but 
 I fear she is not as gentle" for I felt that a person s 
 real disposition is more clearly revealed, in then un 
 guarded moments, and in trifles, than where it would be 
 more conspicuous. But Frances I felt assured I should 
 find her amiable. What a soothing influence had her 
 gentleness upon my nerves, which had been disturbed 
 by the carelessness manifested by her sister ! In the 
 morning, when I awoke, the sun was shining full into 
 the chamber, and the young ladies had nearly finished 
 their toilette. I recognised Frances at a glance ; there 
 was a softness and sensibility in the expression of hei 
 eyes which spoke a gentle, loving spirit ; and a long 
 after-acquaintance confirmed the conclusion I formed 
 concerning her from the slight circumstances of that 
 night. I found her always kind and considerate for 
 the comfort and happiness of others, ever avoiding, 
 with delicacy and tact, trespassing on the rights, or 
 wounding the feelings of any one by word or act. Mary, 
 on the contrary, was one of those persons with whom, 
 without really designing any unkindness, self is so pre 
 dominant, as to be the centre of all their thoughts ami 
 
88 THE HAPPY LOT. 
 
 actions, but to whom the slight sacrifices they make 
 seem so great, that they imagine, no one steps aside so 
 much for others as themselves. 
 
 THE HAPPY LOT. 
 
 BLEST is the hearth where daughters gird the fire, 
 
 And sons that shall be happier than their sire, 
 
 Who sees them crowd around his evening chair, 
 
 \\ hile love and hope inspire his wordless prayer. 
 
 0, from their home paternal may they go, 
 
 With little to unlearn, though much to know ! 
 
 Them may no poisoned tongue, no evil eye, 
 
 Curse for the virtues that refuse to die; 
 
 The generous heart, the independent mind, 
 
 Till truth like falsehood leaves a sting behind ! 
 
 May temperance crown their feast, and friendship 
 
 May pity come, love s sister spirit, there ! 
 
 May they shun baseness as they shun the grave ! 
 
 May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave ! 
 
 Sweet peace be theirs the moonlight of the breast 
 
 And occupation, and alternate rest; 
 
 And dear to care and thought the usual walk ; 
 
 Theirs be no flower that withers on the stalk, 
 
 But roses cropped, that shall not bloom in vain ; 
 
 And Hope s blest sun, that sets to rise again. 
 
 Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be sweet, 
 
 Their floor resound the tread of little feet ; 
 
 Blest- beyond fear and fate, if blest by thee 
 
 And heirs, Love! of thine eternity 1 
 
LABOUR. 
 
 IT is part of the arrangements of Providence that 
 every man should labour in some way or other ; that 
 either with his brain, or by means of his bone and mus 
 cle, he should bring out all the capabilities that are in 
 him ; that, in short, he should prove himself a man. 
 
 If we needed proof of this, we might find it in the 
 fact that man, when he first comes into the world, is the 
 most helpless of all animals. Nothing is done for him ; 
 while for other creatures everything is done. They are 
 more or less fitted to enter at once on their life. The 
 bird finds himself clothed with feathers, the sheep with 
 wool, the dog with hair, without any thought or exertion 
 on their part. Man, on the contrary, must provide him 
 self with clothing ; he must, by hunting, fishing, or 
 labour of some sort, procure food for himself. Whether 
 or no, we see that he is compelled to labour, if he is to 
 stay upon the earth at all. 
 
 Thus there is no escape from it : we must work, or 
 accept the alternative die ! To many people this ap 
 pears to be a grievance, or injustice. Have they ever 
 asked themselves the question, whether it is really so? 
 whether their opinion is sound or unsound ? Until 
 they have done that, they have no right to complain. 
 But what is the fact ? The answer is, that labour is 
 not a curse, but a blessing ; that the necessity under 
 .vhich we all lie to exert ourselves is a something for 
 vhich we have to be thankful. Consider only : what 
 
40 LABOUR. 
 
 should we be without labour ? Look at those countries 
 which produce the fruits of the earth with scarcely any 
 toil or trouble ; the people are not only indolent, but 
 they are incapable of exertion. Their faculties are, as 
 it were, benumbed. They want manhood ; and not un- 
 frequently have no spirit of greatness or generosity. The 
 moie nature does for them, the less will they do for them 
 selves. Like the boys who bribe their more diligent 
 schoolmates to help them with their tasks, they are 
 always at the bottom of the class. Nothing short of an 
 earthquake will rouse them ; and then they will rush out 
 into the streets and pray to the saints, instead of trying 
 to prop the falling walls. If they would work as well 
 as pray, it would be all the better for them. Constant 
 summer is very pleasant ; but if constant summer makes 
 people lazy, they might do well to try the effect of a 
 winter. 
 
 On the contrary, look at countries where it is not 
 always summer; where frost and snow, and fog and 
 cloud, come at times to alter the face of nature or the 
 state of the atmosphere. What a manly, vigorous race 
 the natives are ! Everything is not done to their hands, 
 and they have to bestir themselves stoutly if they wish- 
 to live with ease or comfort. To what do we owe our 
 roads, canals, bridges, railways, telegraphs, and other 
 great constructions ? To labour. Labour provided the 
 means ; and hand-labour, directed by brain-labour, 
 wrought the work. Had labour not been going on for 
 hundreds of years within our borders, it is very certain 
 we should not be in the position that we now are. Labour 
 has been brought to such a pitch that, though we cannot 
 have perpetual summer, we can have, of course, a,*, it 
 
fjBf&J. 
 
 " * 
 
 MBK^ ^Y ^ 
 
 V * tsk- : j : y.^;.< 
 
 JH^Oli: 
 
LABOUR. 41 
 
 pleases Providence, perpetual comfort. And what is 
 more, our faculties are developed, our abilities are made 
 tbe most of, and there is no enterprise too great for us 
 to undertake. 
 
 Labour being a good on a great scale, it follows that 
 it is a good on a small scale. If a whole people is bene 
 fited, so is each individual of the whole benefited also. 
 What polishing is to the diamond, such is labour to the 
 man. Labour leads on from thought to thought, from 
 endeavour to endeavour, each advance being but the step 
 towards another. Perfection is the object aimed at; 
 and, as far as is permitted to human skill and ingenuity, 
 many of the results of our labour are perfect. 
 
 It is not to be denied that, in certain cases and condi" 
 tions of society, men may have to labour too much ; but 
 this fact does not disprove the other fact, that a man 
 cannot labour without being the better for it. Occupa 
 tion, whether of body or mind, is, far more than many 
 of us are willing to believe, a prime means of happiness. 
 Do you doubt the fact ? Look well at the first person 
 you see wno has really nothing to do ; the chances are 
 a thousand to one that you will find him to be in some 
 way or other a very miserable being. Many who read 
 these lines will remember times when they have risen in 
 the morning weary and dispirited, when life seemed to 
 have no relish. But, being obliged to work, they have 
 found as the work went on that the cloud which hun^ 
 
 O 
 
 about their minds disappeared, that cheerfulness and 
 hope came back again ; and still as they continued, so 
 did their contentment increase. There is great virtue 
 in labour ; it is a noble means of exercise ; and Plato, 
 
42 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 
 
 the philosopher, said that exercise would almost cure a 
 guilty conscience. 
 
 "In all labour there is profit," says the wise man. 
 Of course, he meant honest labour ; and the man who 
 does his duty honestly and diligently in his vocation, 
 ptedily following up the duty that lies immediately before 
 him, such an one adds worth to his character and dignity 
 10 his manhood, and, while promoting his own interests, 
 subserves the welfare of others. 
 
 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 
 
 ON a low couch in an apartment which plainly evinced 
 the wealth and luxury of its occupant, sat, or rather re 
 clined, a maiden of apparently about eighteen summers, 
 absorbed in deep and somewhat anxious thought. 
 
 Few who gazed upon the exceeding beauty of her 
 countenance, and marked its usually joyous expression, 
 would have dreamed that a cloud ever passed over her 
 young heart. Indeed, there was nought to mar her 
 earthly happiness. The only and idolized child of 
 wealthy parents, her slightest wishes were regarded or 
 even anticipated. All around her was beautiful as a dream 
 of fairy land, in her own dear home, and when she mingled 
 m the gay crowd, her wealth and loveliness gave her that 
 precedence which, in spite of her better judgment, waa 
 gratifying to her heart. 
 
 And yet the fair Eveline was not always happy. There 
 
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 43 
 
 were moments when her soul yearned for an indefinable 
 something which she felt that neither rank nor beauty 
 could bestow. A desire to fulfil more perfectly the ob 
 ject of her being, to suffer her thoughts and affections 
 to expand beyond the routine of selfish pleasures in which 
 her daily life was passed, had taken possession of her 
 mind, and in the solitude of her own room she often 
 passed sad hours of reflection, unsuspected by her gay 
 companions, or by the fond parents who so tenderly 
 watched over her. 
 
 " Happiness !" she would sometimes exclaim. " What 
 is it ? The shadow men do indeed possess, but not the 
 reality. That is beyond our ken. It belongcth not to 
 mortals. Wherefore then am I thus dissatisfied ? Where 
 fore this continual striving for what I may not hope to 
 gain ?" 
 
 With her mind oppressed with these reflections, Eve 
 line slept upon the couch where she had thrown herself 
 that she might indulge them undisturbed. We say she 
 slept, but can that state be called sleep, where the soul, 
 freed for a brief season from its earthly fetters, gains 
 new strength and vigour while holding close communion 
 with those heavenly friends whom it can then mtet face 
 t^ face in its home in the spirit-land ! 
 
 While Eveline was thus apparently sleeping in her own 
 apartment, she found herself in a garden, the surpass 
 ing beauty of which far exceeded aught that she had 
 ever seen on earth. Flowers of the most varied and 
 brilliant hues were breathing forth the most delightful 
 perfumes; birds of the richest plumage filled the air 
 with their melody as they sported among the foliage of 
 
44 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 
 
 the trees ; fruits of delicious flavour hung temptingly 
 within her reach; the very air that she breathed seemed 
 to sparkle in the brilliant light, like a thousand diamonds; 
 while the sound of the waters falling from the numerous 
 fiuntains, came upon the ear with a refreshing coolness. 
 
 For a moment Eveline gazed with astonishment and 
 delight upon the lovely scene before her, but again a feel 
 ing of sadness stole over her, and she murmured aloud, 
 
 " And yet all this beauty does not constitute happiness. 
 It is but the shadow. Where is the substance ?" 
 
 As she said this, a voice gently replied, 
 
 " The substance produces the shadow, fair maiden. 
 The lovely objects around you do not, indeed, give hap 
 piness, but those interior principles, those thoughts and 
 affections, those active endeavours, of which all these 
 things are but as types or representatives, they consti 
 tute happiness ; they are the substance, the reality for 
 which you seek." 
 
 "Explain this still farther," cried Eveline, as she 
 turned in the direction of the voice, and saw standing 
 by her side a shining one clad in garments of the most 
 dazzling whiteness. 
 
 Again the angel replied, 
 
 " There is a certain latent vein in the affection of thf 
 will of every angel which draws his mind to the doing 
 of something, and by this the mind is tranquillized and 
 made satisfied with itself; this tranquillity and satisfac 
 tion form a state of mind capable of receiving the love 
 of uses from the Lord ; from the reception of this love 
 is heavenly happiness. This is the origin of all our 
 joys ; from this, as from a fountain, various delights are 
 
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 45 
 
 perpetually gushing forth, and in their final ultimation 
 surround us with what is externally beautiful and lovely. 
 
 " In the world in which you dwell, the internal and 
 external are, alas, but too seldom in unison. Mortals 
 are often surrounded by all the luxuries which earthly 
 riches can procure, while the interiors are closed against 
 the heavenly joys which their Creator and Father is con 
 tinually striving to impart ; and those who possess hea 
 venly riches are often found among the naturally poor 
 and lowly ; but true happiness in the natural world as 
 well as in the spiritual, must proceed from the internal 
 love which I have described. The love of use can alone 
 fill that void which you have so painfully felt. Without 
 this, the external delights around you are cold and 
 lifeless." 
 
 With deep humility and attention Eveline listened to 
 the words of her heavenly instructor, and in thoughtful 
 accents she repeated, 
 
 { " The love of use. What is its nature, and how may 
 I obtain this one essential of true happiness?" 
 
 " By living no longer for yourself alone. Learn to 
 regard the rich gifts which God hath seen fit to bestow 
 upon thee, personal loveliness, uncommon talents, wealth 
 in abundance, as instruments in your hands for minis 
 tering to the welfare of others. Even in the cultivation 
 of your own mind, the love of use may still be your 
 luling end, for the knowledge which you acquire ren 
 ders you a more fitting medium for imparting good to 
 vour fellow-beings. Go forth among the sad ones of 
 the earth. Clothe the naked, feed the hungry, whisper 
 consolation to the afflicted, lead the sinner to rcper.t- 
 
46 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 
 
 ance. This is the blessed mission which hath been 
 assigned to me, and intense is the joy which I derive from 
 its fulfilment. Even now I am summoned to the world 
 of mortals. Accompany me. and I will show thee at 
 least one form of use." 
 
 With delight Eveline yielded herself to his guidance 
 and in a moment the scene changed from heavenly bliss 
 to earthly wretchedness. In a miserable hovel an almost 
 heart-broken mother was weeping over her suffering 
 babes. The father had, some months since, been re 
 moved to the world of spirits, and her utmost exertions 
 were insufficient to maintain herself and the four little 
 ones dependent upon her. The winter s wind was whis 
 tling loud and shrill around her dwelling ; the snow lay 
 piled at her door ; but there was no glowing fire upon 
 the hearth around which the widow and the orphans 
 could cluster, unheeding the storm without. All was 
 dark and desolate. The last stick had been burned, 
 the last cinders scraped together, and now nothing re 
 mained but to draw close to each other, and, sheltered 
 by the scanty covering which the poor mother had thrown 
 around them, to look to death as a release from their 
 sufferings. Many hours had elapsed since a morsel of 
 food had passed their lips, and when at length the de 
 spairing woman had resolved to beg rather than to allow 
 her children to perish, she had been harshly repulsed by 
 the first person to whom she applied, and, sick at heart, 
 bad crept back to die with her loved ones. 
 
 Tears fell fast from Eveline s eyes as she gazed upon 
 this scene of misery. 
 
 "Oh, give them instant relief," she cried. "Little 
 
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 47 
 
 did I imagine that such destitution existed. Delay not 
 a moment, or it will be too late." 
 
 " Earthly mediums are necessary," replied her hea 
 venly guide. " It is not granted to us to give material 
 aid. Spiritual comfort I have already imparted. Look 
 IKW at the sufferers." 
 
 The mother kneeled beside her babes and prayed 
 earnestly to the God of the widow and the fatherless, 
 and she received into her soul that peace -which no 
 earthly suffering can take away. 
 
 " Our Heavenly Father hath heard us," she exclaimed 
 joyfully. " I feel that we shall yet be saved. Have 
 courage, my children; help draweth near." 
 
 Even as she spoke, Eveline found herself still hand in 
 hand with her spirit friend in a cheerful, pleasant little 
 parlour, where, in a social circle around their bright fire, 
 sat a father, mother, and five lovely children. All was 
 joy among this little group, and, though not surrounded 
 by the luxuries of wealth, they were evidently in pos 
 session of every comfort. The youngest child sat upon 
 his father s knee ; the elder ones clung around him, 
 bringing for one more pleasant story, while the mother 
 looked upon her treasures with a happy, loving glance, 
 which told the gladness within. 
 
 "Wherefore are we here?" asked Eveline, reproach 
 fully. u The widow and her orphans are left to die." 
 
 "Not so," was the reply. "I came but to seek an 
 instrument of good." 
 
 The angel bent toward the father, and, unseen by all 
 but Eveline, breathed a few words in his car. A shado 
 of thought passed over his brow, and, for a few moments, 
 
48 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS 
 
 he remained silent, unnoticing the caresses of his child 
 ren. At length he arose, and gently placed the babe in 
 its mother s arms, saying, 
 
 " This is a hard night for the poor, dear Mary. J 
 think I will seek out some of the sufferers." 
 
 u Not to-night, Edward," urged the wife. " It is so 
 cold and stormy. Wait till morning." 
 
 " I may then be too late. There is great misery even 
 in our own neighbourhood. I noticed a wretched hovel 
 to-day which I am told contains a widow and four little 
 ones. I was prevented from visiting them before I re 
 turned home, but I feel strongly impelled to see them 
 ere I sleep. Fill a small basket with nourishing food, 
 and seek not to detain me. It is good to be mindful of 
 the poor." 
 
 "My mission here is ended," whispered the angel. 
 " The sufferers have found a friend. Come forth again. 
 We will stand by the bed of sickness and death. I have 
 there a labour of love to perform." 
 
 In an instant they stood in a darkened room, where a 
 young maiden lay extended on that bed from which she 
 was to rise no more. One glance at her countenance 
 showed that death had marked her, and ere many hours 
 had passed, would claim her for his own. In silent 
 anguish the fond parents bent over the idol of their 
 affections. Eagerly they listened to the broken words 
 which escaped her lips. There was sadness in the tones 
 of her voice as she murmured some expressions of en 
 dearment to those around her. Life was to her bright 
 and beautiful the passage to the world of immortality 
 dark and gloomy and she looked not beyond. Waa 
 
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 49 
 
 there no kind friend to raise her thoughts to those realms 
 of bliss, of which the beautiful in this world is but as a 
 dim outline or shadow ? Was there none to speak of 
 the infinite love of her Heavenly Father, who saw fit thus 
 early to call her to Himself? Alas ! no. All were too 
 much absorbed in their own grief. They sought riot to 
 rise with the departing spirit to her new and glorious 
 home ; but, by their overpowering sorrow, rather strove 
 to draw her back to earth. 
 
 " Here there is indeed a great work to be done," said 
 the angel. " To the sick girl I may myself draw near, 
 for the veil which obscured her mortal vision, is partially 
 removed. See, she sleeps. I will approach and minister 
 to her wants. Remain where you are. You, too, are 
 invisible to mortal eyes. Listen to the instructions of 
 him who through my agency will speak consolation to 
 the hearts of the bereaved parents. Already he draweth 
 near." 
 
 As the spirit spake, Eveline looked and beheld a 
 venerable old man entering the apartment. His benevo 
 lent countenance wore an expression of the tenderest 
 pity and commiseration as in soothing accents he ad 
 dressed the afflicted ones. He entered fully into their 
 grief, and descended with them into the dark valley. 
 But gradually he led them to look beyond to rise above 
 the clouds which had gathered around them to look 
 upon death as the messenger of life, immortal life. The 
 frail and perishable body was indeed to be laid aside, but 
 the freed spirit would rejoice in its new birth. 
 
 The sufferer awoke, but all was changed around her. 
 The mother bent over her, whispering worls of faith 
 
50 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 
 
 and hope ; the father clasped her hand in his, and 
 breathed an earnest prayer ; her own thoughts and feel 
 ings were no longer sad and earth-bound. She looked 
 upward to her heavenly home ; perfect peace was in her 
 heart, a radiant smile played upon her lips. She 
 breathed a few words of happiness and love, and calmly 
 sunk to rest, like a wearied infant upon its mother s 
 bosom. 
 
 With intense interest Eveline stood gazing upon this 
 scene, when a light touch aroused her. 
 
 " Come forth," whispered her guide. " Other minis 
 tering spirits will now fill my place. My duty calls mo 
 elsewhere." 
 
 They stood together in a quiet churchyard. Around 
 them were the monuments which affection rears to the 
 memory of departed friends. It was the twilight hour, 
 and the most profound stillness reigned. At length 
 Eveline heard a low moan ; and, seated on a new-made 
 grave at a short distance from her, she saw a lady, some 
 what past the prime of life. At first she bowed her 
 head in silent agony, and her powerful emotion seemed 
 almost to rend her feeble frame. Then raising her eyes 
 to heaven, she exclaimed in the most piercing accents 
 of bitter grief: 
 
 " All gone ! husband and children, father, mother, 
 and friends. Not one link left to bind me to earth ! 
 Nothing left to love ! Why, then, am I permitted to 
 remain ? Why may not my struggling spirit burst its 
 bonds, and join the loved ones who have gone from me ? 
 Oh God ! look upon me in my affliction. Leave me not 
 thus alone." 
 
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 51 
 
 " Poor woman !" murmured Eveline ; " how great is 
 her affliction ! Gladly would I draw near to her, and 
 endeavour to console her, or at least mingle my tears 
 with hers; even sympathy is sometimes consolation. 
 
 " It is, indeed," replied the angel, with an approving 
 Bmile ; " hut a medium is already provided. Look to 
 the right of the lady, near the white stone. What see 
 you?" 
 
 " A lovely child," answered Eveline, " quietly sleeping 
 with her head upon the turf which covers another grave 
 of recent date." 
 
 "She slumbers not," returned the angel. "She is 
 listening intently to the words of her whose sorrows have 
 BO strongly excited your pity. She, too, has suffered. 
 That grave contains the mortal remains of her late only 
 surviving parent ; and the little one also feels friendless 
 and alone in the wide world. See, she rises and draws, 
 nearer to the lady." 
 
 As she spoke, the child quietly approached the still 
 weeping mourner. Tears, not for her own sorrows, but 
 for those of another, were on her cheeks ; and, placing 
 her little hand within that of her companion in affliction, 
 she said, endearingly, 
 
 " You need not be alone. I will love you, and stay 
 with you always." 
 
 " Who are you, my child ?" was the astonished reply ; 
 for the step of the little one had been unheard upon the 
 soft grass, and the lady knew not of her presence, until 
 she felt the gentle pressure of her hand. 
 
 " I am an orphan. My name is Ellen. My (J car 
 father died many months ago, and now my mother has 
 
52 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 
 
 gone too. They laid her body in that grave where you 
 see the \vhite stone, and I love to sit upon it and think 
 of her. She lives in heaven now. She used to bid me 
 not to weep, but to think of her and love her, and try 
 to be a good child until my Heavenly Father should take 
 me home ; and I do try, but there is no one to speak 
 kindly tc me now, and teach me to be good. They give 
 me food and clothes, but they do not kiss me and love 
 me, and call me their own darling child, as my poor 
 mother used to do. You have nothing to love. Will 
 you not love me ?" 
 
 " I will, indeed, sweet one," replied the lady, clasping 
 the little girl in her arms. " Our Heavenly Father hath 
 sent you to me to comfort me in my grief. I will watch 
 over your tender years, and be a mother to you. My 
 life will no longer be without an object. Another bud 
 of immortality is intrusted to my care." 
 
 Eveline still lingered, but the angel whispered, 
 
 " It is enough ; my task is ended. New duties await 
 me." 
 
 The night was dark and fearful on the tempestuous 
 sea, and high on the mountain waves a pirate vessel rode 
 proudly on its course. Eveline shrunk closer to the 
 side of her heavenly protector, as she stood with him 
 among that fierce crew ; but his gentle words soon reas 
 sured her. 
 
 "Recollect that we are invisible to mortal eyes," he 
 Baid. " Nought can harm thee. Even here there is a 
 work of love to be performed." 
 
 "Surely, not to these wicked men I" exclaimed Eve- 
 
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 53 
 
 line. " Nothing of heaven could find admission into 
 their hardened hearts." 
 
 " There is one among their number who may yet 
 be saved, 1 replied the angel. " True, his deeds have 
 been bloody and fearful, but a glimmer of light still 
 remains. A pious mother watched over his infant 
 years, and the remembrance of her gentle teachings 
 still steals over his mind like some long-forgotten 
 dream, awakening tender emotions, checking for the 
 moment his evil course, calling upon the sinner to re 
 pent and return once more to the path of virtue. Be 
 hold him just before us. Mark well his countenance. 
 Even in its fierce lineaments, you may discern an expres 
 sion which tells of better things. A change is about to 
 take place with him. I must draw near to him in his 
 sleep, and endeavour to touch some tender chord of 
 memory." 
 
 The pirate s nightly watch was ended, and, unheeding 
 the danger around him, he slept securely. His dreams 
 were of his childhood s home. Once more he was an 
 innocent boy, and, kneeling by his mother s side, he 
 lisped his evening prayer. Alas ! years had gone by 
 since words like these had passed his lips. Her soft 
 hand was upon his head as in days of yore, and her mil J 
 countenance gazed lovingly upon him as she repeated 
 these words : " For this, my son, was dead, and is alive 
 again ; he was lost, and is found." 
 
 The storm had passed with the shades of night, and 
 the morning dawned bright and beautiful. The vessel 
 now lay at anchor on the shores of a lovely but unin 
 habited island. For a few hours the crew were ac liberty 
 
54 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 
 
 to tread on land once more, and gladly did they avail 
 themselves of the privilege. 
 
 Still keeping near to the object of his mission, the 
 angel stood with Eve^ne in a thick grove, in the midst 
 of which the waters of a bubbling spring came gushing 
 up with a delightful coolness. 
 
 The pirate threw himself upon a mossy bank, and 
 seemed for a time lost in deep and painful reflection. 
 The perfect stillness of that little spot, so beautiful to 
 one whose eye had long been accustomed to nought but 
 the vast expanse of waters, with the deep green foliage 
 of its graceful trees, the fragrant breath of the brilliant 
 flowers, awakened feelings which had long been a 
 stranger to his heart. His dream came vividly to his 
 mind. With wonderful distinctness the home of his 
 childhood was before him ; and his angel mother, surely 
 her hand was even now upon his heated brow, and her 
 gentle tones breathed into his ear. 
 
 Nearer and nearer drew the ministering spirit, still 
 holding Eveline by the hand. 
 
 " Must you still work through earthly mediums ?" she 
 whispered. " Surely there are none on this lonely island 
 who can minister to a mind diseased." 
 
 " No human being, indeed," the spirit replied ; " but 
 the Creator of the universe hath many mediums of good. 
 Even in inanimate nature, the fragrant flowers, the wav 
 ing leaves, the gurgling waters, all may become mes 
 sengers of hope and consolation to those who are bowed 
 down by affliction, or who have wandered far from the 
 right path. But see ! yonder comes the present mes 
 senger of peace;" and as he spoke, Eveline beheH a 
 
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS. 55 
 
 beautiful dove fluttering slowly through the air, until 
 she perched upon a tree overhanging the spring. 
 
 Absorbed in his own bitter reflections, the pirate 
 marked her not, until she sent forth her sweet mournful 
 notes of love. Another chord of memory was touched. 
 The sinner could bear no more ; he wept like a little 
 child, and, kneeling on that lonely spot, poured out his 
 heart in prayer. 
 
 Then solemnly he vowed to join no more the wicked 
 band who had led him so far in the sinful way. He 
 would remain in strict concealment until the vessel set 
 Bail, trusting in Providence to open the way for him to 
 leave the island, and dwell once more among his fellow 
 men. 
 
 " It is enough," said the angel ; " my present mission 
 is ended. Return with me to my heavenly home." 
 
 In an instant they stood once more in that beautiful 
 garden where Eveline had first beheld her friend and 
 guide. New beauties now surrounded him. Trees, 
 birds, and flowers, had acquired a loveliness surpassing 
 anything which Eveline could have imagined to exist ; 
 and the angel himself seemed encompassed by a light 
 und splendour unobserved before. 
 
 " It is but the form of the happiness within," he said, 
 in reply to the maiden s look of surprise. " The works 
 of love which I have been permitted to form have given 
 me the most interior delight, and therefore everything 
 around me glows with new beauty. 
 
 " Thou must now return to the material world which 
 is yet thy dwelling-place. Bear in thy heart the lesson 
 which thou hast learned. Live no longer for tlyscl 
 
56 FRUITS OF SORROW. 
 
 In every act of thy life have regard to the good of others. 
 Happiness will be thine, for thou wilt find delight in use, 
 and this is the only source of true heavenly happiness. 
 Farewell." 
 
 The angel disappeared, and in her own apartment 
 Eveline awoke to ponder on her dream. 
 
 FRUITS OF SORROW. 
 
 I WAS recovering from a long illness. Reclining upon 
 my couch, with its carefully arranged pillows and snowy 
 drapery, I enjoyed to the utmost the sensation of re 
 newed life which, with increasing strength, thrilled 
 through every vein. The sashes were raised, and through 
 the closed blinds came the soft breath of a June morn 
 ing, bearing on its invisible wings the mingled perfume 
 of a thousand flowers. On a table within reach of my 
 hand stood a vase filled with rare exotics, and by my 
 side sat the dear friend who had brought this beautiful 
 offering. 
 
 I never tire of gazing on flowers ; but now something 
 inexplicable attracted my attention to the countenance 
 of Lucy Latimer a countenance which, notwithstand 
 ing her thirty-five years, still wore a calm and mournful 
 beauty. Upon her features beamed their usual 3weet 
 and benevolent smile, yet at intervals a convulsive spasm 
 distorted the small mouth or contracted the broad, fair 
 brow, and I thought that, more than once, a bright tear 
 glistened in her downcast eye. 
 
FRUITS OP SORROW, 07 
 
 For tlie first time the thought flashed across my mind 
 that there might be " a story " connected with the life 
 of Lucy. I had known her from my childhood, and her 
 course had been ever the same. She had few pleasures, 
 but many duties. She had literally gone about doing 
 good. A true sister of charity, wherever misfortune 
 came in the extensive circle of her influence, she waa 
 seen binding up the broken heart, and pouring the Dil 
 of consolation upon the bruised spirit. For all ailings, 
 mental or physical, she had a ready sympathy. From 
 the couch of the sufferer, hurried by some devouring 
 pestilence to the confines of eternity, she shrank not 
 while life remained. She smoothed the pillow of the 
 consumptive, and held the cooling draught to fever- 
 parched lips ; and, above all, her warnings and her 
 prayers often led their object to exclaim, in true peni 
 tence and submission, " Not my will, Lord, but Thine 
 be done !" 
 
 Did a fond mother bend in agony over the form of 
 her departed darling, Lucy s gentle soothings brought 
 comfort to her sorrowing heart. Did some young wife 
 Bee the husband of her heart s choice, the father of her 
 little ones, stricken in his prime, and borne away to the 
 silent tomb the soft voice of Lucy awakened her to 
 present duties, and reminded her of the loving care of 
 Him who is *he " Father of the fatherless, and the widow s 
 God." In short, she who had been an only child, and 
 was now an orphan, seemed never to feel the want of 
 kindred ; for she was the daughter, the sister, the beloved 
 friend of all who suffered. 
 
 " Dear Lucy," said I suddenly, after a long silence. 
 
58 FRUITS OF SORROW. 
 
 during \vliich all these thoughts had passed in review he- 
 fore me, " you are very sad to-day, and I know by the 
 dreamy look of your eyes, that it is some sorrowful 
 memory of the past which thus disturbs you. Will you 
 not tell me what it is ? You have never spoken to me 
 of your past life ; yet I remember having heard my 
 mother say, long ago, that your youth had been blighted 
 by some fearful misfortune. If it is not too painful, will 
 you tell me about it ? I feel that I can sympathize 
 with you, though, before this illness, I have hardly known 
 Borrow or pain." 
 
 Lucy s face was turned from me as I spoke ; but when 
 I concluded, she arose, and approaching the bed, stooped 
 and kissed me. Then, without saying a word, she buried 
 her face in the pillow, and gave way to an uncontrollable 
 burst of tears. Surprised and grieved that I should have 
 caused such pain to that dear friend, who, under all pre 
 vious circumstances, had seemed calm and self-controlled, 
 I mingled my tears with hers, beseeching her forgive 
 ness, and endeavouring to soothe her by the gentlest 
 words. But the repressed sorrows of years had found 
 vent in tears which could not at once be checked. After a 
 long time, however, her sobs ceased, and when, at length, 
 she raised her. face, nothing but the mournful expression 
 of her moistened eye told of the conflict which, of late, 
 had raged so fiercely in her soul. 
 
 "Forgive, my dear young friend," said she, "these 
 tears which may have seemed to reproach your kindness 
 On this day, the anniversary of my bitter trials, a word 
 recalls their memory ; but believe me, your gentle ex 
 pressions of sympathy alone could have unsealed the 
 
FRUITS OF SORROW. 59 
 
 fountain of my grief. But I will tell you the story of 
 my youth, and then you will cease to wonder at my occa 
 sional hours of sadness or even violent grief 
 
 " When the month of June, 1832, was ushered in, I, 
 like you now, was young, and lived with my parents in a 
 luxurious home ; but, unlike you, I had one great sorrow. 
 I had been long engaged to Cecil Alleyne, a young cler 
 gyman, who had devoted his life to the work of a mis 
 sionary. We were to have been married on the first of 
 June, and to have gone out to India as missionaries. But 
 Cecil was in declining health. A cold, taken during the 
 previous winter, while in the exercise of parochial duties, 
 had preyed upon a delicate constitution, and it was now 
 feared that that scourge of northern climates, consump 
 tion, had marked him for its prey. At the time appointed 
 for our marriage and embarkation, he was too ill to leave 
 his room, and the ship sailed without us. 
 
 " You may well believe that it was a bitter trial to 
 this noble young man, full of earnest enthusiasm in the 
 cause he had espoused, to be thus cut short in a career 
 which promised to be one of more than ordinary useful 
 ness. But he bowed meekly to his Maker s will, with 
 scarcely a murmur at the blighting of all his hopes. 
 But with little of his child-like confidence in our hea- 
 renly Father, I rose in fierce rebellion at this unexpected 
 disappointment. Alas ! how little did I dream of the 
 sorrows yet in store for me ! or how soon my proud 
 heart would be humbled by repeated afflictions ! 
 
 " Cecil s father lived at S , six miles from my 
 
 own home, and thither, at an early hour, I was sum 
 moned on the 16th of June. Cecil was very ill, the old 
 
FRUITS OF SORROW. 
 
 servant said. He had broken a blood-vessel during iho 
 previous night, and, believing that his hours were num 
 bered. he earnestly desired to see me. 
 
 u I had returned from S - but a few days before, 
 and left him apparently better so much so, that we 
 had planned a quiet marriage as soon as he should be 
 able to ride over to us. For this I was, if possible, 
 more anxious than himself, that I might gain the sweet 
 privilege of being his constant nurse. Thus when I saw 
 Mr. Alleyne s carriage drive to the gate, I ran eagerly 
 down the path, expecting to see dear Cecil alight from 
 it. Judge then of my disappointment at the intelligence 
 I received. 
 
 " Making my preparations with tearful haste, I was 
 soon on my way, and anxiously urging greater speed. 
 The journey seemed interminable, but we arrived at 
 last, and springing from the carriage, I soon stood by 
 the bedside of my dying Cecil. The bed, for freer cir 
 culation of air, was drawn to the centre of the apart 
 ment. Opposite to it was the vine-covered window 
 which opened into the garden, from whence rose the 
 perfume of countless flowers, the busy hum of bees from 
 the quaint old apiary in its sunniest nook, and the song 
 of birds from out the branches of the magnificent horse- 
 chestnuts which, even in the sultriest noon, threw their 
 cooling shadows upon the house. Without, all was life 
 and joy ; within, gloom and the shadow of death. 
 
 "There lay Cecil, but how changed! The pallid 
 brow, the sunken eye, the laboured breath all told 
 how swift were the strides which the destroyer was tak 
 ing with his victim. But a holy calm sat on brow and 
 
FRUITS OF SORROW. 61 
 
 lip, for to him death had no terrors. A bright smil.e 
 beamed on his pale face as he saw me, and he feebly 
 raised his arms to clasp my neck as I knelt beside him 
 and wept with grief that would not be controlled. 
 
 " Weep not, my beloved one, he said, in feeble ac 
 cents ; mourn not, my Lucy, our parting will not bo 
 long, and we shall meet above. Gladly would I have 
 lived to have passed the years with you here ; but God 
 wills otherwise, and let us not repine. Grieve not, 
 Lucy, that he is so soon taking me from a world where 
 poison lurks in every cup, where danger follows our 
 footsteps in every path, and where the blight of sin is 
 on all we hold most dear. 
 
 " With a violent effort I controlled the manifestations 
 of my sorrow. But it was his office to cheer me ; the 
 words of the dying infused courage into the heart that 
 was so soon to be left alone. But few more words 
 passed between us, for, exhausted by the violent hemor 
 rhage and long suffering, he desired sleep to refresh him 
 for the farewells which soon must take place. I passed 
 my arm beneath his head, and, after a glance of undy 
 ing affection from those glorious eyes which had always 
 beamed with love for me, he closed them in a soft slum 
 ber, peaceful as an infant s upon its mother s breast. 
 His sleep was long, and when he awoke, the shadows 
 of evening were falling, and the honeysuckle at the 
 window had filled the apartment with the rich fragrance 
 that twilight dews always win from its perfumed chal 
 ices. It seemed the fitting incense to bear the pure 
 Boul to heaven. 
 
 " This slumber had been refreshing, and Cecil was 
 
62 FRUITS OF SORROW 
 
 able to converse with his parents and e\ery member of 
 the household. Never will aught connected with that 
 evening fade from the memory of those who stood 
 around that death-bed, and listened to his inspired 
 words. His glorious intellect, almost cleared from the 
 dull film of mortality, grappled with ideas seemingly 
 too great for human utterance ; and his words fell upon 
 the ear solemnly, as < oracles from beyond the grave/ 
 Never had the lamp of his affections burned brighter. 
 Dear, exceedingly, as the loved ones who now surrounded 
 him had ever been, in this hour words failed to express 
 his affection for them. And as his eye, full of love, 
 wandered over the circle, each felt that the bond which 
 connected our spirits was one which would endure to 
 all eternity. He spoke at intervals for several hours, 
 but at length fell into a quiet slumber, and all, except 
 his parents and myself, departed to seek repose. He 
 awoke again at midnight, and with kind consideration, 
 entreated his aged and grief-worn parents tc seek tho 
 rest they so much needed. 
 
 " Lucy will remain with me, he said, in answer to 
 his mother s remonstrances ; i she is young, and will 
 not feel the loss of sleep, while watching will make you 
 ill, mother. And do not fear to leave me, for Lucy is 
 the gentlest and kindest of nurses. 
 
 "Left alone, hours of sweet communion ensued be 
 tween myself and Cecil. He seemed much better. He 
 felt, as he said, no pain, and at times his voice rang out 
 full, clear, and harmonious, as in health. He spoke of 
 our early love, hallowed as it was by many pleasant 
 memories, and besought me not to allow the current of 
 
FRUITS OF SORROW. 63 
 
 my affections, thus suddenly checked, to return and 
 jreatfi bitterness at their source ; but, rather, that I 
 should permit it to flow out in widening channels, till it 
 should embrace all who needed love or kindness, and 
 till its blessed waters should create fresh fertility in 
 desert hearts, and cause flowers to bloom by desolate 
 firesides. His apparent ease lulled me into security, 
 and I almost hoped his life would be prolonged. At 
 any rate, his words gave me courage to live and perform 
 my appointed work, and to await with patience our re 
 union in heaven. 
 
 " After a time, he was silent, and lay motionless and 
 with closed eyes. Alarmed by his death-like stillness, 
 I arose and knelt beside his pillow to listen to his 
 breathing. He moved slightly as my lips touched his, 
 and murmured, as I thought, a few incoherent words 
 of prayer. 
 
 " I remembered no more, till I awoke with a start an 
 hour after, and found the gray light of early dawn 
 struggling with the dying flame of the lamps in the 
 apartment, and the morning breeze blowing chill through 
 the open windows. But colder still was the cheek against 
 which mine rested. I sprang to my feet, and gazed 
 earnestly at the pale, upturned face. Alas ! it was the 
 face of the dead ! 
 
 " Oh, the agony of that moment ! With a wild, 
 thrilling shriek, the wail of a breaking heart, I sank 
 fainting upon the floor. 
 
 " It was a long time before consciousness returned, 
 and then my first thought went back to that dying 
 scene. I attempted to rise, but still faint, I fell back 
 
G4 FRUITS OF SORROW. 
 
 upon the pillow. But, after a time, strength returned, 
 and I arose and returned to Cecil s room. A long, 
 white object lay in the centre of the apartment, for 
 hours had passed and his remains had been prepared 
 for the grave. It was long before I could summon cou 
 rage to look upon the face of the dead ; but at length 
 I raised the snowy linen that covered it, and all my 
 wild, rebellious feelings were rebuked by the calm and 
 placid smile which rested upon those features, to which 
 even death could not impart rigidity. It told of peace 
 and perfect joy, and, as I gazed, there grew in my soul 
 a sweet calm and resignation. 
 
 " I sat many hours with the grief-stricken parents, 
 beside that shrouded form. Noon came and passed, and 
 the day was waning to its close, when a messenger ar 
 rived from my home, and I was summoned from my 
 mournful vigil to meet him in the hall. He was a 
 stranger, but his face expressed sympathy. 
 
 " It grieves me much, Miss Latimer, said he, to be 
 the bearer of unpleasant tidings, more especially as I 
 have just learned the sad event which has occurred here. 
 
 But I am directed by Dr. S to summon you to your 
 
 parents, who are both attacked by the cholera, which, 
 withm the last twenty-four hours, has appeared in our 
 city. My carriage is at the door, and I will return aa 
 soon as you are ready. 
 
 " I listened like one entranced. Cecil dead, my pa 
 rents perhaps dying ! Yet I had left them in health but 
 a day since. I must fly to them, yet could I leave the 
 dear remains of Cecil ? But I thought of his words of 
 the preceding night, and they gave me courage. With 
 
FRUITS OF SORROW. 65 
 
 desperate calmness I ascended to the apartment of death, 
 pressed my last kiss on Cecil s cold brow, bade farewell 
 to the bereaved parents, and in a few moments found 
 myself retracing the road I had travelled yesterday on 
 a similar errand. 
 
 " Such was the wild tumult of my thoughts, that I 
 scarcely noted the lapse of time before I reached my 
 home. The sun had set, and in the dim twilight the 
 house looked very desolate. There were no lights in 
 the windows, no sounds from the open doors, for nil had 
 fled on the first alarm of the pestilence. In the hall I 
 
 was met by Dr. S . He was our family physician ; 
 
 I had known him from my childhood, and never before 
 had he met me without a smile. But now he looked 
 grave and very sad, and I knew that my fears had not 
 exaggerated the reality. I would have rushed past him, 
 but he detained me. 
 
 " Tell me, said I, if they live. Let me go to them 
 at once. Do not detain me ! 
 
 " But the good doctor still held my hand. 
 
 " 4 Summon all your fortitude, my dear child, said 
 he. Can you bear to hear that your father is no 
 more ( 
 
 "<My father! I shrieked. < Oh, do not toll me lie 
 is dead ! And my mother ! let me go to them. Do 
 not detain me ! I will be calm, indeed I will ! I con 
 tinued, as I saw the look of hesitation on the good doc 
 tor s face. 
 
 " His strong arm aided me up the staircase, and in a 
 moment more I stood beside the corpse of my beloved 
 father. Still cold and pale he lay, whom but two daya 
 
66 FRUITS OF SORROW. 
 
 since I had left in perfect health. Could it be that his 
 pious, loving smile would never rest on me more, or his 
 kind voice greet my ear ? 
 
 " But a moment I lingered there, for he was beyond 
 my aid, and my mother s moan smote my ear reproach 
 fully from the next apartment. In vain I sprung to her 
 relief ; in vain I called her by every endearing name ; 
 in vain were all my cares. An hour after I entered the 
 house I was an orphan. During all the watches of that 
 terrible night, I sat alone by the dead bodies of my 
 parents utterly alone, for even the good doctor had 
 departed to the bedsides of fresh sufferers. In the early 
 morning they were laid in the churchyard, and when I 
 returned to my splendid but now desolate home, I felt 
 thac no tie now bound me to my race. 
 
 "For days and weeks the dull apathy of despair 
 rested upon my soul, and I wandered about my once 
 cheerful home without aim or employment. During all 
 this time, the disease which had made me an orphan was 
 walking with fearful strides over the land. Our beauti 
 ful city had becom* one vast charnel-house. Day and 
 night the death-cart? with their fearful burden went on 
 their mournful way to the burying-places. Happy fire 
 sides were fast becoming desolate, and, at length, the 
 universal wail of sorrow pevced even the dull apathy 
 which had fallen upon me. I roused myself, and went 
 forth among the sick. I stood, day by day, by the bed 
 side of the pestilence-stricken. I wiped the death-sweat 
 from pallid brows ; I bathed the convulsed limbs ; I 
 prepared the healing draught and many an eye gazed 
 upon me with grat tude in the hour of suffering. I found 
 
THE TWO BEES. 67 
 
 my reward springing up amidst my exertions, for, in 
 ministering to the sufferings of others, my own were 
 lessened. I blessed the dying words of Cecil, which 
 had pointed me to an antidote to my own grief, so un 
 selfish, and so complete. 
 
 " At length the summer of 1832 drew to its close, 
 and the pestilence raged no more among us. But my 
 attendance upon the sick had introduced to my notice 
 many cases of want. My sphere of duty was ample, 
 nor has it ever lessened, and I still find my happiness in 
 contributing to that of others. My days and years glide 
 calmly on, and I await in patience the time when I shall 
 rejoin my loved ones in a world where there is neither 
 sorrow nor parting." 
 
 She ceased ; but her simple story had left its impres 
 eion. I drew from it juster views of life and human 
 responsibility. It has left me wiser, if not better, anJ 
 BO I trust it will leave my readers. 
 
 THE TWO BEES. 
 
 ONE summer s morning, fresh and sunny, 
 After a month of cloudless weather, 
 
 To gather in their choicest honey 
 A pair of bees set forth together ; 
 
 Two loyal knaves as e er were seen, 
 
 Of the same good and gracious queen. 
 
 They d not gone far, when in the air 
 They met a wandering odour sweet, 
 
THE TWO BEES. 
 
 Which led them to a garden fair 
 
 A cottage-garden, plain and neat; 
 Where poor but liberal hands had set 
 Some charming beds of mignonette. 
 
 And fragrant thyme, that filled the air 
 With rich and delicate perfume, 
 
 And roses, white and red, were there, 
 And dainty hollyhocks in bloom, 
 
 That soared majestic, straight, and tall, 
 
 Like mighty monarchs over all. 
 
 (t Hurrah ! yon garden-plot," said one, 
 " A large and luscious spoil will yield,* 
 
 " Nay," said the other, " this bright sun 
 Shall tempt me further yet afield 
 
 Perchance to pass my morning hours 
 
 With richer and with rarer flowers." 
 
 So one within the garden strayed, 
 And gathered honey all day long, 
 
 Watched by a little bright-eyed maid, 
 Who listened to his joyous song, 
 
 And, as from flower to flower he fiew, 
 
 (So busy and so cheerful, too,) 
 
 A life-directing lesson Irew. 
 
 The other onward, onward sailed, 
 
 But joyless was his flight, and dreary, 
 
 And soon his strength or spirit failed, 
 And all disconsolate and weary, 
 
 He called the garden plot to mind, 
 
 And wished that he had stayed behind. 
 
 At length, to his profound relief, 
 Came wafted odours in the air, 
 
 And welcome glimpses, bright and brief, 
 He caught of a genteel parterre ; 
 
 
THE TWO BEES. G9 
 
 He hurried on, and, in a trice, 
 Alighted in a Paradise! 
 
 JIow fortunate at last was he, 
 
 Admitted to that realm of beauty 1 
 But languidly the weary bee 
 
 Applied to his appointed duty, 
 And more than once bewailed the fate 
 That gave such privilege so late. 
 
 The sequel now. At eventide, 
 
 When both the bees were home expected, 
 
 The one came early to the hive, 
 The other late, and much dejected; 
 
 The one a precious burthen bore, 
 
 The other half his wonted store. 
 
 The queen, who ruled with inborn right 
 
 Of sense sublime and princely spirit 
 Who made it her supreme delight 
 
 To humble pride and foster merit 
 Summoned forthwith her subject-bees, 
 And briefly spoke in words like these : 
 
 " My friends," said she, * the richest treasure 
 
 Is also oftentimes the nearest, 
 And those who travel far for pleasure 
 
 Will find that what has cost them dearest 
 Is far less precious, when tis earned, 
 Than the cheap happiness they spurned." 
 
 And men, like bees, may oft regret 
 
 The folly of the morning hour, 
 When with a cold and stern " Not yet/ 
 
 They hurried past the slighted flower, 
 Which had abundant power to bless 
 With years of honeyed happiness. 
 
SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 AY! of the absent ones; those who have wandeicd 
 Tar from the hearth-stone of home ; who dwell beneath 
 the stranger s roof, or in a strange land ; speak kindly. 
 You are sitting by your own fireside ; brightly shines 
 the firelight ; kind and cheerful are the faces gathered 
 about you old, familiar faces they are the wind moan 
 ing through the trees, shaking the casement, or rumbling 
 down the chimney ; brings to your heart no lonely home 
 sick feeling. You have heard it in those very places since 
 you were a child, and the sound, lonely though it be, has 
 something pleasant about it, and you heed it not. But 
 as you recall the faces and forms of those far away, 
 speak kindly. 
 
 They may be sweltering beneath the burning rays of 
 a tropical sun ; swarthy faces are perchance the only 
 ones they look on, not one they have ever known or 
 loved, and their hearts may be turning to far distant 
 ones, and fainting under their weary load. Then, oh, 
 speak kindly. 
 
 Speak kindly, for another wanderer may be in the far 
 away north, where the bitter winds are howling and 
 shrieking over the wide and desolate waste, snow-clad 
 and cold. God grant that the streams of kindness and 
 affection in the heart be not chilled or frozen by contact 
 with a selfish, uncaring world. 
 
 Speak kindly of thy sailor friend on the tempestuous 
 ocean, tossed hither and thither by the restless wave. 
 
SPEAK KINDLY. 71 
 
 And even if he did desert his father s fireside for the 
 rough deck and rude hammock, the green fields of his 
 native land for the blue ocean, you perchance do not 
 know of all that passed in that home ere he left it ; you 
 do not know of all the troubled thoughts that went 
 surging through that restless, unsatisfied heart. Judge 
 not, I pray you. 
 
 Perchance in some rude home on the far off prairies 
 of the West, sits by the hearth-stone one you loved long 
 ago. Cold words may have been spoken ere she left 
 you, and even at the parting there may have been no 
 clasp of hands, no farewell kiss or kind word ; but dwell 
 not on that, think and speak alone of the hours when 
 you loved each other. Breathe her name kindly now. 
 
 Speak kindly of the erring. They have been sorely 
 tempted, else never had they wandered so far from the 
 path of rectitude. Think you not that conscience is 
 enough to punish them for their misdeeds, without adding 
 bitter unfeeling words ? Oh ! remember these few short 
 words, " forgive as ye would be forgiven." Try to forget 
 all that is not pleasant of others. Forget their faults, 
 for you are not without your share. 
 
 Speak kindly of the absent ; they may be tossing on 
 a sick-bed, longing for some kind hand to smooth their 
 pillow or hold the cup to their fevered lips. 
 
 Death s angel may have summoned them, and stranger 
 hands laid their cold forms in the grave beneath a 
 foreign sky. It matters little where our bones are laid, 
 for our death slumber will be a dreamless one. But 
 Yvhen we are gone I wonld have you speak kindly. 
 
 And not alone kindly of all, but kindly to all. To th* 
 
72 SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 parents who watched and guarded your helpless infancy 
 with tender care ; in whose dark locks Time has wreathed 
 the snow flakes, and whose smooth brows are furrowed 
 by care and sorrow ; pain not their loving hearts by one 
 unkind word, for it will sink deeply and rankle long. 
 
 Speak kindly to the brothers and sisters about you ; 
 they will not be with you always, but when they go out 
 in the wide world let them carry with them the memory 
 of gentle, loving words from your lips. 
 
 To the one you have chosen to bear you company to 
 the end of your life journey, speak ever kindly. Let 
 not frowns come to darken the sanctuary of your home; 
 no unkind words with their endless echo be spoken there. 
 
 Speak kindly to the stranger, far from home and 
 kindred. A kindly word falls on his ear as sweetly as 
 the music heard in dreams. But unlike the dream sounds, 
 it will live on in years to come, and sound as plainly in 
 that heart as when it first fell from your lips. 
 
 And the old beggar that crosses your threshold, and 
 with quivering voice asks for a crust of bread, or a 
 shelter from the storm, oh ! I beseech you, speak kindly 
 to him. " Weary, friendless, and forsaken," he wanders 
 on, but like you he was once young, and perchance 
 happy. The old man has snowy hair like your own 
 father, and you would weep at the thought of his being 
 thus desolate and alone. You speak gently to him, so 
 Bpeak to the old beggar. It is but a little time, the 
 brief years we are to remain here, and life has enough 
 to teach us that is sad and sorrowful, without harsh words 
 from those around us. A few more years, and the sods 
 
TELL OP THEIR VIRTUES. 
 
 73 
 
 we now walk so sclf-confidently over will be piled above 
 our pulseless hearts. 
 
 I ask no other memorial when I am gone than to have 
 those who knew me when living say that I ever used 
 kindly words. They are easily spoken, and the heart 
 soon grows to feel what the lips let fall. 
 
 Speak kindly ever ; and the echo of those words will 
 come to your own soul, waking into life a beautiful 
 melody there. 
 
 TELL OF THEIR VIRTUES. 
 
 NOT of their faults, while we are allied to pool 
 humanity, but of their virtues let us speak. It is one 
 of the most common occupations of women when they 
 sit down together, to discuss the merits of others. Some, 
 in the chaste and elegant language of the schools, brand 
 the worthy and deserving with base designs and false 
 actions ; others, in the coarse language of the unlearned, 
 consign their victims to nameless places. Both classes 
 of lady-slanderers, dip in the same gall, with only this 
 difference ; that one uses a fine camel s hair pencil, the 
 other, a shoe-brush. 
 
 How often in forming a new and apparently desirable 
 acquaintance, when casually speaking of some one out 
 side, have we been pained by thoughtless and vituper- 
 ous remarks! "Very true, but did you know she was 
 BO bad a housekeeper?" or u Were you aware that she 
 has a temper which she cannot command ? or a husband 
 whom she tries to manage?" 
 
74 TELL OF THEIR VIRTUES. 
 
 Now it is an evident fact that all have their faults- 
 is it not equally certain that all have their virtues ? A 
 certain person may not have the vigilance of a perpetual 
 scourer, but, feel the influence of her sunny smile ! 
 
 See how the cold warm in her presence, and the sad 
 forget their sadness. Another may have a quick tem 
 per, and say bitter things ; but when the pillow is crum 
 pled by a feverish head, and feverish hands are tossed 
 outside the coverlet, behold her, forgetting self in her 
 eagerness to alleviate suffering ; making cooling drinks 
 for the parched lipj, and softening the dread visitant by 
 her gentleness. Another lacks in something else, but 
 she ministers to the poor, and the needy call her their 
 friend. Seek the angel side, dear reader it is always 
 to be found. 
 
 No matter how poor, how wretched, nor apparently 
 forsaken of good, there is an angel side. The carrion 
 crow scents the vile carcass afar off, and with the instinct 
 of his nature seeks and makes it a part of himself. So 
 we, when we seek out the deformities of our neighbours to 
 prey upon them, imbibe the contagion of those faults and 
 render ourselves less pure. We should set our faces as 
 a flint against scandal we should but do we ? If we 
 listen with pain, is it not also in silence ? And if we 
 are silent, do we not virtually seal our approbation to 
 what is said ? Could we not, if so minded, in that 
 firm and quiet and yet ladylike manner which cannot 
 offend, decline to hear harm of our neighbours ? Instead 
 of that, is it not too often a sweet morsel spiced with 
 interjections ? Do we not join our censure and con 
 dolence ? Do we not hunt in the corners of memory to 
 
 
TELL OF Til KIR VIRTUES. 75 
 
 bring to light some trifling corroboration of the affair ? 
 Are we not profuse in our pity, which is, a great deal 
 oftener, pride wilfully misconstrued ? And then, worse 
 than all, d we not too often consent to be the petty 
 second or third hand retailer of the sweet and scandal 
 ous item ? 
 
 Thus confidence is destroyed, and self-respect weak 
 ened. We cannot feel in the presence of that friend 
 whose enemy we have become inasmuch as we did not 
 defend her as we felt but yesterday. She may have 
 charming qualities, but the shadow of slander has fallen 
 upon them. We are on the qui vive to interpret every 
 action by the language of the foe whose bitter words have 
 poisoned the fount of confidence. We have allowed 
 ourselves to look at flaws, and consequently we search 
 foi them. What is a name on the church books, or a 
 good standing in society in the eyes of God if we have 
 not in our tongues the law of kindness ? Nothing, and 
 less than nothing. The divine spirit by which we are 
 taught that charity covereth a multitude of sins, can see 
 in all our pretensions only the tinkling brass and sound 
 ing silver, and He will judge us accordingly. 
 
 Oh ! that womanly spirit that always finds something 
 sweet to say of others, how seldom do we meet with it 
 And yet it is here, bubbling somewhere from some fresh 
 hearts like a perennial spring. Almost too good and 
 gentle for a viperous world, but ripening and perfecting 
 for heaven. Let us imitate such spirits; let us emulate 
 them, and strive to see which of us can vie most success 
 fully with each other, as we speak of our friends and 
 neighbours, in telling of their virtues. 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN ; 
 
 OB, THE TRAVELS OF TWO SISTERS TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BEAUTY. 
 
 MUSING one day upon the state of things as it was in 
 the Golden Age, and especially respecting the mode of 
 instruction then, when there were no writings, and when 
 man was taught what is true and holy by the opening 
 of his spiritual sight, and thus frequently admitted into 
 spiritual association with angels, who taught him the 
 truths of heaven, just as God taught Adam, and angels 
 the patriarchs, I fell into a sound and most delightful 
 sleep, and dreamed that I was living in those peaceful 
 and happy times. It seemed as if I was in one of the 
 most beautiful districts of the earth that I ever beheld. 
 The sun was rising with great glory above the eastern 
 hills ; the dewdrops were still upon the green pastures, 
 and as the light fell upon them, it seemed as if the earth 
 was covered with gems. In the distance there was a 
 lofty range of hills, and on them, here and there, were 
 planted fine tall trees. At their feet the flowing of a 
 gentle, pellucid stream murmured agreeable music, "which 
 harmonized with the voices of thousands of sweet feath 
 ered songsters. On a gentle eminence there was a sin 
 gularly beautiful house, embonomed within magnificent 
 fruit-trees, that were all in full blossom. An extensive 
 garden surrounded the house, in which were long shady 
 walks that terminated in cool grottoes, to which the 
 

 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 77 
 
 owner an<l his family retired, in the heat of day, to dis 
 course upon things of everlasting concern. 
 
 This gentleman (for we must speak after the manner 
 of our times) had two daughters, called Chacune and 
 Aucune. Chacune was extremely lovely, both in mind 
 and body. Mild as a lamb, yet majestic and noble; 
 full of benevolence and kindness ; and, moreover, she 
 possessed that delightful quality that always inspires 
 pleasure in others. But Aucune was just the opposite. 
 Always frowning and out of humour ; wanting and get 
 ting, but never satisfied ; and ill-tempered with herself 
 and every one else. From long-continued indulgence 
 in evil tempers, her body had lost its natural beauty, 
 and had become the impress and form of the ugliness 
 of her disposition. For a sweet mind always makes for 
 itself, in some way or other, a beautiful body ; and, 
 though we sometimes find good and virtuous minds in 
 deformed bodies, yet how completely is the deformity 
 overshadowed and put comparatively out of view by the 
 sweetness and beauty of the disposition ! 
 
 Aucune s greatest desire was to be as beautiful and 
 as much beloved as Chacune ; and she could conceive 
 of no way of being so, but by making her sister as ugly 
 and despised as herself. For some years she had been 
 trying this plan, by beating and abusing her, tearing 
 her dress, cutting off her lovely auburn hair, as she was 
 Bleeping in the grotto: and on several occasions she 
 even struck her on the face, with the intention of makino- 
 
 O 
 
 an ugly mark, which she hoped would destroy the charm 
 that was about it. Besides all this, she had been known 
 to break into neighbours gardens, and tread down the 
 
7S THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 flowers, and bring some away, and lay them in her 
 Bister s bedroom with the intention of throwing the 
 blame upon Chacune. 
 
 These were some of the means she adopted ; but some 
 "way or other Chacune remained as beautiful, and even 
 more beautiful than before ; for every blow that she 
 received from her sister seemed to make her still more 
 amiable arid lovely; for I must observe that in no case 
 did she resent the unkind treatment of Aucune, and 
 therefore to all her beauties she added that of patience, 
 forbearance, forgiveness, and mercy, which are those 
 that shine brightest in heaven. And, notwithstanding 
 all the wicked and deceitful plans of Aucune, no one 
 would believe that Chacune would injure any one. Thus 
 poor Aucune had the mortification of seeing Chacune 
 growing more beautiful and beloved every day, while 
 she was becoming more and more deformed, and shunned, 
 and disliked. 
 
 It was reported in the neighbourhood that, during the 
 time that Chacune slept in the grotto of her father s 
 garden, her spirit was admitted into the company of 
 angels, with whom she talked, and strayed into fields 
 of eternal green. It was also said that the angels bathed 
 her in the Fountain of Beauty, which is situated on the 
 summit of Mount Innocence, in the spiritual world, and 
 which was the cause of her surpassing loveliness. Au 
 cune, to whom nothing of the kind had ever occurred, 
 had often heard such things reported of others, and 
 when this was said of Chacune, she became much inte 
 rested and curious to know the truth of the matter ; 
 " For, perhaps," thought she, " I may be able to bathe 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN 1 . 79 
 
 in those waters too, and then I shall be as beautiful, and 
 as much admired and beloved, as sister !" 
 
 The next morning after she had heard the report, she 
 hastened to Chacune s bedroom, and stole softly and 
 silently along the passage, and listened at the door, ex 
 pecting to hear angels conversing and playing with her. 
 All was quiet, however, save the noise of some sweet 
 singing birds that came every morning and warbled their 
 music from the boughs of a vine tree, to awaken Cha- 
 cune from her peaceful slumbers. As soon as she went 
 in, Chacune, who had just awoke, asked " why she came 
 so early?" "To see the angels," said Aucune. "To 
 see angels !" said Chacune, with astonishment. "Why, 
 sister, how is it that you look for them here ? Do you 
 not know that angels live in the spiritual world?" 
 "But I have heard," observed Aucune, "that angels 
 bathe you in the Fountain of Beauty ; and do, sister, 
 tell me where I can find them, for I long to bathe in 
 those waters, and be beautiful also !" 
 
 Chacune blushed and smiled at the ignorance and 
 earnestness of her sister, and said, " My dear Aucune, 
 you know that I love you, and would do anything for 
 you that I am able ; but I cannot show you angels on 
 earth, for they have not, and never can have, material 
 bodies. Their bodies are spiritual, and made of spiritual 
 substances, and suited exactly to the spiritual world in 
 which they live, and therefore can never be seen by 
 material eyes." "Then how must I see them?" said 
 Aucune, with impatience. " I will explain it to you, 
 Bister While here, you are an inhabitant of two 
 worldsthis world of matter, and a world of spirit ; 
 
80 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 and you have a body adapted to each ; one, a material 
 body for the material world, and the other a spiritual 
 body for the spiritual world. (1 Cor. xv., 44.) Now 
 listen, sister," continued Chacune, with earnestness; 
 " each of these bodies has senses peculiar to itself; 
 and, what is remarkable, when the senses of the 
 material body are active, you see men and material 
 things ; but when the senses of your spiritual body are 
 active, and those of the material body quiescent, you can 
 behold angels and spiritual things as plainly and palpably 
 as you now do the things of earth ; but you cannot see 
 .spiritual beings with material eyes. At what we call 
 death, we put off the material body, and thus shut out 
 the material world for ever, and then live eternally in our 
 spiritual bodies in the spiritual world, which will be as 
 really and truly substantial as ever the material was. 
 You perceive, therefore, dear Aucune, that, unless the 
 Lord sees fit, in His good providence, to open the eyes 
 of your spirit, you will not be able to see angels." 
 
 Aucune was sadly disconcerted at this information: 
 for, though spiritual intercourse is said to have been a 
 circumstance of frequent occurrence at this period, and 
 for some time after, as is evident from many similar 
 events being recorded in the Bible, yet she had been too 
 much engrossed with herself to reflect upon the nature 
 of such things. So frequent is such intercourse said to 
 have been at that very ancient time, that angels were 
 the common instructors of man. Indeed, to a very great 
 extent, this is the case now, but with this difference ; then, 
 man was in open and manifest communion, and talked 
 with angels as with his fellow-men ; but now, doubtless 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN 81 
 
 for some wise and providential reason, they minister tc 
 us in an unseen manner. But, though unseen, it is not 
 the less certain that they are, even now, our instructors ; 
 for how otherwise can we account for those new and 
 beautiful truths which enter our minds in states of con 
 templation ? Men cannot create a truth ; they must, 
 therefore, be communicated from some source, and that 
 source is clearly not anything extraneous to us ; for in 
 such states we are more withdrawn from external objects 
 than at other times, and elevated into the interior recesses 
 of our minds. They must, therefore, come from within ; 
 and our conversation at such times must be in heaven if 
 our thoughts be true, and in hell if they be false. From 
 this constant ministration, and teaching, and nearness 
 of angelic beings to us, it is nothing outrageous to sup 
 pose that God may, even at this day, for wise and eternal 
 purposes, close the senses of the body, and open those 
 of the spirit, as he did often to the patriarchs, to Elisha s 
 young man, to the prophets, to the disciples, to the 
 apostles, and particularly to the Revelator. 
 
 Aucune pondered over what her sister had said, and 
 almost despaired of ever being able to bathe in the Foun 
 tain of Beauty. One day, however, after being more 
 than usually anxious, she wandered up and down in her 
 father s garden, and was quite overcome with her feel 
 ings, when suddenly she beheld a glorious being dressed 
 in white garments. His face beamed with love and 
 kindness ; so much so, that Aucune could scarcely look 
 upon it, for the glory that was about it. " Young im 
 mortal/ said he, as he approached Aucune, " wo have 
 perceived that you are anxious to have communion with 
 
 
82 . THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 angels, and to entel the spirit-land, and bathe in thn 
 Fountain of Beauty ; our kind Father has granted your 
 desire, and you are now in the world of spirits." Aucune 
 was astonished, and could not conceive how it could be ; 
 " for," said she, " I have a body, and garments, and here 
 is a solid earth !" and for some time she could scarcely 
 believe it ; but in time she became convinced that she 
 was not dwelling in the material world ; for all her 
 faculties were a thousand times more free and sensitive, 
 and all the objects that surrounded her were so much in 
 unison with herself, that they seemed as if they were 
 the things of her own mind portrayed before her. 
 
 "Follow me," said the angel, after the surprise of 
 Aucune had somewhat subsided ; " follow me, and I will 
 show you the way to the Immortal Fountain." Aucune 
 instantly followed, inwardly exulting at the thought of 
 soon being as beautiful as her sister. So entirely did 
 this occupy her mind, that she never once spoke to the 
 angel ; and they walked on in silence, until they arrived 
 at a splendid massive gate of brass. Over the top was 
 written, the " Gate of Obedience." Aucune thought it 
 was a strange name, but supposed it was one of the 
 peculiarities of the spirit-world, and made no inquiries. 
 " We must enter through this gate," said the angel, who 
 immediately went up, and lifted a ponderous knocker, 
 and struck three times. The gate was instantly opened 
 by several glorious beings clad in a similar manner tJ 
 the conducting angel, and all equally benevolent 
 
 " Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, 
 Welcome to the angel-land," 
 
 said they, rejoicing, and in t^nes of sweetest music. u Im- 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 83 
 
 mortal, enter our happy land," they continued. Aucune 
 attempted ; but as soon as she was fairly within the 
 Gate, she felt an oppressive pain upon her forehead, her 
 eyes became dim, fear and trembling came upon her, 
 and she thought she was ceasing to live. 
 
 When the angels saw this, they sighed, and tears of 
 pity rolled down their cheeks, as Aucune was compelled 
 to withdraw to the outside of the Gate. " We know by 
 this," said the first angel, " that you cannot reach the 
 Fountain of Beauty ; for none can breathe the air of 
 our land but those who, in spirit and life, are like us. 
 Now, this gate is closed against no coiner ; for it is the 
 will of our great Master that all should enter ; but when 
 any one retires with pain, we perceive that he is unfit to 
 pass through our land." Poor Aucune burst into tears, 
 and earnestly entreated them to tell her what she must 
 do. " Return to your world," said they, " and hearken 
 to the good counsels of your father, and by all means do 
 not tease or speak angrily to your sister ; do this, and 
 in three months you shall return to us, and we will tako 
 you on your way to the fountain." She turned away 
 from the gate very sorrowful, for the task appeared an 
 extremely hard one ; and once or twice she thought of 
 turning back to ask whether some easier thing would not 
 do ; and probably she would have done so, if her spirit 
 ual sight at that moment had not been closed. 
 
 The first object she saw, on her return to the world 
 of nature, was Chacune watering a beautiful bed of 
 flowers, that had grown surprisingly since she had no 
 ticed it. "Ah, there it is again," said she, as she viewed 
 with vexation the success with which her sister cultivated 
 
84 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 her garden; "she strives to do everything better than 
 any one else, and then she is praised for it. She knows 
 I don t like it, and I am sure she does it to tease me. 
 I will go this moment and trample upon the bed, that I 
 will ;" and away she ran, quite in a rage, simply because 
 her sister had, with great pains and care, succeeded in 
 cultivating a few flowers ! As she was running, with 
 this wicked intention, she suddenly stopped, and look 
 ing round in amazement and alarm, 
 
 "Did you speak, Chacune ?" said she, with terror. 
 
 " No, sister dear ; I am just making you a bouquet 
 of my beautiful flowers. Come and see how nicely they 
 have grown !" 
 
 " But some one spoke, sister, and said, < Remember. 
 
 "You must have thought it, sister, for I heard no 
 one," said Chacune. 
 
 It was, indeed, a voice that spoke ; probably that of 
 her guardian angel, who was speaking to her spirit, as 
 God called to Samuel when he was laid down in the 
 holy place, and beseeching her to remember the conse 
 quences of such wicked conduct. This is the way that 
 angels always do. They call into remembrance the 
 instruction we have previously received, and strive 
 thereby to withdraw us from the sin we are tempted to 
 commit. 
 
 This warning from the mysterious voice had its bene 
 ficial effect, for she concluded it was some kind admo 
 nition from heaven. When she went to Chacune, and 
 saw her flowers, and with what readiness they were all 
 bestowed upon herself, she felt inwardly ashamed for 
 having suffered such unkind feeling? to ^btain influence 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 85 
 
 over her, and resolved from henceforth to destroy no 
 more of Chacune s flowers. This was, perhaps, the 
 first time that Auoune felt ashamed of having done 
 wrong ; and perhaps, also, it was the first good resolu 
 tion she ever made, that was not afterwards immediately 
 hroken. 
 
 Many were the conflicts that raged in the mind of 
 Aucune, between envy and jealousy towards her sister, 
 and the necessity of obedience to the injunctions of the 
 angels, in order to be fitted to pass through their land 
 to the Fountain of Beauty. It was not in all cases 
 that she conquered ; for she was occasionally hurried 
 away by her passion ; and more than once, under its 
 influence, she positively refused to do the just desires 
 of her father. It was not, therefore, without serious 
 misgivings that she looked forward to the end of the 
 three months. At last they were over, and, as she was 
 musing in the shady grotto, her spiritual sight was 
 opened, and her guardian angel stood before her. 
 
 "Hasten, sister," said he, "for angels are waiting 
 for thee. There is company going to the Immortal 
 Fountain, and they desire thee to go with them." 
 
 Aucune made all possible haste, and very soon arrived 
 at the Gate of Obedience. After the usual knock, it 
 was opened by an angelic band, who greeted her with a 
 smile of welcome. On entering, to her surprise she felt 
 the atmosphere most delightful and invigorating ; and 
 every breath she breathed communicated an unspeak 
 able pleasure. This was the case, too, with each of her 
 senses ; for whenever she exercised any of them, it was 
 accompanied by most exquisitely delightful sensations. 
 
86 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 In fact, it seemed all delight and pleasure ; for all was 
 so completely harmonious and one with herself, that 
 there was not a single thing that she could wish other 
 wise than it was. 
 
 After her surprise, the angels led her into a spacious 
 hall, in which another company of angels were walking, 
 and seemingly waiting for her. They each came and 
 gave her the kiss of affection, and bid her be of good 
 courage ; for they perceived Aucune s spirits were 
 drooping as she reflected on her disobedience. To her 
 great astonishment, she found, on joining them, that 
 her garments were similar to theirs, but somewhat dis 
 figured with black spots, that appeared here and there 
 upon them ; and turning round, she said, 
 
 " Stay, and let me retire to wash away these spots, 
 for they look so filthy." 
 
 The angels smiled at her anxiety, and said, 
 
 " You cannot yet ; but let us hasten on to the Foun 
 tain, and you shall wash them there;" and so saying, 
 they led her out on the path called Beauty. 
 
 The atmosphere was still delightful, and the road full 
 of interest. It was wonderfully formed. There was 
 now a gentle ascent, and then a slight descent; and 
 yet, on the whole, they were continually ascending. It 
 was not straight forward ; for occasionally they met 
 barriers, which caused them to go a little way round 
 sometimes ; but this was really no misfortune, for they 
 were invariably rewarded with some glorious view that 
 they would otherwise have lost ; or they were thereby 
 protected from some great danger, which they saw, on 
 turning the corner, was concealed behind it. As far as 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 87 
 
 the eye could reach, there were magnificent trees, vari 
 ously gathered into clusters, according to their kinds : 
 and, in rich green pastures, all kinds of cattle were 
 peacefully feeding. But the most singular and interest 
 ing of all things to Aucune. was a star that went on 
 before them, and pointed out their way, just as that did 
 that led the Magi to Bethlehem ! The angels were well 
 acquainted with this beautiful object, and called it the 
 "star of knowledge." It was always visible, and shone 
 with peculiar splendour during the shades of evening ; 
 and so long as they saw it, there was no danger of miss 
 ing their way. 
 
 Aucune travelled on with her angelic associates, who 
 made the journey still more interesting and instructive 
 by each telling some story of wisdom, or by describing 
 to Aucune the character of their great Master, and the 
 nature of his kingdom. For a long time she went on, 
 and once or twice she thought she could hear the flowing 
 of the Fountain ; but it did not appear. But at last 
 she became weary and tired ; and, moreover, she began 
 to feel the same oppression and difficulty in breathing 
 that she experienced at first. At last she was obliged 
 to stop, and with tears in her eyes, said, 
 
 "I see I cannot reach the Fountain ! 0, what must 
 I do?" she asked, with great anxiety; " 0, what must 
 I do?" 
 
 " sister, fear not," said they, in tones of the kind 
 est sympathy ; " we knew you would be unable, but if 
 we had told you so, you would not have believed us, so 
 we have come thus far to show you. We know that 
 you have not been altogether obedient to your father : 
 
8? THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 and until you habitually obey your earthly parent, anc 
 all the commands of truth, you will nevei be able tc 
 obey our heavenly Master, and live in the land of an 
 gels. Thou must, therefore, return to thy earth," con 
 tinued the angels with earnestness ; " and mark ! thou 
 must not only implicitly obey thy father s just desires, 
 and be kind to thy sister and friends, but thou must 
 change thy motive ! Hitherto thou hast desired beauty 
 and loveliness to enable thee to steal away thy sister s. 
 Go, now, and learn to desire blessings without wishing 
 to take away the blessings of others. Thou shalt never 
 be less blessed because others are blessed too ; for in 
 the hand of our Great Master are universal blessings ; 
 blessings for evermore ! Do this for six months, and 
 then thou shalt visit us again." 
 
 If the former disappointment disturbed her, this did 
 in a tenfold degree. It was not only the disappointment 
 itself, but the additional task, as she felt it, that was 
 imposed upon her, that overwhelmed her with trouble ; 
 for she supposed that there was little value in beauty, 
 if it did not make her an object of praise above all 
 others. The words of the angels had puzzled her ; and 
 she felt that, if those were the only conditions, she 
 could never see the Fountain of Beauty. She returned 
 sadly and sorrowfully, hoping, yet fearing, and much 
 disturbed. But, on her approach to the gate, the an 
 gels met her, and cheered her, and gave her many 
 assurances of ultimate success. They bid her an affec 
 tionate adieu; and, as she passed the gate, she heard 
 those in the hall singing the following words, to the 
 mosi soothing music she ever heard : 
 

 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 89 
 
 " Never fear, 
 Sistor dear, 
 
 For beauteous thou shalt be ; 
 h Thy soul prepare 
 
 By holy prayer ; 
 Then the fountain thou shalt see." 
 
 On her return to the world she was very sad and 
 dejected foi some time. But Ghacune was even more 
 than usually kind; she danced and sung, and brought 
 her ripe fruit, which she had cultivated with great care ; 
 endeavouring, by every means in her power, to raise 
 Aucune s drooping spirits. By the assistance of her 
 father and sister, and a few kind friends, who had already 
 observed the change for the better that had taken place 
 in her mind, she began, at last, to be more cheerful and 
 playful. It soon began to be remarked by all, how 
 amiable Aucune was becoming, and how kind to Cha- 
 cune she was. And as they walked abroad with their 
 father, it used to be said by the neighbours, " Here 
 comes the good man and his two beautiful daughters." 
 
 The first time Aucune heard this, it pleased her 
 mightily. " Two beautiful daughters !" she kept say 
 ing to herself. " Two beautiful daughters ! Well, I 
 never thought of this," she continued ; " but I can see 
 that it is just as the angels said. I am not less blessed 
 because sister is blessed too. Who would have thought 
 that the praise of our neighbours was so sweet, when 
 enjojed and partaken of by sister!" She gradually 
 began to feel more and more this truth ; and, in a few 
 months, it became a fixed principle in her character to 
 deprive Chacune of no praise and good-will that their 
 neighbours bore towards her. 
 
00 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Aucune, little by little, began to feel a certain delight 
 and pleasure about life that never was felt before. All 
 those who had avoided her, from fear that she would 
 quarrel with them, now seemed to strive who could be 
 most kind ; for it is a truth worth remembering, that by 
 love and kindness we may easily beget the same towards 
 us. There was one very benevolent gentleman, who 
 was called "The Wise Man of the Hill," a friend of 
 her father s who was extremely pleased with the change 
 which had taken place in Aucune s mind. This person 
 had great possessions, and, having no children, he had 
 determined to leave the whole of his property to Cha- 
 cune ; but, in consequence of the wonderful improvement 
 in her sister s disposition, he decided to divide the whole 
 equally between them. This was a proof of the superi 
 ority of kindness over unkindness that Aucune could 
 not mistake ; for all this was the result of her late kind 
 ness to Chacune. 
 
 The sisters frequently visited this gentleman, and 
 sometimes they stayed two or three days together en 
 joying the beautiful walks on the hill-sides, or playing 
 with the lambs in the fields. On one occasion, as they 
 were walking out with the "Wise Man," Aucune saw a 
 few wild flowers growing at the top of a large rock ; 
 and, without saying anything to her companions, she 
 stepped aside arid walked up a steep and troublesome 
 pathway, that seemed to lead directly to the flowers. 
 She did not perceive, however, that the path, after a 
 little while, diverged in an opposite direction, and led 
 her completely from the objects she desired. She toiled, 
 expecting every moment to reach the top, but still it 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 91 
 
 did not appear; and after growing weary, and being 
 afraid last the " Wise Man" and her sister might leave 
 her, she turned round, with the intention of retracing 
 her steps ; but as she turned, a female, clad in very 
 ehowy robes, bowed, and, with a fascinating smile, came 
 forward, and said, " Beautiful maiden, I perceive you 
 have lost your way. Come with me, and I will show 
 you one nearer and easier than the troublesome one by 
 which you came." And so saying, she beckoned Aucune 
 to follow her, and turned down a good broad path. 
 Poor Aucune s vanity was flattered when the woman 
 praised her beauty, and, without thought, instantly fol 
 lowed after. 
 
 As they walked, the woman appeared all kindness 
 and sweetness, and said, amongst many other things, 
 "At the end of this path there is a fountain, that always 
 makes the heart glad, and life happy, and the counte 
 nance beautiful, of those who drink of its waters." 
 Indeed!" said Aucune, with astonishment; "and what 
 distance is it from here?" "Not more than a few 
 miles," said the woman. "Wondorful!" exclaimed 
 Aucune: "how astonishing neither the Wise Man nor 
 Chacune ever named this fountain ! This is the very 
 fountain I have been endeavouring to get to for these 
 many months," she continued to the woman, "and I 
 have been teasing myself so long, and here it is just at 
 at hand!" She began now to think that the angels and 
 Chacune had been deceiving her ; and, to surprise them 
 all, and to show she had found out the secret as well as 
 they, she determined to solicit the artful woman to show 
 ner Vhc way to the waters at once. "I will do it gladly," 
 
92 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 gaid the woman, "for my name is Venus, and I am 
 appointed to wander about in these lonely paths, to lead 
 the weary to rest, and to guide all that will follow me 
 to that happy fountain of ease, and mirth, and beauty. 
 And so saying, she took poor Aucune s arm, arid hastily 
 led her away. 
 
 The Wise Man and Chacune had walked on, expect 
 ing Aucune would follow every minute ; but, as she did 
 not appear, they thought she was staying to gather a 
 bouquet of wild flowers, of which she was exceedingly 
 fond, and would follow them soon. So they went on 
 and left her, thinking she would arrive at home, at least, 
 in time for dinner But dinner time came, and no Au 
 cune appeared. But it was not unusual for Aucune to 
 stay from dinner, for very frequently the neighbours 
 would invite her to stay with them, and therefore her 
 absence caused but little uneasiness ; and in the after 
 noon the Wise Man and Chacune went to visit a friend, 
 and did not return until evening. 
 
 In the mean time Vonus led poor Aucune along and, 
 in the most winning manner, told her all kinds of tales, 
 some of which shocked her at first, but in a little time 
 she entered into them with delight. The road was alto 
 gether shaded ; indeed, so much so, that the light was 
 almost excluded. It was easy and cool; and, being a 
 gradual descent, the walk was delightful and interesting. 
 The fountain, however, did not appear so soon as she 
 expected. She had heard what Venus called the mur 
 muring of its waters, for an hour or two, but it did not 
 come in sight ; and at last she began to be anxious lest 
 she should not be able to return home that night. 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 93 
 
 "Never fear," said Venus, " for I have fairy legions at 
 my command, who can transport you back in a moment." 
 "If this be so," thought Aucune, " they can as easily 
 transport me to the fountain at once, and thus save any 
 further trouble." But when she named this to her con 
 ductor, who was always ready with some specious put- 
 off , she said, " The day was fine, and the way beautiful, 
 and as the distance was so short, it would be more 
 delightful to walk." 
 
 Thus Aucune travelled on ; but, in spite of all tho 
 stories and artful smiles of Venus, she gradually became 
 anxious and uneasy, particularly as the sun was setting, 
 and thick thunderclouds gathering in all directions. To 
 add still more to her anxiety, they began to enter into a 
 dense forest, in the midst of which Venus declared the 
 fountain was. The shades of evening closed rapidly 
 upon them ; and, before they had proceeded far, the 
 night became black and dreadful, and every star disap 
 peared. The wind moaned amongst the trees, and at 
 every succeeding blast it was louder and louder. Great 
 drops of rain began to fall upon the leaves, and by and 
 by they fell upon the travellers, who were drenched to 
 the skin. Flashes of lightning followed in quick suc 
 cession, accompanied with loud and terrible thunder. 
 Trees were struck down, and hurled about by the fury 
 of the wind, which now blew a complete hurricane. 
 
 Aucune covered her face with her hands, arid ran 
 lither and thither, striving to find a place of safety ; 
 but everywhere was under the influence of the storm. 
 She besought her companion to protect her, and lead 
 ner back ; but the true character of Venus now began 
 
94 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 to exhibit itself. Aucune was now within her power, 
 and it was seen that she was the demon of the storm, 
 and had allured the poor girl into the forest to torment, 
 and if possible, to destroy her. As the awful flashes of 
 lightning rapidly followed each other, and shivered the 
 trees to atoms, and struck Aucune almost dead with 
 terror, Venus laughed and rent the air with the noise 
 of her wild, unearthly joy ; and as she sung, in bolster 
 ing song, in derision to the pitying supplications for 
 protection of Aucune, the infernal notes joined in unison 
 with the dreadful howling of the tempest. 
 
 Poor Aucune now saw the error she had committed, 
 and avowed that, if God delivered her from the dangers 
 that surrounded her, and gave her light and truth to 
 understand, she would never suffer evil in disguise to 
 lead her astray from the plain path of duty. And, turn 
 ing from the wild vagaries of the demon, she covered 
 her face with her mantle, and fell upon her knees, and 
 prayed and said, " 0, Father of heaven and earth, the 
 God of all children, and the comforter and protector of 
 the distressed, look down, with pitying eye, upon the 
 lost and awful condition of thy child, and deliver me 
 out of all my distresses. I have erred in forsaking thy 
 paths, and I am now beset with all the miseries of sin ; 
 but with thee, Almighty Father, there is mercy and for 
 giveness. Extend, therefore, thy omnipotent aid, and 
 lead me to the abodes of safety." She arose from that 
 prayer internally comforted, and, on looking around, 
 ghe beheld Venus fleeing away, as if hastening from 
 some dreaded object ; for 
 
 " Infernals tremble, when they see 
 The contrite heart and bended knee." 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 95 
 
 The storm gradually abated; and the twilight, break 
 ing through the trees, told her that morning was ap 
 proaching. 
 
 But what was she to do? In a dreary forest, with 
 no path to direct her to any human habitation, she 
 began to fear that she should die of hunger. " Fear 
 not," said a voice ; " thy prayer is heard, and thy 
 guardian angels shall conduct thee to the abode of thy 
 father." Aucune started at the voice of the mysterious 
 messenger of consolation, and looked round, but saw no 
 one. Angelic beings, however, were ministering to her ; 
 and, as they directed Hagar, in the wilderness, to the 
 blessings she wanted, so they led Aucune out of all her 
 dangers. While she yet was almost bewildered with 
 astonishment at the strange flight of Venus, and the 
 abatement of the storm, and the mysterious voice, the 
 silvery notes of a trumpet struck upon her ear. She 
 followed swiftly in the direction from which they seemed 
 to come, and gradually they became louder and louder ; 
 and at last she heard distinctly the sound of voices, one 
 of which she recognised as Chacune s. She raised her 
 voice, and called, u Chacune, Chacune, help, dear Cha- 
 cune !" Chacune heard the cry, and turned her beauti 
 ful pony s head, which had been provided for her by the 
 Wise Man, towards her lost sister, and in a few momenta 
 she was embracing Aucune. Both sobbed for very joy 
 tlru they had met each other once again : and Chacune 
 said, in gentle rebuke, " 0, sister, why did you stray ? 
 We have been seeking you all night, and our hearts 
 bave been sorely troubled on your account." " Forgivo 
 me, sister," Aucune exclaimed, " and you shall know 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 all." The Wise Man rode up, soon after, followed by 
 several servants, one of whom dismounted ; and after 
 all had congratulated Aucune upon her deliverance, she 
 was assisted upon the horse, and they hastened away, 
 and very soon they had left the forest behind them. 
 
 As they travelled along, Aucune related the adven 
 ture, and told how she had been deceived, and what an 
 awful night she had passed, and how she was delivered, 
 and how the notes of the silver trumpet had directed her 
 to them. 
 
 " I knew," said the Wise Man, with exultation, "that 
 my trumpet of Truth would bring her to us if I could 
 cause the sounds to be heard by her. She is not the 
 first poor soul that it has saved ; and, by the blessing 
 of God, it shall always be exercised in behalf of such 
 lost and erring creatures." In a short time they arrived 
 at the Wise Man s ; and, after partaking of a feast that 
 had been provided to commemorate the happy deliver 
 ance of Aucune, the sisters departed on the* morrow to 
 their father s, who was astonished at the adventure, and 
 thankful for the safety of his daughter. 
 
 When the circumstances were known, all the neigh 
 bourhood were filled with gratitude to the Lord, that he 
 had so mercifully preserved Aucune ; for they all now 
 began to look upon her as a pleasant and good sister ; 
 and she, as may be supposed, was delighted to perceive 
 the estimation in which she was held by those who, pre- 
 Tiously, had shunned her. 
 
 Her time passed happily on, and the six months were 
 soon over. And as she was reflecting upon what had 
 passed since she was in the spiritual world, the Lord 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 97 
 
 again opened the eyes of her spirit, and the same good 
 angel stood before her, and with a smile of welcome, led 
 the way to the Gate of Obedience. The angels them 
 congratulated her with a kiss ; and, to the astonishment 
 of Aucune, they seemed more lovely, and their robea 
 more beautiful, than ever. As she went into the lofty 
 hall, she was still more powerfully impressed with the 
 beauty and elegance of everything she saw. The walls 
 were of pure alabaster, and numerous figures of gentle 
 beasts and birds curiously wrought upon them. The 
 roof was of cedar wood, richly carved, and supported 
 by pillars of porphyry. The light descended through a 
 dome, and had a rich mellowness ; and, what was very 
 remarkable, it seemed to be living, and looked like 
 living golden light; and, as its beautiful rays played 
 upon the walls, it created wonderful images, that por 
 trayed the state and character of the affections and 
 thoughts of the angels. Astonishing!" exclaimed 
 Aucune, in her first surprise. And, turning to the 
 angels, she inquired, " Why all tilings were so beautiful 
 to-day." "0," said they, "we enjoy all these won 
 derful and beautiful sights every day." "But," said 
 Aucune, " they are very different from what they were 
 when I last saw them." " Very likely," said the angels ; 
 " but then, you know, you did not love your sister. 
 Now, that was wicked ; and wickedness causes a denso 
 mist to rise over the mind, which distorts and perverts 
 the loveliest of objects, and thus true beauty becomes 
 complete ugliness to the wicked." " 0, how many 
 glorious sights I must have lost by my wickedness and 
 folly!" thought Aucune. And with this conviction she 
 
98 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 determined henceforth to avoid all evil, and particularly 
 all desire to injure her sister. 
 
 In a short time she was clothed with heavenly gar 
 ments ; and, to her surprise, they were as beautiful aa 
 any of those which the angels had on. The black spots 
 and filthy appearance were entirely gone; and, in addi 
 tion to what she was before clothed with, there was 
 given to her a garland of sweet flowers, which was 
 placed upon her head by a tall, majestic being, of super 
 lative beauty and glory, who informed her that that was 
 a symbol of the crown of life, and the badge of sister 
 hood of that heaven. And, thus robed, she proceeded 
 ^n the path of Beauty. It seemed as if there were no 
 necessity for a guide, for the way appeared perfectly 
 familiar ; but, notwithstanding, an angelic band bore 
 her company, and, directed by the star of knowledge, 
 they rapidly proceeded with their journey. 
 
 They travelled on, delighted with each other, and every 
 thing they saw, until they came to another gate, composed 
 of solid, shining silver, so brilliant that they could scarcely 
 look upon it, and over the top was written, " The Gate of 
 Duty." " Here we must part with you," said the angels, 
 " we cannot live in that land, for it is much more glo 
 rious and more holy than ours. In our own land we 
 are happy, and our cup even runneth over with bless 
 ings, but our spirits are not fit to breathe that purer air ; 
 and so, for the present, we must bid you adieu." Aucune 
 was surprised at this, but said nothing, for she was anxious 
 to get to the Fountain. The angels then gave an affec 
 tionate kiss, and turned away ; while Aucune boldly ran 
 up the steps, and knocked loudly at the Gate. Almost 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 99 
 
 instantly it was opened by a glorious being in shining 
 white, and Aucune entered. She told her errand, arid 
 the angel said, " You shall proceed immediately." And 
 in a little time a company of heavenly beings came to 
 her, and signified that they were ready. Aucune soon 
 accompanied them ; but they had not proceeded far be 
 fore she felt a similar oppression upon her head to that 
 Bhe felt when she was obliged to return before. She 
 knew its meaning, and, bursting into tears, said, " Am I 
 not pure enough yet to go to the Immortal Fountain?" 
 "We would gladly take you, dear sister," said an angel, 
 " but it would destroy you if we did, until you can 
 breathe, with pleasure, the air of our heaven." "What 
 must I now do?" asked Aucune, almost with despair. 
 " You must again change your motives," said the angels, 
 " hitherto you have done good and avoided evil, not from 
 a sense that it is a duty you owe to God and to your fel 
 low-mortals, but that you might acquire some selfish good. 
 At first you wished to be beautiful, that you might de 
 prive Chacune of her neighbours love and praise, and 
 then you wished to be beautiful that you might share 
 them with her. Now, cannot you see that, in both these 
 motives, there is something very selfish, particularly in 
 the first ? You must, therefore, return to your world, 
 and do no evil, not simply because it has been commanded, 
 nor yet to avoid any misery or punishment ; for the one 
 is but blind obedience, and the other selfish fear ; but you 
 must cease to do evil, because it is a sin against God, and 
 an injury to your brethren. You will thus gradually 
 lose sight of self in your inward motives, and do good 
 because it is of God, and for your ueighbouis benefit," 
 
TOO THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 They then bade her be of good cheer, and trust in the 
 Lord, and all tl e difficulties of the task would in time 
 be overcome. " Return to the world for twelve months, 
 and, at the end of that time you shall come to us again," 
 Baid they ; and parted with the usual kiss. 
 
 At first Aucune felt great difficulty in banishing all 
 idea of reward from her mind. But, in time, by constant 
 attention to her motives, she found it was possible to " do 
 good, hoping for nothing again." She ceased to make 
 any more bargains with God by saying that, if he would 
 make her beautiful by permitting her to bathe in the Im 
 mortal Fountain, she would be kind to Chacune, and good 
 to all. She was gradually led to see that it was a right, 
 a duty that we owe to each other, to do no evil either in 
 thought, affection, or deed ; and thus that we are placed 
 in this world to learn to contribute our mite to the trea 
 sury of human usefulness and human good, so that we 
 may all have a common right to human happiness. After 
 repeated trials, the good providence of God once again 
 opened her spiritual sight, and she was conducted through 
 the Gate of Obedience to the Gate of Duty ; and on this 
 occasion its grandeur and magnificence had become 
 heightened to a wonderful degree. It shone as if ten 
 thousand rays of the noonday sun had concentrated 
 themselves, and were consolidated into the form of a 
 gate. Aucune knocked, and, at the solicitation of the 
 angel in shining white, entered ; and, as she looked round 
 and beheld the astonishing grandeur of the place, she 
 trembled lest anything should be injured by contact with 
 her. She was first struck with the mighty intensity of 
 the light ; for it seemed to her as if she was placed in the 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. ]U1 
 
 midst of a diamond, on which all the glittering rays of 
 a thousand suns were shining. And, strange as it may 
 seem, it was not painful, but wonderfully exhilarating 
 and delightful ! And the heat that was with it elevated 
 and sanctified her whole soul, for it was spiritual heat, 
 that could warm the heart, and kindle up the best affec 
 tions, and produce a reverence and veneration for every 
 thing around. The angels robed her in pure, shining 
 white gaiments, and set out upon their journey. 
 
 Aucune had noticed a strange peculiarity in the cir 
 cumstance of the persons of the angels, and the scenery 
 of heaven, becoming more beautiful and interesting at 
 each succeeding visit. On a little reflection, however, 
 she perceived that the change was in herself; for in that 
 spirit-world all things have an immediate correspondence 
 with its inhabitants. Every thought and affection of 
 angels takes up an external objective form ; and thus, 
 all that is seen in heaven is the outbirth and reflex of 
 angelic minds. Each angel, therefore, sees himself por 
 trayed upon all that surrounds him. Every beast and 
 every bird, yea, every object that is beheld, is thus made 
 a mirror to reflect the inward souls of the angels upon 
 their external senses, so that they cannot possibly mis 
 take their quality ! 
 
 This is one reason why angels are so singularly happy; 
 for there is a continual harmony and correspondence 
 between their state and external objects. No annoy 
 ances, or difficulties, or troubles can possibly take place 
 with them ; for the desires of the mind flow forth into 
 external objects, and provide, as it were, for their own 
 wants. Here is the reason, too, why heaven is so glo- 
 
102 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 rious, and hell so monstrous ; for goodness and virtue 
 are the soul of real beauty, so that the beauty of heaven 
 is the reflection of the goodness of angels. And wicked 
 ness and vice are the essence of all deformity and misery ; 
 so that the dreadfulness of hell is the outbirth of the 
 wickedness of the sinner. 
 
 Just, therefore, as Aucune s state improved, did all 
 that she beheld become more beautiful and delightful. 
 She was gradually brought into a pure, angelic state, and 
 then she could breathe the air of heaven, and associate 
 with its purer inhabitants. And, as they journeyed on, 
 they beheld each other s states, and wish, and life, and 
 glory, reflected before their eyes; so that each enjoyed 
 bis own and others pleasure ; and, in blessing others, 
 they became blessed altogether. 
 
 They saw beautiful palaces on their way ; some were 
 of polished marble, with steps of alabaster in front, and 
 at the sides were pillars of jasper, supporting rainbow 
 roofs. Within these colonnades were angels, walking 
 two and two, with long flowing robes of shining white, 
 like those that the women saw the angels clothed with 
 at the sepulchre of the Lord. The companions of Au- 
 cune told her that those, and all angels, had once been 
 inhabitants of the natural world ; but, having made their 
 spirit perfect by the divine assistance, they were trans 
 planted from earth to heaven, to live in everlasting bliss ! 
 
 Aucune was walking on in silence, contemplating the 
 remarkable instruction of the angels, when she heard the 
 faint notes of distant music. It came nearer and 
 nearer, and gradually it seemed to emanate from every 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 103 
 
 palace and every angel in heaven ! It was a hymn of 
 pi aise to the Great Creator, and the song was this : 
 
 " Holy, holy, holy Lord God Almighty, 
 
 "Which was, and is, and is to cornel 
 
 Thou art worthy, Lord, 
 
 To receive glory, and honour, and power ; 
 
 For thou hast created all things, 
 
 And for thy pleasure they are and were created I" 
 
 Aucune, almost unconsciously, echoed the loud-swell 
 ing song ; for it was in unison with the chord that was 
 most awakened in her heart. As soon as the music had 
 ceased, and she had, in some measure, recovered from 
 her surprise, she asked the meaning of such general 
 praise. " These are glorifications," said the angels. 
 " They are frequently heard in heaven, and are indica 
 tions of the strong perceptions of the goodness of the 
 Lord, which the angels sometimes feel. We are made 
 sensible of the benevolence and mercy of God, and, in 
 humble thankfulness for all His mercies, we simulta 
 neously burst forth into songs of adoration and gratitude 
 Heaven then rings with the praises of God." 
 
 They still progressed, and talked about these wonder 
 ful things ; and at every step new wonders appeared. 
 At last they arrived at another gate, still more beautiful 
 than either of the others, and made of solid gold. Over 
 the top was written, in letters of shining gold, " The 
 Gate of Love." As soon as Aucune saw it, sho felt 
 a presentiment that she would not be able to pass, 
 and involuntarily cried, " Not yet!" "Not yet," was 
 echoed from within the portal. " Not yet." She started, 
 and was turning away, sadly dejected with her repeated 
 
104 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 failures, when the gate was opened, and a company of 
 the sweetest beings ever mortal saw, clad in rich white 
 robes, appeared, and invited her to them. As she waa 
 approaching, another company in the gate sang a song 
 of condolence ; and all the music she had ever heard was 
 afi nothing to it. The words were as follows : 
 
 " Young immortal, never fear ; 
 
 Courage take, and go ; 
 Fill thy soul with love sincere, 
 
 While on earth below. 
 
 " Then, through this gate of glory 
 
 Thou shalt enter in 
 To realms of joy so holy, 
 
 Pure and free from sin." 
 
 Aucune felt inwardly delighted with this assurance of 
 yet seeing the Fountain of Beauty, and felt that it 
 would, indeed, be a fountain of joy to her. The angels 
 all kissed her, and, emboldened by their kindness, she 
 entreated them to say what she yet lacked, to fit her to 
 proceed through their land to the Fountain. 
 
 "Thou must know, sweet immortal," said one, who 
 seemed to be the personation of love itself, " that ours 
 is the land of love. Here we do everything from love, 
 and not from a mere sense of duty ; for in motives of 
 duty we perceive something of constraint and servitude. 
 They, therefore, who are in this state look upon God as 
 a good Master, and themselves as His servants ; but we 
 love to regard Him as our Father, and ourselves as Ilia 
 children. Thou must go, then, immortal," continued 
 the angel, " to thy world again, and make what has 
 hitherto been a duty a delight and a pleasure. Thou 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 105 
 
 roust learn to hate evil, and shun it, because it is con- 
 trtiry to God and the good of thy fellows : and thou must 
 do good because it is good, and of God, and the uncon 
 strained choice of thy soul. Thou must neither let fear 
 drive thee from evil, nor the hope of reward, either in 
 the life of the body or in that of thy spirit, cause theo 
 to do good ; but thou must do it from the sincere and 
 pure love of virtue itself; so shalt thou, in time, return 
 to us, and pass on to the Fountain of Beauty." 
 
 The angels walked down the steps with her, and gave 
 her the usual kiss, and bid her be of good courage. 
 They stood affectionately gazing after her, and waving 
 their handkerchiefs in the breeze, by way of encourage 
 ment, until they were closed from her view. Aucune 
 returned to the world, almost afraid that, after all, she 
 would not be able to bathe in the Fountain. " Hope 
 not for the Fountain !" said the same mysterious still 
 small voice, that had, more than once, taught her what 
 to do in cases of trouble. She felt that it was a warn 
 ing from heaven, but she was at a loss to understand it. 
 " Hope not for the Fountain !" said she to herself, with 
 Bin-prise ; and thus she kept pondering and turning it 
 over for many days. 
 
 In great distress of mind she wandered to the shady 
 grotto, and prayed to be enlightened ; and, while she 
 prayed, the heavens opened, and an angel descended 
 and stood before her. u Let not thy soul be disturbed, 
 said he, " but rather rejoice that thou art able to see thy 
 difficulty ; for it is one that eludes the sight of thousands. 
 Thou must henceforth cease to hope for the Fountain as 
 an end of life, and go to Chacune, and she will instruct 
 
106 
 
 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 thee further." And, as he thus said, he suddenly de 
 parted out of her sight. Aucune still felt disturbed, and 
 immediately sought Chacune, and told her all that had 
 occurred, and implored her to tell her what to do. 
 "Dear sister," said Chacune, "you have followed good 
 ness, hitherto, merely to prepare you to go to the Foun 
 tain of Beauty; now you must hereafter desire the 
 Fountain for the purpose of leading you to goodness. 
 What you have, up to this time, made the end, you must 
 now regard as the means, and the means must hereafter 
 be the end. Goodness and virtue should be the end of 
 every endeavour. Truth may be the principal end up 
 to a certain period of regeneration, but afterwards it 
 must become merely the means to a higher and holier 
 one, which is goodness. Learn, then, my dear sister, to 
 understand well the true ends of human life, and, with 
 out hoping for, you shall have blessings. Endeavour to 
 make this change in your mind, and the barrier will 
 become an assistance to the higher object you shall have 
 in view." 
 
 The sisters walked, in meditative mood, into their 
 father s beautiful garden. |Qne was wrapped in pro 
 found thought concerning the interior wisdom that the 
 angel and her sister had taught her; the other wa8 
 hoping for the ultimate success of her sister, and medi 
 tating on the means she should adopt to assist her. In 
 a short tiiLe they were aroused from their thoughts by 
 the approach of their father, who informed them that 
 the Wise Man of the Hill had come, and wished to see 
 them. " Run and welcome him," said Aucune, "and I 
 will go and gather a little fruit, for he will be fatigued 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 107 
 
 with the journey." And away she bounded to the 
 orchard, and plucked the finest fruit she could find, 
 while Chacune and her father went to entertain their 
 visitor. 
 
 As soon as Aucune entered, the old gentleman in 
 formed them of a dreadful occurrence that had taken 
 place. lie said, " As I was riding, with my servants, 
 not far from the district where we found you in the 
 forest, Aucune, we met a boy, shivering with cold, and 
 his face covered with blood. On inquiry, we found that 
 his father, and mother, and two sisters, and himself had 
 mistaken their way ; and, while in the act of retracing 
 their steps, they were met by a woman, probably the 
 same that led you astray, who told them to follow her, 
 and she would lead them to a place of safety. Little 
 thinking whom they were following, they cheerfully 
 obeyed, and were led on from one place to another until 
 night set in, when a dreadful storm arose ; and, while in 
 the midst of it, a faint light appeared, which they fol 
 lowed, and found it led to a cave, from which proceeded 
 the noise of revelry and boisterous joy. The man re 
 fused, at first, to enter ; but the storm was raging with 
 awful fury, the lightning flashed among the trees, and 
 the thunder rolled, and the wind roared, and the rain fell 
 in torrents ; and, looking round upon his shivering and 
 fatigued family, he at last consented. It so happened 
 that the boy had tarried a little behind, from weariness ; 
 and, before he could arrive, a massive gate was drawn 
 across the mouth of the cave, and shut him out, and his 
 parents and sisters in. As soon as the gate was drawn, 
 an infernal shout of delight proceeded from thousands 
 
 
108 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 
 
 of voices, and the noise of revelry increased. The youth 
 was terrified, and fled from the place, not knowing 
 whither, and wandered about in the forest, and more 
 than once was struck with falling trees, that caused the 
 blood to flow down his innocent face, and filled his soul 
 with terror. 
 
 " As soon as we found him, and heard his story, we 
 judged that it would be the cave of the furies into which 
 they had been allured ; arid we hastened thither, per- 
 adventure we might rescue them. On our arrival, we 
 heard moans proceeding from within, which was an indi 
 cation that some cne was still living. We sounded our 
 trumpet of Truth, that they might" know that help was 
 at hand, and, setting ourselves vigorously to work, we 
 very soon found out a crevice in the rock, through which 
 we all entered as quickly as possible. But it was not 
 until the furies had taken alarm. Before we had all got 
 fairly into the cave, we were obliged to draw our swords 
 and fight the infernal hosts. The contest was severe at 
 first, but not long ; for, when manfully assailed, the furies 
 are complete cowards ; and we drove them before us, and 
 finally they descended through the earth, and fled by a 
 subterraneous passage, and left us in entire possession 
 of the cave. We were directed to the man and his 
 family by their moans ; and, to our joy, we found they 
 were still living, but much more than half dead. We 
 brol%:e down the gate, and endeavoured to destroy the 
 cave, and brought the unfortunate creatures to the light, 
 and examined their wounds, and poured in oil and wine, 
 and set them on our horses ; and now, I am happy to 
 Bay, they are at my house, doing well." 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. 109 
 
 The two sisters and their father were well pleased with 
 the success of the Wise Man, and desired to return with 
 him, that they might see the family. 
 
 On their arrival, Aucune was filled with anxiety to 
 render them some assistance ; for she remembered the 
 night of horror she had passed under similar circum 
 stances. She stayed a whole week, and never left them, 
 night or day. At the end of that time, they were so 
 far recovered as to be able to go on their way towards 
 the city of Contentment, where they soon arrived, thank 
 ful to God for having raised up so great a deliverance 
 from so great a danger into which they had fallen. 
 
 Well prepared for heaven by these acts of kindness, 
 she was admitted into the association of angels ; and, as 
 she approached the magnificent Gate of Gold, a com 
 pany of glorious beings came out and met her, and fell 
 upon her neck, and embraced her, and kissed her. Their 
 countenances bespoke incessant love, and they were evi 
 dently filled with extreme joy, which strongly reminded 
 me of the joy which the Lord declares there is in heaven 
 over every repentant sinner. The robes of the angels 
 were so beautiful as almost to surpass even a faint 
 description. They were white as the purest light, and 
 shone as if some brilliant flame burned within ; and all 
 were bound together by a girdle of rich purple velvet. 
 So perfectly did they fit their bodies, that there seemed 
 not a single fold out of its place. Around their heads 
 were wreaths of fragrant, delicate flowers, which never 
 lost their odours, and here and there a ruby sent forth 
 its beautiful reflected light ; and behind each ear every 
 one had an olive leaf. As Aucune entered, every angel 
 
110 THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN, 
 
 manifested the utmost delight, and welcomed her as a 
 Bister ; and a choir of voices from within raised their 
 harmonious notes, and sung, 
 
 " Enter, enter, young immortal, 
 Through celestials golden portal ; 
 Welcome to our land of love, 
 Welcome to the realms above ! 
 
 " Sweetly shall the Fountain flow, 
 On thee rich blessings to bestow ; 
 Beauty, goodness, joy, and peace, 
 Shall within thy soul increase ! 
 
 " Sister angel, pass on, pass on !" 
 
 She was immediately clad with similar rohes ; and one 
 tall, majestic, glorious being, who seemed to he the prince 
 of the company, came to her, and placed behind her ear 
 the olive leaf, and said, " This is the badge of our hea 
 ven, and by it we acknowledge you as our sister. Come, 
 now, to the Immortal Fountain, for the barriers are all 
 passed ; peace and tranquillity shall henceforth be your 
 companions, joy and gladness shall for ever attend you, 
 and we will be your protecting friends." They all 
 departed ; and it is impossible to describe the beauty of 
 the flowers, and the sweetnesss of their odours, and the 
 glory of the light, and the purity of the atmosphere, 
 and the happiness of that heaven ; for, to mortals, they 
 are ineffable ! There was one object, however, the most 
 wonderful and glorious of any she had yet seen. It wag 
 God, clothed, as it were, with the sun, and from whom 
 proceeded light which illuminated all heaven with its 
 
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN. Ill 
 
 glory ; a id, on the appearance of his Divine Majesty, 
 all angels prostrated themselves in humble adoration. 
 
 As they travelled, in a little time the murmuring of 
 the waters was heard, and a thrill of delight passed 
 through the soul of Aucune. She ascended the beauti 
 ful Mount of Innocence, on which it stood, and there 
 before her lay the waters, in the form of a lake, from 
 the centre of which they rose high up into the air, and 
 fell gently upon the surface. Angels were bathing their 
 beautiful forms ; and Aucune ran up and looked in, and 
 saw the face of one beaming with joy and beauty, which 
 seemed to be looking at her from within the water. 
 
 And, as she continued to admire this lovely counte 
 nance, her sister Chacune came joyfully up and kissed 
 her, and, in tones of exultation and pleasure, said, " 0, 
 my beloved Aucune ! long, long have I wished to behold 
 you standing upon the brink of these blessed waters, so 
 that I could show you how sweet and beautiful you are ! 
 Look there," said she, pointing to the face in the water; 
 " look there, and behold the beauty of your own coun 
 tenance !" Aucune looked, and was astonished to find 
 that it was her own face, the countenance of her own 
 purified soul, so infinitely more beautiful than that of 
 her body, that she did not recognise it. " But I have 
 not bathed yet !" said she, with surprise. " True, you 
 have not yet bathed in this type of the Holy Water," 
 said Chacune, " but the true water of purifying, living 
 truth, from the River of Life, has been flowing in your 
 soul since the time you first set out to reach the Fountain. 
 Remember how your heart was once filled with the spi 
 ritual filth of sin, and then think of the holv commands 
 
112 THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 and wise instruction that were given you by angels to 
 make you pure and fit you for heaven. These were the 
 waters of the true Fountain of Beauty !" " 0, Chacune, 
 Chacune!" said Aucune ; "I understand it all!" and 
 falling upon her neck, the two sisters embraced each 
 other with the ardency of angelic love, and then fell 
 upon their knees, and, with eyes and hands uplifted, 
 they uttered in unison a holy and solemn prayer, which 
 I heard as if ascending to the throne of the Majesty on 
 high, blessing and praising God for all His mercies, and 
 His wonderful works to the children of men. After 
 this, I awoke. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 WALK with the Beautiful, and with the Grand; 
 
 Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter ; 
 Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand, 
 
 But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her: 
 Walk with the Beautiful. 
 
 I hear thee say, " The Beautiful ! what is it ?" 
 O, thou art darkly ignorant ! Be sure 
 
 Tis no long weary road its form to visit, 
 
 For thou canst make it smile beside thy door: 
 Then love the Beautiful. 
 
 Ay, love it ; tis a sister that will bless, 
 
 And teach thee patience when the heart is lonely; 
 The angels love it, for they wear its dress, 
 
 And thou art made a little lower only ; 
 
 Then love the Beautiful. 
 

 NATURE S HKAUTIES. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL. 113 
 
 Sigh for it ! clasp it when tis in thy way 1 
 
 Be its idolater, as of a maiden ! 
 Thy parents bent to it, and more than they ; 
 
 j$e thou its worshipper. Another Eden 
 
 Comes with the Beautiful. 
 
 Some boast its presence in a Grecian face ; 
 
 Some on a favourite warbler of the skies ; 
 But be not fooled where er thine eye might trace, 
 
 Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise : 
 
 Then seek it everywhere. 
 
 Thy bosom is its mint, the workmen are 
 
 Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee believing- 
 
 The Beautiful exists in every star, 
 
 Thou makest it so ; and art thyself deceiving 
 If otherwise thy faith. 
 
 Thou seest Beauty in the violet s cup 
 
 I ll teach thee miracles ! Walk on this heath, 
 
 And say to the neglected flower, " Look up, 
 And be thou Beautiful!" If thou hast faith 
 It will obey thy word. 
 
 One thing I warn thee: bow no knee to gold ; 
 
 Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue, 
 It turns the feelings prematurely old; 
 
 And they who keep their best affections young, 
 Best love the Beautiful 
 
THE GENII OF THE GOID MINES. 
 
 Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? 
 Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine ? 
 Wisdom to gold prefer ; for tis much less 
 To make our fortune than our happiness." YOUNG. 
 
 DAVID WINTERS sat by the fireside one cold bluster 
 ing night. His arm-chair was drawn up within a few 
 feet of the crackling wood fire, and he felt in a very 
 comfortable, drowsy contemplative mood. What cared 
 he if the wind did shake the casement and rattle the 
 doors, as though it would break through into his snug 
 parlour ? He only gazed complacently around upon the 
 comfortable arrangements of his fireside, and relapsed 
 into a fit of musing. Mr. Winters was not what one 
 might call rich in this world s goods. He had his com 
 fortable house, a few acres of good tillable land, good 
 barn, well filled with live stock, a smart sprinkling of 
 hens, ducks, and geese; and he had another thing which 
 he prized as of far greater value than all the rest, a good 
 wife and two children a boy and a girl. My reader 
 will perhaps say, learning this, " Is he not contented 
 with his lot? can he wish for any greater riches ?" 
 
 I am very sorry to say, dear reader, that he was not. 
 lie was blessed with health in his family, a lovin fe spouse, 
 and an easy, independent life, yet he was not satisfied. 
 Some of his neighbours had been to the land of gold, 
 and returned with well-filled purses. He had taken the 
 infection, and wanted to visit that land himself. Visions 
 
THE GENII OF THE GOLD MINES. 115 
 
 of " mountains of gold," gold dust, and golden ingots, 
 filled his brain. 
 
 Mary, his wife, sat on the opposite side of the hearth, 
 turning her spinning-wheel and converting the shining 
 flax into tough thread, which in turn was to be converted 
 into garments for David Winters Junior, who was at 
 that time enjoying himself in a delicious sleep beside hia 
 mother. 
 
 " Mary," said Mr. Winters, suddenly breaking the 
 sUence, and striking his open hand upon his knee, as if 
 lie had an idea in his head a singular idea " Mary, do 
 you know what I was just thinking of?" 
 
 "La, me, David, no! How should I know, unless 
 you wao thinking how much more vood it would take to 
 melt the oM " 
 
 " Pshaw, Mary ! nonsense," broke in David, not wait 
 ing for her conclusion " I was just thinking how much 
 money, how much gold would satisfy me." 
 
 " Gracious ! David, what a man you are ! Haven t 
 you got everything comfortable around you ; everything 
 nice and convenient i and can t you be satisfied ? Well, 
 how much did you think would make you contented ?" 
 
 " I thought, Mary, that if I had all I could place in 
 the half bushel measure, I would be nearly satisfied ; 
 and, that if I had all I couH put in this room, I should 
 be perfectly satisfied !" 
 
 "Dear me ! what an avaricious man you arc, David ! 
 You ll never be contented, I m af-aid, if nothing less 
 will satisfy your craving for wealth. I heard you tc 1 
 Mr. W T ilson to-day, that you had macb up your mfo.l v> 
 go to California. You was not in sober oairioi t, was jv>% 
 
11(5 THE GENII OP THE GOLD MINES. 
 
 husband? Oh! I know you wasn t! How could you 
 leave little David, Jeannette, and me ?" 
 
 A tear trembled in the good woman s eye, and the 
 hand that guided the flaxen thread shook nervously. 
 She tangled the yarn around the spindle her handa 
 then fell to her side, and her head sank upon her 
 bosom. 
 
 " Oh ! don t cry, Mary," said David, almost repenting 
 his ambition. " When I come back with a heap of money, 
 you will be as ^lad to help dispose of it as anybody. 
 Don t cry, Mary!" 
 
 An hour passed, and the old clock recorded it in its 
 musical chimes. Mrs. Winters had resumed her spinning, 
 and David sat in his chair almost asleep. The wheel 
 buzzed merrily, the fire crackled cheerily, the old cat 
 upon the hearth stretched herself lazily, and David s 
 eyelids almost closed together. 
 
 As he sat there gazing into the bright fire upon the 
 glowing coals he saw a slight movement among them, 
 and a little fellow, all covered with dust and ashes, leaped 
 out on to the hearth and shook himself. When David s 
 eye first discovered him he was not certainly bigger than 
 a man s thumb, and might have been mistaken for a coal 
 of fire, he was so red in the face. Gradually, he seemed 
 to expand in form and limb, until his figure could hardly 
 stand beneath the ceiling of the room. As the figure 
 increased in size, his face grew redder and redder, until 
 it grew warm around him, and David felt uncomfort 
 ably warm. lie did not feel at all alarmed in the pre 
 sence of the giant creature, but involuntarily inquired 
 who he was. 
 
THE GENII OF THE GOLD MINES. 117 
 
 " / am the Genii of the Gold Mines" said he, looking 
 down upon David with his great yellow eyes. " I am 
 the spirit of the mines, and have it in my power to 
 make you rich. I can show you where the main trea- 
 eure lies, and teach you how to gain immense quantities 
 of gold." 
 
 " And what do you require of men in return for thio 
 information ?" said Mr. Winters. 
 
 " I only require that they should give me full sway 
 over their bodies and souls give themselves entirely to 
 my service, the remainder of their lives. When I call 
 they must answer ; when I command they must obey ; 
 and when death summons them hence, their souls are 
 delivered up to my guardianship." 
 
 " Is that all ? Truly, some men hazard as much, and 
 in the end get nothing. Show me the treasure, sir, and 
 I ll comply with your stipulations. Give me gold 
 galore, and I ll serve you through life, and make over 
 to you a quit claim deed of my spirit after death ! 
 
 A smile curled the red Genii s lip, and he immediately 
 disappeared in the coals, from whence he came. David 
 sat by the fire some minutes, impatiently awaiting the 
 return of the Genii. He had almost persuaded himself 
 that it was all a dream, and that the Genii would never 
 return, when a beautiful girl appeared before him, as if 
 by magic, with golden hair and the deepest blue eyes, 
 the pearliest teeth and the most bewitching little smilo 
 that he ever saw. She opened her ruby lips, and in 
 a mellow flute-like voice, that thrilled his eery heart, 
 she said, 
 
 Mortal, you see before you a servant of the Genii 
 
118 THE GENII OF THE GOLD MINES. 
 
 of the Mines. I am called Flora. I am sent to conduct 
 you to the presence of my master !" 
 
 "Lead on," said David, bewildered with her beauty, 
 44 lead on, and I will follow." 
 
 She placed her dark blue eyes steadily upon his for a 
 moment, glided toward him, and placing one taper finger 
 upon his forehead, she retreated toward the fire-place. 
 David did not leave his chair, but it seemed to glide 
 along, as if upon ice, in the same direction. Thus, as 
 if in a mesmeric sleep, he entered the glowing grate. 
 A moment and all was dark. Still he felt the impress 
 of the finger upon his forehead, and that he was passing 
 through the atmosphere at a rapid rate. Soon there 
 appeared in the distance a light as of a glimmering star. 
 It grew rapidly larger and larger, and brighter and 
 brighter, until the dazzling light blinded his eyes. He 
 stood in the presence of the Genii when he again looked 
 around him, and his guide had disappeared. He stood 
 in an immense cavern, whose sides, roof, and floor were 
 ef solid, massive golden rock. 
 
 " Frail mortal, thou standest in the main treasure- 
 chamber, from whence cometh all the gold of earth," 
 said the Genii. " Look around, and feast thy greedy eyes 
 upon the millions of millions that are here deposited. 
 You can never but once penetrate to it. Sign these 
 writings, and then choose thy manner of taking a shai 
 of gold from these walls." 
 
 David seized the pen and subscribed his name to the 
 Deed. Tho letters traced were of a dark red colour. 
 
 " Thorp, that will do," chuckled the Genii; "you 
 aro mir/, rine, MINE! heart, soul, and body! ha! ha! 
 
THE GENII OF THE GOLD MINES. 119 
 
 ha !" and he almost shrieked a laugh. The echo wc,s 
 caught up and resounded from each corner and point of 
 the immense cavern. It was terrific awful. The per 
 spiration started from every pore, arid David most 
 heartily wished himself out of the place. 
 
 "How much gold will satisfy you?" said the Genii, 
 fixing his yellow eyes upon his, as though he would read 
 his innermost thought. 
 
 " Would you be satisfied with as much as you could 
 raise from the floor?" 
 
 Now be it known, David was not a man who might 
 be called small or weakly. He once prided himself very 
 much upon his bodily strength, and the enormous weights 
 he could lift. So the proposition of the Genii was in 
 his favour. 
 
 "Yes," answered he. "Give me all I can lift, and 
 I will be satisfied." 
 
 " Let it be so. You shall have your wish." 
 
 The Genii seized an iron instrument, and commenced 
 digging the gold from the wall. His blows fell thick 
 and fast. Presently a large lump of the precious metal 
 was detached. He threw aside the instrument, and from 
 a chest near by took a stout linen bag, apparently capable 
 of holding two bushels of grain. 
 
 "Now," said he to David, who stood amazed, "I will 
 make you acquainted with my further conditions." P*vid 
 did not answer, for he was glad to do anything to get 
 himself out of the present predicament. 
 
 "You can take this bag," resumed the Genii, "and 
 place in it as much of the metal as, in your best judg 
 ment, you think you can raise. If you over-estimate 
 
120 1HE GENII OF THE GOLD MINES 
 
 your strength, and get more gold than you can lift, you 
 shall have none, but shall be sent back to your family 
 worse than when you left them. If you do lift it, it shall 
 bo yours. My servants shall escort you home, and a 
 conveyance shall be furnished for your treasure." 
 
 David took the sack, and began filling it with the 
 largest and brightest pieces. At first he thought he 
 would limit his desires, and be sure not to put in more 
 than he could raise. As he handled the precious lumps 
 lie became more and more excited, until he had no com 
 mand over himself. The bag was about half filled, and 
 he desisted a moment. The idea of having so much gold 
 stimulated him to prepare for immense exertion, in order 
 to raise it. " One more lump," thought he, and added 
 it to the pile. 
 
 " Oh ! one more will not make it much heavier." 
 
 Another lump was added and yet another. The bag 
 was placed in a convenient position, and he paused over 
 it to take breath before he tried the lift. He did not have 
 the slightest doubt but he could raise it, so excited had 
 he become. He stooped, grasped the mouth of the sack 
 in both his brawny hands, and raising himself slowly, 
 steadily, but with all his strength, he essayed the task. 
 He strained, he tugged with all his might ; he exerted 
 every muscle ; the blood rushed to his brain he saw 
 more stars than revolve in the firmament ; but it was all 
 in vain. The obstinate load would not budge a hair s 
 breadth. 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the demon, and his face 
 glowed with a brighter glow. "You did not raise it! 
 But try once more, and then if you do not raise it ha 1 
 
THE GENII OF THE GOLD MINES. 121 
 
 La!" Again the echo was caught up as if by a myriad 
 of fiends, and the cavern was filled with the laugh. 
 
 Once more David Winters grasped the sack. This 
 time, with the determination to raise it or die in the 
 attempt. When he was lifting with the utmost of his 
 strength, the solid linen of the sack parted in twain, and 
 David, losing his balance, fell heavily upon the floor. 
 The Genii raised another " Ha ! ha ! ha !" and again 
 it echoed through the cave. 
 
 "Lost! lost! lost!" cried David, and awoke. 
 
 "Bless my heart, David ! what is the matter ? Here 
 you ve been tugging and pulling at the arm of your chair, 
 and now you ve pulled it clean off, and fallen on the 
 floor. Oh ! what is the matter ?" 
 
 David rubbed his eyes and looked around. 
 
 IT WAS ALL A DREAM ! 
 
 He related his dream to Mary that night, but said not 
 a word about going to California, as in fact he never 
 did afterwards. Several days passed before he recovered 
 from the severe contusion on his head from the fall. 
 
 The moral of this simple sketch is obvious. When a 
 man is comfortably located, having a home and a family, 
 and with a fair income, he is not justified in leaving all, 
 to seek mere gold afar off. Like the hero of this dream, 
 in doing so, he may not gain anything there, but lose 
 everything he has at home. 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 " YES ! yes ! as beautiful as I could desire it 1 Every 
 jrecious object takes a hue from the rose glow of my 
 life !" and very gently was the foot-fall of Ada Ward 
 pressed into the velvet carpets of her bridal home ; very 
 soft were the glances that rested upon the rich and 
 graceful furniture, as though it were capable of making 
 a part in her strange and wonderful happiness ! for the 
 mysteries wrought in the quiet soul by love, are ever 
 new, and more than strange and wonderful to the pos 
 sessor of the enchanted life. And so the light figure of 
 Mrs. Graham Ward, for the twentieth time, had been 
 flitting from room to room, beginning at the top of the 
 great house ; her heart pronounced a benediction on 
 everything, and when she stood within her magnificent 
 parlours, her lips spoke the thoughts sleeping within. 
 
 " Yes !" she murmured, smilingly, " I believe if I did 
 not look every day at all these things, and almost touch 
 them, I should think myself in some delirious, blissful 
 dream. But I am awake, and Graham is my husband, 
 and this beautiful home is as fresh to me as the love- 
 lighted world I have come to dwell in. Ah ! many 
 dreams I have had, but no wandering in delicious 
 dream-land ever equalled this : dim prophecies they 
 were that haunted me a faint idea I had of the love 
 mighty and eternal, that was to illuminate my soul 
 and 1 must be to Graham all that he is to me sun- 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 123 
 
 shine ! life ! breath ! Ah ! I dare not tell him all my 
 thoughts; he is so much older than I ; and yet for all 
 the world, I would not have him a day younger, for 1 
 could not feel that repose, that blessed assurance in 
 looking up to him. 
 
 "And this is my boudoir !" she continued, entering a 
 charming little room where the softened light fell through 
 embroidered curtains, and lighted up with more brilliant 
 touches the flowers her own hand had placed on the 
 broad window-sill then the same magic light struck 
 out a richer crimson on her little favourite rocking- 
 chair, and sought its rest upon warm crimson roses in 
 the carpet. A dainty work-basket stood upon a zephyr 
 table filled with pretty pretences to industry, and two 
 or three delicate notes of congratulation and l^ve from 
 " the girls;" intimate friends to whom her heart clung, 
 and for whom she wished a happiness equal to her own. 
 
 Ada took her seat, and still looked around her ; she 
 did not care to sew, she was too happy to need the 
 ministry of the choice authors in the book-case before 
 her but a new thought struck her she would talk 
 with her own soul, she would begin a journal, and keep 
 imperishable the burning thoughts that rose, wave upon 
 wave, within her ; this unparalleled romance that came 
 with such a glory to her young, girlish spirit, should be 
 impressed upon paper, where in future years she could 
 go to it, and live it over again, and know that it really 
 happened. And so she drew pens and paper from the 
 secretary, and in the afternoon shadows and the golden 
 lights she wrote, and wrote, and poured forth the elo 
 quence that we) led up from her heart. While her pen 
 
124 ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 was busy, and her cheek glowing, a timid hand rapped 
 at her door. 
 
 U 0h, Betsy!" she exclaimed, a little impatiently, 
 " what have you come here for ?" 
 
 "But, mistress, dear!" said the girl, deprecatingly, 
 " if I only could get you to write me a little word to 
 my brother, I should be so thankful." 
 
 " I will ; but not now, Betsy. I am busy now !" 
 " Oh, but Miss Ward, I want to send it for him." 
 " Well, Betsy, havn t I said that I am busy now ?" 
 And Ada closed the door, but her heart smote her for 
 a moment ere she went on weaving together her life 
 romance. Poor Ada ! she was too happy to lend a 
 listening ear to others hopes and wishes. Graham came 
 home and entered the boudoir, where his wife, lovelier 
 than ever, met him with outstretched hands, and eyes 
 that half sought to hide their love-shining ; he pressed 
 the sweet mouth uplifted for his evening kiss, and passed 
 his arm around her waist. 
 
 " Is tea ready, my dear ?" he asked. 
 " I will see ! Must you go out to-night, Graham ?" 
 " Yes ! a man of business must be at his post, my 
 child !" and he pushed back the curls from her brow, 
 and kissed it. 
 
 Ada left the room, and her husband stood musing 
 alone. He was a man of thirty-five, with a handsome, 
 haughty face, where a something reckless and impera 
 tive, not to say selfish, could be traced. 
 
 " A very pretty little creature she is, and she loves me 
 BO devotedly ! A very pleasant thing it is to have such 
 a pretty little wife to welcome me, and such a handsome 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 125 
 
 fortune with her !" and the glances Graham cast around 
 were very different from Ada s. " I intend to make the 
 little thing happy; poor child, how happy she is! but 
 then it must be done in a reasonable way. I can t think 
 of giving up my evenings to be spent here alone. I ll 
 do it sometimes, though." 
 
 Here Ada appeared, and laying her hand on her hus 
 band s arm, went with him to tea. 
 
 When he had gone, she sought her favourite room 
 again, and from the window watched the twilight sha 
 dows. 
 
 A familiar carriage stopped at the door, and her mo 
 ther s face looked from it, and smiled a mother s love. 
 Ada hastened to the front door, and received the beloved 
 visiter with kisses and embraces. 
 
 "Come into my sanctum, mother; this is such a dear, 
 precious room, the very quintessence of my Eden home !" 
 and her sweet, happy laugh, went like music to the fond 
 mother s heart. 
 
 "Let me take off your bonnet, mother darling, nnd 
 here, sit in my own little chair, and let me sit on this 
 cushion isn t it pretty? and lay my head on your 
 lap, and tell you, oh ! so much ! I never can tell you 
 how happy I am. Do you know, mother," and she 
 raised her head and looked into the beautiful, soft eyes 
 above her, " do you know, mother, sometimes I think 
 I shall not, cannot live very long, for this wild intense 
 love must burn my heart out but I don t care ; I care 
 for nothing, nothing but this happiness it is enough ; 
 it swallows up my being. I could not love more, and 
 yet every hour I love him better. Mother, do you think 
 
126 ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 that other people do, can love as I do? is it as beautiful 
 to them ?" 
 
 "Yes, my darling; there are thousands of hearts 
 telling the same story to-day !" 
 
 " Oh, bless them! blessings on them in their happi- 
 
 " And blessings, all holy blessings on those who are 
 walking in dark and dreadful paths, without any joy to 
 help them through their lot ! The happy-hearted should 
 send their sunshine to these." 
 
 " Oh, yes!" murmured Ada; "but who can turn 
 from their heaven to look on such leaden pictures? 
 Oh! mother, I am very, very selfish. I cannot bear 
 that anything should break in upon this enchantment. 
 I have almost forgotten that a day of reckoning will 
 come. I am wicked, I know, but I want no better 
 heaven than I have !" 
 
 " My poor child ! my poor child " and a gentle hand 
 stroked Ada s hair, while glistening tears fell upon it. 
 
 " Why do you say i poor child, mother ?" asked Ada, 
 raising her eyes, where love and hope unquenchable 
 seemed to dwell. "Your rich and happy child!" and 
 with smiles she drew down the beloved face and kissed 
 away the drops. " Mother, dear, I feel within me the 
 assurance that this happiness must be immortal. Do 
 you remember these words : 
 
 " And if such dreams are given 
 While at the portals thus we stand, 
 What are the truths of heaven ? 
 
 Oh ! if heaven be as blessed as my own heaven, I shall 
 ask no more !" 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 127 
 
 " But, dear child, it will not be as beautiful, unless 
 you learn to be an angel here, and look with a true and 
 tender love on others besides those jour own happiness 
 is bound up in." 
 
 "Ah, true!" answered the young wife, and poor 
 Betsy s imploring face came before her. " Mother, will 
 you excuse me a few moments ?" she asked, rising 
 hastily. 
 
 " I must go myself, dear. I have stayed longer than 
 I intended. Try to-morrow to call on poor Kate Suth- 
 ington, and comfort her. You heard that Henry Wil 
 liams had married in Europe ?" 
 
 "No. Oh! Kate, dear Kate!" 
 
 " Well, good-bye, darling. Come and see us very 
 soon." 
 
 "Yes, yes. Good-bye." 
 
 Ada bent her steps to the kitchen, and there she 
 found Betsy sitting by the table, with her apron over 
 her face, crying. 
 
 " What is the matter, Betsy ?" she asked, very kindly. 
 
 " I am afraid the vessel will sail in the morning, and 
 my brother cannot come over in it, unless I send the 
 money to him in a letter." 
 
 " Is it too late, do you think ?" and a great pang of 
 self-reproach went through the heart of the young mis 
 tress. 
 
 "Perhaps not," answered the girl, with a look ot 
 hope. 
 
 Ada ran to her room, and brought utensils for writ 
 ing, which she rapidly used. Then, after enclosing the 
 money, she sealed the letter, saying, 
 
128 ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 "Now hurry, Betsy. Here is sixpence to get into 
 the omnibus. You will reach the place in time." 
 
 But Betsy did not reach the place in time. She waa 
 half an hour too late, and her young brother, as well 0.3 
 herself, suffered from the sickness of hope deferred 
 many long weeks, because the fair young bride, amid 
 her joys, had not yet learned the habit of instantly 
 turning a patient ear to others. This beautiful life- 
 lesson her guardian angels waited to teach her, that, 
 when her hour was come, she might enter into her rest. 
 
 A year, fraught with experience, has passed away, 
 silently dropping into the book of life its records ; and 
 Ada Ward is within her favourite room. The broad 
 moonbeams slant across the carpet, and fall upon the 
 form lying there in the abjectness of despair. A pale 
 cheek is pressed to the foot- cushion. Ada has that day 
 buried her little babe, and cold, black, ghastly shadows 
 envelop her ; colder and blacker than they might have 
 been, because her husband, finding it so gloomy at 
 home, has gone out for a walk. 
 
 " Oh, that it should be I !" she groaned, wringing 
 her clasped hands, and pressing them upon her heart, 
 as though she would quiet its great agony. " If I could 
 die ! If I could only die ! Oh, that such woe should 
 come to me ! That my glorious temple of love should 
 be broken dashed to pieces eternally ! That I must 
 live years, ages, in this blackness of darkness ! Day 
 after day pressing my hands upon my heart to keep it 
 from bursting ! If we were parted, I think I could 
 endure it better ; but to gaze in his face and read no 
 love there ; to receive with a grave, repressed face his 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 129 
 
 acts of politeness ; to know that I cannot charm him; 
 that there is no winsome light in my eyes to him ; no 
 thing precious in my smile; to have no words pass 
 between us save those that are necessary ; and to aco 
 often more smiling words addressed to others than to 
 me. Oh, my Father ! why may I not die ? Am I so 
 unlovely, so unworthy of love? Is there no grace in 
 me ? My mother, my mother ! oh, to lay my head on 
 her sheltering breast ! She would weep her soul away 
 to know that her cherished child was an unloved wife. 
 It would strike to the core of my father s heart to hear 
 the cold words spoken to his < little bird, as he used to 
 call me. I am no one s little bird now, only a miserable, 
 blasted wretch, with the elixir of life for ever dried up 
 in my veins, and burning ashes heaped on my heart. 
 Little babe ! little angel ! thou, too, art taken from me ! 
 If thou wert here, soft tears might perhaps allay this 
 aching. But it is well with thee. Only one pang moro 
 to lose thee, but I can bear it, when I remember how 
 merciful it is to thee. Thou wilt not be subject to a lot 
 like thy mother s. Sometime, I shall come to thee, my 
 flower, and it will be a joy to look within thy sweet 
 eyes, and know that no shadow ever darkened them. I 
 must live. I must bear on to meet thee. If thy dim 
 pled hands could be laid upon my brow, I should think 
 God and His angels were merciful to my pain, but IIo 
 has left me no joy, no blessing ! He has bereaved me 
 awfully, cruelly. He has forgotten to be gracious. 
 Ah ! that I were stronger ; that I could argue with the 
 Almighty. I did not ask the breath of life ; it is hato 
 ful to me now. Oh, this madness, this dreadful rcbol 
 
ISO ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 lion at my lot ! This fearful life, without hope, and 
 without God in the world ! If I could sleep, sleep on 
 and get some rest, and grow resigned, and wear a placid 
 face, and quietly tread my way downward to the grave ! 
 Perhaps I could bear up better if my health were as 
 strong as it used to be. Oh ! my Father and my God, 
 forgive me ! Be merciful to thy wretched, lost, aban 
 doned child ! Shelter me until the storm be over-passed ! 
 I will endeavour to bear my cross, to wear my crown of 
 thorns." 
 
 This battle with life went on in Ada s soul for months. 
 Sometimes the evil and sometimes the good triumphed ; 
 most frequently, a cheerless despair dwelt within her. 
 She saw nothing lovely, nothing to be desired on earth ; 
 but she wore a quiet face, and fulfilled the duties of 
 wife and housekeeper. Friends thought she seemed 
 rather pensive since the death of her babe, and not 
 much inclined for society. Her husband thought she 
 had grown to be " deuced sober." He did not remem 
 ber in whose power it lay to dispel that soberness, or 
 that he had freely and solemnly promised to study her 
 happiness before that of any other mortal. Ada s soft 
 eyes lighted with love when her parents were with her, 
 more tender and caressing than ever ; and she tasked 
 herself to the utmost to be as cheerful as their Ada used 
 to be. A thousand sweet and graceful acts of devotion 
 she performed for them ; it was such a comfort to her 
 to anticipate a want. Poor, forlorn , one ! this was one 
 little fruit of her great sorrow. One day, when her 
 parents had parted with her after a day s visit, her father 
 remarked, earnestly, 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 131 
 
 " I think, dear, our Ada grows more angelic and 
 thouglitful of our happiness every time we see her. She 
 was always a lovely child, but not as she is now. Have 
 you observed it, Mary?" 
 
 "Oh! yes," and the wife looked into her husband s 
 beaming face with a smile, but a tear fell unobserved on 
 her work. The mother remembered that her darling 
 never told her now how happy she was. When her head 
 lay on her lap, she sometimes said, 
 
 " Mother, dear, tell me of all that is noble in life ; 
 how we may be purified by sorrow ; it was a sorrow to 
 lose my little babe ; teach me how to meet her." 
 
 And, with, fast falling tears, the mother would talk, 
 and Ada would weep quietly, very quietly and softly, 
 until there was no bitterness within her. Then she would 
 go to her splendid home, and with gentle patience give 
 Betsy her accustomed lessons in reading and writing. 
 When her head reposed on her pillow on such nights as 
 these, the recording angel wrote, "Another deed of love 
 is born from her great sorrow." 
 
 Ada rarely realized this. She realized that the gaunt 
 demons of unbelief and despair were seeking after her 
 soul, and that they had made a desolation there, and 
 tempted every slumbering evil, while they had withered 
 her every flower. But the months went on, still silently 
 dropping their records into the book of life, until another 
 year had completed its cycle. Ada had sought her re 
 treat after a busy day, and with a pensive smile had 
 drawn forth her life romance. Thus she wrote : 
 
 " When these quiet evening hours come, and I am 
 alone, a tide of great and irrepressible regret rushes 
 
i ADAS LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 through my soul. Sometimes it is terrible in its usebss, 
 devouring might, and again it flows more quietly and 
 dreamily. I often fear the bird of resignation will never 
 fold its wings above my heart. I shall never be really 
 happy again ; perhaps, alas ! never content and capable 
 of gratitude for the sad gift of existence. I wish to 
 be ; none know, but myself, how great are my efforts to 
 banish the memories of that golden, gleaming vision, 
 and to enter heartily into all that is about me. I think 
 the greatest woe is past ; that I have drank all that is 
 most bitter in my life s cup ; yet it seems very sad to 
 know that the sweetness was all drained before ; is all 
 gone ! hopelessly gone ! Yet I ought to be thankful 
 that it is less dreadful to exist ; that I do not momently 
 4 draw the breath of fear, as I did when my self-decep 
 tion was being dissolved ; thankful that I know it is vain 
 to make those heart-breaking efforts to win back that 
 love ; yes, thankful that I arn in no suspense ; sick no 
 longer from hope deferred ; in no new despair when his 
 capricious tenderness vanishes into coldness. Certainly 
 I know what to rely upon. I know that it is best for 
 me to interest myself in others welfare, to think as 
 little of him and of myself as possible, as far as it ia 
 consistent with every duty. Another reason I have to 
 be thankful my anger towards him has ceased ; my 
 burning, maddening sense of injury. I have simply 
 made a mistake. I thought he loved me for what I 
 was ; he probably thought he loved me somewhat, too ; 
 but it was only that my face was new, and bright with 
 joyousness and love for him. It would, I think, havo 
 been the same with any other little maiden he had mar- 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 133 
 
 ried. Then it is some consolation that I spare another 
 young and noble heart from this quiet breaking. Why 
 should it not be I as well as any other ? Yes, I know 
 that I can bear it, and mayhap it makes me a comforter 
 to the suffering. Ah ! I love them in their pain with a 
 tenderness so infinite, compared w r ith what it used to be. 
 To-day 1 went to see Kate Suthington. Ah ! that her 
 love should still have power to tear her heart like a vul 
 ture ; she bears up before others with a noble dignity, 
 and Henry Williams is a weak and erring man to her 
 view, now ; he has lost the key wherewith he unlocked 
 a soul too noble for him. But in her own words 
 
 " Oh, Ada ! that the world should have lost its love 
 liness ; that I should only have learned what happiness, 
 beauty, life were, to have lost them ! 
 
 " Then I talk to her from my soul s depths. I cast 
 about to find some recompense for all this, and I believe 
 words of great faith and wonderful hope break from my 
 lips ; words that charm me with some deep, strange, 
 all-powerful feeling that God is doing all things well. 
 I feel serene and very peaceful after this, when Kate 
 lays her head on my breast, folds her arms around me, 
 and says, 
 
 " * You do me good, Ada ! Yes, there may, there 
 must be a something deep in all this, that we cannot 
 see ; perhaps when the ground has been broken and 
 ploughed more deeply, gold may be found. 
 
 " Then we take out our sewing, and talk of the books 
 we have read, or one reads to the other, and we part 
 with a cheerful glow thrown over cur souls from this 
 friendship. 
 
134 ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 Five years later, one serene afternoon found Ada 
 Ward within her favourite room. No outward changes 
 of great moment had befallen her, save that the furni 
 ture was not so fresh. One might have thought but a 
 day had passed. Her lovely face was more spiritual ; 
 more assured and earnest in its expression ; in her eyes 
 a world of trust and deep hopefulness might be found. 
 At this moment they beamed upon Kate Suthington 
 with a loving, laughing, triumphant look. 
 
 "Ah, Katy darling!" she said, "there is not a hap 
 pier mortal on earth than you, traitoress as you have 
 been to your first love ; and this new husband of yours, 
 has he erected another Eden in your life ?" 
 
 " Perhaps so," answered Katy, with a soul-illumined 
 emile. 
 
 "And you have learned to believe with me, that the 
 pain of life may be transition, but that happiness is a 
 real entity ; something that shall come some day to the 
 earnest spirit ; perhaps here ; perhaps not until our life 
 has opened amid the everlasting beauty." 
 
 " I believe it ; and should I lose it again, I would 
 simply wait, and strive to work diligently, that others, 
 as well as myself, might gain their greatest good." 
 
 " It is very beautiful to see great happiness," said 
 Ada, softly ; " it is an earnest of our life in heaven, 
 and a revealing of what our natures are capable of. It 
 enables us to measure God s love better, and gives us a 
 glimpse of something divine." 
 
 After Kate had gone to her happy home, Ada wrote 
 hi her journal as follows : 
 
 "Katy darling has been here this afternoon; dear 
 
ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 135 
 
 Katy, sweet Katy, happy Katy. I think she has no 
 idea of the degree in which she brightens my life ; it 
 used to give me a pang when I saw happiness, such a3 
 mine was, one brief while, but it is so different now ; it 
 gives me a glow of such heartfelt pleasure. I say to 
 myself, Not yet, a wise Father permits it to them ; but 
 you know your own heart, and God knows that you may 
 need a. discipline very different from theirs; but be pa 
 tient and grateful, the joy is coming. Oh ! sometimes 
 I feel a boundless hope and rapture when I look up to 
 God, and realize the great love with which He has or 
 dered my lot. I think I never should have taken a 
 broad glance at life ; never should properly have fitted 
 myself for another world, if this had been as happy as 
 I wished it. How differently do I write in this, my life 
 romance, from what I expected to, when I began it ; 
 but with all its sad experience, I have found a wealth 
 in life that makes me often wonder. I have wept with 
 gratitude thai this priceless gift has been vouchsafed 
 me, that it will never have an end. Oh ! wonderful to 
 live amid fresh recurring joys, for ever ; such as no pen 
 can describe ; to be bathed in love, and ever performing 
 deeds of love ! To be able, every day of my life, to 
 strive, with God s help, to perfect and beautify this 
 future, and sometimes to be able to arouse others to this 
 noble strife ! 
 
 " Ungrateful that I was ! I once felt that my life was 
 a blasted one. What does it signify if one suffer? I 
 sometimes ask myself when the cross is folded to my 
 heart heavily. I learn very soon that He that goeth 
 forth and weepoth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless 
 
13(3 
 
 ADA S LIFE ROMANCE. 
 
 return again, bringing his sheaves with him ! There 
 are so many quiet pleasures given me, I look upon them 
 sometimes as all extras. I think this is the world where 
 the battle must be fought, and yet so many little joys to 
 cheer us. Eternally shall I thank God that he has 
 taught me to fight this conflict that the morning of my 
 day was sorrowful, in order that a ripening eternity 
 should be joyful. This morning I went to see one of 
 my sick neighbours she had lost a beloved husband. I 
 said what I could to comfort her, but she answered, 
 
 " Ah ! Mrs. Ward, I could speak to you, as you do tr 
 me, if I were young, rich, happy, one of the favoured oj 
 the earth !" 
 
 " I said that even I might make myself miserable if 
 I forgot what blessings I had and that the favoured of 
 the earth were not always the favoured of Heaven. But 
 she would listen to nothing of this her vision was bounded 
 to a few fleeting years they were life to her she had 
 no soaring hopes beyond. I came away thinking I was very 
 rich, because I hoped I had an investment for a dearer, 
 nobler life yet I will try to open a vein of comfort for 
 this afflicted one perhaps she may in time believe how 
 earnestly I desire her good. I meet with so many noble 
 spirits, and often these dear ones confide to my ear 
 heart-stories full of interest and pathos, and it is a holy 
 pleasure to weep and wonder, and forget my own heart- 
 story the while, or only remember what of worth has 
 survived it. When I read books that go to my heart, 1 
 feel with one who has reached the haven where her geniua 
 is no longer thwarted, i Life is richly worth living for ! 
 It is true that my days are very much of one colour, and 
 
THERE S WORK ENOUGH TO DO. j37 
 
 household love does not bless me within my own homo, 
 yet it is noble to strive to be faithful amid all this, and 
 to hope I am still of some use. My little life romance 
 is of a gray shade, but it is only the first chapters I am 
 writing here it will be finished, where ? In heaven, I 
 hope! Finished? Ah, never! Its beauty shall increase, 
 its glory of life shall be too dazzling to be written with 
 an earthly pen ; nevertheless, the romance shall go on, 
 and never reach its end, in the world that is eternal !" 
 
 Ada had written her last chapter on earth ; the sun 
 shine that awoke her, was amid the Everlasting Beauty. 
 When she had put away her writing materials, a strange 
 pain shot through her heart ; ere she could leave the 
 room, ft had ceased to beat. 
 
 THERE S WOKK ENOUGH TO DO. 
 
 THE blackhird early leaves its rest 
 
 To meet the smiling morn, 
 And gather fragments for its nest, 
 
 From upland, wood, and lawn. 
 The busy bee, that wings its way 
 
 ; Mid sweets of varied hue, 
 At every flower would seem to say 
 
 " There s work enough to do." 
 
 The cowslip and the spreading vine, 
 
 The daisy in the grass, 
 The snow-drop and the eglantine, 
 
 Preach sermons as we pass. 
 The ant, within its cavern deep, 
 
 Would bid us labour, tfco, 
 
138 THERE S WORK ENOUGH TO DO. 
 
 And writes upon its tiny heap 
 " There s work enough to do." 
 
 The planets, at their Maker s will, 
 Move onward in their cars, 
 
 For Nature s wheel is never still- 
 Progressive as the stars 1 
 
 The leaves that flutter in the air, 
 And Summer s breezes woo, 
 
 One solemn truth to man declare 
 " There s work enough to do." 
 
 Who then can sleep when all around 
 
 Is active, fresh, and free ? 
 Shall man creation s lord be found 
 
 Less busy than the bee ? 
 Our courts and alleys are the field, 
 
 If men would search them through, 
 That best the sweets of labour yield, 
 
 And " work enough to do." 
 
 To have a heart for those who weepy 
 
 The sottish drunkard win ; 
 To rescue all the children, deep 
 
 In ignorance and fc.: ; 
 To help the poor, the hungry feed, 
 
 To give him coat and shoe ; 
 To see that all can write and read 
 
 Is "work enough to do." 
 
 The time is short the world is wide, 
 
 And much has to be done; 
 This wondrous earth, and all its pride, 
 
 Will vanish with the sun ! 
 The moments fly on lightning s wings, 
 
 And life s uncertain, too ; 
 We ve none to waste on foolish things 
 
 " There s work enough to do." 
 
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 
 
 " VERONICA !" " Veronica !" 
 
 Yes; I heard them calling and searching forme- 
 hither and thither with confused exclamations and laugh 
 ter. I heard also the hurried tread of feet upon the 
 great staircase, the opening and closing of doors, and 
 occasional bursts of music from the rooms below. Yet 
 I heeded not the festivity and gladness, and remained 
 secure in the deep window overlooking the gardens, and 
 shaded by the heavy silken curtains. 
 
 It was a festal night at Glockenburn a night of re 
 joicing, for my father had but a few hours previous 
 brought back to his stately mansion, a new bride. For 
 this reason, was there music and gayety, brilliant lights, 
 beaming faces and joyous greetings. 
 
 But I stood aloof from it all proudly alone, with a 
 heart full of evil emotions. I, of all of them, owned 
 no thraldom save my ivill, that one great self of my 
 nature. Revering with absorbing devotion the sacred 
 memory of my dead mother, I could not acknowledge 
 another in her place. Child though I was, I had long 
 been the only mistress of Glockenburn, and should I thus 
 surrender my royal sceptre into stranger hands ? I who 
 should have been sole sovereign, sole heiress of Glocken 
 burn ! 
 
 All the bitterness and pride of my spirit rushed forth 
 at these thoughts, and my whole frame quivered -with 
 emotion. Envy, hatred, and all evil passions, crowded 
 
140 THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 
 
 around my heart. I plucked one by one the red roses 
 that clambered about the lattice, and, tearing them in 
 pieces, dashed them down into the walk below. 
 
 Again could I distinguish the voices of my gay cousins, 
 calling repeatedly and with impatience " Veronica ! 
 Veronica ! where art thou?" 
 
 But I closed my lips firmly, standing upright and 
 proudly in the full moonlight, behind the curtains. Pre 
 sently steps came nearer, and a hand was laid upon the 
 lock of my door. I knew that they would find me now ; 
 that they would drag me forth in their giddy mood. So I 
 stepped from my concealment and stood calmly awaiting 
 them. 
 
 Instantly the door burst open, and a gay troop hurried 
 into the apartment. A glad shout greeted my appear 
 ance then again they grew silent, remaining uncertain 
 and wavering as they looked upon me. 
 
 Haughtily, and with angry defiance in my eyes, I stood 
 in their midst. 
 
 "Why have you sought me?" I cried, passionately. 
 " Why break in upon my solitude, and disturb me with 
 your merriment ? I go not with you my foot shall not 
 cross the threshold of that door." 
 
 My cousins and their young guests shrank back in 
 amazement at my words. Even the merry Genevieve, 
 their leader, was abashed. 
 
 "Veronica!" said my father in a stern voice, as he 
 stepped into the apartment " you are no longer a child, 
 to indulge in such caprice. I command you to follow me." 
 
 His clouded brow and tones of displeasure left me no 
 alternative. I obeyed. 
 
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 With a beating heart and disordered dress I followed 
 the laughing throng down the broad stairs, through the 
 lighted corridors, even tc the festal rooms below. I 
 looked around upon the gay groups that hovered through 
 out the rooms. All wore smiles upon their countenances, 
 and were clothed in gala-dresses. My dark robe and 
 unbraided hair ill accorded with the rich costumes and 
 shining fabrics which ever and anon floated past me in 
 the dance. Still I passed onward in the wake of my 
 conductors, silently and with scornful tread. 
 
 At the upper extremity of the long room, underneath 
 a bridal canopy of white hangings and roses, stood a 
 slight and graceful figure. She wore rich robes of shin 
 ing satin, a veil of lace, and a crown of nuptial flowers. 
 Very fair and very beautiful she looked in her snowy 
 attire. I had never dreamed of aught so lovely. Her 
 face was more beautiful than that of the Madonna in tho 
 chapel, more angelic than that of the pictured saint in the 
 calendar of the Passover. 
 
 She was the new bride, she was my stepmother. 
 
 Had she been less lovely, I might have forgiven her 
 usurpation of my rights. But that very loveliness aroused 
 my hatred, and augmented the indomitable pride within 
 me. 
 
 We stood directly before her. I felt that all eyes were 
 upon me, that all ears awaited the sound of my voice. 
 She stepped hastily forward a blush was upon her 
 cheek, and she outstretched both her fair hands to me. 
 
 I did not reciprocate the movement. I did not even 
 lift the bridal veil to my lips, as was customary, or salute 
 the jewelled cross which hung upon hei arm. 
 
142 THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 
 
 Bowing low in mock reverence, and with a haughty flush 
 upon my brow, I spoke clearly, but coldly : 
 
 "You are welcome quite welcome to Glockenburn. 
 I wish you all happiness, and greet you with a bridal 
 greeting." 
 
 Her hands dropped beside her ; the blush died upon 
 her cheek, and she turned away with suffused eyes. My 
 father gazed upon me with anger in his glance, yet no 
 word escaped his lips. The guests exchanged whispers 
 one with another, and my cousins stood awe-struck around 
 me. I broke from their midst and rushed to my apart 
 ment. 
 
 I donned my gayest attire, bound my waist with a 
 golden cord, and braided my long, dark hair with jewels. 
 Flushed and excited, I stood before the mirror and viewed 
 myself reflected therein. My eyes gleamed with unna 
 tural brilliancy, my cheeks were crimson, and illuminated 
 my dark face. I could not believe that I was the same 
 calm, passionless Veronica of yore. 
 
 I did not stop to consider my new character, but de 
 scended again the staircase, and stood once more in the 
 bridal hall. I was the gayest of them all. I whirled in 
 the giddy dance, keeping pace with the music in impetu 
 ous delight. My senses were bewildered ; my brain on 
 fire. I was scarcely aware of my own existence. Yet 
 wherever I turned, I felt that a spell was upon me. Yes, 
 I felt the mournful gaze of those wondering blue eyes, 
 although I saw them not. I knew that my step-mother 
 watched my every motion with a sorrowful and earnest 
 glance, 
 
 The last lights were extinguished, the music hushed, 
 
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 143 
 
 the guests departed. I gained my own room unmolested, 
 and, hastily disrobing, threw myself upon my couch. I 
 cast aside the crimson curtains, and allowed the moon 
 light to fall in upon me. I dared not look back upon 
 my past actions, lest I should repent. Feverish, and 
 with an exhausted spirit, I closed my eyes. That night, 
 a vision appeared unto me. I dreamed that a white 
 figure bent over me with folded hands, and it said, 
 " Veronica, I greet thee with a bridal greeting !" 
 
 It was the feast of the Pentecost. The great hall 
 was lined with green branches, and garlands were hung 
 upon the walls. The little chapel was adorned also with 
 evergreen, and the altar of the Madonna was wreathed 
 in myrtle and palm. A beautiful Christ, of white marble, 
 was placed on the shrine, It wore a crown of roses, and 
 was surrounded by waxen lights. The silver basket, 
 containing the broken bread, was beside it, covered with 
 an embroidered cloth of fine linen. My young cousins 
 were robed in white, looking peaceful and happy, and 
 wearing little knots of blue flowers in their bosoms. 
 My step-mother, also, was more beautiful than before ; 
 even paler and gentler. Since the evening of the bridal, 
 we had ever avoided each other. She, sadly and timidly ; 
 I, disdainfully and proudly. My father s lips were closed 
 lie no longer smiled upon me. Neither did ho speak. 
 My cousins, awed by my unpardonable conduct, kept 
 aloof, and did not molest me with their gayety. 
 
 The great clock on the staircase struck two, the hour 
 for prayer. My apartment was adjoining the little 
 chapel, and there I sat alone, with no white robe about 
 
144 THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 
 
 me, and no blue flowers resting upon my unquiet breast. 
 I could hear the sound of the organ, swelling out its mel 
 low notes upon the air, as my step-mother played the 
 " All praise Thee," the divine hymn. How touchingly 
 its deep tones spoke to me ! melting my heart and teach 
 ing of the grace, the glory, the majesty of my Creator. 
 
 Then there was a great hush, a stillness profound, 
 and I knew that they were at prayer. I threw myself 
 upon my knees. I covered my face with my hands, 
 and wept the first tears of remorse and anguish that 
 had ever dimmed my eyes. Oh ! how great was my 
 sin and self-abasement ! How immeasurably great the 
 wickedness of my heart ! I took my rosary from my 
 bosom, and bedewed it with tears as I prayed to the 
 Holy Mary, and to my mother in heaven, to bless me 
 and to guide me to repentance. 
 
 Again I listened. I heard my father bless the broken 
 bread, and ruy cousins responding fervently " amen." 
 Then my step-mother s voice spoke clearly and dis 
 tinctly. 
 
 " Peace and good-neighbourhood be between us, my 
 children." 
 
 And again they responded cheerfully and earnestly, 
 
 "Peace and good-neighbourhood." 
 
 " Oh ! how those words thrilled to my heart. I 
 longed to join with them, also, to rest my weary head 
 upon my step-mother s bosom, and whisper those words 
 of love and amity. Crushed and humbled, I bowed 
 myself in the dust, and cried aloud for forgiveness. 
 
 Thus, for a great length of time, I remained in anguish 
 and despair, my face hidden among the cushions of the 
 
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 couch. At last, some one lifted the latch of my door ; 
 jet I heeded it not. Light footsteps echoed across the 
 floor, and the rustle of garments disturbed me. I lifted 
 iny head my step-mother stood heside me. 
 
 She still wore her white robes, and her long hair 
 waved upon her shoulders. Her beautiful face looked 
 dovyu upon me with a pensive, angelic expression. 
 
 " Peace and good-neighbourhood," she uttered, gently. 
 Her voice was tremulous with emotion, and there were 
 traces of tears upon her countenance. Those tears had 
 been shed for me in secret and in sorrow. 
 
 There was no pride in my heart now. I took both 
 her hands in mine, and drew her gently down besido 
 me. Her lair hair fell about me, and I laid my weary 
 head upon her bosom. 
 
 " Peace and good-neighbourhood, my mother," I whis 
 pered. 
 
 She encircled me with her arms, and I could feel her 
 warm tears upon my cheek ; and thus we remained in 
 an unspeakable trance of joy. 
 
 At last, my step-mother spoke. She said, 
 
 " Veronica, I also have erred and suffered ; there 
 fore, have I less to forgive. Once, in my pride of heart, 
 did I turn a deaf ear to His holy purposes and love 
 But the beloved voice and angel-teachings of a departed 
 one have pointed out to me the path of rectitude. And 
 now am I unceasingly thankful for the beautiful examples 
 and glorious wisdom of our Saviour." 
 
 My step-mother ceased speaking, and embraced mo 
 fervently. Twilight was already curtaining the windows, 
 
 when we descended the stairs arm in arm. The halls 
 10 
 
140 OH, WATCH YOU WELL BY DAYLIGHT. 
 
 were lighted, and a glad gleam went shining upon the 
 walls and intertwining among the gay garlands. My 
 young cousins crowded around me once again, and my 
 father stood smiling in their midst. With a subdued 
 spirit, I knelt at his feet and received his blessing. 
 
 " Peace and good-neighbourhood," whispered the 
 pretty Genevieve, at my side, and she crowned me with 
 a wreath of myrtle blossoms. 
 
 1 looked around at my young cousins, with their 
 white robes and happy faces ; at my step-mother, beau 
 tiful and loving ; at my father, with his kind eyes full 
 of tears. Then I stood up among them, and with a 
 thankful spirit cried unto them all, 
 
 "Peace and good-neighbourhood." 
 
 OH ; WATCH YOU WELL BY DAYLIGHT. 
 
 On, watch you well by daylight 
 
 By daylight you may fear, 
 But keep no watch in darkness 
 
 For angels then are near ; 
 For Heaven the sense bestoweth 
 
 Our walking life to keep, 
 But tender mercy showetfe, 
 
 To guard us in our sleep. 
 Then watch you well by daylight, 
 
 By daylight you may fear, 
 But keep no watch in darkness- 
 
 For angels then are near. 
 
 
FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 147 
 
 Oh, watch you well in pleasure 
 For pleasure oft betrays, 
 
 But keep no watch of sorrow, 
 When joy withdraws its rays ; 
 
 For in the hour of sorrow, 
 As in the darkness drear, 
 
 To Heaven intrust the morrow, 
 For the angels then are near. 
 
 Oh, watch you well by daylight 
 By daylight you may fear, 
 
 But keep no watch in darkness 
 The angels then are near. 
 
 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 THE man who sits down in a virtuous home, howler 
 humble, in which his own industry enables him to breathe 
 the atmosphere of independence, and his wife s manage 
 ment to enjoy cleanliness and comfort, has a vast scope 
 for the creation of happiness. The minds of his child 
 ren, of his wife, his own mind, are so many micro 
 cosms, which only ask to be inquired into and developed, 
 to reveal hoards of wealth, which may be coined into 
 current enjoyment. We are ever too little sensible of 
 the good immediately within our grasp ; too ready to 
 cavil at difficulties and to declare them impossibilities. 
 A great man once said there were no sach things, and 
 as all proverbs have their foundation in practical truth, 
 this idea may receive confirmation from the common 
 phrase " Where there is a will, there is a way." It i* 
 
148 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 certain that the difference between what zeal and energy 
 will accomplish with small means, compared with what 
 power, ill applied or feebly applied, will long leave un 
 achieved, is most astounding. Few are those who have 
 not to reproach themselves with supineness, or a prodigal 
 waste of time and resources ; few, who, when they look 
 back upon the field of past experience, but feel how 
 barren they have left the track which might have been 
 richly cultivated. Let us instantly reform. The present 
 will become the future ; let us resolve that it shall be 
 rich in fruit, delicious to the reverting spirit of review, 
 and yielding good seed for the progressive path before 
 us. The traveller rarely begins with his own country ; 
 in like manner, the searcher after enjoyment too often 
 looks beyond home ; too late in life s journey, when little 
 of either strength or time remains, this is to be regretted. 
 In the case of home, the early neglect is usually irre 
 trievable, where, we may be certain, if flowers are not 
 cultivated, weeds will spring, where the violet and the 
 rose might have charmed our senses, the nettle and 
 nightshade will offend them. Fenelon was accustomed 
 to say, "I love my family better than myself; my 
 country better than my family ; and mankind better than 
 my country ; for I am more a Frenchman than a Fene 
 lon, and more man than a Frenchman." This is an 
 instance of reasoning more beautiful in theory than 
 reducible to practice ; I should be satisfied with the man 
 who proceeded almost inversely, and invested his first 
 funds in the domestic treasury ; these once established 
 and yielding interest, he may at onco enjoy and dispense 
 at will. Many spirits are moving on the stream of 
 
FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 149 
 
 society, and the rising waters are attesting thir influence. 
 Religion has its preachers, science and politics their 
 lecturers, but there seems to be a dearth of moral 
 teachers Apostles of the Religion of Home, who would 
 show warmly and eloquently "to assembled congregations 
 the beauty and the benefits of the home affections, the 
 dreadful, blank and ruinous bankruptcy attendant on 
 their want or violation who would send away their dis 
 persing auditors with awakened hearts, each saying in 
 the secret chamber of its individual breast, " I will be 
 a better wife, a better husband, a better parent, a better 
 child, than I have ever been." Those who should make 
 this resolve and act up to it might count upon an exceed 
 ing great reward the harvest of present happiness, and 
 the solace of future consolation. Of the latter need, let 
 it ever be remembered, none will be spared : the wedded 
 will be the widowed the parented will be the orphaned. 
 The links of life are not more surely cemented than they 
 are struck asunder, and happy is he in whose living hand 
 is left the fragment of the chain, if, when the heart that 
 loved him is cold, he can lay his hand upon his own, and 
 Bay " I never neglected her I was never unkind ; we 
 Buffered, but I ever sought to make her share of suffering 
 the least." As happy she who can recollect habits of 
 devotion and endurance, that she kept ever present to 
 her mind how he was toiled and tried in the conflicting 
 
 O 
 
 struggles of the world abroad, and had sedulously sought, 
 as much as in her lay, to create for him a recompense at 
 home sweet will be this drop in her bitter cup of 
 bereavement. Without risking the charge of partiality, 
 I may say this consolatory consciousness of self-abnoga- 
 
150 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 tion fulls more often to the lot of woman than of man. 
 The kindlier feelings, checked in their outset, grow 
 stagnant, or take a concealed and sluggish course, never 
 yielding sufficient evidence of vitality. Thus many 
 whom self-culture has redeemed mentally from the bond 
 age of early bad habits, have failed to attain moral 
 emancipation from the thraldom in which want of genial 
 manners principally contributes to hold them. I have 
 noticed even a false shame evinced at giving any evi 
 dence of susceptibility to the lovable emotions, and 
 rudeness affected to hide the tenderness that was yearn 
 ing to burst forth. To these I would say, in the beauti 
 ful language of a popular song, 
 
 Love now ! ere the heart feels a sorrow, 
 Or the bright sunny moments are flown, 
 
 Love now ! for the dawn of to-morrow 
 May find thee unloved and alone. 
 
 Oh ! alone alone in the house of mourning ! What 
 would you not then give to recall the time when you 
 suffered your best feelings to lie in unprofitable silence ? 
 what would you not give to recall to consciousness 
 consciousness of your love, your contrition, the heart 
 you had often hurt by apparent indifference? By a 
 magic peculiar to death, all that was beautiful, was 
 amiable in the departed, rises on the stricken heart of 
 the survivor with renewed beauty ; while in the same 
 proportion his own merits shrink his own demerits are 
 magnified. Spare thyself this bitter addition to a bitter 
 draught the cup may not pass from thee ! Let not the 
 Bun of affection go down while it is yet day, or the night 
 of thy mourning will be dark indeed ! It seems strange 
 
FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 151 
 
 that mental improvement should be more easy than 
 moral amelioration but so it is; the mind s prejudices 
 fall before that silent monitor, a book, and the faculties 
 assert their freedom ; but it requires more effort to effect 
 a change of manner, and modes of expressicn if the 
 amenities have not grown with our growth, strengthened 
 with our strength, they rarely take kindly to the soil. 
 Gentleness and tenderness then must be among the first 
 and most constant of the influences exerted over the 
 infant mind. The general increase of kindliness and 
 urbanity, in the classes in which the graces of society 
 have been least regarded, are among the best advances 
 
 O O 
 
 that have long been making. The history of private life 
 in past times exhibits a severity of conduct towards the 
 young, from a mistaken notion of its utility, nay, of its 
 necessity, that it is painful to recall. The sceptre was 
 not deemed more essential to the king, the mace to the 
 keeper of his conscience, than the rod to the school 
 master ; and if portraits of these birch-loving pedagogues 
 could be presented to us, no doubt the stereotyped frown 
 would be found on every face. Lady Jane Grey records 
 that she never sat in her mother s presence, and severe 
 study was a severe shelter from such severe austerity. 
 Joy to the young spirits of the nineteenth century - 
 everywhere be their hearts opened by kindness and en 
 couragement ! Let us not be niggards of the moral 
 comfit praise. Credit to a dawning or dormant capa 
 city is often what an advance of capital is to a strug 
 gling trader it assists, perhaps inspires, the exertion 
 that enables him to realize fortune and repay the loan 
 with interest. 
 
WORK FOR HEAVEN. 
 
 Ir thou have thrown a glorious though* 
 
 Upon life s common ways, 
 Should other men the gain have caught, 
 
 Fret not to lose the praise. 
 
 Great thinker, often shalt thou find, 
 
 While folly plunders fame, 
 To thy rich store the crowd is blind, 
 
 Nor knows thy very name. 
 
 What matter that, if thou uncoil 
 The soul that God has given ; 
 
 Not in the world s mean eye to toil, 
 But in the sight of Heaven ? 
 
 If thou art true, yet in thee lurks 
 
 For fame a human sigh, 
 To Nature go and see her works, 
 
 That handmaid of the sky. 
 
 Her own deep bounty she forgets, 
 
 Is full of germs and seeds ; 
 Nor glorifies herself, nor sets 
 
 Her flowers above her weeds. 
 
 She hides the modest leaves between. 
 
 She loves untrodden roads ; 
 Her richest treasures are not seen 
 
 By any eye but God s. 
 
 Accept the lesson. Look not for 
 Reward ; from out thee chase 
 
 All selfish ends, and ask no more 
 Than to fulfil thy place. 
 
SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 THE following article is a part of an eloquent discourse 
 ly Rev. Chauncey Giles, of Cincinnati. No one can 
 read it without interest and profit. 
 
 Beautiful as the material world is in the form and 
 colour of its objects, it is the least beautiful and excel 
 lent that the Lord could create. All natural objects, in 
 their smallest and simplest forms, as well as in their 
 largest and most complex combinations, are the rudest 
 outlines and the faintest shadows of that beauty, which 
 is inexpressible and incomprehensible by any finite power, 
 in its Divine essence. 
 
 And yet this is a beautiful world, and does retain many 
 of the lineaments of its Divine Prototype. We cannot 
 open our eyes without seeing it, and, if our lives are at 
 all attuned to the harmonies of the universe, without 
 being affected by it. It dwells even in the various hues 
 of light that flash and sparkle in the rude and shapeless 
 Btones in the earth, in the various combinations of moun 
 tain and valley, hill and dale, stream and lake and 
 ocean ; it is embodied in the infinitely various forms and 
 textures of the vegetable creation; in the grass arid 
 forest, in the slender plant and the wide-spreading tree, 
 and above all in the flowers, which seem to be the very 
 embodiment of the most chaste and delicite beauty. 
 And then over all these forms, so countless in their 
 numbers, so wonderful in their varieties and combina 
 
154 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 tions, tnere is thrown the many-hued garment of light. 
 Morning comes and lifts the curtain of the night, spreads 
 its green over the landscape, gives to the lily its white, to 
 the rose its red, and to every flower and petal its proper 
 lint, sparkles in the dew and plays in the streams. Ls 
 it not the beauty of the Lord upon the earth ? 
 
 But even this, various as it is, is not unchanging, is 
 indeed never the same. There is a beauty of the morn 
 ing, when everything is waking to new life and activity; 
 and another of the evening, when the shadows lengthen 
 and the quietude of repose is settling down upon the 
 earth and gathering everything to rest. There is a 
 beauty of noonday, when the earth is hot and every 
 object is bright and flaming in the full blaze of the sun; 
 and there is another of night, when the moon throws her 
 silver light over flower and leaf, and valley and stream, 
 or the earth is canopied by a broad firmament of jet, 
 gemmed with diamonds of suns. There is a beauty 
 peculiar to the spring, another to the autumn, one to 
 summer, another to winter. The clouds, with their ever- 
 changing forms, chasing each other above while their 
 shadows move with even pace below, or stretching in 
 broad bars across the western sky, flaming like molten 
 gold and looking like the sunny isles of the blest ; and 
 the rain, the frost, and the snow; and the vapour that 
 the earth sends up on wings of fire as incense to the 
 morning sun ; the wind that gives motion and apparent 
 life to all these forms, making the hills sing and the 
 leaves and waters dance all these elements unite in 
 never-ending combinations, and each one adds something 
 to the beauty of the whole, and keeps the scene shifting 
 
SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 155 
 
 in perpetual play before us. These are some, a few of 
 the more general elements that constitute the beauty of 
 the material world. But he who has an eye for it, wU 
 has the inward that answers to the outward beauty, can 
 see more at one glance than the poet can tell or the 
 painter put upon canvas. This is the beauty of the 
 Lord in the rocks, and sand, and water; this is the 
 beauty that He creates out of the mould, and the refuse 
 of living forms. If such is the beauty of this world, 
 where everything is so coarse and hard and unyielding 
 to the plastic forces of the spirit, what must be the 
 beauty of the spiritual world, where substances yield 
 instantly and perfectly to the slightest thought, and 
 where there are ten thousand distinct forms that com 
 bine to make one form here ! When I think that the 
 beauty of this world is but the rude sketch and the faint 
 outline of that of the spiritual, when I know that the 
 elements that compose the forms in the spiritual world 
 are infinitely more numerous, and inconceivably more 
 distinct and perfect than they are here though they 
 seem almost infinite in this, and so wonderful that they 
 surpass all description, my heart swells with indescriba 
 ble emotion. I feel like bowing my head, and my heart 
 too, in penitence and shame that I should ever have a 
 selfish wish, that I should ever distrust the goodness of 
 a love which manifests itself in such forms, and makes 
 euch provision for the wants, and such a glorious habita 
 tion for the dwelling-place of its children. 
 
 But beautiful as the world is, it is the lowest form of 
 beauty, and in many respects imperfect. It is perpetual 
 because there is a constant succession of forms ; the 
 
150 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 flower and the cloud, the forest and the stream, thai 
 compose the landscape to-day, or form a most important 
 part of it, are gone to-morrow, never more to be restored. 
 The withered flower and the decayed fruit and the fallen 
 tree disappear and become parts of other forms. Each 
 indi /idual thing also has but a few of the elements which 
 are found in the whole. One has colour, another form, 
 another both. But all these beauties are collated in the 
 perfect man. There is not a form, nor a motion, nor a 
 colour, nor a quality of any kind that can be called 
 beautiful that is not found in man, and, so far as he lives 
 a life of true order, in every man. The reason is evi 
 dent. All the goodness and beauty that exists in the 
 world is an expression in material forms of the infinite 
 goodness and beauty. And as man was made in the 
 likeness and image of the Divine, so he is represented 
 in everything in the universe. Everything without is 
 the correlative of something within, something which has 
 an actual and substantial existence, or which yet remains 
 as a mere possibility. And this is the real cause of the 
 effect that beautiful objects have upon us. They would 
 afford us no pleasure if there was no correlative within, 
 no answering form that vibrated in unison with it. It 
 is this correspondence of the outward to the inward 
 world which gives birth to art. The beauty within 
 longs to express itself in suitable forms without, and it 
 may seek to attain its end in a poem or a picture, a 
 Btatue or a song. 
 
 But man has not only the forms, motions, colours, and 
 qualities which constitute the beautiful in the natura 1 
 world, in animals and plants, but he has an entirely DOW 
 
SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 157 
 
 plane of being the spiritual, a degree of life higher in 
 the scale of existence a nobler man composed of organs 
 formed from spiritual substances. This degree of life 
 is not only immeasurably higher and nobler than the 
 life of animals and plants, but it heightens and gives new 
 effects to those forms and qualities which he has in com 
 mon with the lower orders of creation. It is a new and 
 purer light shining through them, giving them a higher 
 beauty, a richer colouring, and a more complicated and 
 perfect action. 
 
 But it does more than this. It lifts man out of the 
 material world, and frees him from the shackles of time 
 and space. Thus, the more you put into the mind, the 
 more you increase its capacity. The more beautiful our 
 spiritual forms become, the more is their power increased 
 to attain to a still higher beauty. Thus, when our pro 
 gress is in the right direction, it increases in a constantly 
 accelerated ratio. This we know from experience. The 
 more we know the easier we learn; as the more living 
 branches a tree possesses", the more blossoms and fruit 
 it can bear. 
 
 The beauty of the natural world and of the material 
 body is limited both in time and space, an4 by the im 
 perfection of the substances of which it is composed ; but 
 the spirit has no such limits. You cannot crowd the can 
 vas too much ; you cannot confuse by multiplying the 
 images. The more they increase in number the more 
 clearly defined and distinct the forms of each feature and 
 organ become. 
 
 The material world and the human body is passive to 
 the forces that act upon it. It offers no resistance ex- 
 
158 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 cept that which inheres in its substance. It assumes any 
 shape that the plastic power can give it. The body will 
 take any form that the soul gives. The soul is the 
 mould, into whose form the body is cast. Every mate 
 rial organ in all its parts, is the image of the soul at 
 Borne stage in its life. I say at some stage of its life, for 
 the soul, composed of spiritual substances, may change 
 much quicker than the body, and may be either more or 
 less beautiful than the body, as it is advancing or retro 
 grading in spiritual life. But to the spirit is given the 
 power of receiving or rejecting the higher life that would 
 mould it to the glorious beauty of heaven. 
 
 As the beauty of the material world originates in the 
 Divine love and wisdom, and is the expression of them 
 in material forms, so human beauty, which embodies them 
 all, has its origin in the same source. For the Lord 
 dwells in the highest regions of man s mind, far above 
 his conceptions and consciousness, and is ever striving 
 to descend and ultimate, in the lower planes of man s 
 life, the unutterable beauty and excellence of the higher ; 
 and he does descend and moulds the lower f^-ms into his 
 image and likeness, so far as man permits him. 
 
 We have thus far endeavoured to gain a general con 
 ception of the heauty of the Lord, as it id exhibited in 
 the material w^rld and embodied in the human form, va 
 ried, heightened, and intensified by a spiritual soul. Wo 
 have found in man the correlative of all these forms, 
 accompanied with an unlimited capacity of reception and 
 combination, and that the Lord is always in the effort to 
 come down upon the earth of every human being that 
 is, into the natural man, and even into the body that 
 
SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 150 
 
 Ills will may 1>e done in the ultimatcs of life as it is in 
 the heavens of our minds ; and thus that even our k west 
 natural faculties may be glorified. 
 
 It is a very common remark that man is the maker 
 of his own fortunes, meaning by that his wealth, his know- 
 ledge, and his position in social and political life ; and 
 there is much truth in the remark. But it is equally 
 true, that he is the maker of himself, of his own spirit 
 ual form, and he is every day changing his features and 
 moulding his form after a heavenly or infernal model. 
 It is true we have nothing to do in determining the 
 original pattern of our forms or of the substances of 
 which they are composed. We originate nothing, our 
 agency only consists in reception and use. We are at 
 first the mere outline of a man, and we have a whole 
 eternity before us in which to fill it up and become men ; 
 and, as I have before remarked, the more we receive the 
 more we shall have the capacity to receive. The more 
 excellent our forms, the greater power to attain to a 
 higher excellence. If we have any agency, then, in the 
 fashioning of our spiritual forms, it becomes of the ut 
 most importance that we should know what it is, and how 
 we ought to exercise it. Let us, then, look more particu 
 larly at the origin of beauty, and the means of obtain 
 ing it. 
 
 " All beauty is from good, in which is innocence. Good 
 itself, when it flows in from the internal man into tlip 
 external, constitutes the beautiful, and thence is all th?> 
 human beautiful." "Every angel is the form of his 
 own affection," and his beauty is in exact proportion to 
 the genuine good and innocence in that affection ; and 
 
160 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 thus we may learn that the way to become beautiful ia 
 to become good. When we say that every angel is the 
 form of his own iffection, we must keep in mind that 
 affection is not a mere abstraction, but that it originates 
 in spiritual and substantial forms, just as music origi 
 nates in the instrument, and takes its form and quality 
 from it. When an artist makes a picture or a statue, if 
 it is true to life, whether ideal or not, we see in it th$ 
 embodiment of some passion or virtue, or affection ; and 
 if it is well done, ail who know anything of that quality 
 will recognise it. Why ? Because that form when ani 
 mated by a living soul, and set into activity, will produce 
 that affection. There is no affection out of a form, any 
 more than there is strength where there is nothing to be 
 strong, or sweetness without anything that is sweet 
 When we speak of goodness then as being the origin of 
 beauty, we do not mean an abstraction, but we mean some 
 plastic power that is in itself a form of beauty, and has 
 the ability to impress its own lineaments upon other sub 
 stances. There is no abstract goodness, no more than 
 there is abstract food. If we wish the beauty of the 
 Lord our God to be upon us, we must receive his life and 
 live it. We must live according to true order, so far as 
 we understand it ; we must give up our own wills, so far 
 as they are grounded in self-love and the love of the 
 world, and compel ourselves to think and live a hea 
 venly life, and then every organ and feature of our spi 
 ritual form will be moulded into a heavenly beauty. 
 
 Thus, if we wish to change our spiritual forms, the way 
 lies plain before us. We must change our affections ; 
 find this we can do, or permit the Lord to do for us, for 
 
SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 161 
 
 s I have said, he dwells in the highest regions of our 
 minds in his own divine perfections, and is ever knock- 
 ing to us to open the door and let him descend to the 
 ultimate plane of life. 
 
 Not only the face but the attitude of the whole form 
 changes with a change of affections. A great sorrow or 
 a great success will sometimes so change the whole con 
 tour and form of the face that an intimate friend can 
 hardly recognise us. The expression of the face is 
 changed every moment in animated and varied discourse ; 
 and all that is necessary to establish any particular fea 
 ture is habitually to exercise the affection of which it is 
 the form. Every time we exercise a good affection, we 
 do something to mould ourselves into its form, and to 
 establish it as a permanent lineament in our features. 
 
 If we felt the full force of this truth, it would often 
 have a controlling influence over our minds, and the 
 affections we exercised. There are many who are care 
 ful enough of their external appearance. They take 
 good care of their manners, their dress, their complexion, 
 but think little of the beauty or deformity they are be 
 coming while they are thinking of these very things. 
 When we regard the consequences of our actions so far 
 as they affect others, and react upon ourselves in the 
 form of pleasure or pain, we think we have taken the 
 >hole into account. But we have omitted the most im 
 portant effect, the change actually wrought in our spir 
 itual forms. 
 
 Who would wish to become the embodiment of prido 
 and vanity, so that they should appear in every feature, 
 tnd act in every motion ? And yet every time we are 
 11 
 
162 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY". 
 
 proud or vain, we do something towards becoming then 
 forms. The pangs of envy are great enough in them 
 selves, it would seem, but who could bear the thought 
 of being the embodiment of that vile passion ? And yet 
 we cannot be envious without changing ourselves for the 
 time we exercise the passion, into its form. Who woulc 
 not shrink with horror at the thought of being, in thfl 
 light of heaven, the personification of low cunning or 
 spiteful malice ? To have the shrewd leer of the one 
 lurking in the eye, and stealing forth from every feature, 
 or the vile passion of the other loading the breath, and 
 stinging every one into spite against others ! It would 
 be more than the brand of Cain, and we might w r ell cry 
 out if we knew it, " My punishment is greater than I 
 can bear." Are there any here who would voluntarily 
 give themselves up to become the personification of anger 
 and revenge ? or who would dedicate themselves in all 
 coming time to be the type of avarice ? And yet when 
 ever we give way to these passions, we become their 
 infernal deformities, and if we do it habitually, we fash 
 ion ourselves into their deformity. We turn away with 
 disgust from the loathsome reptiles that crawl forth from 
 the slirne, and love the foul places of the earth ; but they 
 are the correspondents and forms of low sensual affec 
 tions, and when we give way to them, we transform our 
 selves into their likeness. W T e are all actors in the 
 great drama of life, and it is to many a terrible tragedy, 
 fcr we not only act our part, but we become it. We 
 cannot throw off the mask when it is ended. If we 
 choose an evil part we are henceforth that evil. All its 
 deformities are wrought into us ; its ugly lineaments are 
 
SPIRITUAL NEAUTY. 163 
 
 traced in every line and feature of the face, and its in 
 most soul flames forth in every expression, and starts in 
 every motion. The disguises we assumed and loved to 
 personate have become realities, and the whole being ig 
 moulded into the dominant love. This is a penally 
 which we think little of, but which we cannot escape, 
 for it inheres in the very nature and conditions of life. 
 It matters not whether we play our part in public or 
 private-, there is no hiding-place where we can escape 
 from ourselves. If we can conceal our deformities front 
 others by fair pretence, we often think we have avoided 
 the most serious consequences of evil, but that is only a 
 omall item in the terrible catalogue. If it were possible 
 that we could hide from the eye of omniscience itself, we 
 should still be the evil we loved, and its repulsive and 
 loathsome life would be embodied in every feature and mo 
 tion. How repulsive, we may form some conception from 
 monstrous animal and insect forms ; for as all that is good 
 and beautiful in the world is a correspondent of all that 
 is good and beautiful in man, so his evils and falscs are 
 represented in all that is wild, fierce, poisonous, and 
 destructive. And whenever we suffer any evil to become 
 our dominant love, its representation, however loathsome 
 it may be to the natural sight, is really our typJ of 
 beauty, and we seek on .all occasions to transform our- 
 Belves into it. To my mind there is no consequence of 
 evil so terrible as this. The fabled furies armed vith 
 a whip of scorpions, pursuing the guilty soul, is nothing, 
 to becoming the embodiment of the fury. To know that 
 we Lave changed the glorious beauty and sweetness 
 of heaven into infernal deformity that we have be- 
 
164 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 come it, and that we must for ever be the embodiment 
 and personification of that lust we have loved and 
 practised here this is the hell whose terrors, are the 
 luost awful. 
 
 But I gladly turn away from these fearful conse 
 quences of loving and practising evil, to those sublime 
 arid beautiful results which flow from the operation of 
 the same law, from loving and living the good and the 
 true. It is often said that virtue is its own reward, and 
 it is, in the same sense that vice is its own punishment, 
 and a much greater reward than the mere pleasure that 
 flows from its exercise, or the approbation it secures 
 from all the good. By the love of goodness we become 
 the embodiment of it. The virtues and affections are 
 as various and as numerous a$ human souls, and what 
 ever affection predominates, the soul becomes the form 
 and type of that affection. It is modified by the rela 
 tive strength of the other affections, so that there are 
 no two affections exactly alike, as there are no two faces. 
 Yet the dominant love gives tone and character to all 
 the others, and appears in them as there are features 
 and expressions common to families and nations. We 
 have offered to us then this reward for living the life 
 
 O 
 
 of goodness. We shall become more and more fully 
 and perfectly the form of that good we love and do. 
 Ev^ery feature of the face will be moulded into its beau 
 ty ; every expression will shine with its affection. It 
 will sparkle and glow in the eyes; it will play in every 
 varying form about the lips ; it will modulate and give 
 the sweetness of heavenly harmony to every tone ; it will 
 pervade every limb and organ, and sway every motion 
 
SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 165 
 
 to gracefulness, and give proportion, symmetry, and 
 angelic beauty to the whole form. Go where we will, 
 on earth, in the world of spirits, in heaven or in hell, 
 we shall be the embodiment and type of that affeciioii, 
 and all its winning graces and attractive loveliness will 
 play through us and flow from us. As light from the 
 sun, as fragrance from the flower, so will the sphere of 
 our love flow from us and communicate itself to others, 
 and draw all of a concordant affection toward us, and 
 bind them to us by the indissoluble bonds of attractive 
 sympathies. 
 
 We see this effect of a life of goodness and truth 
 even here. There are faces that we love to look upon, 
 though wasted by sickness and wrinkled with age. The 
 splendour of a beautiful soul shines through the crumb 
 ling walls of the body, and the sphere of innocence and 
 tried virtue flows forth as delicious fragrance from the 
 heart. Honesty and manly firmness, unswerving integ 
 rity, bright honour or tender pity, loving trustfulness, 
 delicate sympathy, white innocence in manifold forms 
 and graces, shine through the walls of day, and blend 
 in wondrous beauty in the material face and form. But 
 the most that we can see, is but little compared with 
 what really exists within. When these impedimenta 
 are removed, our affections will shine forth .n their true 
 form and brightness. " Such as are principled in mu 
 tual love continually advance in heaven toward the 
 morning of youth, and the more thousands of years 
 they live, the more nearly they attain to a joyous hnd 
 delightful spring, and so on to eternity with fresh incre 
 ments of blessedness, according to their progress and 
 
166 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 advancement in mutual love, charity, and faith, until 
 they acquire a beauty surpassing all description. For 
 it is the nature of goodness and charity to form and 
 establish their own image in such persons, causing the 
 delight and loveliness of charity to be expressed in 
 eveiy feature of the face, so that such persons become 
 the forms of charity itself. Such is the living form of 
 charity as beheld in heaven, at once portrayed by and 
 portraying charity, and that in a manner so expressive, 
 that the whole angel, more particularly as to the coun 
 tenance, appears and is perceived as charity itself. This 
 form of exquisite beauty affects the inmost life of the 
 mind of him who beholds it with charity ; and by the 
 beauty of that form the truths of faith are imaged 
 forth, and thereby rendered perceptible. Those who 
 have lived in faith towards the Lord, that is in faith 
 grounded in charity, become such forms of beauty in 
 another life ; all the angels are such forms with infinite 
 variety, and of these heaven is composed." 
 
 Is this the state upon which our friends who have 
 already gone before us have entered our children, our 
 wives, and husbands, and parents ? Is this the state we 
 are striving to lay the foundation of and to form in our 
 selves and children here ? We are all striving to get 
 something. We hasten from morning till night. We 
 level the hills, fill the valleys, and bridge the ocean, 
 and embowel the earth, to get something. We explore 
 nature, we grasp on all sides, we plant, and build, and 
 reap, to get houses and lands and gold ; we study by 
 night and by day, and plot and counterplot that we may 
 attain social and political station. Why not strive to 
 
DO GOOD. 167 
 
 be something ? We assume virtues for an end, and why 
 not make it our end to be the virtue ? Then our come 
 liness will not be the glorious beauty of the fading 
 flower. Then our treasures will not be on earth but in 
 heaven. We shall be our own treasures, and carry our 
 own riches with us. This is the highest wisdom, it is 
 the only wisdom. This is the sure and highest reward 
 of goodness. For the more fully we become the forms 
 of the goodness and truth of heaven, the more fully and 
 orderly and blessed will be our reception of the Divine 
 Life ; the more beautiful we shall become ourselves, tho 
 more we shall communicate to others, and thus again 
 the more we shall receive. Who, in view of such con 
 sequences, will not make his life the prayer, " Let the 
 beauty of the Lord our God be upon us." 
 
 DO GOOD. 
 
 Do good ! do good ! there s ever a way, 
 
 A way where there s ever a will ; 
 Don t wait till to-in >rrow, but do it to-day, 
 
 And to-day when the morrow comes still. 
 If you ve money, you re armed, and can tind work enough 
 
 In every street, alley, and lane, 
 If you ve bread, cast it off, and the waters, though rough, 
 
 Will be sure and return it again. 
 Then do good, do good, there s ever a way, 
 
 A way where there s ever a will ; 
 Don t wait till to-morrow, but do it to-day, 
 
 Aud to day, when the morrow coincs, still. 
 
168 OUR DAILY LIFE. 
 
 If you ve on.y old clothes, an old bonnet or 1 
 
 A kind word, or a smile true and soft, 
 In the name of a brother confer it, and that 
 
 Shall be counted as gold up aloft. 
 God careth for all, and his glorious sun 
 
 Shines alike on the rich and the poor; 
 Be thou like Him, and bless every one, 
 
 And thou lt be rewarded, sure. 
 Then do good, do good, there s ever a way, 
 
 A way where there s ever a will ; 
 Don t wait till to-morrow, but do it to-day, 
 
 And to-day, when the morrow comes, still. 
 
 OUR DAILY LIFE. 
 
 THE idea is very general, that the ordinary duties of 
 life are not favourable to the highest developments of 
 character ; and we often hear it said, how much we might 
 learn, and how much good we might do, if we only had 
 the leisure. All our time is wasted in supplying the 
 ever-recurring wants of the body ; those low animal 
 wants, the eating and drinking and clothing. We ac 
 complish nothing. It is like pouring water into the sand. 
 The round of yesterday is the round of to-day, and will 
 be the round of to-morrow ; and thus life passes ; and, 
 when the month or the year has completed its circle, we 
 are just where we commenced ; we have nothing to show 
 for all our toil and care. Who has not felt so ? and who 
 has not, at some time, envied those who seem to have 
 the leisure to cultivate their minds to help forward 
 
OUR t)AILY LIFE. Ifi9 
 
 plans of public and general interest? Who has not 
 wished that they could be Howards, or Frys, that they 
 might devote their lives to the welfare of their fellows ? 
 
 And then again, there ia a deep-seated feeling that 
 the time, strength, and thought we devote to these tem 
 poral things is so much abstracted from the spiritual and 
 eternal ; and thus there is a perpetual conflict between 
 what we must do or starve, and what we think we ought 
 to do ; or, in common phrase, between the world and 
 God. The consequence is, we perform the greater part 
 of our duties as slaves; they are task-work imposed 
 upon us by the hardest of task-masters, necessity ; and, 
 what is still worse, we divest ourselves of the very 
 strength which we need motives of high ends ; we put 
 off our heavenly armour, throw away our weapons of 
 heavenly temper, and descend naked and nerveless into 
 the conflict with low cares, strong necessities, animal 
 wants, and desires. 
 
 This feeling of incompatibility between higher and 
 lower duties, has no doubt led thousands to leave the 
 common duties of life, and give themselves up to seclu 
 sion, to contemplation, and prayer. But all these mis 
 takes are founded in false notions of religion, of the real 
 nature of natural duties, and the designs of Infinite 
 Wisdom in making them necessities. 
 
 We are planted amidst these cares, as the seed is 
 planted in the ground ; and for the same reason, that wo 
 may come in contact with, and gain access to, the very 
 materials necessary for our growth. These cares, these 
 common duties and employments, are the very stuff out 
 of which the web of life is woven; and the analogy he- 
 
170 OUR DAILY LIFE. 
 
 tween the growth of the seed and our own development 
 is most perfect. 
 
 Our life is rooted in natural things; not to lie dead 
 and buried beneath them, but to grow up out of them, 
 and to be rendered stable and abiding by them. The 
 geed cannot grow, unless it is planted ; it will dry up or 
 decay ; neither can goodness, unless it is ultimated in 
 act. One may weep over fictitious woes, and indulge in 
 idle fancies of what they would do, if they were not 
 bound down to the earth by burdens and cares. But 
 there is no goodness in such thoughts and visions ; they 
 never bear any fruit. 
 
 I acknowledge that we enslave ourselves unnecessarily. 
 Vanity, and avarice, and pride, and ambition, and envy 
 impose burdens upon us, and make slaves of us ; rob us 
 of our strength, our time, and our golden opportunities. 
 JBut, after making all due allowances for these, the 
 principle remains the same. 
 
 If the Creator, in his wisdom, had seen fit, He might 
 have so formed us that we should need no clothing, and 
 no food, and no habitation ; but, in his wisdom, He has so 
 formed us, and placed us in such circumstances, that we 
 need all of these ; and our highest duties, and noblest 
 life, grow out of these very necessities. They were not 
 inflicted upon us as a curse, or a punishment ; but they 
 were made conditions of our being, that they might be 
 come the instruments of a higher life. There is nothing 
 in them incompatible with the highest culture, and the 
 loftiest attainments in spiritual life. Every natural use 
 is designed to be the basis of a spiritual use which is to 
 be rooted in it, and grow out of it ; and the highest 
 
OUR DAILY LIFE. 171 
 
 wisdom consists in changing these natural things into 
 spiritual ; in making our common duties, our every-day 
 employments, those which grow out of the wants of the 
 body, the life of the family, the church, and society, of 
 friendship, and the relations of the individual to com 
 munities, and nations, the embodiment of heavenly affec 
 tions. We must anoint them with the precious ointment 
 of disinterested love ; that will preserve them from decay, 
 inaugurate them into new life, and give to that which is 
 fleeting as shadows, and which seems born only for the 
 present, something of permanence and immortality. 
 
 The ancient chemists searched long for the philoso 
 pher s stone, whose magic power ^ould change the baser 
 metals into gold, and for an elixir of life, which would 
 arrest the progress of decay and make man immortal. 
 They searched long and laboriously for it ; they explored 
 the secrets of nature, decomposed and compounded her 
 elements, and sought far and near for that which lay 
 within them. 
 
 This unselfish love is the power which transmutes 
 everything into gold, and distils from the lowliest uses 
 the very elixir of life. 
 
 Let us not pass this by as a mere figure of speech, for 
 it is a great truth, and it has an intimate bearing upon the 
 happiness and highest well-being of all. The most of 
 our time is necessarily occupied with duties which seem 
 temporary arid unrelated to our highest wants and aspira 
 tions. If we could see that they are the very materials 
 out of which the noblest and truest life is built up, we 
 should all be more contented with our lot, and should 
 use the opportunities we have to better advantage. We 
 
172 OUR DAILY LIFE. 
 
 are all too prone to overlook or undervalue the meana 
 we have, and to wish for some great occasions, or extra 
 ordinary opportunities. Our Heavenly Father has not 
 dispensed his favours so unequally as we often suppose ; 
 as He has furnished air, light, and water, heat and food, 
 the great elements essential to our physical life, in such 
 measures and forms that there can be no monopoly of 
 them ; so he has given to us the means necessary to lay 
 the foundation and commence the superstructure of our 
 spiritual life, in fuller measure than we often think. 
 There is no useful employment that does not afford the 
 means and opportunities for the formation of a virtuous 
 and excellent character. The youth of either sex, whe 
 ther at home or abroad, at school or at a trade, as a 
 elerk or apprentice, or student of a profession, has the 
 means of forming the noblest virtues. 
 
 There is at all times an occasion for exact truthful 
 ness and fidelity, the foundation of all the virtues. There 
 are difficulties constantly occurring which tax the patience 
 and perseverance, and which call forth all the energies. 
 There are unpleasant duties to perform, causes of irrita 
 tion and trouble, which tax our adherence to principle 
 and self-control. There are constant opportunities for 
 the exercise of forbearance, kindness, affection, self-cul 
 ture, generosity, self-denial, modesty, respect to superior s, 
 obedience, true loyalty, and indeed the whole catalogue 
 of the virtues. 
 
 If we follow the youth, until he has entered upon the 
 duties of adult life, we find the materials for the highest 
 uses more abundant. There is no virtue that is not 
 called into requisition in the family circle. In the mar- 
 
OUR DAILY LIFE. 173 
 
 riage relation, there is room for the exercise of every 
 excellence that brightens the life and gives zest to the 
 happiness of the highest angel. The most patient for 
 bearance, the gentlest kindness, the strictest justice, the 
 purest innocence, the most loyal fidelity, and the most 
 unselfish affection ; and when you add to this relation 
 the helplessness of infancy, the sweet innocence of child 
 hood, where is there a more favourable condition for the 
 exercise of the noblest qualities of man or woman ? It 
 is not in the council chamber, or senate, or executive 
 chair ; it is not as leader of armies, and conqueror or 
 ruler of nations. There is no more favourable condition 
 on earth no, nor in heaven. 
 
 But these relations do not end in the domestic life. 
 Each family is linked to others. There are social duties 
 of a more general nature, which call for their appropriate 
 virtues. Besides, there is the business. As a mechanic 
 merchant, or labourer, or as a professional man ; as a 
 competitor in the arena of life for the same honours or 
 emoluments ; as the master and employer ; as the 
 builder of houses and engines, and all manner of mechan 
 ism ; as the artist and artisan ; as a buyer and seller 
 every man can make his business instrumental to the 
 highest ends of life. 
 
 There is no virtue embraced within the circle of God s 
 requirements which we all may not find occasion to prac 
 tise ; and to confirm the principles of heavenly life by 
 practice is the very object for which we live in the natural 
 world, and -are slanted, as it were, in the soil of so many 
 duiies and cares. Every workshop, and store, and office, 
 aud domestic hearth, should be consecrated to ihese high 
 
174 OUR DAILY LIFE. 
 
 purposes ; they should be anointed with the holy oil of 
 love, the love of use; and thus they will be inaugurated 
 into a higher office, and will become the representatives 
 of the noblest qualities, and be the instrumental means 
 of attaining them. 
 
 So long as we look to ourselves, in our relations to 
 others, all employments become service, slavery. Our 
 domestic relations are cares, and anxieties, and a weary 
 round of profitless labour ; our daily employments are 
 so many tasks, imposed upon us by hard necessity, and 
 we aim to avoid them as much as possible. Hence so 
 many strive to gain the reward without performing the 
 labour; and he who receives the most for the least 
 service, is considered the most fortunate ; and posses 
 sion is deemed the real good, without much regard to 
 the means by which it is obtained. But possessions 
 acquired in this way have no living connexion with us ; 
 they are but dead carcasses which have not been em 
 balmed, and they will return to dust. 
 
 But the person who performs his duties from the love 
 of being useful to others, anoints them with the precious 
 spikenard, and changes them from cares and anxieties, 
 and perplexities, and slavish toil, into gifts and plea 
 sures, into peace and rest, into strength and virtue, and 
 true holiness. 
 
 The farm and workshop, store and office, and domestic 
 hearth of such a worker, become a temple consecrated 
 to the holiest uses, and he himself, though covered with 
 the smoke of the forge, or hardened and soiled with 
 honest industry, a priest offering acceptable worship to 
 the King of kings and Lord of lords. The very instru- 
 
ANGELS IN THE AIR. 175 
 
 mcnts of his labour arc changed into forms of spiritual 
 beauty, into vessels of gold and silver, fashioned after 
 the similitude of heavenly affections, and made receptive 
 of their life. The fleeting is changed to the permanent, 
 the temporal becomes eternal, and the mere inanimate 
 mutter, the dead wood and stone, and merchandise, are 
 changed into living, spiritual substances. Men long for 
 immortality. Here it is ! the very stuff of which it ia 
 woven is strown around our pathway, thick as the stones 
 in the paved streets. Whatever we love with an un 
 selfish affection lives, becomes a part of our being, and 
 is as deathless as our souls. 
 
 ANGELS IN THE AIR. 
 
 by the remark of a little girl, who, observing larga 
 snow-flakes falling, exclaimed to her sieter, "Oh, don t hurt them, 
 Mary ; there s angels in them !"] 
 
 DARK, darker grew the leaden sky, 
 
 The wind was moaning low, 
 And, shrouding all the herbless ground, 
 
 Sad, silently, and slow, 
 Wending from heaven its weary way 
 
 Fell the white flaked snow. 
 
 A little child looked wondering on, 
 
 As larger flakes fell near, 
 And, clutching at her sister s ham], 
 
 Exclaimed with hushing fear, 
 **Oh do not, Mary, do them harm 
 
 There s angels iu them, dear 1" 
 
176 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 " Twas, but," say st thou, " a child s conceit,** 
 
 But ah, the lesson prize 
 High instinct is best reasoning, 
 
 The pure are still the wise : 
 Man s vaunted head what poor exchange 
 
 For childhood s heart and eyes 1 
 
 Things are to us as we to them ; 
 
 Thought is but feeling s wing ; 
 And did but our cold withered hearts 
 
 To earth less closely cling, 
 We might see angels everywhere, 
 
 And God in everything ! 
 
 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 I. 
 
 ALL was still in the deep heart of the coal 
 The throb of toilsome life, the tumultuous echoes of 
 harsh voices, the thunder of iron wheels and implements, 
 was hushed. It was midnight ; midnight always there, 
 but calmer now. 
 
 Under a great chain of light, which, like a shining 
 serpent, curved and quivered for miles away, sat two 
 boy-watchers in the dead night. They rested, in a half- 
 embrace, upon the ground, the arm of one thrown care 
 lessly, but firmly, around the other. Dick and Boat- 
 Bwain were fellow-workers in the mines ; born in ita 
 dusky bosom, reared under the influence of its harsh 
 theories, bound to it, body and soul, by their stern task 
 master Destiny ; they had never beheld God s glorioua 
 
"Foamin 1 over queer rocks." 
 
BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 177 
 
 sunlight, never ! His wide, beautiful world was only a 
 traditionary tale to them. 
 
 " Tell it again, Boatswain, dear Boatswain, tell it 
 again," whispered little Dick, looking up timidly into 
 the bold blue eyes, that shone above him with a clear, 
 stern light. 
 
 Boatswain s glance rested, for a moment, upon the 
 childish face before him. Those dark, serene eyes, so 
 like sweet, mournful pictures ; the masses of tangled 
 brown hair, making a shadowy outline about those 
 slender features ; the graceful lips, red and smiling, were 
 all dear images to him. 
 
 Then, in his calm, flowing voice, he related what Dick 
 loved so well to hear, and what he had visioned many 
 and many a day. 
 
 " It s like another country lyin miles and miles, over 
 head from this, with high mountains leanin against a 
 great blue sky, wider an* wider than you could ever 
 dream of. Then there s rivers a-dashin* and foamin 
 over queer rocks, and talkin , for ever an ever, about 
 how the sunshine is a-rockin itself to sleep in oceans of 
 grass and flowers (just think o that, Dick !), that goes 
 quiverin and throbbin from mornin till night, like a 
 real human heart. 
 
 " And then there s woods that makes pleasant shade, 
 and spreads out green fingers like, to hide themselves. 
 And oh ! ii you could only think how thousands arid 
 thousands of birds pierces thro and thro* them green 
 sort of fingers, with whistlin and singin all the while. 
 Then, when it comes night, there s the moon stead of 
 the sun, hangin like a silver basin way up high, nnd 
 12 
 
178 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 makin a grand shine, only taint gold-like, but white 
 you know. Oh ! oh ! Dick, it s that that crushes me ! 
 To think how it must be, like a fine glory, up there now, 
 and we, may-be, never to see it. Never, never, Dick !" 
 
 Boatswain s voice had fallen to a whisper, arid his blue 
 eyes shone fiercely, defiantly, down. Dick clung closer 
 to him, the tears all wet on his cheeks, and trickling 
 down to his red lips. 
 
 " Oh ! don t, Boatswain : you promised we should see 
 it, some day, the beautiful world." 
 
 "Yes," replied Boatswain, with terrible vehemence, 
 in his usually calm voice. " Yes, we shall see it." 
 
 u You have promised ! you have promised ! And 
 when, with God s help, you get out of this, you won t 
 forget me. You won t forget poor Dick, who loves you 
 better than worlds an worlds put together." 
 
 Boatswain half raised himself on one arm, and gazed 
 earnestly upon the loving, devoted being, beside him, 
 who had toiled with him, suffered with him ; who now 
 hoped with him. 
 
 Then Dick heard him say, in a voice scarcely audible 
 from emotion and passionate tenderness "Never!" 
 
 II. 
 
 # 
 Boatswain (they called him that in the mines, because 
 
 he was so bold and cheery), Boatswain was a foundling. 
 He was a hardy plant, which had crept up in the stubble- 
 field of life ; whose brighter flashes of colour, and gaudy 
 aspect, concealed a chill and wintry heart within. Only 
 one drop of kindly dew ever fell into its rude bosom, 
 only one gush of April tenderness ever quickened its 
 
BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 179 
 
 pulsations, and that was the essence of poor little 
 Dick s devotion. 
 
 Shrill, but mellow, was the whistle that roused his 
 young companions at the commencement of every lamp- 
 lit day. They blessed its cheerful sound, and obeyed 
 its summons willingly, though it awakened them to toil 
 again. They blessed it because its fresh notes aroused 
 answering chords in their own hearts, not quite withered, 
 not quite tuneless yet. 
 
 And now, as weeks rolled by, that whistle grew bolder, 
 sterner than ever ; the gay blue eyes seemed always 
 looking afar off, as if they beheld ever in the dim future, 
 a fixed and revealed purpose. Every night, when all 
 vras hushed, a dauntless whisper echoed from a far corner 
 cf the wall, 
 
 " Are you there, Dick?" 
 
 Then, when they were seated under the shining lamps, 
 Boatswain would say, prophetically : " I ll tell you what, 
 Dick, it s comin , it is. Tain t half so far off, but comes 
 nearer, so near, that I can hear foamin rivers and the 
 wind a-sweepin its great wings over the grass. Oh I 
 how it nods, an rushes, an roars ! I ve laid twenty- 
 plans, but they all breaks like glass, yet I know it s 
 comin , I feel it just here." 
 
 Boatswain took Dick s hand and laid it on his sturdy 
 breast, where it remained, fluttering with excitement, 
 like a small brown bird. 
 
 " Boatswain, how grand and brave you are ! Seems 
 like I couldn t ever climb up such a great way that lies 
 tween you and me. But when we re out of this, if harm 
 ever comes of your daring, it ll be me who ll stand by 
 
1 80 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 you till the last drop of blood. Then maybe the great 
 way a-tween us might grow shorter like than tis now." 
 
 Boatswain made a movement, half-caressing, half-im 
 perious, and thought how short the way was between 
 their two loves, and how the time Dick spoke of would 
 never come. 
 
 "Hist!" said Boatswain, impressively, and speaking 
 very low ; " there ll be searching for us, not many nights 
 from this. Two miles from this wall there s an old shaft 
 that hasn t been worked for years an years. It s so 
 long and so narrow that never a bit of light dare come 
 only to the edge of it. I never saw it, Dick, but 1 
 dreamed of it, and I could find it in the dark, I tell you. 
 No human foot ever climbed that place no human crea 
 ture dare venture it. But Tve sworn to escape that way , 
 I ll dig fast-holds for our feet and hands, my boy. Ha ! 
 they ll never find us again." 
 
 Dick trembled, and shrank away instinctively from the 
 strong arm embracing him. 
 
 " Dick !" whispered Boatswain passionately, "I ll dare 
 it for you ! It ll be me that ll help you, or die!" 
 
 III. 
 
 Twas the middle of the night, and the late moon shone 
 aslant around the edges of an old shaft belonging to the 
 mines. Thick and green lay the long leaves over it, 
 tangled with a red mass of flowers. Something was at 
 work below where the moon reached, for faint noises and 
 low whispers murmured underneath. Two dark, climb 
 ing figures made their way slowly but steadily towards 
 the li -ht above. 
 
BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 181 
 
 "Ho! Dick! Dick!" cried Boatswain, half aloud, in 
 * voice ti enabling with terrible emotion, " hurra! we re 
 almost there ! Do you see that white shine, glimmerin 
 and winkin at us? That s our savin light, I tell you] 
 It s the blessed moon s light, a-waitin for us!" 
 
 Dick drew in his breath, and felt as if he should swoon 
 away, before he could make another hold in the shaft s 
 side. Then he felt Boatswain s strong hand supporting 
 him, and lifting him higher, where he could see the white 
 shine plainer above him. 
 
 But suddenly the great bell of the mines thundered 
 below them, the clang of iron bars and the muffled tramp 
 of a hundred feet came upon their listening ears. 
 
 "Three more! only three more!" almost shrieked 
 Boatswain, " oh, Heaven ! only three more, and we are 
 
 reeef ever 
 
 Nea r er and nearer came that heavy tramp, and the 
 clangirg iron. 
 
 " Help ! help ! Boatswain, dear Boatswain, oh, help ! 
 You promised never to leave me never to forget me. 
 Oh, I am going ! Save me ! You promised you 
 prom- 
 
 Yes, he had promised ; but wasn t the moon hanging 
 out of the sky letting its glory flood over his face and 
 the red flowers helping those green fingers of leaves to 
 beckon him on ? Wasn t the beautiful, new world spread 
 out before him ; its wide arms even now embracing him ? 
 
 Still the wild clinging arms hung about his feet with 
 despairing energy ; still they retarded him from the glory 
 above, for the coming evil below. 
 
182 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 " Boatswain ! dear Boatswain !" 
 
 " Dick," answered a hoarse voice, deep with rage and 
 terror, " let go, I tell you ! It s too late now ; I couldn t 
 Bare you no how. Let go !" 
 
 With one vigorous movement, he shook off those wild 
 arms ; with one leap, and the help of his strong arms, he 
 reached the top. 
 
 He was no longer a slave, but free as air ; free for ever. 
 
 Down, down, fell that slight childish form, in a whirl 
 wind of torn red flowers. Down, with a broken heart, 
 and a trust as rudely shattered. 
 
 All mangled, and covered with blood, his limbs quiver 
 ing in agony, lay poor little Dick at the bottom of the 
 old shaft. The white shine was no longer visible to his 
 sight, but he could distinguish, far above him, a faint 
 hurrah ! that told him Boatswain was no longer a slave. 
 It told him, with its jocund voice, that faith, and truth, 
 and love, were all merry, merry mockeries. 
 
 The heavy tread of feet drew around him, and a group 
 of haggard, hard faces crowded over him, with curious, 
 cruel eyes. They raised him in their arms rudely, with 
 jeers and fierce shouts of triumph. They put the peni 
 tential irons on his slender limbs, wounded and bleeding 
 as they were. 
 
 But he bore it all patiently, only turning away his 
 head, and murmuring, with ashen lips, 
 
 " Tears like I d clomb so high up, by this time, twan t 
 such a long way a-tween us, after all. But, oh ! it is so 
 lonesome like, up here. I ll never forgive him. I swore 
 it bj that grand white shine, I did." 
 
RLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 183 
 
 IV. 
 
 Months passed away, and still on his miserable pallet, 
 .under the gleaming lights, lay poor, helpless Dick. It 
 seemed to him as though a hard, bitter spot kept deep 
 ening and widening in his heart. The serene eyes begun 
 to wear a severe, dusky look ; the pleasant, trusting 
 Bmile had all faded out of the once red lips, leaving a 
 grieved, old expression there. He never spoke to those 
 around him, only whispering to himself, as he watched 
 the swinging light, 
 
 "Yes, I m comin , I am, one of these days, white 
 shine. Tell him it s a hard word when I says it of 
 him that I can t forgive, never. Tell him how the red 
 flowers sickened me, a-lyin down there, all bloody, and 
 how I takes em up and presses em on this hard spot, 
 just here, and promises never to forgive." 
 
 " Poor child ! Poor little fellow ! What are you 
 Baying ?" 
 
 The pleasant, sunshiny voice caused Dick to turn, sud- 
 ^nly, in its direction. 
 
 "Only talkin to the white shine, sir," he replied, his 
 fcj -s fixed upon the strange figure bending beside him. 
 It Deemed, to him, to wear a scarlet cloak which flung 
 out a glow over the low pallet. But it was only the 
 genial beaming of a benevolent face gazing down on him. 
 
 " Better pray, child. They tell me you have rebelled, 
 and caused, deservedly, this misery." 
 
 "Oh!" groaned little Dick, with his hands pressed 
 over the bitter spot, "oh, Boatswain, Boatswain!" 
 
 The glow of the scarlet cloak fell closer round him ; 
 be felt himself raised, tenderly, and lying in its folds. 
 
184 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 Dick never could tell afterward how it happened that, 
 all at once, the hard, bitter spot melted quite away ; ho* 
 the old trust came rushing into its place, like the river 
 Boatswain talked of ; and how he told, with lips grown 
 red from the glow of the scarlet cloak, his sad, sad story. 
 
 " Dick," murmured the pleasant voice, made rich and 
 soft by tenderness, " I am alone in the wide world, as 
 you are, my poor boy. But there s wide room in my 
 heart for you to lie within it. Will you go with me?" 
 
 Three days after that, five hundred pounds were laid 
 in the hard palm of the master miner. Three days, and 
 Dick, holding fast the hand of his deliverer, under shadow 
 of the scarlet cloak, walked out into the world of blessed 
 sunlight. 
 
 " Didn t I tell you I was a-comin , white shine, some 
 o these days?" he murmured, looking into the great blue 
 sky above him ; " oh, Boatswain, it appears like I could 
 most forgive you now, if twan t for the smell of the red 
 flowers, an the promise I made down there." 
 
 V. 
 
 Bright and beautiful looked the spring-time sunlight 
 into Burleigh Hall. Mr. Richard Summerset watched 
 it, falling aslant into the bosom of a red plant, as he sat 
 in his pleasant library. He was a fine, handsome man, 
 about three-and-thirty, with serene brown eyes, and mel 
 low-tinged cheeks. And as he sat thus, intent upon his 
 business papers, his curved lips compressed with habitual 
 determination, his muscular form expressive of firm will 
 in the right, and severe power in the wrong of life, you 
 could scarce recognise trusting, dependent Dick of olden 
 days 
 
BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 185 
 
 He had lately returned from a long tour across the 
 ecus ; returned to find his benefactor gone to his home 
 beyond the skies, and himself heir of Burleigh. The 
 scarlet cloak had fallen upon his shoulders now, to be 
 borne through life as a sacred trust. Its still folds cov 
 ered him closely, save that one place in his heart where 
 the hard, bitter spot had lain of yore. There its gleam 
 ing fell away, faintly. 
 
 Years had passed, and still the revengeful feelings held 
 pre-eminent sway ; still Boatswain s whereabouts was an 
 unsolved mystery. Yet Mr. Richard Summerset never 
 despaired, for he had sworn a solemn vow, and that vow 
 he should fulfil. 
 
 The door of the pleasant library opened, and a man 
 entered, bearing a letter in his hand. 
 
 "Aha! John, what s this?" and Mr. Richard turned 
 over the red seal, which bore the strange device of a half- 
 moon. 
 
 44 From the gentleman of the Shires, sir ; his gardener 
 brought it over last night." 
 
 Mr. Richard tore open the letter, and read this brief 
 sketch, written in a bold, round hand : 
 
 " To the Master of Burleigh : 
 
 I have read, in this morning s columns, your advertise 
 ment concerning a certain man, or lad, who escaped, 
 years ago, from the Brighampton mines. I know this 
 man, and can deliver him into your custody, or that of 
 the parties concerned. With your permission, I will 
 ride to Burleigh on the 20th. 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 SHAFTESBURY OF THE SHIRES." 
 
186 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 "WhoM this gentleman of the Shires?" demanded 
 Mr. Richard, suddenly, looking up, with a hot flush on 
 his brow. 
 
 " A fine, honourable sort of man, sir. He used to be 
 a great fav mrite with old Master Geoffry, in days past, 
 who helped him along, in his usual way, bless him ! But 
 times change, and he s grown unfortunate, they say, poor 
 man ! Perhaps you might better him, Mr. Richard, sir," 
 said John, with a little sprinkle of feeling in his voice; 
 " seeing how he was a favourite of the old master. You 
 won t forget that, Mr. Richard?" 
 
 u No, I shall not forget it," replied Mr. Richard, briefly. 
 " You may go now, John. A fine, honourable man !" he 
 muttered, between his closed teeth ; " and this is honour !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 The gentleman of the Shires was ushered to the thresh 
 old of a wide, sunny apartment in Burleigh Hall. As 
 he stood there, he could take in, at a glance, its quaint 
 dimensions, a handsome, benign face opposite him, arid 
 particularly a strange red plant flourishing in a high 
 window. 
 
 Mr. Richard Summerset arose from his chair with a 
 Budden movement ; he received his guest with a low 
 bo w S o profound as to cause a painful flush to come 
 athwart cheeks, and lips, and brow. 
 
 The man before him was of stalwart frame, and a little 
 past the meridian of manhood. There was something 
 haughty, yet noble, in the bold, restless glance of his 
 eyes. Yet the wrinkles around lips and brow told how 
 he had battled with the world perhaps vainly. 
 
BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 187 
 
 " I am indebted to my advertisement for this visit," 
 said Mr. Richard, in a strange, husky voice ; " are you 
 prepared to assert, verbally, what you have here writ 
 ten ?" 
 
 lie referred to the red-sealed letter lying beside him. 
 
 " I am," was the distinct and firm reply. 
 
 Mr. Richard shuddered slightly, but continued 
 
 " You know this man ; you are willing to deprive him 
 of what seems to me dearer than life itself, his liberty?" 
 
 The gentleman of the Shires remained proudly silent, 
 yet his face blanched. 
 
 " You are aware, too, that you will receive a reward for 
 this deed?" 
 
 This time his guest nodded imperatively, and a light 
 sprang into his cold blue eyes. 
 
 " Ha !" cried Mr. Richard Summerset bitterly, reach 
 ing out for a handful of red leaves, which he crushed in 
 his fingers. "And fora few pieces of glittering gold 
 for a paltry sum of this red metal, you will barter a life 
 time ! A living, breathing human being like yourself; a 
 soul, which, however base, has God s own seal upon it ! 
 You will dare to do this?" 
 
 The man rose from his seat, crossing over calmly to 
 where the master of Burleigh sat in his severe anger. 
 lie stood before him with a proud majesty. 
 
 "Mr. Richard Summerset," said he, in a voice firm, 
 but threaded with little quivering lines of emotion " I 
 willy I do dare it ! I have a young wife, whose life ia 
 of my life, whose springtime has scarce blossomed into 
 maturity. Would you have me blight its fragrance or 
 \ts be?uty? I have a child, and shall I, with a coward 
 
188 BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL. 
 
 heart, press upon its faint existence the seal of Poverty? 
 Never! Tl at paltry sum, that glittering metal, shall 
 be their saving providence. I bless it ! I bless you, 
 that you can give it them !" 
 
 "And yourself?" murmured Mr. Richard, breath 
 lessly ; his whole face melting in a gush of awe of 
 admiration. 
 
 " I am that man I and have I not the right to barter 
 my own existence ; my own living, breathing body ?" 
 
 His head dropped ; he buried his face in his hands. 
 
 Ay ! toss away those red flowers, Mr. Richard Sum 
 merset ; crush out the hard, bitter spot from your heart 
 for ever ; and wipe away those big drops coming thick 
 and fast into your eyes ! Have you ever with your 
 wide benevolence, your benign justice say, have you 
 ever dreamed of nobility like this ? 
 
 The master of Burleigh rose out of his chair with 
 faint steps, and the meekness of a little child. He laid 
 his hand tenderly, oh! so tenderly, upon the man s 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Boatswain !" 
 
 " Great Heaven ! little Dick !" 
 
 " Be quiet, Boatswain ; don t struggle, don t look at 
 me so with your wild blue eyes. Listen to me. For 
 twenty years I have sought for you for twenty years I 
 have vowed to be revenged. I shall never break tluit 
 oath." 
 
 " Never!" repeated Boatswain, with his proud, firm 
 voice. "No, never!" 
 
 " You shall suffer, 1 tell you. Your wife and chilJ 
 
RUB OR RUST. 
 
 ISo 
 
 shall feed of my bounty my gold shall dower them. 
 And you, Boatswain 
 
 The wretched man groaned aloud in Litter ag.iny. 
 
 " Oh ! you shall come into these arms a fr e man ! 
 Your proud head must bow to rest upon m; bosom. 
 Stand up, Boatswain ! be a man ! and, if you in find 
 room in your noble heart for such as I forgive ne I" 
 
 Mr. Richard Summerset s voice grew thick wi .k sobs, 
 and the words could scarce find utterance. 
 
 " Bless you ! bless you ! my noble Dick ! my "brave, 
 brave Dick ! Bless you !" 
 
 And they were locked in each other s arms. 
 
 Oh ! blessed are the merciful ; for they shaT 
 mercy. 
 
 RUB OR RUST. 
 
 IDLER, why lie down to die, 
 
 Better rub than rust. 
 Hark ! the lark sings in the sky 
 
 " Die when die thou must ! 
 Day is waking, leaves are shaking, 
 
 Better rub than rust." 
 
 In the grave there s sleep enough 
 
 " Better rub than rust. 
 Death, perhaps, is hunger-proof, 
 
 Die when die thou must ; 
 Mon are mowing, breezes blowing, 
 
 Better rub than rust." 
 
TALE-TELLING. 
 
 He who will not work, shall want; 
 
 Nought for nought is just 
 Won t do, must do, when he can t; 
 
 " Better rub than rust. 
 Bees are flying, sloth is dying, 
 
 Better rub than rust." 
 
 TALE-TELLING. 
 
 " WHAT, is the matter with you to-night, Anna ? Who s 
 been laying a straw in your path ?" 
 
 * I wish it was only a straw," answered Mrs. Maxwell, 
 taking up her husband s half-playful remark. But it * 
 worse than that a foreboding." 
 
 " Surely, Anna, you would not dwell on a silly fancy 
 as long as you have been musing over that one fashion 
 plate though ladies generally are supposed to find food 
 for thought in those enchanted pages. But, I happen 
 to know that you have your cloak and bonnet, and all 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 "Well, if you must have it the truth is this. One 
 of these faces has a strong resemblance to Susie Lane, 
 and that recalled to me her visit this afternoon ; and, 
 unfortunately, Mrs. Arnot came in." 
 
 " How unfortunately ?" 
 
 " Why she s been wishing to make her acquaintance 
 ever since we have been so intimate." 
 
 " So much the better, I should think." 
 
 "Dear Harry" Mrs. Maxwell always emphasized the 
 
TALE-TELLING. 101 
 
 adjective when she wished to be particularly understood 
 " you don t seem to see that I did not wish them to 
 meet." 
 
 " I hope you are not selfish, Anna," said Mr. Max 
 well, gravely. u I thought you were anxious Mrs. Arnot 
 should go into society now that she has laid aside her 
 mourning. I think it would be best for her myself " 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell was quiet for a moment, and then said, 
 " I m not a bit jealous, Harry ; you know it s not at all 
 my nature and I really can t say why it is, but I dread 
 something unpleasant. Perhaps I am vexed a little at 
 the eagerness with which she offered to improve the 
 opportunity. Susie, I mean. Almost before Angela 
 was seated, she said, I am so happy to meet you at 
 last, Mrs. Arnot. I have heard so much of you from 
 Mrs. Maxwell. And, then, the moment it could de 
 cently be said she begged, on the strength of her 
 intimacy with me, that Mrs. Arnot would consider her 
 an acquaintance." 
 
 " Well, isn t that the way you ladies proceed ?" 
 
 " Why, as Mrs. Arnot was comparatively a stranger 
 in the city, it was right enough for Susie to make the 
 first advances. Angela had nothing left but to ask her 
 to call, or I but to offer to go with her some day. You 
 need not shake your head, Ilarry. I am not coveting 
 to keep Mrs. Arnot all to myself." 
 
 The truth was, though Mrs. Maxwell did not for a 
 moment imagine she was trying to deceive her husband, 
 she did not like to confess to him, that she considered 
 Miss Susie Lane an unsafe acquaintance to introduce. 
 Mr. Maxwell had not liked their own intimacy at first, and 
 
192 TALE-TELLING. 
 
 she was afraid of reviving old prejudices, which she had 
 striven so zealously to conquer. She was fascinated by 
 Miss Lane s good-natured, sprightly conversation. She 
 had then but few intimate acquaintances in the city, and 
 enjoyed the chatty, lively visits Miss Lane was lavish 
 of. She felt quite lost if a week passed without one of 
 them. Susie was so amusing. Told a story capitally, 
 always knew who w r as engaged, and who expected to be. 
 What was worn at the last wedding, and how it happened 
 that the Lawrences and Hathaways did not speak. A 
 list of bridal presents at any reception she attended 
 might be relied on as accurate enough for publication, 
 and if an engagement was broken off, the next time you 
 saw Miss Lane, you had the reasons in full. Yet there 
 was nothing vulgar, or impertinent in it all, apparently. 
 Nothing but a good-natured wish to make her conversa 
 tion and society agreeable. "Besides, it was only natural 
 Susie should know everything that was going on," Mrs. 
 Maxwell once had urged with her husband. " She had 
 such a large circle of acquaintances, was sought by every 
 one, and with her time and income at her own disposal." 
 No one would dream of calling Miss Lane an " old maid," 
 but certainly she was an passee, with very small hands 
 and feet, good teeth, bright eyes, and an ever ready 
 smile, to keep her account in the social current. 
 
 No one ever heard her say an absolutely ill-natured 
 thing ; if she mimicked an unfortunate peculiarity, she 
 was sure to excuse the very defect a moment after, in 
 the blandest possible manner ; and if, after she had 
 gone, you felt uncomfortable, and some sensitive point 
 
TALE-TELLING. 103 
 
 burned and smarted, you could not trace back the sting, 
 or the precise moment it was received. 
 
 Nothing more was said by Mr. Maxwell about his 
 wife s pre-occupation, but he noticed that when he 
 arranged the chess-board a few moments afterwards, 
 her opening moves lacked a purpose, and as the game 
 proceeded, she grew positively careless. So he very 
 quietly set away the stand, and offered to read aloud 
 the latest number of the Caxtons, thoughtful husband 
 that he was ; in a little time her eyes lighted with inte 
 rest at its clever witticisms, and the cloud passed away. 
 
 A close acquaintance of more than a year had deep 
 ened the friendship between Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. 
 Arnot, so romantically conceived, and sadly brought 
 %bout. They had many tastes and pursuits in common, 
 could see much of each other from the neighbourhood 
 jf their dwellings, and almost came to supply the place 
 of sisters to each other. In the notes which often bore 
 messages between them, they did not write " darling 
 Angela," or, " my sweetest Anna," nor did they kiss 
 at the street corners through veils, or, indeed, any time 
 they met and parted, as many ladies make a point of 
 doing with common acquaintances ; a practice, by the 
 way, so universal, that it has lost all significance ; so 
 much so, that for ourselves, we prize a cordial grasp of 
 the hand, and a smile, far more than " lip service" 
 shared in common with the merest acquaintance. 
 
 Our friends had often spoken of this, and the conver 
 sation was renewed one morning which they were pass- 
 ing together, each employed with the needle, in Mrs. 
 Arnot s pretty dressing-room. It was just the time and 
 in 
 
104 
 
 TALE-TELLING. 
 
 place for a confidential chat. " One of Mrs. Maxwell 3 
 days," Mrs. Arnot always said, for with her country 
 habit of exposure Mrs. Maxwell did not mind a little 
 rain, and liked to pass the morning in Pine Street best, 
 where they were thus secured from all intruders. The 
 storm had increased since her arrival, so that the thick 
 mist had become a heavy shower, that pattered against 
 the window near which their sewing-chairs were drawn, 
 Berving to make the cheerful fire in the grate all the 
 brighter by contrast. One loves to draw close to the 
 grate on such a day, if solitary, and, buried in a loung- 
 ing-chair, muse at the fantastic shapes of the glaring 
 coals, or the brightness of the flickering flame, while a 
 book lies half closed over the hand, and seems at once 
 as a suggestion and excuse for the revery. Or better 
 still, with a companion entirely agreeably, home assumes 
 its most homelike air, and our ordinary comforts seem 
 magnified into blessings. 
 
 Something of this the friends had been saying, and 
 then the subject turned from the dear inner circle, to 
 the broader band of social relations, and how much, 
 after all, there was in pleasant acquaintances. 
 
 " I am just beginning to realize," Mrs. Maxwell said, 
 "how much there is in the word friend. From the time 
 I was first sent to school, I had a habit of making violent 
 friendships as my sister Mary used to call them. Yet 
 I never could define to my mother why I liked those 
 intimates very satisfactorily, to her at least. I was 
 laughed at all one winter, for saying, when once fairly 
 cornered, " Well, I do like Maggie Robinson because 
 
TALE-TELLING. 195 
 
 because she lias brown hair, and wears such a beautiful 
 pink mousselinf ?" 
 
 Mrs. Arnot smiled. " Quite as sensible as many 
 reasons that grown up children give," said she; and 
 perfectly natural, as I remember by my own experience. 
 But I was somewhat different. I did not care about 
 being loved or loving my school-mates particularly, only 
 I liked popularity. To be the head of everything, 
 admired not loved, I did not care how many were afraid 
 of me, so I sat at the head of the class, and was praised 
 by the teachers." 
 
 " You are entirely candid, Angela." 
 
 " Yes, for my fault has been one of a lifetime, and I 
 have learned from bitter experience that to be loved is 
 better than all praise." 
 
 u I was going to tell you of my many friendships," con 
 tinued Mrs. Maxwell. " It was a rule at our school that 
 all the upper classes should keep journals, and I have 
 mine from the time I was eleven ; how you would laugh 
 over those poor little sentimental, ridiculous entries ! 
 Sometimes, such a day as this, I get them out, and look 
 them over. But with all their folly, they often bring 
 tears. There are so many traces of those childish days 
 names scrawled in pencil on the margin; autographs 
 of class-mates I have never seen since; profiles, half- 
 and-half caricature, in pen and ink. Why the very 
 change in the handwriting is sad, and it is so curious to 
 trace all the elements of character which I now possess, 
 to that day of small things." 
 
 " I should like to see those relics." 
 
 "Ah, me! I m afraid they re like love-letters, of no 
 
19 TALE-TELLING. 
 
 use to any but the owner, Angela ;" Mrs. Maxwell spoLe 
 half-playfully, half-tearfully, for her lips quivered, though 
 her eyes still smiled. " There could be nothing parti 
 cularly amusing to you in such an entry as this : 
 
 " Walked up street with Annie Moore and Susan 
 Leslie, after school ; Annie is such a dear girl, and 
 brought me those worsteds to finish my lamp mat. We 
 met Willie Gibbons, whose face looked very red, when 
 he stopped to talk with us a moment. He had a pond 
 lily in his hand, which he gave to Annie, but the stem 
 was almost twisted off." 
 
 It was so natural and child-like ! Mrs. Maxwell en 
 joyed it particularly. 
 
 " As I said, it can t be very interesting to you, but to 
 me it recalls those little lovers, she in a sun-bonnet, and 
 he in a linen roundabout and broad-leaved straw hat, 
 and then I think how it has all come to pass, just like a 
 story-book, and they are married now, and I often laugh 
 at them about those very walks. 
 
 " Well, this journal with all its scribblings, and 
 French phrases spelled in a most anglicized style, and 
 little conceited entries of all sorts, bears record to a 
 vast number of friendships that did not last half as long 
 as the journal has. Sometimes we quarrelled about 
 things as trivial as a credit-mark. Then I would find 
 that I had wasted all my pocket-money and kisses on a 
 really treacherous girl, but somehow I did not grow any 
 wiser." 
 
 "I don t believe you over retaliated, Anna." 
 
 " I suspect I did, and made faces, and * said things, 
 with the best of them. Or the worst rather. So in 
 
TALE-TELLING. 1&7 
 
 vacations I often went away on long visits,, i.c.L /.ways 
 came home in an ecstasy with some one I kad met. I 
 remember one return, bounding into the room where 
 Mary was, and commencing my travels before I took 
 my bonnet off. Oh, Mary, I said, * I ve had such an 
 elegant time, and I ve made so many friends." 
 
 " Acquaintances," said Mary, correcting me in hei 
 quiet way. 
 
 u No, friends, I still insisted, for I had not yet 
 learned that there is a vast difference between the 
 two." 
 
 " You learn that soon enough in a large city," said 
 Mrs. Arriot. " Do you know I shudder sometimes when 
 I look back upon those dreary thankless days, when I 
 shut out all human sympathy, even Robert s : for it 
 grieved him that I could not admit any love but his 
 own. But I was punished for it, that terrible night. I 
 remember when that faint-sinking came, as I was watch 
 ing alone with my poor little Ernest, praying in my 
 heart for some one to comfort me, I was so utterly 
 lonely ! It was then the thought of your proffered 
 kindness flashed upon me, and I hardly remember how 
 or when I sent for you. But you came like an angel 
 of mercy dear Anna /" and Mis. Arnot "aid her hand 
 on her friend s, and half closed her eyes to keep dim tho 
 rising tears brought by this bitter recollection. 
 
 " We shall ahvags be friends," Mrs. Maxwell said. 
 
 " Yes, in the true sense of the word. We do not 
 think when we are younger how many elements enter 
 into such a relation. I could never love any one, or 
 call any one friend, that I did not first respect, in word, 
 
198 TALE-TELLING 
 
 deed, and thought. Yes, we shall always be friends, I 
 am sure." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell could not trace the influence, but as 
 this was said, a sad and heavy feeling came over her; 
 perhaps it was the earnestness with which Mrs. Arnot 
 had spoken. She tried to shake it off. 
 
 " This is very different from those vows of eternal 
 friendship, young ladies make," she said. "When I 
 left school I had seventeen correspondents ! Papa used 
 to say I ought to have a letter-box of my own at the 
 Post-Office. I keep up just one, of the seventeen now. 
 I do not even know where half of them are at the pre 
 sent moment. One loses sight of school-mates so easily, 
 particularly if we have no better reason for loving them 
 than that they wore pink mousselines!" 
 
 " Did you ever have a real quarrel with any one you 
 truly loved ?" 
 
 " Never, in my life. I used to have so many all on 
 the same terms that I never minded a little fuss. If 
 the acquaintance was broken off, well and good. There 
 were twenty more agreeable people." 
 
 "I am very peculiar about that," said Mrs. Arnot. 
 " I don t believe I coftld ever make up -as some peo 
 ple do. If I should once be seriously offended, I don t 
 think I could ever feel the same towards a person again ; 
 even my very best friend." 
 
 " You go on the principle then that friendship is like 
 a Venice glass once shattered never to be restored." 
 
 " Exactly. But how very solemn and philosophical 
 we are growing ! I m afraid Robert would think us 
 sentimental after all, if he should hear our disquisi- 
 
TALE-TELLING. 199 
 
 tions. What pleasant mornings we do have, Anna ! 
 I wonder by the way, I met Mrs. Le Grand yesterday 
 I was going to say, I wonder if she. enjoys her visiting 
 and shopping expeditions, half as much as we do these 
 home talks." 
 
 It was perfectly natural that Mrs. Maxwell should 
 think over this conversation on her return home, and 
 speak of it to her husband. He was always ready to 
 discuss whatever interested her, not like many hus 
 bands we have known, whose evenings are shadowed by 
 the " burden and heat of the day," and have neither 
 time nor spirits to interest themselves in what they con 
 sider trivial matters. It is this lack of sympathy often 
 times that becomes a slow process of heart-starvation, 
 if we may use the term, and these little troubles and 
 interests are confided to an injudicious acquaintance, or 
 locked up to become bitter thoughts, and bring that 
 wan spiritless look to the face, which distinguishes SQ 
 many married women. As we have before said^-thrice 
 happy is she who finds a judicious, thoughtful friend, at 
 her own fireside. 
 
 " I love her better every time I see her," she ex 
 claimed enthusiastically of Mrs. Arnot; "arid indeed 
 she is perfectly right. I don t see how we could ever 
 be separated." 
 
 Yet it was only on her next visit that she fancied 
 Mrs. Arnot received her less warmly than usual. Per 
 haps it was thinking so often of their last conversation, 
 she had expected too much. Mrs. Arnot was not very 
 demonstrative usually. But take it altogether, she felt 
 
200 TALE-TELLING. 
 
 chilled, and uncomfortable, and did not take out hex 
 knitting as she had intended to do. 
 
 Two or three days passed before the visit was returned. 
 That was not unusual, but there seemed no excuse, and 
 Mrs. Arnot s manner implied one was expected. Mr. 
 Maxwell came home early, and pressed her to stay the 
 evening, saying that he would send for her husband as 
 they often did, but she declined. It was certainly very 
 strange, so soon after their perfect understanding. Then 
 they met at the house of a mutual acquaintance. Mrs. 
 Maxwell scarcely knew how to approach Angela, and 
 this irresolution brought out something like positive 
 coldness on Mrs. Arnot s part. So Mrs. Maxwell felt, 
 and even her friend remarked it. This was saddest of 
 all, for there had been some little jealousy among the 
 ladies of her circle, at the close intimacy she had formed 
 where they had not been received. There were not 
 wanting curious eyes to note the diiference, nor tongues 
 to "stir up strife." Mrs. Maxwell came home grieved 
 to the very heart, and cried bitterly, with a feeling of 
 despondency she was quite ashamed of. She was almost 
 resolved to ask an explanation, but she hesitated to do 
 so, lest there really might be no change, and Angela 
 would think her jealous, or exacting. Still worse, she 
 dreaded an open disagreement, for she could not forget 
 what had been said about the Venice glass. Besides 
 these reasons, the next time she called, Mrs. Arnot s 
 manner was just the same as ever. She seemed very 
 e;lad to see her, was even more kind than usual, and 
 Mrs. Maxwell came home persuading herself that she 
 had fancied the change entirely. 
 
TALE-TELLING. 201 
 
 Wo cannot trace the coldness that eventually sprung 
 up, through all its shades and gradations. Coldness 
 there was, though courtesy was never wanting in Mrs. 
 Arnot s manner. It was like a still frosty air, the more 
 piercing for its very quietness. Mrs. Maxwell was made 
 miserable by it, for she had never known before how 
 much she loved her. But she was not conscious of any 
 offence, and strove to conceal even from herself how 
 much she was pained. It was a sudden impulse of the 
 old friendliness, which induced her one morning in early 
 summer for months of guarded intercourse had passed 
 to select some unusually fine strawberries that had 
 been sent her directly from the country, and arrange 
 them with leaves, in a pretty basket, that gave them 
 the most tempting air imaginable, and take them her 
 self to Mrs. Arnot. Fruit, flowers, arid books, had 
 been the principal gifts exchanged between them, and 
 she felt almost happy again, as she eagerly entered the 
 parlour at Mrs. Arnot s. Formerly she had ushered 
 herself up to the little sitting-room, but this had been 
 dropped tacitly for some time. Still it was rather cool 
 ing to her enthusiasm to be told " Mrs. Arnot was 
 engaged, but would be down directly;" and wait minute 
 after minute in the darkened room, as formal and unin 
 teresting as city parlours usually are in their summer 
 suit of brown Holland, and net laces. Her spirits fell 
 considerably, and when the door opened and Mrs. Arnot 
 actually came, do all she could her greeting was c m- 
 strained and her offering formal. 
 
 O 
 
 "I knew you would excuse it," Mrs. Arnot said, 
 drawing on her gloves as she spoke, u but I have an 
 
202 TALE-TELLING. 
 
 engagement I cannot possibly break: and I the ugh t, 
 perhaps, you would walk with me." 
 
 So a servant was summoned, the basket given in 
 charge, and the two went out together. They walked 
 several squares, conversing on the leading topics of the 
 day ; spoke of the beauty of the squares, the last fash 
 ion for bonnets, and the marriage of a mutual acquaint 
 ance. Oh, how different from the many pleasant walks 
 of days gone by, when " they talked truly upon all 
 things substance shadows variations of thought and 
 feeling all that interested them most deeply in human 
 love, or a diviner influence. And so they parted, while 
 Mrs. Arnot said, 
 
 " You come so seldom lately. I am sorry I waa 
 obliged to go out to-day." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell drew close her veil the instant she was 
 out of sight. Her warm, affectionate nature had been 
 cruelly wounded. 
 
 " I cannot bear it any longer, Harry, indeed I can 
 not," she said to her best counsellor, who saw the traces 
 of tears when he came at nightfall to be made happy at 
 home ; and then she laid her head on his shoulder and 
 sobbed, those long, grieving sobs, like a frightened 
 child. 
 
 "You think too much of it, Anna," he answered, 
 soothingly. " You have had friends before and lest 
 them without half this feeling. I am afraid my wife is 
 romantic, after all." 
 
 " No, dear, you are mistaken. My regard for her wa3 
 above all romance. She united so many lovable ele 
 ments of character, and besides I am grieved for the 
 
TALE-TELLING. 203 
 
 very principle involved. She herself gave me the assur 
 ance that nothing could part us. She has always spoken 
 of her gratitude, though I have only followed the dic 
 tates of humanity by going to her ; but it bound us to 
 gether, you can see ; and I am afraid it will shake my 
 faith in human nature, Harry, if she has deceived me." 
 
 " Listen," said Mr. Maxwell, more seriously. "You 
 are not content to give her up entirely. You feel that 
 you have been wronged. Why not ask an explanation 
 at once ? If you cannot be reconciled, it is better to 
 give up the acquaintance at once." 
 
 " But I have never done anything to offend her, and 
 it would be so hard to give her up. To go by the win 
 dows I have always looked up to so eagerly, turning rny 
 face away and those books that I love so well, to put 
 them away there are twenty things to remind me of 
 her every day ! It would be worse than her death a 
 living death, Harry." 
 
 Mr. Maxwell scarcely knew what to say. A coldness 
 between himself and Mr. Arnot had been the natural 
 result of affairs, and he had often felt unpleasantly at 
 the daily contact it was impossible to avoid. They often 
 came up in the same omnibus, or walked squares home 
 ward, with mere monosyllables of commonplace. It 
 was unpleasant in any point of view. He rather urged 
 an explanation, but still left it entirely to his wife ? 
 judgment. 
 
 It came at last. Mrs. Maxwell had loved her friend 
 too well to let pride seal her lips any longer. She went 
 to Mrs Arnot with a deliberate purpose to win her back, 
 or seal up the past, as a pleasant dream with a sad 
 
204 TALE-TELLING. 
 
 awaking It was a conscience pure from any known 
 offence, and this still humble resolve, that carried her 
 through the painful introduction of the subject, and th 
 pang of pain she felt when Mrs. Arnot coldly answered, 
 
 " An explanation she had avoided. It could only 
 bring pain to both, and she had long since been con 
 vinced they could never be friends." 
 
 u I was so mistaken in you, Anna, and I shall never 
 trust another as I have done you." 
 
 "But is it fair to condemn me without a hearing?" 
 
 A flush of wounded pride passed over Mrs. Arnot s 
 face. " It is all too evident to need proof." 
 
 One less gentle than Mrs. Maxwell, or less steadily 
 resolved to " bear all and suffer all," if she had really 
 offended, to win back her friend, could not have listened 
 again to that cold, calm voice, or would at least have 
 met the proud glance with one equally disdainful. But 
 Mrs. Maxwell knew the ruling passion had for a mo 
 ment the mastery, and only answered, still gently, 
 
 " I must insist, for my own sake, and in memory of 
 the past, that you tell me my offence. That it is light 
 I am certain." 
 
 " Oh, Anna light ! Light to say that I had an un 
 loved home ! Light to slander my noble, kindest of 
 husbands into torturing my confidence, while you pro 
 fessed the sincerest regard for me. Anna, I solemnly 
 tell you I never was so deceived in a human being ! 
 ani, when I thought you so good and pure, and that 
 you were leading me to a higher life !" 
 
 The truth flashed upon Mrs. Maxwell in a moment. 
 Some one had been repeating the stories she had so con- 
 
TALE-TELLING. 205 
 
 fidently given credence to, before making Mrs. Arnot s 
 acquaintance. 
 
 "I could not believe it at first," continued Mrs. Ar- 
 not, now speaking more freely. " I shook off the sus 
 picion, though one of your own friends you had your 
 self introduced told it to me. I tried to meet you the 
 same as ever, but I could not. I could not play the 
 hypocrite ! I should not have cared so much for myself, 
 but to think after all I had told you of Robert s good 
 ness, it was too cruel!" 
 
 It was thus that Mrs. Maxwell s fault had " returned 
 to her after many days." A fault she had forgotten, 
 save as a warning not to give credence to rumour for the 
 future. And then, as a still further expiation of past, 
 errors, she told all how she had been guilty only in 
 repeating the slanderous tale from very kindness of 
 heart ; that the belief of her husband s unkindness had 
 first attracted her to Mrs. Arnot, and that she should 
 have confessed this, and craved her pardon, but to spare 
 her from the knowledge that her own conduct had con 
 firmed the cruel suspicions. 
 
 They were both humbled, both subdued. The know- 
 ledge that her own offence had clouded her husband s 
 good name, quelled every rising thought of pride in 
 Mrs. Arnot s heart. She felt that she had wronged her 
 friend by not seeking an explanation, by the distrust 
 which prompted concealment. There was mutual par 
 don to be sought, mutual forgiveness obtained ; and 
 though Mrs. Maxwell asked no name, she well under 
 stood who was "the whisperer" that had "separated 
 chief friends." 
 
206 TALE-TELLING 
 
 She had suffered before from Miss Lane s distorted 
 repetitions ; always put forward so carelessly, so good- 
 naturedly, yet bringing mischief in the end. She had 
 wished Mrs. Arnot s good graces, and had said " she 
 never expected to see Mrs. Maxwell and herself so inti 
 mate at one time, when Mrs. Maxwell had first heard 
 these stories." 
 
 It was only natural to ask " what stories !" and to bo 
 told the whole affair without date or explanation, how 
 ever, two very important points Miss Susie did not con 
 sider it necessary to be particular about. Mrs. Arnot 
 had other acquaintances quite considerate enough to tell 
 her "how much they had felt for her, when every one 
 believed, from what Mrs. Maxwell had said, that her 
 husband was unkind." 
 
 There are some people, strange as it seems, quite 
 judicious enough for such a communication, and the 
 flame was fanned. Mrs. Arnot was proud Mrs. Max 
 well s manner was tortured into conscious guiltiness, and 
 one barrier after another was thus placed between them. 
 
 They parted, as they both said, better friends than 
 ever each anxious to repair the wrong she believed 
 herself to have committed. But, 
 
 " What deep wound ever closed without a scar ?" 
 
 and, though Mrs. Arnot had learned that it was the 
 part of true friendship never to credit a suspicion, and 
 Mrs. Maxwell became more truly charitable than ever, 
 it was a long time before the old confidence was wholly 
 restored. Not until Mrs. Arnot was again a mother, 
 and when Mrs. Maxwell stooped down to caress the 
 
BEAR ON, BEAR BRAVELY ON. 207 
 
 beautiful infant, whose name she asked, Angela said, 
 " She is to be called Anna, that I may always remember 
 my first real friend, for I have learned all that little word 
 means since knowing you." 
 
 BEAR ON, BEAR BRAVELY ON. 
 
 0, NEVER, from thy tempted heart, 
 Let thine integrity depart ; 
 When disappointment fills thy cup, 
 Undaunted, nobly drink it up; 
 Truth will prevail, and Justice show 
 Her tardy honours, sure though slow; 
 
 Bear on, bear bravely on. 
 
 Boar on ! our life is not a dream, 
 Though often such its mazes seem ; 
 We were not born to lives of ease, 
 Ourselves alone to aid and please. 
 To each a daily task is given, 
 A labour which shall fit for heaven ; 
 When duty calls, let love grow warm, 
 Amid the sunshine and the storm, 
 With Faith life s trials boldly breast, 
 And couie a conqueror to thy rest ; 
 
 Bear on, bear bravely >a 
 
"BLESSED ARE HIE BELOVED!" 
 
 " Oh ! cast thou not 
 
 Affection from thee in this bitter world ! 
 Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast ; 
 Watch guard it suffer not a breath to dim 
 The bright gems or its purity 1" 
 
 "i vfl. it is a bitter world and how few there are 
 love "is I Sometimes we meet one whom we feel twero 
 bliss to live for to die for ! a look from whose eye ia 
 joy ; a tender word from whose lips is heaven ; and yet 
 a car Jess word, an idle jest uttered in a merry mood, a 
 little -,/iistake, has power to part us ! 
 
 How few there are who love us ! So few that we 
 canno f - spare one from out the number ! It is said that 
 "blessings brighten as they take their flight;" and so 
 with friendships, so with loves, we prize them most as 
 they leave us. 
 
 When such a treasure, which has almost become a 
 part of our being, goes from us, how sad ! It is like 
 the losing of a queen s crown diamonds ; like missing 
 the rarest jewels from a necklace ; like the shattering 
 of an exquisite vase, filled with precious distilled water 
 which can never be gathered up again. 
 
 There can be no greater grief than to be shut out 
 from the shelter of a beloved one s heart; a Hagar 
 thrust out into the wilderness ; a Pariah sent forth to 
 wander in the wide, wide outer world ! And then, when 
 the bitter words have been spoken ; when affection has 
 been turned to coolness; when we sit down alone, en- 
 
" BLESSED ARE THE BELOVED." 209 
 
 wrapped in the mantle of pride and scorn, with the dead 
 ashes lying scattered upon the desolate hearthstones cf 
 our hearts oh ! it is like dying ! 
 
 Oh ! ye who love and are beloved, clasp close your 
 treasures ! Suffer nothing, envy, malice, the whispers 
 of slanderers, the voice of Fame, the love of gold, or 
 aught else, to part you ! Life is, by far, too short tc 
 waste in bickerings ; the world is cold enough without 
 our adding to its desolation. Love is too precious to be 
 lost lightly ! Rather bear and forbear, forgive and for 
 get, cast from you the evil and only gather up the good, 
 than lose one jot of affection ! 
 
 Some one has written, "Love not! oh! love not!" 
 but surely, 
 
 " Twere better to have loved and lost 
 Than never loved at all \" 
 
 * Better trust all and be deceived, 
 
 And weep that trust and that deceiving, 
 Than doubt one heart, which, if believed, 
 Had blessed one s life with true believing!" 
 
 There must come partings for all ! The grave must 
 lie between ! Some day the earth will fall heavily upon 
 the coffin wherein you have buried your heart ; the sods 
 will press down the dear head which has lain upon your 
 breast ; the daisy and violet will bloom above the lips 
 which have so often met your own, and then could you 
 bear to think that you had wronged your trust, slighted 
 their love and cast it from your heart or that pride, or 
 the love of gold, or fame, bad parted you ? 
 
 14 
 
210 THE LEGEND OF BROTEIER ALFUS. 
 
 Ah, no, no ! It were far better then to be able to 
 bay, "I loved him always!" "I never gave him a 
 harsh word!" than to bind the mocking wreath of 
 Fame around an aching brow, or clasp dazzling jewela 
 over a desolated heart. 
 
 Yes, Love is " the only treasure !" neither power, 
 Fame, gold, gems, nor the applause of a world can 
 satisfy the heart. They may indeed charm and cheat 
 for a season but at last, like the apples of Sodom, they 
 turn to ashes in our grasp. 
 
 There is no truer earthly bliss than the priceless boon 
 of Love. Happy they who win it ! Thrice " blessed 
 are the beloved !" 
 
 THE LEGEND OF BROTHER ALFUS. 
 
 IN the old days, when monasteries studded the slopes 
 of every hill in Germany, they formed a feature in every 
 landscape; huge buildings of quiet, peaceable aspect, 
 rearing their small, slender belfry towers in the midst 
 of forests where the ringdoves hopped from branch to 
 branch. Many a faulty, erring man, no doubt, those 
 gray walls sheltered, but they contained, as well, many 
 a saintly sage, whose thoughts, long since weaned from 
 all worldly joys, dwelt only on the future and the invi 
 Bible. 
 
 At Olmutz, in particular, there was one who had ren 
 dered himself famous throughout the surrounding coun- 
 
THE LEGEND OF BROTHER ALFUS. 211 
 
 try, by his piety and learning ; he was a simple and 
 unaffected man, like all men whose knowledge is great; 
 for science is like the sea the further we advance, tho 
 wider grows the horizon, and the less do we seem our- 
 Be" vea. Brother Alfus had had, nevertheless, his seasons 
 of doubt and misgiving ; but after having wrinkled his 
 brow and whitened his hair in vain disquisitions, he had 
 at last been compelled to fall back upon the faith of 
 little children; and then confiding his life to prayer, as 
 to an anchor of mercy, he suffered himself to rock gently 
 in the tide of pure love, holy visions, and heavenly hopes. 
 
 But in a little while rough squalls began again to shake 
 the saintly bark. The temptations of the understanding 
 returned, and reason began haughtily to question faith. 
 Then Brother Alfus grew sad ; dark clouds began to 
 float over his spirit ; his heart grew cold, and he could 
 no longer pray. Wandering through the country, he 
 sat upon the mossy rocks, lingered by the foam of water 
 falls, and sauntered amidst the murmurs of the forest ; 
 but it was in vain that he sought light from nature. To 
 all his inquiries, the mountains, the leaves, and the streams 
 gave but one answer GOD ! Brother Alfus came out 
 victorious from many of these struggles, and each time 
 his faith was made firmer than ever, for temptation was 
 the gymnasium of the conscience ; if it does not destroy 
 it, it strengthens it. 
 
 But, after a time, inquietude came over his spirit more 
 keenly than ever. He had remarked that everything 
 
 J O 
 
 beautiful loses its charm by long use ; that the eye soon 
 grows tired of the most beautiful landscape, the ear of 
 the sweetest voice, the heart of the fondest love ; and 
 
212 THE LEGEND OF BROTHER ALFUS. 
 
 then lie asked, How shall we find, even in heaven, a 
 source of eternal joy ? In the midst of magnificence and 
 delight which have no end, what will become of our rest 
 less souls ? Will riot unchangeable pleasure at last bring 
 on ennui? "Eternity ! what a word for creatures who 
 know no law but that of change and diversity? What 
 man could wish his sweetest pleasure to last for ever ? 0, 
 my God ! no more past, and no more future ! no more 
 remembrances, and no more hopes ! eternity ! eternity ! 
 0, sorrowful word ! 0, word, which hast spread fire and 
 lamentation upon earth, what must thou, then, mean iir. 
 heaven?" Thus spoke Brother Alfus, and every day 
 his doubts became greater. One morning he issued from 
 the monastery before the other monks had risen, and 
 descended into the valley. The fields, still moist with 
 last night s rain, were glistening under the first rays of 
 the rising sun, like a maiden smiling through her tears. 
 Alfus stole gently through the shady thickets on the 
 hill-side. The birds, which had but just awoke from 
 their slumbers, were perched in the hawthorns, shaking 
 down rosy blossoms on his bald head ; and some butter 
 flies, still half asleep, flew lightly in the sun to dry their 
 wings. 
 
 Alfus stopped to gaze on the scene before him. He 
 remembered how beautiful it had seemed when first he 
 saw it, and with what transport he had looked forward 
 to ending his days in that delightful retreat. For him, 
 poor child of the city, accustomed to see nought but dark 
 courts and sombre walls, these flowers, and trees, and 
 clear air, were bewitching novelties. How quickly passed 
 the year of his novitiate ! Those long rambles in the 
 
THE LEGEND OF BROTHER ALFUS. 213 
 
 valleys, and those charming discoveries ! Streams mur 
 muring through the corn-flags, glades haunted by the 
 nightingale, eglantine rose, wild strawberries whaV joy 
 to light upon them for the first time ! To mee . with 
 springs from which he had not yet drunk, and uiossy 
 banks upon which he had never yet reclined ! But, alas ! 
 these pleasures themselves do not last long; very soon 
 you have traversed all the paths of the forest, you have 
 heard the songs of all the birds, you have plucked nose 
 gays of all the flowers, and then adieu to the beauties 
 of the country ! Familiarity descends like a veil between 
 you and the creation, and makes you blind and deaf. 
 
 And thus it was now with Brother Alfus. Like men 
 whose abuse of ardent spirits had made them ceaye to 
 feel thoir power, he looked with indifference on a spec 
 tacle which in his eyes had once been ravishing. What 
 heavenly beauties, then, could occupy throughout eter 
 nity a soul which the works of God on earth could charm 
 for a moment only ? Asking himself this question, the 
 monk walked on, his eyes fixed on the ground, but see 
 ing nothing, and his arms folded on his breast. IIo 
 descended into the valley, crossed the stream, passed 
 through the woods, and over the hills. The tower of 
 the convent was beginning already to fade in the dis 
 tance, and at length he stopped. He was on the verge 
 of a vast forest, which extended as far as the eye could 
 reach, like an ocean of verdure. A thousand melodious 
 sounds met his ears from every side, and an odorous 
 breeze sighed through the leaves. After casting an aston- 
 
 & O O 
 
 ishcd look upon the soft obscurity which reigned in the 
 wood, Alfus entered \vith hesitation, as if he feared he 
 
214 THE LEGEND OF BROTHER ALFUS. 
 
 were treading on forbidden ground. As he advanced, 
 the forest became larger ; he found trees covered with 
 blossoms which exhaled an unknown perfume; it had 
 nothing enervating in it, like those of earth, but was, as 
 it were, a sort of moral emanation which embalmed the 
 soul. It was strengthening and delicious at the same 
 time, like the sight of a good action, or the approach 
 of a lover. At length he perceived, farther on, a glade 
 radiant with a marvellous light. He sat down to enjoy 
 the prospect, and then, suddenly, the song of a bird 
 overhead fell upon his ear sounds so sweet as to defy 
 description, gentler than the fall of oars on a lake in 
 summer, than the murmur of the breeze amongst weep 
 ing willows, or the sigh of a sleeping infant. All the 
 music of the air, and earth, and water, the melody of 
 the human voice, or of instruments, seemed centred in 
 that song. It was hardly a song, but floods of melody ; 
 it was not language, and yet :he voice spoke. Science, 
 wisdom, and poetry, all were in it ; and in hearing it, one 
 acquired all knowledge. 
 
 Alfus listened for a long time, and with increasing 
 pleasure. At last the light which illumined the forest 
 began to fade, a low murmur was heard amongst the 
 trees, and the bird was silent. 
 
 Alfus remained for a while motionless, as if he were 
 awaking from an enchanted sleep. He at first looked 
 R round in a sort of stupor, and then arose. He found 
 his feet benumbed : his limbs had lost their agility. It 
 was with difficulty he directed his steps towards the mo 
 nastery. 
 
 But the farther he went, the greater was his surprise. 
 
THE LFA.F.ND OF BROTHKK ALFUS. 215 
 
 The face of the whole country seemed change*]. Whore 
 he had before seen sprouting shrubs, he now saw wide 
 spread ing oaks. lie looked for the little wooden bridge 
 by which he was accustomed to cross the river. It was 
 gone, and in its place was a solid arch of stone. On 
 passing a hedge on which some women were spreading 
 clothes to dry, they stopped to look at him, and said 
 amongst themselves, 
 
 " There is an old man dressed like the monks of 
 Olmutz. We know all the brothers, but we have never 
 seen him before." 
 
 " These women are fools," said Alfus, and passed on. 
 But at last he began to feel uneasy. He quickened his 
 footsteps as he climbed the narrow pathway which led 
 up the hill-side towards the convent. But the gate 
 was no longer in its old place, arid the monastery was 
 changed in its appearance ; it was greater in extent, and 
 the buildings were more numerous. A plane-tree, whit-li 
 he had himself planted near the chapel a few months 
 before, covered the sacred building with its foliage. 
 Overpowered with astonishment, the monk approached 
 the new entrance, and rang gently. But it was not the 
 same silver bell, the sound of which he knew so well. 
 A young brother opened the door. 
 
 " What has happened ?" asked Alfus ; " is Antony no 
 longer a porter of the convent?" 
 
 " I don t know such a person," was the reply. Alibis 
 rubbed his eyes with astonishment. 
 
 "Am I then mad?" he exclaimpd. "Is not this thp 
 monastery of Olinutz, which I left this morning " 
 
 The young monk looked at him. 
 
216 THE LEGEND OF BROTHER ALFUS. 
 
 "I have been porter here for five years," was the 
 rejoinder, u and I do not remember to have ever seen 
 you." 
 
 A number of monks were walking up and down the 
 cloisters. Alfus ran towards them, and called them; 
 but none answered. He went closer, but not one of 
 them could he recognise. 
 
 " Has there been a miracle here?" he cried. "In 
 the name of heaven, my brothers, has none of you ever 
 seen me before ? Does no one know Brother Alfus ?" 
 
 All looked at him with astonishment. "Alfus!" at 
 last said the oldest ; " there was formerly a monk of 
 that name at the convent. I used to hear the old men, 
 long ago, when I was young, talking of him. He was 
 a learned man, but a dreamer, and fond of solitude. 
 One day he descended into the valley, and was lost 
 sight of behind the wood. They expected him back in 
 vain. He never returned, and none knew what became 
 of him ; but it is now a hundred years or more, since 
 that." 
 
 At these words Alfus uttered a loud cry, for he under 
 stood it all ; and falling on his knees, he lifted up his 
 hands and exclaimed with fervour: "0, my God; it has 
 been thy will to show me my folly in comparing the joys 
 of earth with those of heaven. A century has rolled 
 over my head as a single day, while listening to the 
 bird that sings in thy paradise. I now understand 
 eternal happiness. 0, Lord, be gracious unto me, and 
 pardon thine unworthy servant !" 
 
 Having thus spoken, Brother Alfus extended hia 
 arms, kissed the ground, and died. 
 
HOW TO BE IIA>PY. 
 
 I WILL give you two or three good rules which may 
 help you to beeome happier than you would be without 
 knowing them ; but as to being completely happy, that 
 you can never be till you get to heaven. 
 
 The first is, " Try your best to make others happy." 
 "I never was happy," said a certain king, " till I began 
 to take pleasure in the welfare of my people ; but. ever 
 since then, in the darkest day, I have had sunshine in 
 my heart." 
 
 My second rule is, " Be content with little." There 
 are many good reasons for this rule. We deserve but 
 little ; we require but little ; and " Better is a littl^ with 
 the fear of God, than great treasures and trouble there 
 with." Two men determined to be rich, but they set 
 about it in different ways ; for the one strove to raise his 
 means to his desires, while the other did his best to 
 bring down his desires to his means. The result was, 
 the one who coveted much was always repining, while 
 he who desired but little was always contented. 
 
 My third rule is, u Look on the sunny side of things." 
 The skipping lamb, the singing lark, and the leaping 
 fish, tell us that happiness is not confined to one place. 
 God, in his goodness, has spread it abroad on the 
 earth, in the air, and on the waters. Two aged women 
 lived in the same cottage ; one was always fearing a 
 storm, and the other was always looking for sunshine. 
 Ilardly need I say which it was wore a forbidding frown, 
 or which it was whose face was lighted up with joy. 
 
HE GIVETH HIS BELOVfiD SLEEP. 
 
 (PSALM127: 2.) 
 
 As from the glare of busy, feverish day, 
 We turn with longing to the holy stars, 
 
 Feel the soft air of night around us play, 
 And bless it for the respite from our cares ; 
 
 So to the grave the earnest Christian turns, 
 Weary of sin, and stained with many tears, 
 
 So his poor bruised heart within him burns 
 With lo iging for this covert from his fears. 
 
 As we hear music, in the hush of night, 
 Sounding far off, as if the angel bands 
 
 Were sweeping harp-springs of the star-beams bright 
 Close by the door of Heaven, with skilful hands ; 
 
 So, through the awful stillness of the grave, 
 The Christian soldier hears the glorious psalm 
 
 Of those blest souls his Master came to save 
 
 And who, through Him, have won the victor s palm 
 
 As weary children to their mother s care 
 Hasten, like birds, unto the parent nest, 
 
 Kneel by her side, and say their evening prayer, 
 Then fall asleep, close nestled to her breast ; 
 
 Even so God s children, coming to the eve 
 Of life s last weary day, pray him to keep 
 
 With his kind care the dear ones they must leave. 
 And then " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
REIY ON YOURSELF. 
 
 MOST persons are averse to close thinking and in 
 vestigation. They would rather rely on others, and 
 follow the beaten track, than strike out new paths, and 
 aim at greater progress and higher attainments. It is 
 the part of indolence and imbecility servilely to copy 
 others, and to remain satisfied with walking in their 
 steps, instead of soaring into higher regions, and taking 
 wider views. Much depends on early education in regard 
 to the future intellectual efforts of children. If they are 
 furnished with everything the young heart can desire, 
 if every gratifying object is placed around them, and 
 there is nothing left for the exercise of their own powers, 
 their minds will be feeble, and never acquire the 
 vigour necessary for extensive usefulness. Parents often 
 greatly mistake in providing too many playthings for 
 their children. They appear to think that, by heaping 
 around their little ones a multitude of toys, they shall 
 add to their enjoyment and expand their minds. But 
 the more a child has of these things the more restless he 
 becomes. lie throws aside one after another his play 
 things, arid is almost equally dissatisfied with whatever 
 is placed within his reach. lie has too many objects; 
 they are a burden to him, and render him fretful and 
 uneasy. 
 
 Even the child derives his highest pleasure from doing 
 something for himself. Give him a few articles, and let 
 
220 RELY ON YOURSELF. 
 
 him add others by his own invention ; let him try what 
 he can do, and see that his efforts have accomplished 
 something, and he will be delighted and stimulated to 
 renewed exertion. The boy who has made but the rude 
 imitation of a ship, a cart, or a house, will be more 
 cheerful and happy than he world have been by the 
 most costly and brilliant toy. But, what is of far more 
 importance, his mind has received a new impulse ; it has 
 acquired new vigour, and is better prepared for other 
 efforts. It is by a succession of these infantile attempts, 
 by an almost infinitude of trials to imitate the sterner 
 realities of age, that the mind gathers strength, develops 
 its powers, and rises to the highest attainments. The 
 pyramids of Egypt, it has been said, were built by the 
 successive strokes of the pickaxe and the chisel, and the 
 mightiest intellect is formed by a gradual process from 
 the imbecility of infancy. Its progress may not be ob 
 servable for a time, like the coral rock built up from the 
 bottom of the ocean ; but it ultimately rises above the 
 waves, and becomes an island, adorned with verdure 
 and beauty. So the childish intellect, by its own action, 
 rises above the common level, becomes an ornament to 
 society, and a blessing to the world. Could you have 
 seen, in childhood, any one of the self-made men who 
 have honoured the country and the age in which they 
 lived, you would Lave found him left to his own re 
 sources. His self-formation commenced with the first 
 buddings of reason and imagination. So it was with 
 Franklin, Sherman, and others. Their Lumble origin 
 shows that they were not surrounded with a profusion 
 of splendid toys. Their minds were daily acquiring 
 
RELY ON YOURSELF. 
 
 221 
 
 fresh impulse and increased energy from the very cir 
 cumstances of destitution in which they were placed. 
 What Wehster, the great statesman and careful observer 
 of human nature, says of older scholars, is equally ap 
 plicable to children : " Costly apparatus and splendid 
 cabinets have no magical power to make scholars. Aa 
 a man is in all circumstances, under God, the master of 
 his own fortune, so he is the maker of his own mind. 
 The Creator has so constituted the human intellect, that 
 it can only grow by its own action, and thereby it will 
 certainly and necessarily grow. Every man must, there 
 fore, educate himself." Let parents improve the clue 
 here given, and apply it to the training of children. 
 Assist them in their rude endeavours to do something 
 for themselves. Furnish the means, and they will soon 
 learn to apply them in accomplishing their purposes. 
 
 They should early be taught that they have a cha 
 racter to form, on which depends their own happiness, 
 the esteem of friends, and, above all, the approbation of 
 their Maker and Redeemer. They can soon learn that 
 there is no pleasure like that of doing right, of being 
 kind, generous, and thankful for favours shown them. 
 He who would have friends must show himself friendly, 
 and there are innumerable occasions recurring daily for 
 tne exercise of the best and noblest affections. A child 
 should love to please and oblige others, and should love 
 to do good. This should be his element, the very air he 
 breathes, the rejoicing of his heart. He is amiable and 
 lovely just in proportion as he exhibits good-will and 
 kindness, and a regard for justice and rectitude ; and 
 he is an object of pity, to be pointed at by the finger of 
 
222 EELY ON YOURSELF. 
 
 Bcorn, when these traits are wanting, or the opposite 
 ones displayed. His character is himself, his dis 
 positions, affections, and general conduct. It is that 
 which he will carry with him in future life, and which 
 will shape his destiny. He can easily be made to realize 
 its importance, and how much it depends on himself. 
 Parents must look after their children, when away fioin 
 under the parental roof. Their eye must follow them to 
 the village school, and they must see what influences are 
 operating there for good or evil, and what are the 
 restraints under which they are placed. It is surprising 
 how much mischief they will learn, in a short period, 
 from wicked companions, and how much they may do to 
 corrupt the minds and morals of others. They should 
 be made to realize their individual responsibility, while 
 mingling with their associates, and that they are ac 
 countable for their conduct in company equally as when 
 alone. Each individual is singled out and marked by 
 the all-seeing One, and the sins of youth may cause 
 regret and remorse at a future day. 
 
 The formation of character demands the study of the 
 Scriptures with a view to their precepts and examples. 
 It requires the cultivation of the heart, the moral affec 
 tions as well as the intellect. It involves improvement 
 in external deportment, in ease, propriety, and manly 
 behaviour, in consulting the feelings of others, and in 
 often yielding our convenience to theirs. Civility is a 
 great ornament, and next in importance to the first 
 principles of knowledge. 
 
 Children should early be taught self-government. 
 They must learn to govern their temper arid passions, 
 
RELY ON YOURSELF. 2*23 
 
 and not be left as the " horse, or as the mule, which 
 have no understanding ; whose mouth must be held in 
 Vithabitand bridle." It is shameful and ruinous to 
 allow them to fly into a rage, and give way to violent 
 passion, when unexpectedly disappointed in regard to a 
 pleasant walk- or ride, or some other anticipated enjoy 
 ment. Whenever such ill temper is manifested, they 
 must be called to an account, whatever other business 
 is on hand, and must be taught its exceeding sinful ness 
 and its destructive consequences to themselves. Self- 
 government is essential to all true peace and happiness ; 
 it is essential to the quiet of families and communities, 
 and to all civil freedom. A free government cannot 
 exist where the people have not learned to govern them 
 selves. Anarchy and despotism will ensue, and the 
 masses must be controlled by the strong arm of abso 
 lute power. A vigilant, an all-pervading police, or a 
 standing army, must accomplish what the people might 
 easily do for themselves. The foundation of all free 
 government must be laid in the early training of child 
 ren. They must be made to control their temper. This 
 may be a difficult task ; it may require a long course of 
 discipline ; but the object is worth all the care and effort 
 it may cost. Washington well understood its importance 
 when he said, "I can more easily govern the American 
 army than my passions." But he had them in subjection, 
 and the world admired his self-possession and unruffled 
 temper in the most trying circumstances. Scarcely a 
 greater blessing can be conferred upon a child than the 
 ability to govern himself in the fear of the Lord in 
 every emergency. 
 
224 RELY ON YOURSELF. 
 
 The young should be taught to rely on their own 
 efforts in their studies. They must use the utmost en 
 deavours to solve a difficult problem, or investigate an 
 abstruse subject, before resorting to others for assist 
 ance. They must learn to clothe their thoughts in their 
 own language. It may not be as learned and elegant 
 as that of the most accomplished writers ; but one idea 
 expressed in their own way is more improving and worth 
 more than the copying of whole pages from other au 
 thors. By giving utterance to their own feelings and 
 conceptions, they are preparing to become the future 
 ministers of the gospel, the eloquent advocates at the 
 bar and in the senate. They acquire the habit of think 
 ing for themselves, and thus become qualified for taking 
 a part in the great enterprises of the day, and pushing 
 forward the movements which are to renovate the moral 
 world. 
 
 Let it not be thought that this self-reliance is incon 
 sistent with a proper sense of dependence on the Su 
 preme. All our powers are given us by the Creator, to 
 be employed for his glory in accomplishing the purposes 
 of redeeming mercy. They must be improved diligently 
 by us, while realizing our entire dependence on a higher 
 power. " Without me," saith the Saviour, " ye can do 
 nothing." He only who quietly and with child-like 
 simplicity submits himself to God, accomplishes the end 
 of his existence, and enjoys lasting security and peace. 
 
 " From Thee is all that soothes the life of man. 
 His high endeavour and his glad success, 
 His strength to suffer and his will to serve." 
 
OOP IS LOVE 
 
 the mountain side, 
 And look abroad o er all the joyous earth ; 
 Young flowers are flinging incense far and wid% 
 
 And the rejoicing streams, 
 
 With all their happy gleams, 
 Sparkle out gladness at the sunshine s birth. 
 
 What speaks of hatred here? 
 On the high mountain, in the leafy grove, 
 
 There is no sign of sorrow or of fear : 
 God speaks through Nature in the tones of lova. 
 
 The air is breathing balm, 
 From earth s dim convex, to the circling skies ; 
 It falsely seemeth but a voiceless calm. 
 
 These kindly spirits bend, 
 
 And with earth s discords, blend 
 The music of celestial harmonies. 
 
 Nor in the warlike guise 
 Of earth s proud armies do the bright hosts 
 
 But gloriously humble, meekly wise, 
 God speaks through Angels in the tones of love. 
 
 On Zion s holy hill, 
 
 " Fairest among ten thousand," who is he 
 That to the tempest speaketh, " Peace, be still ?* 
 
 And to the ear of faith 
 
 In softest music saith, 
 "Come, weary-hearted, come to peace and me," 
 
 Come, trusting fearlessly ! 
 "Come and an easy burden mine shall prove ;* 
 
 Thus saith " the faithful witness" unto thee, 
 God speaks through Jesus in the tones of love. 
 15 
 
226 THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 Physician of our souls ! 
 Thy love is ruling over all our days, 
 Whether the loud-voiced thunder sternly rolls, 
 
 Or the low breeze s sigh 
 
 Tells, as it echoes by, 
 Thy loving mercies, and thy equal ways: 
 
 No wrath, no pain, no strife, 
 But peaceful mercy reigns around above, 
 O er all the darkness of an earthly life, 
 God speaks through all things in the tones of lote. 
 
 THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 MRS. FARRAR, in her excellent "Young Lady s 
 Friend," makes the following observations, which are 
 particularly commended to elder sisters : - 
 
 The important relation which sisters bear to brothers 
 cannot be fully appreciated, without a greater know 
 ledge of the world and its temptations to young men, 
 than girls in their teens can be supposed to possess ; 
 and therefore I would beg you to profit by my experi 
 ence in this matter, and to believe me when I assure you, 
 that your companionship and influence may be powerful 
 agents in preserving your brothers from dissipation, in 
 saving them from dangerous intimacies, and maintaining 
 in their minds a high standard of female excellence. 
 
 If your brothers are younger than you, encourage 
 them to be perfectly confidential with you ; win their 
 friendship by your sympathy in all their concerns, and 
 let them see that their interests and their pleasures are 
 
THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 227 
 
 liberally provided for in the family arrangements. Never 
 disclose their little secrets, however unimportant they 
 may seem to you ; never pain them by any ill-timed 
 joke ; never repress their feelings by ridicule ; but be 
 their tenderest friend, and then you may become their 
 ablest adviser. If separated from them by the course 
 of school or college education, make a point of keeping 
 up your intimacy by full, free, and affectionate corre 
 spondence ; and when they return to the paternal roo f , 
 at that awkward age between youth and manhood, when 
 reserve creeps over the mind, like an impenetrable veil, 
 suffer it not to interpose between you and your brothers. 
 Cultivate their friendship and intimacy with all the ad 
 dress and tenderness you possess ; for it is of unspeak 
 able importance to them that their sisters should be 
 their confidential friends. Consider the loss of a ball 
 or party, for the sake of making the evening pass plea 
 santly to your brothers at home, as a small sacrifice ; 
 one you should unhesitatingly make. If they go into 
 company with you, see that they are introduced to the 
 most desirable acquaintances, and show them that you 
 are interested in their acquitting themselves well. 
 
 If you are so happy as to have elder brothers, you 
 should be equally assiduous in cultivating their friend 
 ship, though the advances must of course be differently 
 made. As they have long been accustomed to treat you 
 at? a child, you may meet with some repulses when you 
 aspire to become a companion and a friend ; \ ut do not 
 be discouraged by this. The earlier maturity of girls, 
 will soon render you their equal in sentiment, if not in 
 knowledge, and your ready sympathy will soon convince 
 
228 THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 them of it. They will be agreeably surprised, when 
 they find their former plaything and messenger become 
 their quick-sighted and intelligent companion, under 
 standing at a glance what is passing in their hearts ; 
 and love and confidence on your part will soon be repaid 
 in kind. Young men often feel the want of a confiden 
 tial friend of the softer sex, to sympathize with them in 
 their little affairs of sentiment, and happy are those who 
 find one in a sister. 
 
 Once possessed of an elder brother s confidence, spare 
 no pains to preserve it ; convince him, by the little sacri 
 fices of personal convenience and pleasure which you 
 are willing to make for him, that when you do oppose 
 his wishes, it is on principle and for conscience* sake ; 
 then will you be a blessing to him, and, even when dif 
 fering from you, he will love and respect you the more 
 for your adherence to a high standard. 
 
 So many temptations beset young men, of which 
 young women know nothing, that it is of the utmost 
 importance that your brothers evenings should be hap 
 pily passed at home, that their friends should be your 
 friends, that their engagements should be the same as 
 yours, and that various innocent amusements should be 
 provided for them in the family circle. Music is an 
 accomplishment chiefly valuable as a home enjoyment, 
 as rallying round the piano the various members of the 
 family, and harmonizing their hearts as well as voices, 
 particularly in devotional strains. I know no more 
 agreeable and interesting spectacle, than that of bro 
 thers and sisters playing and singing together those 
 elevated compositions in music and poetry which gratify 
 
THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 229 
 
 the taste and purity of the heart, whilst their fond pa 
 rents sit delighted by. I have seen and heard an elder 
 sister thus leading the family choir, who was the soul 
 of harmony to the whole household, and whose life was 
 a perfect example of those virtues which I am here en 
 deavouring to inculcate. Let no one say, in reading 
 tlis chapter, that too much is here required of sisters, 
 that no one can be expected to lead such a self-sacrificing 
 life ; for the sainted one to whom I refer, was all that I 
 v ould ask any sister to be, and a happier person never 
 lived. " To do good and make others happy," was her 
 rule of life, and in this she found the art of making 
 herself so. 
 
 Sisters should be always willing to walk, ride, visit 
 with their brothers, and esteem it a privilege to be their 
 companions. It is worth while to learn innocent games 
 for the sake of furnishing brothers with amusement 
 and making home the most agreeable place to them. 
 
 If your brothers take an interest in your personal 
 appearance and dress, you should encourage the feeling 
 by consulting their taste, and sacrificing any little fancy 
 of your own to a decided dislike of theirs. Brothers 
 will generally be found strongly opposed to the slightest 
 indecorum in sisters ; even those who are ready enough 
 to take advantage of freedom of manners in other girls, 
 have very strict notions with regard to their own sisters. 
 Their intercourse with all sorts of men enables them to 
 judge of the construction put upon certain actions, and 
 modes of dress and speech, much better than w(mcn 
 can ; and you will do well to take their advice on all 
 euch points. 
 
2 JO THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 Brothers and sisters may greatly aid each other in 
 judging of their friends of the opposite sex. Brothers 
 can throw important light upon the character and merits 
 of young men, because they see them when acting out 
 their natures before their comrades, and relieved from 
 the restraints of the drawing-room ; and you can, in 
 return, greatly assist your brothers in coming to wiso 
 and just conclusions concerning their female friends. 
 Your brothers may be very much indebted to the quicker 
 penetration of women into each other s characters, and 
 saved by your discernment from being fascinated by 
 qualities that are not of sterling value ; but, in order 
 to have the influence necessary to such important ends, 
 you must be habitually free from a spirit of detraction, 
 candid in all your judgments, and ever ready to admire 
 whatever is lovely and good in your own sex. If, when 
 you dissent from your brother s too favourable opinion 
 of a lady, he can with any justice charge you with a 
 prejudice against her family, or a capricious dislike of 
 her, your judgment, however correct, will have no weight, 
 and he will be very likely to become not only the lady s 
 champion, but her lover. 
 
 If your brothers have received a classical education, 
 and are studiously inclined, you may derive great assist 
 ance from them in the cultivation of your own mind, 
 and bind them still closer to you in the delightful com 
 panionship of literary pursuits. 
 
 I have been told by men, who had passed unharmed 
 through the temptations of youth, that they owed their 
 escape from many dangers to the ii.timate companion 
 ship of affectionate and pure-minded sisters. They have 
 
THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 231 
 
 been saved from a hazardous meeting with idle company 
 by some home engagement, of which their sisters were 
 the charm ; they have refrained from mixing with tho 
 impure, because they would not bring home thoughts 
 and feelings which they could not share with those 
 trusting and loving friends ; they have put aside the 
 wine-cup and abstained from stronger potations, because 
 they would not profane with their fumes the holy kiss, 
 with which they were accustomed to bid their sisters 
 good-night. 
 
 The duties of sisters to each other are so obvious and 
 well understood, that it will be needless to enter fully 
 upon them here. If your heart is right towards God, 
 and you feel that the great business of life is the educa 
 tion of your immortal spirit for eternity, you will easily 
 bear with the infirmities of others, because you will be 
 fully impressed with a sense of your own ; and, when 
 you can amicably bear and forbear, love will come in, 
 to soften every asperity, heal every little wound, and 
 make a band of sisters " helpers of each other s joy." 
 
 A few cases may arise, in the most harmonious fami 
 lies, wherein sisters may not fully understand each 
 other s rights, and may therefore ignorantly trespass 
 upon them ; such, for instance, as where one of tho 
 family is very fond of reading, and wishes to nave a, 
 certain portion of her time uninterruptedly given to that 
 employment, and a sister keeps interrupting her by con 
 versation, or appeals to her for aid in some lesson or 
 piece of work. Sometimes a great reader is made the 
 butt of the rest of the family for that very valuable 
 propensity, and half her pleasure in it destroyed by 
 
232 THE RELATION OP BROTHERS AND SISTERS 
 
 its being made a standing joke among her brothers and 
 sisters. 
 
 Sisters should as scrupulously regard each other a 
 rights of property, as they would those of a guest stay 
 ing in the house ; never helping themselves without 
 leave to the working materials, writing implements, 
 drawing apparatus, books, or clothing of each other. 
 It is a mistake to suppose that the nearness of the rela 
 tionship makes it allowable ; the more intimate our con 
 nexion with any one, the more necessary it is to guard 
 ourselves against taking unwarrantable liberties. For 
 the very reason that you are obliged to be so much to 
 gether, you should take care to do nothing disagreeable 
 to each other. 
 
 Love is a plant of delicate growth, and, though it 
 sometimes springs up spontaneously, it will never flourish 
 long and well, without careful culture ; and when I see 
 how it is cultivated in some families, the wonder is, not 
 that it does not spread so as to overshadow the whole 
 circle, but that any sprig of it should survive the rude 
 treatment it meets with. 
 
 Genuine politeness is a great fosterer of family love ; 
 it allays accidental irritation, by preventing harsh retorts 
 and rude contradictions ; it softens the boisterous, stimu 
 lates the indolent, suppresses selfishness, and, by form 
 ing a habit of consideration for others, harmonizes the 
 whole. Politeness begets politeness, and brothers may 
 be easily won by it to leave off the rude ways they Vring 
 home from school or college. Never receive any little 
 attention without thanking them for it, never ask a favour 
 of them but in cautious terms, never reply to their ques 
 
THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 233 
 
 tions in monosyllables, and they will soon be ashamed 
 to do such things themselves. You should labour, by 
 precept and example, to convince them that no one can 
 have really good manners abroad, who is not habitually 
 polite at home. 
 
 Elder sisters exert a very great influence over the 
 younger children of a family, either for good or for evil. 
 If you are impatient, unfair in your judgments, or 
 assume too much authority, you injure the tempers of 
 these little ones, make them jealous of their rights, and 
 render your own position a very unpleasant one ; where 
 as, if you are patient and kind, and found your preten 
 sions to dictate, not on your age, but on truth and justice, 
 the younger children will readily allow your claims. 
 
 Young children are excellent judges of the motives 
 and feelings of those who attempt to control them ; and, 
 if you would win their love, and dispose them to comply 
 with your reasonable requests, you must treat them with 
 perfect candour and uprightness. Never attempt to 
 cheat, even the youngest, into a compliance with your 
 wishes ; for, though you succeed at the time, you lessen 
 your influence by the loss of confidence which follows 
 detection. 
 
 With every disposition to treat the younger ones 
 kindly, elder sisters are often discouraged and discom 
 forted by what they consider the over indulgence of their 
 parents towards the younger members of the family ; but 
 where this complaint is well founded, much is still in 
 their power. They can, by judicious conduct, do a great 
 deal to counteract the bad effects of this parental fond 
 ness, and make the little ones ashamed to take a mean 
 
234 THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 advantage of it. The very indulgent are seldom just ; 
 now children value justice and strict adherence to pro 
 mises more than indulgence, and you may mould them 
 to your will by the exercise of those higher qualities. 
 
 It is the duty of elder sisters to take a lively interest 
 in the education of the younger children, and to use all 
 the advantages which they have received, for the benefit 
 of those that are coming forward in the same line. They 
 should aid their parents in the choice of schools, and 
 ascertain what is actually learnt at them. Where cir 
 cumstances render it necessary that the elder children 
 should assist in teaching the younger ones, it should be 
 done cheerfully ; not as a duty merely, but as a useful 
 discipline. Some writers upon education consider teach 
 ing others as the best and most effectual way of learning 
 one s self. When Madame de Genlis described what she 
 considered as a perfect system of education, she repre 
 sented her models as taking younger children to teach 
 as a part of their own instruction. It has been said, that 
 we are never sure that we know a thing thoroughly, until 
 we have taught it to another. 
 
 If the duty of teaching has its advantages, it also has 
 its dangers ; it is a very fatiguing occupation, and ought 
 not to occupy too much of a young person s time. 
 Where this is required of a daughter, other home-duties 
 should be remitted, and her day should be so apportioned 
 as to leave her ample time for exercise and recreation, 
 or the labour may prove injurious to her health. It ia 
 very seldom that one, who has never attempted to teach 
 others, can duly appreciate the labour of it ; and a 
 father so circumstanced, will sometimes think that as 
 
THE RELATION OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS. JoJ 
 
 many hours may be given to it as he gives to his busi 
 ness ; but this is a great mistake ; nothing is so heavy a 
 tax on mind and body, as the act of communicating know 
 ledge to other minds; and the more intelligently and 
 lovingly it is done, the greater is the fatigue. 
 
 This duty should not be allowed to interfere with the 
 further progress of the young teacher, for though it may 
 be useful to go over old ground, with those who are 
 learning, she should still be careful not to narrow her 
 mind down to the standard of their habits ; but refresh 
 and invigorate it, at the same time, by exploring new- 
 fields of literature. 
 
 Those who are not called upon to teach younger 
 brothers and sisters, may yet do them great good by- 
 exercising their minds in conversation, and by communi 
 cating useful information to them in their daily inter 
 course. The reverse of this I have sometimes observed 
 with sorrow. I have seen amiable and well informed 
 girls act towards these little ones, as if they were not at 
 all responsible for the impressions they made on their 
 tender minds. They would mislead a young inquirer 
 by false information, and consider it a good joke ; or 
 they would harrow up young and susceptible minds by 
 frightful stories, Which, though amusing at the time, 
 could not fail to send the little dears trembling to bed, 
 afraid of the dark, and unable to sleep for terror. 
 Where, however, the elder children have been properly 
 trained by the parents, such mistakes cannot occur, 
 and where they have not, it would require a volume to 
 do justice to the subject. 
 
"FREELY YE HAVE RECEIVED, FREELY GIV9 
 
 Go forth among the poor, 
 
 Thy pathway leadeth there, 
 Thy gentle voice may soothe their pain, 
 
 And blunt the thorns of care : 
 Go forth with earnest zeal, 
 
 Nor from the duty start, 
 Speak to them words of gracious love, 
 
 " Blessed are the poor in heart." 
 
 Go forth among the sad, 
 
 Lest their dark cup o erflow ; 
 They have on earth a heritage 
 
 Of weariness and woe ; 
 Tears dim their daily toil, 
 
 And sighs break out from sleep; 
 Bring light among the darkness ss-j", 
 
 " Blessed are they that weep." 
 
 Go forth among the weak 
 
 Who lack the strength of prayer, 
 Whose trust is lost in hopelessness, 
 
 Whose faith in deep despair : 
 And God s dear words shall touch their haarti 
 
 Like Hermon s holy dew, 
 " lie giveth power to the faint/ * 
 
 And will your strength renew. 
 
 Go forth through all the earth, 
 
 There waiteth work for you, 
 The harvest truly seems most fair, 
 
 But labourers are few. 
 With tireless hopeful ardent love, 
 
 Fulfil your lofty part, 
 And yours shall be the blessing, too, 
 
 " Blessed are the pure in heart " 
 
THE FRIENDS: 
 
 LUXURIES LOST AND HAPPINESS WOW. 
 
 " Celestial happiness ! whene er she stoops 
 To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, 
 And one alone, to make her sweet amends 
 For absent heaven, the bosom of a friend ; 
 Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, 
 Each other s pillow to repose divine." 
 
 IT was a pleasant day in June, the month of roses, 
 when the young earth seems to send on the balmy air a 
 whispered thanksgiving to heaven for her rich and gentle 
 beauty. The fresh foliage grows brighter as the sweet 
 breath of the summer wind plays among the leaves, and 
 sportively kisses the fragrance from the lovely flowers, 
 wafting it over the green meadows and quiet plains. 
 
 At the open casement of a white cottage, two younp 
 girls were seated ; one sewing, the other reading aloud, 
 yet often pausing to utter the elevating thoughts the 
 volume suggested. They were about the same age, and 
 might number eighteen years. The reader was very 
 beautiful. Her dark hair was arranged with exquisite 
 taste around her finely formed head, and a Grecian 
 braid confined the shining ringlets that would have 
 shaded too closely the white intellectual brow. Her 
 usually proud face was now soft and yielding as a 
 child s in its look of confidence and love. A thoughtful 
 tenderness dwelt in her large black eye, as it rested on 
 her friend, while a faint smile stole over her lip, telling 
 
238 THE FRIENDS. 
 
 how hushed was every unholy feeling, and betraying a 
 heart full of sisterly affection. 
 
 Her companion, who possessed no heauty save that 
 which is reflected from a pure heart, was seated on a 
 low chair by her side, and as she raised her gentle 
 countenance to that of her friend, it wore a look of 
 almost spiritual loveliness. 
 
 The intimacy between Ellen Wilbur and her beautiful 
 friend, commenced at school. The latter was wealthy 
 and talented, and therefore received the homage of her 
 companions, which was probably rendered to her " acres 
 of charms;" for even children learn to hold "filthy 
 lucre" in the same estimation as their elders. 
 
 Gertrude Stacy was the only daughter of a rich mer 
 chant, a native of England, who had early come to this 
 country, where he married a poor, but beautiful and 
 intelligent girl. His wife lived but a few years after 
 Her marriage, and Gertrude was a stranger to a mother s 
 care from the age of three years. Mr. Stacy, wholly 
 absorbed in money-making, cultivated none of the gen 
 tler affections. He possessed that calculating spirit, 
 hich so often chills the love of a young heart. As the 
 fair girl grew towards womanhood, she yearned for a 
 fr . -nd who might appreciate the deep feelings known 
 only to her own soul. The sweetness and naivete of 
 Ellen s manners, combined with her intelligence, won 
 Gertrude s admiration; and the fact that the friendless 
 orphan showed less eagerness than any one else to be 
 come intimate with her, and always wore an aii of gentle 
 Belf-rcspect when they met, perhaps impelled the proud 
 heiress to sue for the friendship of one who was regarded 
 
THE FRIENDS. 239 
 
 by many young ladies of the institution as to-) poor to 
 be blessed with their familiarity. 
 
 Since they had left school, Gertrude resided in the 
 city, where she shone in the courts of fashion, as a 
 44 bright particular star." Rich, beautiful, arid highly 
 gifted, she met with adulation at every step, and although 
 she received it with apparent indifference, its flattering 
 breath fell upon her too haughty spirit like a grateful 
 incense. She had few female friends among her fashion 
 able acquaintances, for close observation had taught her, 
 that she must seek for friendship where luxury and self- 
 indulgence had not enervated the intellect, and put to 
 silence the low, sweet murmurings of affection that would 
 fain breathe over the soul like the music of heaven. 
 Gertrude possessed strong feelings, and many noble 
 qualities ; but these were often thrown into the shade 
 by one great fault pride. When she left her luxurious 
 home in the city, and found herself in the simple white 
 cottage where Ellen dwelt in her grandmother s family, 
 this blemish in her character apparently vanished, and 
 the affections of her better nature gushed forth ; new 
 thoughts found entrance in her bosom, and she felt a 
 desire to put away every evil thing within her, and be 
 come gentle and unselfish as her companion. 
 
 How great the influence of a friend ! and how import 
 ant that we should select those only whose influence will 
 deepen in our hearts the little goodness that may have 
 found root there, instead of choking it with weeds of 
 hasty and evil growth ! 
 
 There was now in the communion of the friend s a 
 ckeper interest than ever; a sadness they had PCVCT 
 
240 THE FRIENDS. 
 
 known before ; they were about to be separated for two 
 long years, and what changes might not occur before 
 they met again? Many times their eyes filled with 
 tears, as they dwelt with lingering tenderness on the 
 happy hours they had spent together, which had given 
 BO bright a glow to their existence. They well knew, 
 
 " Thought can dare 
 
 The pathless waste, the viewless air ; 
 And though the roaring seas divide, 
 Where spirits mingle and confide, 
 They form no interposing bond, 
 Thought can outstretch e en these beyond !" 
 
 Yet, though such reflections might lessen the pain of 
 separation, still it was pain. 
 
 A wealthy aunt of Ellen s, whose health idleness and 
 dissipation had rendered delicate, had persuaded her 
 husband that it was necessary for her to cross the ocean, 
 and sojourn in a foreign climate, in order to recover her 
 lost bloom. It was decided that they should be absent 
 two years, and Ellen had been invited by her aunt to 
 accompany her as a companion. With the delighted 
 curiosity of a young girl, she consented, and when she 
 could forget the endearments of home, her heart beat 
 high with enthusiasm as she anticipated the time when 
 her feet should press the classic soil of Europe. 
 
 The day of separation at length came, and the rosy 
 light of morning streamed in the chamber occupied by 
 the friends. They had risen early, and hour after hour 
 slipped away as they felt the luxury of being alone for 
 the last time, and pouring out their full hearts to each 
 
THE FRIENDS. 241 
 
 other. But the time drew near, and, with arms drawn 
 closely around each other, they knelt at the bedside, and 
 the fervency of that last prayer hung over their spirits 
 long after the ocean had divided them. 
 
 Two years passed away, and during that time the 
 heart of Gertrude Stacy had " grown familiar with deep 
 trials of its own." 
 
 Her father had imbibed the spirit of speculation, and, 
 as was the case with many others, instead of increasing 
 his wealth, it tore from his grasp all that he possessed. 
 The love of money was his ruling passion, and when ho 
 discovered that his riches were lost beyond recall, he 
 felt a blow from which he never recovered. His ener 
 gies seemed to leave him entirely, and he sunk into a 
 low, desponding state of mind, which necessarily im 
 paired his bodily health. Gertrude was called upon to 
 bear the death of her father soon after the loss of that 
 wealth she had not known how to value until it was 
 taken away. 
 
 When Ellen Wilbur returned to her native land, her 
 manners yet frank and simple, and her heart still glow 
 ing with the same warm love towards the beautiful girl 
 she had left with prospects so fair, Gertrude was poor, 
 lonely, and an orphan. She had no near relatives to 
 offer her a home, and many, persons she thought inte 
 rested in her, proved cold and indifferent when she most 
 needed friends. Pride impelled her to shrink from every 
 one she had known in prosperity even those who might 
 and perhaps would have aided her. The unhappy girl 
 obtained a boarding place in a retired part of the city, 
 and, with bitterness in her bosom, sought and with diffi- 
 10 
 
242 THE FRIENDS. 
 
 cultj procured some employment in plain sewing, which 
 barely defrayed her most urgent expenses. Buried in 
 loneliness, she brooded morbidly over the events that 
 had so changed the world to her. Yet, amid all her 
 gloomy thoughts and dark forebodings, when her mind 
 reverted to Ellen, a ray of hope visited her, and the 
 desolate girl longed for the time when she might be 
 cheered by the affectionate kindness of that gentle 
 being. No sight she more desired " Than face of faith 
 ful friend; fairest when seen in darkest day." 
 
 At last her wishes were gratified. On her return 
 Ellen eagerly sought her humble residence. With a 
 beating heart the long-absent one ascended the stairs 
 that led to the chamber of the once rich heiress. Her 
 trembling hand was laid upon the latch, and yet shs 
 lingered to still the emotions that thrilled her bosom. 
 She listened to hear if any one was within, but no sound 
 met her ear. Again her fingers pressed the latch ; it 
 yielded to her touch, and with a noiseless step she 
 entered the apartment. Gertrude sat sewing, appa 
 rently buried in painful thought. Her face was pale 
 and thin, and tears gushed into the eyes of her gentle 
 visiter as she paused a moment, unobserved, and marked 
 the change suffering had wrought in those beautiful fea 
 tures. 
 
 "Oh! Gertrude!" broke huskily from her lips. And 
 with a faint scream of joy the astonished girl sprang 
 from her chair, and the long-parted friends were clasped 
 in each other s arms.. They wept long together, and 
 their hearts communed more deeply than if words had 
 
THE FRIENDS. 243 
 
 broken that blessed silence. When they had seated 
 themselves, Gertrude said, in a low tone, 
 
 " We looked for changes, dear Ellen, when we parted, 
 but I little dreamed that I would know so much wretch- 
 edness. My best feelings are wasted by sorrow ; and 
 everything that was good and beautiful in my spirit is 
 withered and dead. One deep, warm, kindly feeling 
 found a dwelling-place in my bosom ; I could weep over 
 the troubles of others but now, I am changed ; there 
 is nothing left of my former self. Oh ! Ellen, you will 
 find nothing in me to love," and the wretched girl 
 leaned her head on the shoulder of her friend, and gave 
 way to a flood of passionate tears. 
 
 Ellen replied only by drawing her arm more fondly 
 around her, and brushing the hair from the hot brow of 
 the weeping girl, upon which she pressed her lips, while 
 her own tears fell fast. How eloquent, then, was that 
 silent caress, the lingering lips upon the forehead ! 
 
 When Gertrude had ceased weeping, Ellen broke the 
 silence by saying, 
 
 " Everything appears darker than it really is, dearest. 
 If you will, you may be happy again. Your best feel 
 ings are not wasted ; you are beginning to know your 
 self ; circumstances have developed the evil feelings that 
 appear new to you, yet you possessed them before, 
 although they were never called into action. Now 
 that you are aware of their existence, dear Gertrude, 
 overcome them, and you will be purer and happier than 
 if they yet remained in their unconscious slumber. Tho 
 green spot in your soul is not withered ; dark clouds 
 have hidden it, and you think the fierce tempest has 
 
244 THE FRIENDS. 
 
 laid all waste. There was an object in that wild storni ; 
 it was to purify that chosen spot, and protect it from 
 greater ill?. 
 
 " When pain can t bless, heaven quits us in despair/ 
 
 " Try to be resigned to what God has ordered, Ger 
 trude, and forget your own sufferings in efforts to be 
 useful to others; then the sun of true happiness will 
 break in upon your spirit with its pleasant warmth, 
 refreshing the new and delicate germs of goodness, that 
 they may be strengthened by future storms and outlive 
 them. When happiness depends on external things, it 
 must ever rest on a broken reed- To be real it must 
 spring from love and gentleness within ; then its clear 
 light of purity and joy may be shed with blessings upon 
 the hearts of others. Every evil thing that is banished 
 from our bosoms, renders our reform easier ; and it is no 
 less true than poetical, that if it is our constant aim to 
 become better, the angels minister unto us, and impart 
 to us their pure thoughts and heavenly affections." 
 
 " Ah ! Ellen !" returned Gertrude, with a faint smile, 
 "I almost fancy you an angel. I csmfeel that you are 
 good and pure, and if I could always be w r ith you, I 
 think I might learn what true happiness is." 
 
 She leaned her head upon her hand for some mo 
 ments, lost in deep and earnest thought ; her brow knit 
 at times, but there was no bitterness in her look. At 
 length the troubled expression vanished, her slightly 
 quivering lip grew firmer, and in a voice low and tremu 
 lous with its weight of new-born, elevated feeling, she 
 said, 
 
THE FRIENDS. 245 
 
 " I know it is easier to resolve than to follow a reso 
 lution under all circumstances ; yet, if I may have 
 strength from above, my life shall no longer be wasted 
 in idle repinings. If 1 cannot impart happiness to 
 others, my spirit may at least learn not to cast a gloom. 
 But how can I always resist despondency ? How can 
 I stifle every selfish emotion ? Ah ! Ellen, it is no slight 
 thing to change our very natures." 
 
 u It is the work of a life, dear Gertrude, yet do not 
 be discouraged ; if we do the best we can, angels can 
 no more. But now let me turn to another subject, and 
 tell you some good news ; you must give up this sewing, 
 that confines you from six o clock in the morning till 
 near midnight. My home shall be your home " 
 
 " But," interrupted Gertrude, " I cannot be dependent ; 
 and even if I were willing, the addition of one would be 
 felt in your family." 
 
 " You mistake me," said Ellen, " we are not to be 
 idle. A good school is very much needed in our vici 
 nity, and if you will consent, we will take upon ourselves 
 the office of school madams. I think we can soon get 
 accustomed to wearing our dignity-caps. What is your 
 opinion?" 
 
 Tears sprung into the eyes of Gertrude, as she 
 replied, 
 
 " You are not compelled to labour, Ellen, and it is 
 only for my sake this school is proposed. Tell me, would 
 you have thought of it, if I yet possessed the luxuries I 
 once did ?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose not," answered her friend, with a 
 I ruiik and playful smile, " so I am indebted to you for 
 
246 THE FRIENDS. 
 
 the brightest idea that ever entered my dull cranium. 
 But we shall be perfectly happy, I am sure, Gertrude ; 
 we 3an be together every day, and we must make our 
 duties a scurc * of pleasure." 
 
 A smile, grateful, yet tender and subdued in its love 
 liness, passed over the face of Gertrude ; a fountain of 
 purer feelings was opened in her heart, and it thrilled 
 with new-born hopes, and yet was chastened with a pen 
 sive fear, lest her late despondency might banish her 
 half-sad yet sweet emotions. 
 
 Night warned Ellen to depart, and the fair girls 
 separated with the pure halo of disinterested friendship 
 around them. 
 
 A few weeks after, on a little house in a certain town, 
 a new sign might be seen, bearing these words, " Semi 
 nary for Young Ladies." Within, a pleasing scene was 
 presented. In one corner our friend Ellen was seated, 
 her sweet countenance bright with happy feelings. She 
 was gently encouraging to greater efforts in spelling half 
 a dozen female urchins, who were grouped around her ; 
 arid when a ludicrous mistake from some child, too 
 eager to display her abilities, met her ear, a quick mis 
 chievous glance at Gertrude, and a hard-suppressed 
 Bmile, betrayed a teacher not yet familiar with her occu 
 pation. The innocent children clung to her, and looked 
 up in her kind face with that confidence they always 
 manifest towards those who treat them with uniform 
 tenderness. 
 
 Not far distant, Gertrude directed a class in painting, 
 and only those who are familiar with the pencil can tell 
 with what anxious delight she marked the improvement 
 
THE FRIENDS. 247 
 
 of one pupil in a favourite piece, or how she longed to 
 seize the brush and with a few careless touches remodel 
 a landscape another poor girl was half-discouraged over. 
 The face of the lovely mistress wore a look of cheerful 
 dignity. One word, spoken in a kind, affectionate tone, 
 was sufficient to gain implicit obedience to her com 
 mands ; and the warm interest she manifested towards 
 all under her care, rendered her beloved without any 
 feelings of jealousy. 
 
 Every day, when the school was dismissed, the young 
 }eachers sallied forth, their steps impede! by some rosy- 
 cheeked damsels, who invariably sued for the honour of 
 Caking their hands and walking by the "madams." 
 
 Experience taught Gertrude that the power of being 
 useful and making others happy gave her a far more 
 abiding joy than she had ever felt when surrounded by 
 luxury, and seeking only self-gratification ; a closer in 
 timacy rendered the friends more deeply attached, and 
 no bligh* ever marred the beauty of their perfect friend 
 ship. 
 
WORDS. 
 
 UH, neTer say a careless word 
 
 Hath not the power to pain ; 
 The shaft may ope some hidden wound 
 
 That closes not again. 
 Weigh well those light-winged messengers 5 
 
 God marked your heedless word, 
 And with it, too, the falling; tear, 
 
 The heart-pang that it stirred. 
 
 "Words ! What are words? A simple wort 
 
 Hath spells to call the tears 
 That long have lain a sealed fount, 
 
 Unclosed through mournful years. 
 Back from the unseen sepulchre, 
 
 A word hath summoned forth 
 A form that hath its place no rnora 
 
 Among the things of earth. 
 
 Words heed them well ; some whispered one 
 
 Hath yet a power to fling 
 A shadow on the brow ; the soul 
 
 In agony to wring ; 
 A name forbidden, or forgot, 
 
 That sometimes, unawares, 
 Murmurs upon our wakening lips, 
 
 And mingles in our prayers. 
 
 Oh, words sweet words ! A blessing comei 
 
 Softly from kindly lips ; . . 
 Tender, endearing tones, that break 
 
 The spirit s drear eclipso. 
 
TFIE MERCHANT S SON. 249 
 
 Oh ! arc there not some cherished tones 
 
 In the deep heart enshrined, 
 Uttered but once they passed and left 
 
 A track of light behind? 
 
 Wards ! What are words ? Ah ! know st thou nU 
 
 The household names of love ? 
 Th thousand tender memories, 
 
 That float their graves above? 
 !*<>ng buried by the world s cold tread, 
 
 Yet mid the crowd they rise, 
 And smile, as angel-guests would snr.le, 
 
 With gentle earnest eyes. 
 
 THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 " To weave bright visions, and to kneel 
 
 And worship in their ray, 
 And see them vanish as we /^aze 
 Like hues of parting day." 
 
 " Dreams shall bind my soul no longer, 
 
 Darkly to the valley c)od ; 
 Ever shall its flight grow stronger 
 Soaring upward to my God." n. M. 
 
 A VOUNG man of prepossessing appearance \?a: pacing 
 8 \j\\ly uiid thoughtfully up and down the parlov .A of his 
 father s house. The clear, softened light of /-he full 
 inoon streamed in upon the furniture, and reve. ied occa 
 sionally the expression of his countenance, \shi?h was 
 serious. Once in a while a smile broke over his f< i*t ares. 
 as he appeared briefly to yield to the pKy of fancy. 
 
250 THE MERCHANT S SON 
 
 " So I am indeed twenty-one !" he said, musingly ; 
 " this is the day I have looked forward to, from boyhood, 
 as the period when I should be free as the wind. What 
 are my objects of pursuit ? What have they been ? Oh, 
 Fame ! I could die if tby silver trumpet would ring cut 
 her loudest blast for me. I will be no medium character ; 
 I will either play a conspicuous part on the world s great 
 stage, or I will sink into nothingness. I have been sin 
 obedient son to a father who means well, but judges 
 wrongfully of me. He has kept me cooped up in a 
 counting-room, lest, as he says, I should become a sim 
 pleton or a poet. I have borne it silently, although it 
 galled me to the quick. God forbid that I should have 
 pained his heart, before I had a man s right to act in 
 freedom, to cut out my own path in the world ! And 
 yet and yet" the young man s lip curved bitterly, as 
 he paused a moment, " he has drawn the rein almost too 
 tight. I have not been allowed the choice of doing what 
 I like. Money money money, when will the time 
 come that it will not be worshipped ? I hate it. I hate 
 that grasping after gold. How can an immortal soul so 
 far forget its high destiny as to make the clutching of 
 golden coin the great aim of existence ? But there are 
 thousands who seem fit for nothing else." 
 
 Arthur Griswold seated himself on the sofa, passed 
 his hand through his hair repeatedly, sighed profoundly, 
 muttered something about the generality of people being 
 such idiots, then with a " heigho ! heigho ! heigho !" ho 
 leaned his head back against the wall in silence. 
 
 "But money is a fine thing after all!" he said, half 
 Binilmg, as after a long pause he resumed his train of 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. 251 
 
 thought. " It is well I can clutch a little myself just 
 now ; I fear father, when he learns ray resolution, will 
 request me to keep my distance from his coffers. Let it 
 be so ! I think I can get along. Yes, my life of close 
 study shall soon commence ; and then what shall my 
 glorious future be? Great as a poet s dream: there u 
 a power within me ; but alas ! it is a smouldering spark 
 which may never burst forth into a flame, and light up 
 clearly the c chambers of mine imagery. Such thoughts 
 shall not be indulged ! I will! Those two little words 
 shall be the beacon stars, to lead me forward to the 
 accomplishment of my purposes. Difficulties shall vanish 
 before the might of a strong will. To resolve and to 
 accomplish, shall be one thing with me." 
 
 " Why, Arthur, are you all alone ?" said the soft, 
 musical voice of Lucy Griswold, as she entered the room. 
 She seated herself on the sofa next to her brother, and 
 rested her lovely head confidingly upon his shoulder. 
 
 " I was all alone, dear," he replied. 
 
 " Indulging in beautiful imaginings, I suppose ?" sug 
 gested Lucy. 
 
 "Not remarkably beautiful." 
 
 " Well, then, come stand by the window, and look out 
 upon this poetic sky. If fancy does not wave her wand 
 for you, and wake up imaginings, sweet and dreaming, 
 you are no poet. Just banish earthly thoughts, and rove 
 anywhere and everywhere, as I do, at such a lovely 
 hour." 
 
 " I will, to oblige you," answered Arthur, leading her 
 to the window, and kissing her pure brow with a kind 
 brother s deep affection That fair young girl was the 
 
252 THE MERCHANT S SON, 
 
 only one t:> whom lie poured forth the yearning aspira 
 tions of his soul. Her sweet influence breathed over hia 
 spirit like a balmy air, and hushed it into quietness. She 
 was almost an idol to him ; she understood, appreciated, 
 and sympathized with him ; while all her actions seemed 
 to be a living prayer that he should become pure and 
 good. And yet she was rather a wayward, mischievous 
 being, when she took it into her head to be so. The 
 spirit of mirth peeped out of her laughing eyes some 
 what too often, as her grave grandmother assured her. 
 But she was silent now, as well as Arthur. It was, in 
 deed, the hour for fancy to give reins to her darling 
 reveries, for the witchery of romance to steal into the 
 heart. You could, under its power, have rolled back 
 the tide of time, and have planted your footsteps in 
 great Rome, you could have gazed up at her softly- 
 brilliant sky, revealing her thousand splendours. You 
 could have revelled in the once sunlit streets of ancient 
 Pompeii, or have trod the classic ground of Greece. The 
 past might have been before you, or the sunny future, 
 with its rainbow hopes, its glorious dreams, its flowers 
 of love and gladness flung at your feet. Hope, delicious 
 hope, the gay intruder, the wild deluder, she would have 
 stolen on the wings of the softly-dreaming air. she 
 would have poured her laughing light upon your bosom, 
 as the zephyr plays over the unfolding petals of the 
 eun-kissed rose. All this might have happened if you 
 were young, dear reader ; for people strangely forget 
 these romping fancy-flights, if care but press her good- 
 for-nothing fingers upon the bounding heart. Youth ! 
 how blest thou art, with thy fresh, glad thoughts, thy 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. 253 
 
 witching dreams, breathing their spell over the untram 
 melled heart ! How dost thou roam over every sunny 
 pot, and make all things bright with the touch of thine 
 own fairy wand ! All things happy will be possible to 
 thee all things wished for will surely press into thy 
 service, begging to twine around thy brow the garland 
 of a proud, bright destiny ! How dost thou laugh, when 
 the aged lip of experience would foretell thee a tale of 
 thine own blighted hopes ! Clouds and sunlight thou 
 hast known; but the April smile ever chid back the 
 impetuous tear, and bade thee see how the shining drops 
 freshened the beauty of earth and sky. Thy heart is 
 free ; and, if ever the mist comes, it looks upward and 
 around, and smiles to see the sunshine breaking, and bring 
 ing back to thee all thy clustering joys. Why may not the 
 heart be always young, though wrinkles drive away the 
 smoothness from the brow, and take from the lip its rosy 
 } lue? though silver thread the shining locks, and beauty 
 depart from the wasting features ? May not the undying 
 soul retain its youth, so long as we are blessed with our 
 faculties ? May it not grow stronger and greater as it 
 nears its everlasting goal ? May not its capabilities for 
 happiness increase by a proper use of the gifts which 
 God has bestowed, by careful culture, by refreshing from 
 the dews of heaven ? Surely, surely, it may be so ! Wo 
 drive from us our youth of soul : storms come but to clear 
 away tls darkness, and to show us depths within that 
 Heaven may fill with joy. Then let our course be on 
 ward. Still be our dreams bright and joyous ; still let 
 hope cast her halo around us, still let her be a gay in- 
 trulcr, but chasten her gently if she be the wild dcluder 
 
254 THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 of earlier days. Bid her not tell thee of selfish visions. 
 Ask her to breathe a fond spell over all thou lovest, over 
 every breaking heart, over the whole broad earth, which 
 bears not a soul that thou lovest not. Tell her the 
 whole world is thine, that all God s creatures are thy 
 brethren and sisters. Whisper her to raise her throne 
 in every downcast bosom, though she should forsake 
 thine. Will she forsake thee? Oh, no! Thy heart 
 shall be more light than when thy guileless childhood 
 was most full of innocent joy ; more happy shalt thou 
 be than when earlier youth was thrilling thee with its 
 gushing gladness. After long indulging in revery, 
 Arthur roused himself, and related all his plans and pro 
 jects to his sister. He was to break off all connexion 
 with his father s business, and enter college imme 
 diately. 
 
 " But, Arthur, what will father say ? This thing is 
 very sudden to him ; he is not prepared for it." 
 
 " That I cannot help, Lucy. If I had spoken of it 
 before, it would only have taken from his enjoyment." 
 
 " Well, I don t know what to say about it ; I think 
 you ought to be a student ; and, if you feel that you 
 are doing right, don t be checked by anything or any 
 body. I will do my prettiest to soften father s displea 
 sure." 
 
 " I know that, Lucy." 
 
 The next morning, with a firm but slow step, young 
 Griswold entered his father s counting-room. " Well, 
 Arthur," exclaimed the merchant, "you are twenty-one 
 now. You have not as much ambition in regard to busi 
 ness as I wish you had. You don t seem to care whether 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 you become one of the firm or not ; but you have always 
 performed your part promptly." 
 
 " I have no wish to become a partner, father." 
 
 "Why not?" questioned Mr. Griswold, in a disap 
 pointed tone. 
 
 "I am of age now, father," said Arthur, speaking 
 with an effort. " I never intend to be a merchant." 
 
 u Arthur!" 
 
 " I am sorry to disappoint your wishes, sir, by the 
 course I have decided upon ; but you are aware that the 
 idea of being a merchant was always repugnant to me." 
 
 " I thought you had overcome that boyish notion." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " I must say, Arthur Griswold, that you have acted 
 very ungenerously ; very little as I ever thought a son 
 of mine would act." There were a few moments of stern 
 silence ; Mr. Griswold s lip was firmly compressed, and 
 the severity of deep anger was in the steady gaze which 
 he riveted upon his son s countenance. " I should at 
 least have thought you could have been frank enough to 
 have prepared me for this." 
 
 " It was from no want of frankness, sir, that I did 
 not speak of it. I knew that your views and mine dif 
 fered on many points. My future course was firmly 
 decided upon; I was fully aware that you would not 
 approve of it; I had failed too many times in trying to 
 change your opinion. My only reason for not telling 
 jiy plans, was to avoid opposition, and any uneasiness 
 on your part, until the time actually arrived." 
 
 "I am deeply obliged for your tender care," said Mr, 
 
256 THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 Griswold, bowing, with a curving lip. " I suppose a 
 longer conference is not necessary." 
 
 "Not if it is unpleasant to you, father." Arthur 
 Griswold possessed a true poet s soul in one respect, at 
 least ; his heart was warm with strong affections he was 
 as sensitive as a woman in feeling. After one long, 
 eager look at his father s face, he slightly inclined his 
 head, and left the counting-room. 
 
 "Don t look so melancholy, Arthur!" exclaimed 
 Lucy, running out in the hall to meet him on his return, 
 She had been watching for him, to hear how her father 
 received the unexpected and unpleasing intelligence of 
 his decision. 
 
 "Even worse than I expected worse than I ex 
 pected," said Arthur, entering the parlour, and throwing 
 himself into a chair. He remained some moments lost 
 in deep thought, his face bent forward, and resting on 
 his hands. Lucy eyed him, and bethought herself that 
 it would never do for him to yield to discouraged feelings. 
 Dropping on her knees before him, with playful grace 
 she drew away his hands, and, looking up in his eye?, 
 with a smile at once arch and tender, said, "Eve s 
 curiosity, brother mine. Tell me all he said, and all 
 you said." 
 
 Arthur related every word of the brief conversation 
 that had passed ; then, with some bitterness, he said, 
 " I knew that father would be both disappointed and 
 displeased, but I certainly had no idea that he would 
 think my conduct unworthy." 
 
 A slight, quick flush of indignation passed over Lucy s 
 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. 25V 
 
 face, but she replied gently, " He don t understand you, 
 Arthur." 
 
 " And never will." 
 
 " He shall understand you in one respect," said Lucy, 
 with an expression of proud determination, as she roso 
 from her kneeling position. 4 * He shall understand that 
 your heart is as worthy and generous a one" she paused, 
 for she was not in the habit of telling people their good 
 qualities, when she thought they already possessed as 
 much knowledge on the subject as would answer their 
 purposes, She resumed cheerfully, " Constant dropping 
 will wear away a stone, so I will drop a good word for 
 you in father s ear at the most propitious moments ; and 
 never fear but what his displeasure will be displaced by 
 deeper effect ion than ever. You will be thought of 
 more loniently in your absence. So don t let gloomy 
 thoughts disturb you an instant. When shall you leave 
 us?" 
 
 " In about a week." 
 
 " So soon?" and the young girl immediately descended 
 from her elevated position as comforter. She burst into 
 tears, and then it was her brother s turn to cheer and 
 console. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, " Don t 
 go !" but she held back the words. 
 
 The evening before young Griswold s departure had 
 arrived, the brother and sister were again alone in the 
 parlour, sitting by the window. It was a calm starlight 
 evening, and there was a sad quiet in the hearts of 
 both. The merchant had not spoken one word of harsh 
 reproach to his son since the disclosure of his determina 
 tion, but there was a measured politeness in his manner 
 17 
 
258 THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 that fell chillingly upon the warm heart of Arthur. The 
 hearty joke and cheerful approving laugh had been 
 banished from the family circle during the past week. 
 The sweet glad eyes of Lucy had not wandered around 
 with a glance of merry meaning. Mrs. Griswold was 
 an affectionate mother, but she was not remarkably tena 
 cious of any views of her own ; she thought just as her 
 husband did, and, therefore, sighed profoundly over 
 Arthur s strange whim. 
 
 "Lucy," said Arthur, in a low tone, "have there 
 never been times with you when you felt as if there was 
 an immensity hanging upon a present moment, felt as 
 if there was coming a change, a turning of your des 
 tiny?" 
 
 "I have felt so," replied the young girl; "and 
 changes have come, but perhaps no outward changes. 
 External changes are nothing to the turning of the spi 
 rit s destiny. Arthur, dear Arthur !" and she clasped 
 his hand with fervent feeling, " you are going from home 
 now you will have no mother and sister to bless you, 
 and awaken your gentlest sympathies. Would to Heaven 
 my prayers could change you !" 
 
 " Change me !" said Arthur, almost starting; "how, 
 Lucy?" 
 
 " You are entering life as millions do, full of ambi 
 tious dreams, eager to bind around your brows the 
 wreath of fame. It seems a glorious thing to you to be 
 called great. But your aims are far below the dignity 
 of an immortal spirit. Be great, Arthur, whether any 
 one knows it or not. Rule your own spirit with the 
 etern, steady rod of truth. Shrink from no ordeal that 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. 259 
 
 may develop and try the strength within you. Turn 
 every inciden t of your life to some good purpose ; believe 
 and trust that Providence will guide you better than you 
 can lead yourself. Let your fellow-creatures have cause 
 to bless you, whether their praises meet your ear or 
 not." 
 
 " God grant I may become all you ask, my own 
 Lucy !" Arthur answered solemnly. "If I do not 
 realize your hopes, it will be no fault of yours. You 
 have been a protecting angel to me ; you have been 
 always ready to bear with and comfort me, when others 
 blamed. You have been the only human being w r ho ever 
 sympathized with me fully and frankly." 
 
 "And what have you been to me, Arthur?" asked 
 his sister affectionately. " You have always been a lion 
 in my cause. I have often thought you took my part 
 when I deserved a scolding." 
 
 " Then we arrive at the very evident fact, that we 
 are two wonderfully excellent beings," said Arthur, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Exactly so," was the smiling reply. 
 
 Hour after hour glided by unnoticed, for Arthur and 
 Lucy were too deeply engaged in serious conversation to 
 heed the flight of time. They dwelt upon their childish 
 days, and then turned to the deeper and stronger im 
 pulses which had been developed as each succeeding 
 year rolled on. A half-regretful tenderness was in their 
 hearts, as they realized that they were indeed entering 
 life, though its cares and strong responsibilities should 
 sink heavily upon their spirits, there could be no shrink 
 ing back to their childhood. For every wrong action 
 
260 THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 committed, they themselves were responsible ; they could 
 not with light-hearted carelessness throw the blame upon 
 older persons, or pass it idly by. Though the bi Dther 
 and sister were both naturally gay, and perhaps a little 
 wild, still there was a vein of deep though tfulness in the 
 character of each, which often called upon them to 
 pause and reflect. The right influence of that loving 
 Bister was felt ; it was with holier emotions awakened 
 in his bosom with pure and high resolves that the 
 young votary at the shrine of Fame parted from his 
 Bister that night. 
 
 "Farewell, Lucy," said Arthur, turning to his sister 
 the next morning, after he had bidden his parents adieu. 
 He clasped her hand tightly in his own, and spoke in a 
 choked voice. She cast herself in his arms, and the 
 Bobs which she had tried hard to repress under the stern 
 eye of her father burst forth unchecked. " Weep for 
 me when you are alone, darling, if you will, and pray 
 for me," whispered Arthur ; " I will yet become all you 
 desire. Father shall yet know that I do not act from 
 the idle whim of an effeminate boy. Lucy, dear Lucy ! 
 tell me once more that you bless me before I go forth 
 into the world." The young man had commanded him- 
 Belf by a strong eifort ; but now he bowed his head upon 
 his sister s shoulder, and wept like a child. An expres 
 sion radiant with affection flitted briefly over Lucy s fair 
 young face, as she replied, in a low tone of tremulous 
 sweetness, " I do bless you, Arthur. I shall always. 
 Oh, may our Father above smile upon you !" 
 
 It was with a strong heart and a determined will that 
 Arthur Griswold engaged in his studies. But the \vays 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. ?6\ 
 
 of Providence are not like our ways. Often our most 
 arduous efforts bring but little to pass; yet we should 
 not repine, for, if we have done all we can do, that little 
 is just as much as it should be. Not so felt the young 
 student. Five years had passed over his head since he 
 had begun to walk in the path marked out by himself. 
 Where were his dreams of ambition, his visions of phi 
 lanthropy ? Where were the thoughts he had sent out 
 into the world, hoping to make deep echoes in a thousand 
 hearts? They had gone forth indeed, the cherished 
 idols of his imagination, but where was the sympathy he 
 was to meet with ? He found it not ; and not until he 
 saw how heedlessly his poems were passed by, did he 
 realize the value he had placed, almost unknowingly to 
 himself, upon the smiles of a thoughtless multitude. II: 
 had entered into no profession ; and, as each slow year 
 had travelled on, the young poet had hoped with all the 
 ardour of an enthusiastic spirit that fickle fortune would 
 yet reward his muse. His habits had greatly changed 
 since he had left the counting-room for the study ; his 
 time was not methodically employed ; he was often sad 
 and depressed. And yet he raised his heart upward, 
 and endeavoured to do well. Apparently he had not 
 improved, but in reality he had been learning good but 
 painful lessons. Bitter trial had taught him to look 
 upon the world, upon men and things, as they are not 
 as they seem. Lucy was still the same fond sister ; his 
 mother s smile was kind but tremulous, for she thought 
 her poor Arthur was sadly changed. His father never 
 reproached him ; he was sometimes pleasant and cheer 
 ful with him, but it was not the frank cheerfulness of 
 
202 THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 other days. The warm, hearty grasp of the hand, the 
 cheering words from a father s lips, " Well done, my 
 boy !" were no longer his own. Since the day he left 
 home for college, his father s house had never been his 
 permanent residence. One soft evening at twilight, 
 Arthur sat alone in his chamber, watching the faint stars 
 as they came out in the pale blue sky. A light, caress 
 ing breeze lifted the hair from his white forehead, as 
 he leaned back against the window-frame, in deep mus 
 ing. His thoughts were somewhat sad, and yet there 
 was more strength in his heart than he had known in a 
 long time. He had that afternoon been in the society 
 of his sister, and the influence of her gentle soul was 
 still upon him. She had married, but old affections were 
 as dear to her as ever. She had strongly urged upon 
 him the necessity of an active and useful life; and he 
 was glad to hear her speak thus, for his own views had 
 been changing fast, of late. It was five long years 
 before the dazzling bubble of worldly fame had lost to 
 him its hues of radiant light. With something like a 
 smile playing over his lip, he mused, half aloud, " I have 
 indeed been pursuing a bubble ; even if I had obtained 
 it, it would have burst in my grasp, showing empti 
 ness." He leaned his head upon his hand, and over his 
 thoughtful features a deeper shade fell : he cast a retro 
 spective eye upon the past, it seemed almost a waste ; 
 with a sigh, he murmured, 
 
 " I fear I have been self-deceived I have not looked 
 iny motives in the face. I have endeavoured to delude 
 myself with the idea that I was trying to benefit others 
 by the outpourings of my brain, when at the bottom I 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. 263 
 
 most deeply yearned for applause, it was that \vliich 
 my selfish soul craved. Such dreams shall no longer be 
 mine;" and, Lowing his head, the poet struggled in 
 silence with the feelings within. 
 
 About an hour after, he arose from his seat by the 
 window, and lighting a lamp, he placed himself at his 
 writing-table and opened his long-neglected journal. 
 Before writing, he breathed forth a deep and silent 
 prayer. His eyes were upraised, full of light, and the 
 rich g ow of beautiful thought upon his countenance was 
 tempered by the quiet repose on his closed lips. Taking 
 a pen, he wrote as follows : 
 
 u June 20th. What satisfaction in a dying hour can 
 be as substantial as the remembrance of a well-spent 
 life ? We must combat with ourselves and gently aid 
 others. What is life s lesson ? To learn what we are, 
 and then to conquer. Oh, God ! give me a stern spirit 
 to go forth unflinchingly, developing the life thou hast 
 given me. Aid me to trample on the clinging reveries 
 that twine around my heart ; they come almost imper 
 ceptibly, and, like links in a chain, they will not be 
 broken and parted. Banish from my soul the enervat 
 ing weight of idle, brooding feeling. Grant that I may 
 be frank with my own heart ! will it not at last grow 
 pure beneath thy searching eyes ? Is not thy good p -ro- 
 vidence over me now, guiding every minute action and 
 thought? may I realize it may I trust in Thee ! Guard 
 me from wandering from thy fold. G : ve mo an earnest 
 love of usefulness, a willingness to laoour in anything 
 that duty bids. Fill me with humility and heavenly 
 
264 THE MERCHANT S SON. 
 
 charity may I exert a pure influence ! Would that my 
 spirit was strong as a martyr s and meek as a babe s !" 
 
 After thus briefly noting down his thoughts, Arthur 
 sought the repose he needed after the excitement of 
 deep and strong emotion. He was strengthened by what 
 he had written ; for to bring out good thoughts in a 
 tangible form both soothes and strengthens. 
 
 Ten years more rolled by, and our poet was a lawyer 
 of eminence. He had entered the profession and he 
 had laboured faithfully ; he was, what is rarely seen, a 
 lawyer at once successful, upright, and useful. O.ie 
 cheerful day in autumn, a multitude was hastening to 
 the court-house in our city, to listen to a case which had 
 excited much interest. Justice was on one side, wealth 
 on the other. Griswold had given his services, where 
 he could hope for but little reward, to the weaker party. 
 With generous uprightness, he had turned aside from 
 the tempting offers by which the rich man had sought to 
 gain his efforts in a bad cause. His reply was, " I am 
 governed in my actions by truth, not money, sir." 
 
 But if there was not a spirit of truthfulness on the 
 side opposed to Griswold, there was talent and eloquence, 
 and over the multitude they had their sway. The deep 
 hum of applause that arose as Arthur s opponent seated 
 himself with a somewhat triumphant air, caused a sha 
 dow to fall upon his noble heart. He slowly arose, with 
 a dignified manner, and a calm strength expressed in hia 
 countenance. At first his words were somewhat mea 
 sured, but as he proceeded he gathered might and force ; 
 his large, dark eye kindled brilliantly, and his usually 
 pale cheek glowed, as he poured forth with burning elo- 
 
THE MERCHANT S SON. 26* 
 
 qucnce the words of truth and justice. There was a 
 living power in all he uttered, that caused that breath 
 less assembly to lean forward, and listen with a thrill. 
 Truth is always powerful ; if eloquently supported, it ia 
 irresistible with those who have one spark of honesty in 
 their nature to be appealed to ; and, thank heaven ! 
 there is much honesty in this wicked world of ours. The 
 fascinating spell of the former speaker was broken ; the 
 plain, cutting words of sober truth had torn away the 
 veil arranged with such skilful art. Suffice it to say, 
 that Griswold gained the case. He retired almost 
 exhausted, and, amid many enthusiastic congratulations, 
 he hurried on to leave the crowded court-room. 
 
 "Arthur!" exclaimed a familiar voice, when he had 
 nearly reached the door. He turned, and a white-haired 
 old man grasped his hand and wrung it, while big tears 
 of joy rolled down his furrowed cheeks. " My noble 
 boy ! God bless you !" were the choking words that burst 
 from his father s lips. 
 
 "Father!" and the heart of the son swelled with 
 more blessed feelings at those few words than he had 
 known in years. Placing his father s arm upon his own, 
 they left the house ; and they both felt that their cup 
 of joy was full. Lucy and her husband met them upon 
 the pavement. Arthur sprang forward, and clasping the 
 extended hand of his sister, he looked upon her uplifted 
 countenance with a smile ; and yet it was mingled with 
 a strange emotion. She glanced a moment upon her 
 father s happy face, then raising her eyes again to 
 Arthur s, she burst into tears of joy. 
 
 "Dear Arthur!" was all she could say. 
 
266 LINES IN MEMORY OF MY LOST CHILD 
 
 The happy party bent their steps towards old Mr. 
 Griswold s family mansion, and there Arthur met a joy 
 ful mother s smile. 
 
 "Well, my boy!" exclaimed Mr. Griswold, giving 
 his son a hearty slap upon his shoulder, " I have learned 
 one lesson to-day, and that is, that you were never cut 
 s>ut for a merchant." 
 
 LINES IN MEMORY OF MY LOST CHILD 
 
 
 
 Mr child ! my dear, lost child ! a father s heart, 
 Touched by the holy wand of memory, 
 Would in this hour of loneliness and gloom, 
 When not a sound is borne upon the air, 
 And not a star is visible in heaven, 
 Hold sweet communion with thy soul. 
 
 My boy! 
 
 Thou wast most beautiful. I never looked 
 On thee but with a heart of pride. Thy curls 
 Fell o er a brow of angel-loveliness, 
 And thy dark eyes, dark as the midnight cloud, 
 And soft as twilight waters, flashed and glowed 
 In strange, wild beauty, yet thy tears were far 
 More frequent than thy smiles thy wail of pain 
 Came oftener on our hearts than thy dear cry 
 Of infant joyousness. Thy few brief months 
 Were months of suffering ; ay, thy cup of life 
 Was bitter, bitter, but thou wast not doomed 
 To drain it, for a God of mercy soon 
 Let it pass from thee. 
 
 Oh ! how well, my child, 
 
LINES IN MEMORY OP MY LOST CHILD. 2tt7 
 
 Do I remember that all-mournful day, 
 
 When thy young mother bore thy wasting form. 
 
 With breaking heart and streaming eyes, afar, 
 
 In the vain hope to save the dear young life 
 
 To which the tendrils of her own were bound I 
 
 With one wild pressure of thy little form 
 
 To my sad bosom with a frantic kiss 
 
 Upon thy pallid lips, and a hot tear 
 
 Wrung from a burning brain, I said farewell 
 
 Alas ! my child, I never saw thee more. 
 
 In a strange land, far from thy own dear home, 
 
 But with the holy ministries of love 
 
 Around thy couch, thy little being passed, 
 
 Like the sweet perfume of a bright young rose, 
 
 To mingle with the skies from whence it came. 
 
 Oh ! in that hour, my child, thy last of earth, 
 
 Did not a thought of thy poor father s love 
 
 Soften the anguish of thy parting soul, 
 
 And were not thy dear little arms outstretched 
 
 To meet his fond caress? 
 
 Thou sleepest, child, 
 
 Where the Missouri rolls its wild, dark waves, 
 And I have never gazed upon thy grave. 
 No tears of deep affection ever blend 
 With ..tie soft dews and gentle rains that fell 
 Upon tne turf that lies above thy breast ; 
 But, oh ! the spot is hallowed. There the Spring, 
 The bright Spring, yearly throws her loveliest wreatht 
 Of buds and blossoms there, at morn and eve, 
 The viewless spirit of the zephyr breathes 
 Its holiest whispers in the springing grass, 
 As if communing with thee there the birds 
 Glance through the air like winged souls, and pour 
 Their sweet, unearthly melodies and there 
 At the soft twilight hour young angels come 
 
268 LINES IN MEMORY OP MY LOST CHILD. 
 
 To hover o er the spot on silver wings, 
 And mark it with their shining foot-prints. 
 
 Thcu 
 
 Art gone, my child a sweet and holy bud 
 Is shaken from the rose-tree of our hopes ; 
 But yet we should not mourn. Tis joy to know 
 That thou hast gone in thy young innocence 
 And purity and beauty from a dark, 
 Ungentle world, where many snares beset 
 The path of manhood. Ay, tis joy to know 
 That the .ZEulian lyre of thy young soul 
 Gives out its music in the Eden clime, 
 Unvisited by earth s cold, bitter winds, 
 Its poison-dews, its fogs, its winter rains, 
 Its tempests and its lightnings. 
 
 My sweet child, 
 
 Thou art no more a blossom of the earth, 
 But, oh ! the thought of thee is yet a spell 
 On our sad spirits. Tis a lovely flower 
 On memory s lonely stream, a holy star 
 In retrospection s sky, a rainbow-gleam 
 Upon the tempest-clouds of life. Our hearts, 
 Our stricken hearts, lean to thee, love, and thus 
 They lean to Heaven, for thou art there. Yes, tbo* 
 And thy young sister are in Heaven, while we 
 Are lingering on the earth s cold desert. Come, 
 Yb iwo sweet cherubs of God s Paradise, 
 Who wander side by side, and hand in hand, 
 Among the amaranthine flowers that bloom 
 Beside the living waters come, oh come, 
 Sometimes upon your bright and snowy wings, 
 In the deep watches of the silent night, 
 And breathe into our souls the holy words 
 That ye have heard the angels speak in Heaven. 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER; 
 
 OR, NEW AIMS IN LIFE. 
 
 "But tlsre is within the human mind an active and powerful 
 principle, that awakens the dormant faculties, lights up the brain, 
 and launches forth to gather up from the wide realm of nature the 
 very essence of what every human bosom pines for, when it 
 aspires to a higher state of existence, and feels the insufficiency 
 of this." MRS. ELLIS. 
 
 " LOUISA, are you almost ready?" asked a young lady, 
 raising her eyes from the book she was reading, and 
 glancing at her friend, who stood before the mirror of 
 her dressing-room, preparing to go out. 
 
 " I shall not be long, Catharine," was the reply, made 
 in a sweet voice. " I m afraid that book don t interest 
 you much, for you look at me, yawn, then read a few 
 moments, in regular rotation." 
 
 " Do I ? Well, I don t know what I do, and what is 
 worse, I can t find out what I want to do. I believe I 
 have got that fashionable complaint, ennui ; so I have 
 called this afternoon to take you out walking in Broad 
 way with me. That is the proper and fashionable 
 remedy, is it not?" 
 
 " I believe it is in vogue ; as for its propriety, I leave 
 that to your own judgment." 
 
 " 0, I don t care for punctilious proprieties ! if I can 
 be amused by watching a thousand different counte 
 nances, and thus killing time, it is all I ask." 
 
270 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 " It may be all you ask, but is it all you ought to 
 ask?" 
 
 " No moralizing, if you please , I came that you 
 might impart to me a little of your gayety. So don t 
 be obstinate, and make me feel more doleful than I do 
 at present." 
 
 " Have you any real cause for unhappiness, Kate ?" 
 Louisa inquired, turning round and scanning closely the 
 countenance of her friend 
 
 " No cause, except what every one has, or might have. 
 Everybody thinks I am very happy ; I have kind parents, 
 wealth, and liberty to spend my time as I may choose. 
 I have you, dear Louisa ! yet my soul asks for something 
 more. Will its cravings ever be satisfied?" 
 
 Louisa did not answer, but an expression of sadness 
 went over her countenance. It was the first time Catha 
 rine Bloomer had ever, in the slightest degree, given 
 vent to her real feelings. The friends had generally 
 been gay and cheerful in each other s society. Now the 
 face of Catharine was touched with melancholy; her 
 fine, proud features, were softened and subdued. She 
 was silent for a while, then arousing herself, she rose 
 and approached her friend, saying, in her usual careless 
 tone, " Louisa, I really believe you are a little vain ; 
 I wonder how long you have stood before that glass, 
 pulling your bonnet this way and that, to make it set 
 straight and look pretty." 
 
 " A singular kind of vanity," Louisa retorted, with 
 a smile, " for I was scarcely conscious of what I waa 
 doing." 
 
 " You want me to believe that speech, dc you, you 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 271 
 
 vain little gipsy?" said Catherine, touching her chin, 
 with an air of playful fondness. 
 
 " Yes, I want you to believe it, and I further desire 
 you to retract your words, or we will surely have a 
 duel." 
 
 "Suppose we have a duel, then, hy way of variety. 
 Here is my gage ;" and, stooping down, Catharine picked 
 up a tiny satin slipper that was peeping from beneath 
 the bureau. 
 
 "I accept your pledge, most noble knight," replied 
 Louisa, seizing her slipper. After flinging it in a corner, 
 she threw her arm around her companion s waist, and 
 said, as she led her from the room, " Now I am ready to 
 go out in Broadway, and fight as becomes a valiant lady 
 chevalier. But, Catharine, to be serious, do you think 
 I am vain ?" For a moment the young girl addressed 
 was silent, her lips closed firmly in thought. Presently 
 she answered, with a frank decision, 
 
 "Yes, I think you are." After a moment s paube, 
 she added, "You know we entered into a compact to tell 
 each other our faults, when we noticed them." 
 
 " Yes," was the brief and somewhat cold reply. They 
 gained the street, and walked about half a block without 
 speaking. Louisa was slightly hurt, and the deep glow 
 of mortification was upon her cheek. But she was an 
 nflectionate girl, and loved her friend *,oo well to feel 
 more than a momentary coldness towards her. She brckfl 
 their unwonted silence by pressing Catharine s hand, 
 and saying, " Thank you ! you are a true friend. When 
 ever you think I betray any vanity, tell me of it. I an 
 sure I desire to get rid of all my faults." 
 
272 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 " I know it. I should be a different person, perhaps, 
 if my desires were as active as yours always are. I seo 
 my own faults, and the faults of my neighbours. But, 
 in regard to myself, I am indolent careless. Give mo 
 enjoyment, and I suppose I am too indifferent whether 
 my faults or virtues are called into action. You never 
 tell rne of my faults, Louisa, except the single one 
 of sarcasm ; I am sure I have a thousand more than 
 you." 
 
 " Well, I think it is very hard to listen with patience 
 and right feeling to one who is pointing out our faults. 
 Do you know, Kate, I was almost indignant, when I 
 found you were in earnest about my vanity. It is so 
 very agreeable to have your friends think you are just 
 about right." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" laughed her friend, shaking her 
 head a little. 
 
 "Don t you? Is praise and admiration disagreeable 
 to you ? I thought you were proud of your gifts. I 
 have seen your eye flash with pleasure, when your men 
 tal superiority was felt and acknowledged." Catharine 
 answered by an impatient "pshaw!" and thus the sub 
 ject was dismissed. By this time they had reached the 
 house of an acquaintance. Louisa paused, and, laying 
 her hand upon Catharine s arm, said, " Suppose we givo 
 Mrs. Belcher a call ? she would not like it, if she knew 
 we passed her house without stopping in." 
 
 "Just as you please," returned Catharine; "I am 
 perfectly indifferent." 
 
 "You are in a queer mood just now," Louisa replied, 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 273 
 
 as they ascended the steps ; " not very complimentary 
 to Mrs. Belcher, I must say." 
 
 "I tell the truth, if I am not very complimentary, 
 The society of Mrs. Belcher never adds one whit to wy 
 enjoyment; why should I be otherwise than indifferent i 
 I wish society was so organized that we would never be 
 obliged to say all sorts of pretty things about the wea 
 ther, fashions, &c., to people for whom we don t care a 
 fig. It almost makes me sick to rattle on an hour or 
 two about things in which I have no interest whatever. 
 I would rather be alone, fifty times, than with such peo- 
 pie. I wish there was a little more independence in the 
 world." 
 
 "Sois tranquille, ma chere!" said Louisa, touching 
 the shoulder of her friend, on hearing a hand on the 
 knob of the door. They were speedily ushered into the 
 elegantly furnished parlours of Mrs. Belcher, where they 
 were left alone for a time. 
 
 " I feel very fluent this morning," playfully remarked 
 Catharine, throwing herself on the sofa ; " I presume 
 you have observed it, friend Louisa. I could mount this 
 sofa, at the shortest notice, and deliver an cxtcmpoie 
 lecture on the evils of visiting uncongenial acquaint- 
 
 ances." 
 
 Kate, you are too bad," returned Louisa, trying to 
 Buppress a smile. " I have a good long lecture to give 
 you, and you shall have it, depend upon it. Now pro 
 mise me you will be a good girl during this call, and not 
 act as if you were perfectly unconscious of all that ia 
 Biiid. Be a good listener. I don t ask you to talk much 
 18 
 
274 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 You appear like a different person, when you care t( 
 please, and when you do not." 
 
 " I promise anything to please you. But, then, after 
 wards I shall argue with you, until you come over to my 
 si le of the question, and " 
 
 How?" interrupted Louisa. 
 
 u Why, this is my doctrine. I don t approve of spend 
 ing hours in visiting and receiving persons who are the 
 very antipodes of ourselves, in tastes, dispositions, and 
 everything else that makes social intercourse delightful. 
 Why can t we cut short such acquaintance, and mingle 
 only with those more congenial ? It would be better for 
 us. I hate this vapid, fashionable society." 
 
 " You know we should not regard our own happiness 
 entirely, in the company we go in." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know that. But we confer very little 
 happiness where we are not happy ourselves." 
 
 " It is selfishness that prevents us from being glad 
 that we can give pleasure to any one. You know, if 
 you should exert yourself, you could impart a great deal 
 of pleasure even to the class of people you speak of. 
 Don t yield to what you consider silly in them, only so 
 far as you may, by this means, turn them your own w r ay, 
 to more sensible things." 
 
 " Can t take the trouble, Louise ; it is out of the ques 
 tion. I can t stem the torrent, when it is so little worth 
 stemming. So I fall in with it, or pass by." 
 
 The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance 
 of Mrs. Belcher. " Ah ! ladies, good morning ! how 
 arc you?" she exclaimed, tripping lightly into the room. 
 " Very happy to s e you- Charming day, is it not ? J 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 275 
 
 inteiid to go out shopping before this fine weather is 
 over. Can t you take off your hats, young ladies, and 
 stay to dinner?" 
 
 The visitors politely excused themselves. " 0, 
 Stewart has got some of the sweetest muslins !" the 
 lady went on to say. " They are splendid for dresses. 
 Have you seen them ?" 
 
 "No, we have not," answered both the girls. 
 
 " Well, I can t find out whether straw hats or silk are 
 going to be worn most. Do you know, Miss Bloomer?" 
 
 "I really do not," the young lady replied, looking 
 intently in Mrs. Belcher s face, and speaking in a slow, 
 puzzled tone, as if her ignorance was cause for serious 
 and thoughtful anxiety. Louisa bit her lip, to keep 
 from smiling. Mrs. Belcher thrn turned to Miss Holl- 
 man, and said, " My milliner says straw will be worn 
 most, but I don t like to run the risk of making a pur 
 chase on her assurance alone. What do you think ?" 
 
 " I can t tell, I arn sure. I have not thought much 
 about it." There was a short pause, which Catharine 
 broke by saying, " Shall you leave the city early this 
 summer, Mrs. Belcher?" 
 
 " I shall leave in July for the Springs. I should 
 surely die if I were not there. I wonder who will lead 
 the ton this year ? I should like to know." 
 
 " Perhaps you will, Mrs. Belcher," suggested Catha 
 rine, gravely. 
 
 " 0, no !" replied the lady, with a pleased smile. " I 
 suppose I must be satisfied with having been the belle 
 before I was married." 
 
 "Ah! were you ever the belle?" questioned Catha- 
 
276 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 rine in real astonishment, for she had not imagined th<j 
 uninteresting face of the lady before her had ever be 
 longed to a bright particular star. 
 
 " When such things are past, young ladies, we feel 
 free to talk about them. Yes, I was the belle at Sara 
 toga for several summers." No reply was made to this. 
 Each of the visiters had intuitively decided in her own 
 rnind that Mrs. Belcher had only been the belle of her 
 own fair dreams. After a little more conversation, the 
 young ladies arose to go. "Well," said Mrs. Belcher, 
 as they stood in the hall, " don t you incline to think 
 that straw hats will be worn most?" 
 
 " It is highly probable they may," returned Louisa. 
 
 " Shouldn t you think they would, Miss Bloomer?" 
 
 " I think they will bo worn a great deal." 
 
 " Then you would advise me to get straw, instead of 
 silk?" 
 
 " That is my advice," was the reply of Catharine, 
 who thus hoped to bring the tantalizing discussion to an 
 end. 
 
 " And what do you say ?" the fashionable lady then 
 appealed to Louisa. 
 
 " I say, be guided entirely by your own taste, Mrs. 
 Belcher. I would rather not advise, in such matters." 
 
 " 0, I never blame anybody that advises me, let the 
 consequences be what they may ! So tell me your can 
 did opinion." 
 
 " I must be excused. You will excuse me, won t you? 
 We must go now; good-morning!" 
 
 The damsels hurried off, as if they expected everj 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 277 
 
 moment to be called back, in order to sit in judgment 
 upon new bonnets. 
 
 "I m positively nervous !" said Catharine, hurrying 
 along the street with quick, impatient steps. " Do tell 
 me, Louisa, what earthly good that call has done? I am 
 sure you must agree with me now, that there is no use 
 in visiting such harassing people. I feel really fidgety 
 after it. This is the last time I go there." 
 
 " I don t think Mrs. Belcher would benefit any one 
 very much, I must confess," replied Louisa. " And I 
 will further say, I don t think you would either, just 
 now." 
 
 "Indeed, Miss Ilollman ! Very grateful." 
 " But Mrs. Belcher is an exception to the generality 
 of people," Louisa said, after a brief smile at her friend s 
 remark. " She rattles on at such a desperate rate, you 
 can t say much ; and whatever subject you may intro 
 duce, she dismisses it with the utmost nonchalance, if it 
 does not suit her taste, and spins her own top again. 
 She seems to possess a mind in which nothing will sink ; 
 you can only strike the surface, which sends everything 
 back with a rebound. Yet we know there are germs of 
 goodness in her, as well as in other people." 
 
 " Of course, I suppose so," was Catharine s half-indif 
 ferent reply. 
 
 " Still," pursued Louisa, " it must be our duty to keep 
 within the sphere of the best people, unless we are sur 
 we may not be influenced by others more than we can 
 influence. I am perfectly willing, and even desirous, to 
 lessen an intimacy with Mrs. Belcher, as far as we maj 
 without exciting unpleasant feelings in her." 
 
278 
 
 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 "Nonsense!" returned Catharine; "it won t hurt 
 her, if her indignation is a little roused. Her sphere, aa 
 you call it, and mine don t agree, I can assure you. 
 There are some persons I always leave in a somewhat 
 fretted state of mind, even if nothing has occurred but 
 What appeared perfectly pleasant. I am a great believer 
 in spiritual affinities, the tones of my heart don t har 
 monize with every one. I have often only had one good 
 look at a person, and my feelings have gone forth in 
 glad friendship, which has grown a thousand times 
 warmer on acquaintance. Again, I have met a person 
 daily for months, and have felt little more interest than 
 if an article of furniture had fallen in my way. I act 
 upon such impulses." 
 
 " That is not to say you act rightly. But wait until 
 We get home, free from the noise of these rattling car 
 riages ; then we will have a talk!" They quickened 
 their pace. 
 
 " Catharine," said Louisa, seriously, when they were 
 again seated in her dressing-room, " you told me of a 
 fault this morning; now let me tell you of one; and 
 listen to me without any bursts of impatience. You are 
 very gifted, and you know it. You are brilliant ; you 
 joyfully pour out the riches of your mind, where you 
 know you will be appreciated and admired. But thoso 
 who cannot sympathize with you mentally, you treat 
 with an indifference which, in my opinion, springs from 
 selfishness." 
 
 Catharine s proud lip curved at this charge. The 
 impetuous blood rushed over her face, and retreated 
 
CATHARINE BLOOiMER. 279 
 
 again, before she made her calm reply: u Why do you 
 think it springs from selfishness? 
 
 { Because you only try to please where you will win 
 the need of admiration from a superior mind. You 
 never try to make a feeble heart lighter and stronger by 
 your gifts." 
 
 " It is only a noble intellect that can arouse my slum 
 bering powers a weak one cannot bid its treasures flow 
 forth. Perhaps you are right ; perhaps I am selfish. I 
 know I am. I am a strange being, I suppose;" and 
 Catharine s voice grew sad. u I sometimes feel as if 
 my powers are bound in as if I am nothing. It is only 
 when I touch a chord in some gifted heart that vibrates 
 with a strangely-joyful thrill and tells me what I am 
 full of stifled, unsatisfied aspirations of glorious 
 thoughts, which seldom, too seldom, meet an echo then 
 I learn what I might have been if placed in a congenial 
 atmosphere, if suffered to commune with kindred and 
 higher spirits. The society I go in chokes up both 
 heart and mind ; what wonder is it that I am as I am ? 
 Day after day this ceaseless monotony ; when I taste the 
 cup of mental joy, it is only to regret afterwards that it 
 was dashed away. My God ! must it always be thus ?" 
 The young enthusiast paused ; the glow of her cheek 
 had deepened, and, as she raised her eyes upward filled 
 with the light of strong feeling, a hot tear fell : both 
 were silent for a time, with upspringing thoughts busy 
 at their hearts. Catharine went on more calmly : " I 
 have sometimes wished that I was a gentle being, formed 
 to soften and bless, tc be beloved by every one. I yearn 
 for sympathy to be appreciated I ask for one deejj 
 
280 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 draught of the joy of heaven. And then again a flood 
 of bitterness, such passionate bitterness, falls upon my 
 soul. Intellect and feeling ! Yes, they are called gifts, 
 blessed gifts what have they made life to me ? What 
 is life but a tissue of pain and care and crushed feelings 
 a bright spot so rarely seen ? Am I as happy " 
 
 The young girl stopped without finishing the sentence 
 and, leaning forward, burst into a flood of passionate tears 
 The deep flush that had crossed her listener s cheek 
 while she was speaking, the tears that sprung to her eye, 
 and the quiver of the lip she tried to render firm, showed 
 that the words of Catharine had stirred up in her breast 
 feelings which once might have responded more quickly. 
 Seating herself on a low stool at her friend s feet, she 
 buried her face in her hands a moment ; then raising it, 
 she pleaded in her low, earnest voice : 
 
 " Catharine, 0, Catharine, for your own sake, don t 
 feel so. You do not look upon life as you should. You 
 see all through your own perverted vision; you are 
 morbid in your feeling. You garner up a world of in 
 tense bitterness, and spend it upon your own aching 
 heart. I have felt so, and sometimes, even now, that 
 some fountain of bitter waters is unsealed, and I see only 
 darkness around me, mirrored from the darkness within. 
 But we must let our sympathies go out to others, and 
 for others ; we must not bring all to ourselves. We 
 must look upward for the light upward for ever ; and 
 the radiance of Heaven will not fail to be poured upon 
 our spirits. With hearts made strong by pure thoughts 
 and sweet affections, we will go forward cheerfully and 
 steadfastly. We must not ask, how much of joy will b<i 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 281 
 
 poured into my bosom ? But rather, how much of God s 
 love may my heart shed abroad among my fellow-crea 
 tures ? whose sorrows may I soothe whose joys in 
 crease? We should bless God for his gifts, and use 
 them not selfishly but gratefully for all." When 
 Louisa ceased speaking, Catharine clasped her hand 
 tightly in her own, and kissing her cheek, said, in a 
 choked voice, " Bless you, iny friend ! I will try to look 
 upward." 
 
 How sweetly those words fell upon the ear of Louisa ! 
 with what a thrill of mingled joy and sadness she heard 
 Catharine s softened sobs, and felt the frequent pressure 
 of her hand in token of gratitude for her gentle conso 
 lation ! A vein of holier thought and feeling was touched 
 in Catharine s heart ; her bitter emotions she wept away ; 
 and from the altar of her inmost soul there went up a 
 prayer that she might no longer waste and turn into a 
 curse what the Father of Light had given her so bounti 
 fully in his infinite love. " What have I ever done to 
 make one human being better or happier ?" she asked 
 sadly. 
 
 "You have made me happier, dearest," replied her 
 companion, a tear trembling in her eye and a smile 
 breaking gently over her features. " Your better nature 
 is active now. You will yet be all you are capable of 
 being ; your influence will be exerted in the best and 
 noblest of all charities the awakening of pure thoughts in 
 slumbering hearts the strengthening of faint resolves." 
 
 " Ah ! Louisa," said Catharine ; and her subdued face 
 suddenly lit up with an expression of flashing hope and 
 joy. A smile, with a volume of bright, unspoken mean- 
 
282 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 ing in it, parted her lips. " If I could but stir up in 
 other hearts the feelings you have stirred in mine if in 
 other hearts I could but aid to stop the current of un 
 grateful bitterness, and wake the sweet emotions that 
 flow from higher and purer fountains if the influence 
 of my soul could go forth as yours does, only to 
 strengthen the tie that may bind us to heaven ! but I 
 am too hopeful ; my own heart is yet an untamed wil 
 derness ; ! will it ever be otherwise ? I tremble for 
 my weakness. * 
 
 " God is our refuge and strength, replied the gentle 
 Louisa. By this time the shadows of twilight had fallen, 
 a haziness had breathed over the few golden clouds that 
 lingered in the west, and the blue sky had taken a more 
 dreamy tint. The young girls parted affectionately, 
 with an assurance of soon meeting again. 
 
 " Ah ! my dearest, how do you do ?" cried Miss Holl- 
 man, flinging open the door of her friend s apartment, 
 and giving her a hearty greeting, a few weeks after the 
 foregoing conversation. " Well, it looks oddly enough to 
 Bee you busy over anything but a book or something of 
 the. kind. What little girl is this?" she lowered her 
 Toice, and looked at a pretty child who was deeply en 
 gaged in sewing on a dress for her own little person. 
 
 "My prote gde," replied Catharine, smiling; "she is 
 the daughter of our washerwoman, and I am sewing for 
 her. Look at my forefinger ! The way it is scratched 
 pronounces me a creditable seamstress, I m sure." 
 
 " Very !" said Louisa, laughing ; " but tell me of this 
 Budden freak. You used to say you never would trouble 
 yourself with sewing, unless you were obliged to do it." 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 283 
 
 "I know it," returned the new seamstress, shaking 
 her head. " But I have made better resolves, and I 
 intend to follow them out. I shall conquer my indolent 
 habits. You set me to thinking the other day, Louisa, 
 and I have made up my mind to live a life of usefulness. 
 I may not pass out of the world without having per 
 formed my part. By employing my hands, and calling 
 into exercise my best feelings, I hope to grow better and 
 happier. You know, with me a thing is no sooner 
 decided upon than it is done, if possible. What do you 
 think I am going to do now ?" 
 
 "Educate that child ?" 
 
 " Yes ; don t you approve the plan ? she is a bright, 
 affectionate little thing, and her mother is poor, to des 
 titution." Louisa threw her arm around Catharine s 
 neck, and gave her a heart-warm kiss. " Don t give up, 
 my dear girl !" she ?aid earnestly. 
 
 " 0, no ! I am happier now than I have been in a 
 long time. Everything is sunny to me now. Rainbow 
 tints touch all. A thousand blessings are showered upon 
 me ; how could I speak so bitterly, when I have kind, 
 affectionate friends ? How much more I shall try to do 
 for their happiness than I have done ! If we would only 
 do all the good accident throws in our way, how many 
 beautiful spots we could look back to in after years ! 
 But I am an enthusiast, Louisa ; all comes to me so 
 glowingly. My aims in life are fixed now, I hope. I 
 have triumphed, but I have had many prayers and tears 
 and struggles since I last saw you. It has been a hard 
 thing for me to resolve to yield up my day dreams, my 
 idle feelings, my talents, my all, to better purposes than 
 
284 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 my own amusement. But now now it seems a sweeter 
 thing to pour out my sympathies, to make others joyful ; 
 it is a blessed power. We do not realize what we are, 
 the pure happiness we are capable of, until we feel thus 
 It seems so delightful to me to be full of plans, eager 
 and interested, like other people. I am as full of ro 
 mance as ever, but I shall look on life, and weave around 
 real incidents the charmed spell. I shall no longer fly 
 from the common-place, but I will breathe over it the 
 poetry of kindly affections. I shall not selfishly avoid 
 the society of all but a chosen few. I shall observe and 
 study ; I shall do anything, everything to wake up my 
 mind from its lethargic dreams. I will keep a journal 
 to watch over my wayward heart, and note down my 
 resolutions and short-comings. It shall benefit me by 
 being my confessional, and it shall amuse me with its 
 own unequalled pure romance. Now haven t I as great 
 a tact for creating sources of happiness as I had, a few 
 weeks ago, the talent for discovering miseries ? ! I 
 shall yet be a happy creature, and a good one, too, I 
 hope." 
 
 Louisa listened to this gush of happy feeling, with a 
 smile beaming from her blue eyes, and softening every 
 feature. Never had the dear voice of Catharine sounded 
 so sweetly musical. Her own experience, though brief, 
 told her that clouds followed the joyful sunshine ; but it 
 also told her that those clouds would break again, and 
 from the bosom of the heavens a flood of yet purer light 
 would descend ; she sought not to damp the ardour of 
 her friend by reminding her of the changeful states of 
 mind to which we are subject, the hours of stern conflict 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 285 
 
 with feeling and motives which we thought we had 
 abandoned entirely. She had seldom seen Catharine * 
 strength of character thoroughly roused, but it had 
 sometimes flashed forth with a light that assured her it 
 could burn brightly and steadily, if principle, undying 
 principle, were but there to feed the flame. Casting 
 aside these reflections for the present, she yielded with 
 her friend to that delicious freshness and childhood of 
 the heart which all must have felt for a time at least. 
 She rummaged among the books on education lying on 
 Catharine s table, sometimes laughing and jesting about 
 her new dignities, and again entering into a serious dis 
 cussion. At last, to little Susy s great delight, she took 
 her dress from her, and, occupying her vacated seat, 
 began to sew with a charming energy. When the protdgdo 
 had Catharine s permission to disappear, Louisa said, 
 gayly, " Why, Kate, we are as happy as queens here, 
 in our capacity of seamstresses. So you are really 
 going to give that little bright-eyed damsel a first-rate 
 education ; going to take the whole charge of her ! Is 
 she very smart?" 
 
 " Yes, and generous and sweet-tempered. I shall not 
 waste any accomplishments on her ; but I shall cultivate 
 and strengthen her mind, and see that the best affections 
 of her nature are called forth, as a matter of the first 
 importance." 
 
 " ! you will make a bewitching teacher ; you talk 
 like a book. Who would have thought a wild, careless 
 girl like you could speak so judiciously on such a 
 subject?" 
 
 " Ah! indeed," said Catharine, with her hearty, mis* 
 
286 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 chievous laugh, "these wild girls don t get the credit of 
 even being in their sober senses. I suppose my acquaint 
 ances will think I am daft, as the Scotch say. Well, 
 be it so ! I can be laughed at, if it is distressing, but 
 I can t be moved." 
 
 " We would be in a pretty bad plight, if we depended 
 on the opinions of our friends entirely, instead of our 
 own convictions of duty," remarked Louisa. 
 
 As weeks rolled on, Catharine was fretted, worried, 
 and tormented with little Susy, as only untrained child 
 ren know how to fret, torment, and worry. Hasty words 
 sometimes sprung to her lip, but the strong, upright 
 will came off conqueror in the end. She went into 
 society with a different spirit. 
 
 " Such a delightful time we will have to-night !" were 
 the eager words that escaped her lips, as she and Louisa 
 were tripping along Broadway one afternoon ; "we must 
 not stay long at Mrs. Belcher s ; I hope she is not very 
 sick." 
 
 "0! I hope not," answered Louisa; then taking up 
 the subject that most occupied her thoughts, she ex 
 claimed, in a lively tone, " I shall have just the kind of 
 company you like, the talent and genius, and you shall 
 be the star. I won t have to coax you to be bright to 
 night, will I?" 
 
 " Taisez- vous /" said Catharine, with a laugh and a 
 blush ; " I don t like flattery. But here we are ; now 
 we must not stay long." 
 
 " No, indeed ! a quarter of an hour, at most. I have 
 oceans of business at home; but, as Mrs. Ikleher ex 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 287 
 
 pressed a wish that we should call on her, I think we 
 ought." 
 
 " Certainly, I think so too." In a few moments, the 
 young girls stood by the sick-bed of the fashionable lady. 
 Her face was pale and thin, and wore the sad, thoughtful 
 look sickness and sorrow can give to the merriest or most 
 inexpressive countenance. 
 
 " Ah ! I am glad you have come," she said, extending 
 her little white hands to the girls as they approached 
 her ; she smiled kindly as each, in turn, bent over her 
 and kissed her. u Bring your chairs here close by me. 
 I am so lonely. All my friends just send to the door to 
 inquire after me. I knew you would not be careful to 
 avoid a sick-bed, so I sent for you. The greater part 
 of the time I only see my nurse." 
 
 "We had not heard of your sickness before," said 
 Louisa. 
 
 "I thought not." 
 
 " Is your husband out of the city ?" Catharine inquired 
 thoughtlessly ; she had heard some vague rumours about 
 Mr. Belcher, but had forgotten them. 
 
 " No, 0, no !" was the brief reply ; but in that tone, 
 and in the expression that crossed Mrs. Belcher s face, 
 the young girls read volumes. Her husband was a gam 
 bler, and his wife had learnt it but three weeks before, 
 when he started suddenly for the South. Her kind- 
 hearted visitors stayed longer than they had intended ; 
 they fe t that they had lightened fch* tedious hours of 
 the invalid. 
 
 "We will come and see you often," said Catharine, 
 tenderly. 
 
28 CATHARINE BLOOMER. 
 
 <: As often as you want us," Louisa added, with a sweet, 
 dad smile. 
 
 " I can t bear to have you leave me, dear girls," Mrs. 
 Belcher said, in a half-pleading voice. " I don t expect 
 to sleep all this weary night. If one of you could only 
 Btay with me ? But I should not ask it." 
 
 u I wish we could," answered Louisa. Catharine was 
 silent ; her heart throbbed with sudden disappointment. 
 She thought of the pleasure she had been anticipating. 
 It came before her with glowing vividness, arrayed in 
 the sunny warmth with which fancy prepares us for 
 expected enjoyment. And then she thought of the 
 kindness by which she might soothe the neglected wife. 
 There was a powerful struggle in her breast ; the. good 
 triumphed. Speaking to Mrs. Belcher in rather a low 
 tone, she said, "Louisa expects a number of friends at 
 her house to-night. She of course cannot be excused, 
 but I will stay with you, and read to you, or amuse you 
 the best I can." 
 
 " Thank you!" exclaimed Mrs. Belcher, gratefully; 
 "but perhaps you intended to spend the evening at 
 Louisa s ?" 
 
 "I am going to spend it here now, at all events," 
 Catharine, replied, with her own peculiarly decided wilful 
 smile. 
 
 " I wish it was convenient for me to stay, too," said 
 Louisa, as she pressed Mrs. Belcher s hand at parting. 
 Then turning to her friend, who had approached tli 
 window, she said, in an undertone, " Ah ! Catharine, 
 my pleasure is gone, too. I shall think of you all the 
 time ; so lonely, and I will be where all is gaycty." The 
 
CATHARINE BLOOMER. 289 
 
 pitying drops actually started in Louisa s eyes. " March 
 home as fast ag you can go," said Catharine, in the 
 same low voice, leading her companion to the door, and 
 dashing away a tear that came in spite of a smile. 
 " You unman me, you charming little baby. Just look 
 here !" and she pointed to a crystal drop that was rolling 
 with "solemn gait and slow" down her cheek. Louisa 
 disappeared, with a mischievous light chasing away her 
 pathetic tears. Catharine moved around the invalid s 
 bed ; and deep, gentle affections came clustering about 
 her heart. She felt happy in the consciousness of hav 
 ing done right; her half-pensive smile, and tender voice, 
 was a balm to the wounded spirit of the sufferer. She 
 led the conversation along gently to subjects most 
 adapted to give consolation to the sick and sorrowful. 
 Gradually and slowly she opened in Mrs Belcher s heart 
 (he good and tender feelings, so long hidden under the 
 smile of prosperity, on the callousness of worldly carea 
 and pleasures. With the colouring of her own sun-bright 
 fancy, she spoke of life and its objects. She cheered 
 her desolate bosom with hopes and thoughts of all that 
 future expansive life we may all win by our labours here. 
 And the weary sick one listened earnestly, as Catharine 
 touched a chord in her breast no kind being had ever 
 sought to touch before ; she felt that she had friends 
 here, and friends in the watchful angels, and a friend in 
 our Father in Heaven. More hallowed sympathies were 
 gently aroused a more soothing sadness breathed over 
 her spirit. Tears coursed slowly and silently down her 
 pale face. With a gush of feeling, Catharine leaned 
 forward, and folded her arms around her slender form, 
 19 
 
290 " KEEP THYSELF PURE." 
 
 as if that might protect her from sorrow. She pressed 
 her lips upon her forehead, and her own warm, kind 
 tears fell, and mingled with those of the invalid. The 
 hope she had expressed to Louisa had come to pass. In 
 that lonely bosom, she had awakened to a sad yet sweet 
 music the string that could vibrate to hopes higher than 
 those of earth. When morning bathed all in its welcome 
 li^ht, did that young girl regret her act of self-denial ? 
 Let those who have had a similar experience answer. 
 To change the whole current of our thoughts and feel 
 ings is not the work of a moment, yet there must be a 
 time when that work must commence. With Mrs. 
 Belcher it had just begun ; and through the influence of 
 Catharine and Louisa she became, in time, not brilliant 
 nor gifted, but what all may become, gentle, upright* 
 and good. 
 
 "KEEP THYSELF PURE." 
 
 BE thou pure before the morning, 
 
 Pure before the eye of day ; 
 Pure when glowing glances meet thee, 
 
 And when eyes are turned away : 
 Through the glory, through the shadow, 
 
 Let them be alike to thee ; 
 Ever pressing onward, upward, 
 
 In the strength of purity ; 
 Wot alone in light endure, 
 Through the darkness keep thee 
 
" KEEP THYSELF PURE. 
 
 Gentle-hearted friends anear U8, 
 
 Make the path of duty sweet ; 
 Ah ! how softly walk we onward, 
 
 When the loving guide our feot. 
 That must be a little sorrow, 
 
 Which is shared as soon as known, 
 For it draws the heart we lean ou 
 
 Closer closer to our own : 
 Can it be a bitter thing, 
 When such balm is in its sting? 
 
 But a sorrow may come nigh thee 
 
 In a time of loneliness; 
 When thy soul is drooping fainting 
 
 And no love is there to bless ; 
 Friendless desolate deserted 
 
 Can ye bear the aching thrill? 
 Will thy heart keep on its pureness, 
 
 Meek, and true, and trusting still? 
 Ah ! tis then we learn the need, 
 Of a changeless love indeed. 
 
 Not for earth or earth s applauses, 
 
 Not for glory, or for gain, 
 But for Heaven s high approval, 
 
 Cleanse thy bosom from its stain : 
 When no eye or ear can heed thee, 
 
 Deep within thy heart of hearts; 
 For thy God in love is seeking 
 
 44 Truth in all the inward parts f 
 And thy hope is very sure, 
 11 thy soul be true and pure. 
 
 91 
 
" THE ANGELS WITH US UNAWARES." 
 
 "DEAR mamma, I love you," says the baby-boy, 
 clasping his white arms lovingly about her neck, and 
 receiving her kiss in return. Helpless little creature ! 
 It will be long indeed, ere he will realize a mother s 
 self-denying tenderness, her anxiety about his future, 
 her pain when he suffers, her regret when he does 
 wrong, and her happiness when he does well. 
 
 She does not tell him now, that with aching head and 
 weary fingers, she has watched him through long days 
 and nights of illness, when death seemed hovering ov^r 
 his pillow, ready to snatch him away, if even for one 
 moment she forgot her charge ; and with what agonizing 
 earnestness she prayed, " ! Father, spare him, if con 
 sistent with Thy will !" 
 
 She does not tell him now, for he is too young to com 
 prehend, even in a measure, the height and breadth and 
 depth of maternal love. 
 
 He only knows her bosom is his pillow, her arms his 
 shield, and that from her hands his hourly wants are 
 supplied. 
 
 But if it comes to be his lot to gaze upon her sweet 
 face, cold in the drapery of death, to miss her smile, 
 and long in vain for her caress ; then, when others part 
 his silken hair, without the accustomed kiss ; when 
 others take him coldly by the hand, and lead him to his 
 
"THE ANGELS WITH US UNAWARES." 203 
 
 enidlc-bed, and bear his infant prayer, as a mere act of. 
 duty; then, while their careless " good-night" is still 
 chiming in his ears as a bitter mockery ; then he will 
 fling out his tiny arms, and clasp the empty air in search 
 of that soft hand which lingered so lovingly about his 
 pillow, and realize that " an angel" has been with him 
 44 unawares." 
 
 "Thank you, father!" says the young girl, bounding 
 away with her hand clasped upon the means with which 
 to purchase some elegant article of dress, forgetting in 
 her wild happiness how much she is already indebted to 
 him. Little does she realize the toil and anxieties of 
 that noble-hearted man, standing up as a tower of de 
 fence between his helpless ones, and the rude, jostling 
 crowd, and baring his own broad breast to all life s 
 pelting storms, content if he can but shelter them. 
 
 "My daughter." There is a meaning in those words 
 whose depths she will never fathom until another sen 
 tence falls like ice upon her ear, and freezes the blood 
 in her veins : " He is dead !" 
 
 Then, when she misses his kindly greeting, when he 
 no longer fills her pleading hand ; when she would turn 
 back from the cold friendships of the world, sick at heart 
 for the love she has wasted upon the ungrateful ; then, 
 when there is no fond, paternal bosom, to which she may 
 fly in her day of adversity, she will realize ! how 
 bitterly! that "an angel" has been with her "una 
 wares." 
 
 "Would I had now a father!" bursts from her quivrr- 
 ing lips, as she remembers nil his goodness; and fiho 
 nerves herself anew for the stern conflict of life. 
 
294 " THE ANGELS WITH US UNAWARES." 
 
 " My brother !" The fraternal tie may be loosened 
 by uiikindness, or remembered lightly, as in different 
 paths we go out into the world, each struggling for indi 
 vidual success ; but there are times when that word calls 
 up a gush of tenderness, as we look back to youth s 
 halcyon hours, when we walked hand in hand with him, 
 who held us by an earnest clasp, and whose kiss was 
 unpolluted by flattery or selfishness. 
 
 We may have thought hardly of that brother, but if 
 the stranger dares to whisper aught against his name 
 how the indignant blood tingles in our veins stranger, 
 beware ! 
 
 He lies low in the churchyard. We cover his faults 
 with the mantle of charity, and comparing his love of 
 long-ago with the world s fictitious friendships, say his 
 errors were of the head rather than the heart; he was, 
 indeed, as u an augel unawares." 
 
 The husband goes before the wife, smoothing the rough 
 places and pushing aside the thorns from her path ; ho 
 shields her from the stare of impertinence, and blunts 
 the edge of every pain and grief by those soft, balmy 
 utterances, known only in the vocabulary of affection ; 
 and she leans upon his strong arm, unaware of all his 
 self-denial for her sake. 
 
 But when that strong arm is palsied in death, when 
 the eyes which beamed on her so lovingly are closed 
 for ever, and the lips which never chided her are pa!e 
 and mute then she realizes his worth as she never 
 could before and gazes with tearful earnestness into the 
 blue abyss, as if to arrest those " lessening winga* in 
 their upward flight, and whisper in the ear r/f the dtf- 
 
"THE ANGELS WITH US UNAWARES." 295 
 
 parted the thankfulness, which until now had found no 
 utterance. 
 
 The wife! There is no treachery there no deceit. 
 How her smile of welcome dissipates the cloud of care 
 which has clung to her husband s brow all day ! How 
 softly she parts away the toil-dampened locks from his 
 temples, and kisses away their last lingering throb of 
 pain! 
 
 The heart, man knows, is all his own is to him a 
 priceless gem ; but never. until those orbs, which turn to 
 his with love and reverence, are hidden away in the 
 gloom of the narrow house, does he appreciate as he 
 should the presence of her who was sent of heaven " an 
 angel unawares." 
 
 That friend a creature of blended weaknesses and 
 virtues not all selfishness, not all disinterestedness; 
 but the pressure of his hand is earnest, his smile is not 
 a lie. You have trusted him, and he has not betrayed 
 you. You have gone to him in the hour of trial, and 
 he has advised you for your best good. He has spoken 
 your name with respect, and cheered you with words of 
 hope when your heart was faint almost unto death ; in 
 him you have a priceless treasure. Well may you bow 
 your head and weep if he has fallen before you in the 
 battle of life ; for there will be times in the future when 
 you will yearn to lay your head upon his shoulder, and 
 pour into his sympathetic ear your tale of wrongs and 
 griefs ; and then will come again the ronsciousncss that 
 he has pass-ed away, and, God help you ! you search in 
 vain through life for his lining counterpart. 
 
 There are " angels with us unawares" in all the reU- 
 
206 SABBATH EVE. 
 
 tions of life, but, alas for our stupidity ! we seldom 
 realize their presence until we u see" their " white wingr 
 lessening up the skies." 
 
 SABBATH EVE. 
 
 IN beauty sinks the parting sun, 
 
 As evening shades appear, 
 And beauteous as dreams of heaven, 
 
 The nightly train draws near. 
 Bright earth, with all her glorious thinj^f, 
 Sleeps calmly neath the spirit s wings, 
 Reflecting back bright hues above, 
 Rejoicing in a flood of love. 
 
 The blue isles of the boundless deep, 
 The heaven s blue arch on high, 
 The flowers that gaze upon the skies 
 The bright streams flowing by 
 Are teeming with religion deep 
 O er earth and sea its glories sleep, 
 And mingle with the starry rays, 
 Like the soft light of parted days. 
 
 The heart is filled with glorious thoughts, 
 
 With transport beating wild, 
 As thought ascends up to the shrino 
 
 Of glory undefilcd. 
 And holy breathings from the heart, 
 Like blessed angels ever start, 
 And bind for earth s fond ties are riven 
 Our spirits to the gates of heaven. 
 
SPARE MOMENTS. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE is power ! And this power every young 
 man who makes a ood use of his spare moments may 
 obtain. These sparo moments accumulate into hours 
 every clay, and the further aggregate makes days and 
 weeks in each year days and weeks that might be 
 devoted to an earnest and successful improvement of 
 the mind. We introduce with these few words the fol 
 lowing sketch : 
 
 A lean, awkward boy came one morning to the door 
 of the principal of a celebrated school, and asked to see 
 him. The servant eyed his mean clothes, and thinking 
 Le looked more like a beggar than anything else, told 
 him to go around to the kitchen. The boy did as ho 
 was bidden, and soon appeared at the back door. 
 
 " I should like to see Mr. ," said he. 
 
 " You want a breakfast, more like," said the servant 
 girl, "and I can give you that without troubling him." 
 
 " Thank you," said the boy, " I should have no objec 
 tions to a bit of bread, but I should like to sec Mr. , 
 
 if he can see me." 
 
 "Some old clothes, may be you want," remarked the 
 gervant, again eyeing the boy patched trousers. " I 
 guess he has none to spars, he gives away a sight;" ami 
 without minding the bDy s request, she went away abc H 
 her work. 
 
288 SPARE MOMENTS. 
 
 " Can I see Mr. ?" again asked the boy, after 
 
 finishing his bread and butter. - 
 
 " Well, he s in tho library; if he must be disturbed he 
 must ; but he does like to be alone sometimes," said ihe 
 girl in a peevish tone. She seemed to think it very 
 foolish to admit such an ill-looking fellow into her mas 
 ter s presence ; however, she wiped her hands, and bade 
 him follow. Opening the library door, she said, 
 
 " Here s somebody, sir, who is dreadful anxious to see 
 you, and so I let him in." 
 
 I don t know how the boy introduced himself, or how 
 he opened his business, but I know that after talking 
 awhile, the principal put aside the volume which he was 
 studying, and took up some Greek books and began to 
 examine the new comer. The examination lasted some 
 time. Every question which the principal asked, the 
 boy answered as readily as could be. 
 
 " Upon my word," exclaimed the principal, "you 
 certainly do well !" looking at the boy from head to foot 
 over his spectacles. " Why, my boy, where did you 
 pick up so much?" 
 
 "In my spare moments" answered the boy. 
 
 In that answer how much was included ! Few become 
 either learned or eminent, who do not make a profitable 
 use of their spare moments; for, if these are wasted in 
 self-indulgence, they enervate the mind, rendering it 
 less efficient in its tasks when duty requires it to net. It 
 is generally believed that the mind gains strength, after 
 severe labour, by seasons of entire inactivity. There is, 
 we think, an error in this. More real strength, we are 
 Bure, will be acquired by the employment of new facul 
 ties, while those needing repose are permitted to rest. 
 
THK BURDOCK AND THE VIOLET. 
 
 IT came up in the garden, that burdock, just behin.l 
 the violets and close to the rose bushes. It was in the 
 corner close up to the (parse, anii we said we would let 
 it stay, and it should have all the kind care and gentle 
 attention that the roses and the violets had. Roadside 
 burdocks we knew were coarse, vile things, with their 
 dusty leaves and their sharp burs ever adhering to the 
 passers-by, and we would like to see what a garden bur 
 dock would be like; whether it would be bright, and 
 fresh, and delicate for growing in such sweet company, 
 arid so we were merciful and let it stay. 
 
 And it grew among the roses and the violets, and 
 gentle hands watered it often, and the earth was softened 
 about its roots just as for its fairer neighbours ; but it 
 waited not for them in its progress upward. It shot up 
 rank and tall, and its wide leaves spread all abroad and 
 threatened to cover ic na owcure its less assuming 
 neighbours. And at iut tno Mossoms came. They 
 were large and strong, and armed with keen thorns, and 
 the flowers changed into burs, and they reached out 
 their thorny fingers and grasped the passers-by, and the 
 white dust lay thick on the rough woolly leaves, arid 
 the seeds flew out on the wind to seek lodging-places, 
 where another year a new crop should find foothold and 
 sustenance. 
 
 A little violet crept up through the fence and looked 
 
300 THE BURDOCK AND THE VIOLET. 
 
 up brightly beside the hard and dusty street, and we 
 said, we will let it grow there, and so it grew. Water it 
 had none, except the celestial fountains; care it had none, 
 except from sunshine and sweet dews and the kindly 
 glances of the passers-by ; yet there it lived and bloomed 
 sweetly, "wasting its sweetness on the desert air." Its 
 green leaves were as green as its cherished kindrcl of 
 the flower-bed, and its blue eyes reflected as hopefully 
 as the blue of the summer sky. 
 
 So we said to ourselves, Outward circumstances and 
 mere surroundings are but little after all ; and if change 
 to nature comes, it must be a work deep inwrought by 
 other = than earthly hands. 
 
 THF ENT 
 
THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY