L I B R. A R. Y 
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P.ead this, dear Captain.” Page 21. 
 
A VISIT 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 TO 
 
 my BIRTH-PLACE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 The PASTOR’S TAKES, &c. 
 
 — o{o — 
 
 “Sweet scenes of youth ! to faithful memory dear, 
 Stiii fondly cherish’d wit!? the sacred tear, 
 
 When, in the soft^’d Iigh't of summer skies. 
 
 Full on my soul life’s fim illusions rise ! 
 
 Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain ! 
 
 I come, to trace your soothing- haunts again,— 
 
 To mark each grace that pleas’d my stripling prime, 
 By absence hallow’d, and endeared by time,- 
 To lose amid your winding dells the past 
 
 AMERICAN EDITION, REVISED AND IMPROVED. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 PUBLISHED AT JAMES LORING^S 
 
 SABBATH SCHOOL BOOK-STORE, 
 
 132 WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
DISTRICT OE MASSACHUSETTS, to wit: 
 
 District Clerk's Office . 
 
 Bb it remembered, That on the seventh day of October, 
 A. D. 1828, in the fifty-third year of the Independence of the United 
 States of America, James Loring , of the said District, has deposited 
 in this Office the title of a Book, the right whereof he claims as Pro- 
 prietor, in the words following, to wit : 
 
 “A Visit to My Birth-Place. By the Author of the Pastor’s Tales 
 &c. American Edition, Revised and Improved. 
 
 Sweet scenes of youth ! tq faithful memory dear. 
 
 Still fondly cherish’d with the sacred tear, 
 
 When, in the soften’d light of summer skies, 
 
 Full on my soul life’s first illusions rise ! 
 
 Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain ! 
 
 I come, to trace your soothing haunts again, — 
 
 To mark each grace that pleas’d my stripling prime, 
 
 By absence hallow’d, and endeared by time, — 
 
 To lose amid your winding dells the past- ” 
 
 In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled 
 tS An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies 
 of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such Cop- 
 ies, during the times therein mentioned:” and also to an Act, Entitled, “An 
 Act supplementary to an Act, entitled. An Act for the Encouragement 
 of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the 
 Authors and Proprietors of such Copies, during the times therein men* 
 tioned ; and extending the Benefits thereof to the Arts of Designing, 
 Engraving and Etching Historical, and other Prints.” 
 
 tvo w n avis 5 Clerk of the District 
 JNO. W. DAVIS, | of Massachusetts. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE BOSTON EDITION. 
 
 There is a purity in the virtuous nat- 
 • ural affection of relatives, a chastity of 
 attachment, which is honourable to hu- 
 man nature. Amidst the ruins of the 
 apostacy, this remains, a monument of 
 the native dignity of man. The love 
 2 of a mother to her children, that of a 
 brother to his sister, and of a sister to 
 ‘<r her brother, is not surpassed by any 
 other social bond that is common to our 
 race. When this affection is sanctified 
 by the renovating power of the grace of 
 God, a union is consummated in the 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ^ a PPJ members of the same family, which 
 the wasteless ages of eternity will but 
 increase. When a little circle of rela- 
 tives of this character are called to en- 
 dure together the privations and the 
 sufferings to which all are alike subject, 
 they more firmly grasp those principles 
 of Christianity, which the gospel reveals, 
 and more cordially sustain each other 
 under the sharpest trials, than when the 
 clear sun of prosperity illumines all their 
 path. Does a dark cloud of obscure 
 providences hide from their hope almost 
 every prospect of sublunary bliss ?— the 
 cheering light of faith in an atoning Re- 
 deemer, the well-grounded hope of glory 
 to be revealed at death, supports, and 
 more than comforts, yea enables them 
 to triumph in Christ. It is to exhibit 
 such scenes as those to which, we refer, 
 it is to illustrate such an attachment 
 as that of which we speak,— that this 
 charming little volume seems to have 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 VI i 
 
 been written. That all its narrations 
 are literally as stated, is not affirmed ; 
 but of this we feel confident, that who- 
 ever reads the book with a careful at- 
 tention, will find such affections excit- 
 ed, and discover such alleviations from, 
 sorrow, in its religious considerations, as 
 must lead them to the conviction, that 
 these supports are more to be coveted 
 than all the wealth which might be 
 gathered from the possessions of this 
 wide universe. 
 
 y 
 
 A * 
 
A VISIT TO MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 Pictured in memory’s mellowing glass, how swetft 
 Our youthful days, our youthful joys to greet ; 
 
 How sweet, when all the evil shuns the gaze, 
 
 To view the unclouded skies of other days. 
 
 These long lost scenes, to me, the past restore, 
 
 Each besom friend, each pleasure, now no more, 
 
 And every tree, familiar to my sight, 
 
 Recalls tome fond idea of delight. 
 
 H. J t. IVhitc. 
 
 To have left our native place in youth, when 
 &11 was fair, bright, and promising ; when Hope 
 was our guiding star, and Inexperience, her assid- 
 uous handmaid, dressed every thing in her bright, 
 livery ; to return to it in maturer years ; to have 
 felt the changes, the storms, the struggles, the sad 
 realities of life ; to review, with altered feelings, 
 scenes remembered and dear ; to repeat names 
 familiar and beloved, but long unheard ; to revisit, 
 in short, our birth-place, and not feel the strong* 
 tide of early recollections flow back with interest 
 sufficient to oppress the bosom with the sensations 
 they awake, seems to me impossible. 
 
 There are few persons so severed from the ties 
 and affections of nature, as to be incapable of 
 
 B 
 
6 A VISIT TO 
 
 singling out one spot on this earth’s extension, to 
 which the heart can turn with fondness, or their 
 affections cling with ardour. Some declining vil- 
 lage, some ruined mansion, some rural vale, or 
 sea-beaten shore, may be the object of deep indi- 
 vidual interest, when the heart, musing on the 
 years that are gone, can say, 
 
 66 This is my own, my native place.” 
 
 He must, indeed, possess but a scanty portion 
 of the finer feelings of humanity, who, after passing 
 through the various scenes, the, chances and 
 changes, into which life’s vicissitudes may draw 
 him ; or it may be, after long years of absence 
 from his country, his friends, and if he yet has one, 
 from his home, can revisit his native place, trace 
 again the paths he trode in laughing childhood, or 
 in careless youth, and not think over the past, nor 
 feel the present with sensations of powerful and 
 affecting interest. 
 
 Such, at least, were the feelings with which I 
 beheld mine, when, after along estrangement from 
 the scenes and the friends of my youthful days, I 
 went, on my return to. my country, at the request 
 ©f a friend, who then resided in the mansion of my 
 ancestors, to visit my birth-place ; where many a 
 happy hour of thoughtless youth had been spent ; 
 when the light winged moments fled swiftly— ah ! 
 how often have I since thought, too swiftly away, 
 and each succeeding day awoke new hopes, open- 
 ed new prospects, offered new pursuits. How oft- 
 en since, reviewing as the vision of a dream, the 
 days that were gone, have I given the sigh of min- 
 gled pity and regret, to the shipwrecked expecta- 
 tions of myself and my young companions, while 
 experience made me say. 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 7 
 
 “Poor simple wights, ah 1 little did we ween 
 The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ; 
 
 Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know, 
 
 This world's a w orld of weeping and of wo.” 
 
 To those who have shared my feelings, I need 
 not attempt to describe the varied emotions that 
 passed in my mind on approaching, after such an 
 absence and such changes, the place where I first 
 drew breath ; and beholding again scenes I had 
 cherished in my fondest recollection. My native 
 vale once more extended before me ; fair, peaceful, 
 unaltered, as if but a day had passed, since 
 within the hills which encircled it, were comprised 
 all that I loved on earth. I had quitted them ar- 
 dent and sanguine, my mind glowing with hope, 
 and my imagination looking forward to the world 
 on which I was about to enter. If some few nat- 
 ural regrets, some long-lingering looks were cast 
 behind, the brilliant prospects opening to my view 
 — the friends, the joys that awaited me on my re- 
 turn in honour and happiness, — these thoughts 
 cleared the passing cloud, and Hope, smiling on 
 her votary, pointed through the vista, to a fair, a 
 brilliant future. 
 
 With expectations unrealized — Hope's gay vis- 
 ions faded — early prospects blighted — experi- 
 ence supplying the place of youthful ardor, and 
 sadly telling me the world, which had seemed so 
 fair, was one of sin and sorrow, I returned to the 
 place which was once my home. As the golden 
 rays of a setting sun, tinging the tops of the lofty 
 head-lands, gave a deeper blue to the ocean wave 
 that flowed at their foot, and flung a softening ra- 
 diance over the fair landscape, I once more looked 
 on a spot dear to my heart. 
 
 Every thing around me seemed so unchanged 
 that the events of the years that had passed, ap, 
 
8 
 
 A VISIT Tw 
 
 pcared like a dream. But oh ! it was like a fair 
 image of the friend we have loved, exquisitely 
 moulded in wax ; the features are the same, but 
 the spirit which animated them is wanting — the 
 scenes were the same, but they who gave a life, a 
 coloring to those scenes, were absent : the friends 
 whose hand, whose smile in other days awaited 
 me, no longer hailed my return ; and as I passed 
 each well-remembered haunt of early happiness, 
 my heart, in the poet's words, demanded, “ the 
 friends of my youth, where are they V 1 — Gone ! 
 seemed the very silence to answer : — Time has 
 flown on, and they are gone. Yet they had not all 
 bent to time ; with some of them, at least, his 
 course was not half spent : — -but they were gone, 
 some to the grave, others to distant climes. 
 
 On the evening after my arrival at the place that 
 was once my home, I was sitting in the window of 
 my own room, again regarding from it objects re- 
 membered and dear, when young C — , my friend’s 
 eldest son, tapped at the door, to invite me to walk 
 with him. Seeing the gay party that had assem- 
 bled on the lawn, I told him I thought he had 
 better excuse me, as I felt in rcfther too pensive a 
 mood for such lively companions “ O, no, no !” 
 he cried, “ we will drive pensiveness away ; and 
 if not, you shall not spoil our mirth, for 1 know a 
 famous place for meditation, and I promise to 
 leave you there in undisturbed solitude, if I find 
 you proof to all our gaiety.” 
 
 “ Very well : on these conditions I will go with 
 you.” “ But stop,” he exclaimed, as I was taking 
 my hat, “ a proviso — if I part with your company, 
 you must promise, on your part, to tell me the re- 
 sult of your meditations in the place I leave you.” 
 
 “ Granted, my dear C.” 
 
 “ By the bye, I fear I have drawn a sermon on 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 9 
 
 myself — n 1 imported So saying, he ran down 
 
 stairs, and joining a group as gay and thoughtless 
 as himself, we set off on our walk.” 
 
 I soon found the frame in which I set out 
 would not be altered by my walk. Each spot that 
 I passed, recalled the memory of days that were 
 gone; on every height/ or through each embow- 
 ering shade, forms seemed to stray, and words, and 
 looks, and tones, such as I shall not meet on earth 
 again, seemed to break on my ear, or present 
 themselves to my eye. I became silent and ab- 
 stracted ; and except attracting the occasional 
 glance or smile of young C , my unsocial hu- 
 
 mour rendered my presence almost unheeded by 
 my companions. • 
 
 At length a turn in the glen through which we 
 walked, presented another of those spots which 
 memory had hallowed : it was the time-worn walls 
 of what had been a church, still standing, ivy-cov- 
 ered, within the ancient burying-ground on the 
 eminence, whose boundary of now loose stones 
 seemed gradually to be leaving it to the long 
 branches that hung over them to form an enclo- 
 sure ; many a. time I had sat under their shade 
 with those I ne^r must here see again ; many a 
 time, a tide of recollections connected with this 
 
 ruined spot rushed back on me ; young C saw 
 
 the expression that had gathered on my counte- 
 nance, and, seizing my arm, he drew me up the 
 broken steps, and laughingly saying, “ Thus I fulfil 
 my promise, now, remember yours he seated 
 me on a grave-stone, partly overshadowed by the 
 spreading tr£e that grew by the old wall. I had 
 no inclination to leave the place, and was glad to 
 find, as the gay voices of those I had separated 
 from died away in the distance, that they were 
 leaving me to myself. Truly, C ■ — had well'se* 
 
to 
 
 a Visit to 
 
 lected a meditating place. Here all was still, all 
 was silent ; within the untrodden precincts of the 
 old church, the grass grew higher and greener than 
 without. The day had been sultry, and nature 
 appeared to be almost oppressed. The luxuriance 
 of vegetation, the deep shade of the trees, increased 
 the feeling of silence and solitude. Around lay 
 the tombs of the dead ! Busy, active, thinking man, 
 how small a spot of earth contains you ! My 
 thoughts wandered with my eyes, as I turned from 
 the green hillock to the venerable tomb-stone, and 
 imagined to myself the various situations, fortunes, 
 and pursuits of those who slept undistinguished 
 beneath their covering ; but calling them back to 
 that whereon I sat, every feeling became absorbed r 
 it was a grey, newer-Iooking stone, close to the 
 wall, and, as I before said, under the shade of 
 some of the long branches of the trees that grew 
 by it, my eye fell on words, “ Allan Ruthven, 
 aged 23 other names were there, but on these 
 only my eyes were fastened. — “ And so I have sat 
 unconsciously on your grave, Allan, my friend, 
 my brother !” 
 
 My heart was full : I leaned my face on my 
 hand : in the train of recollections that returned, 
 the forms now laid in dust seemed again to stand 
 before me ; I heard their voices, I saw their 
 smiles ; but I looked on the narrow dwelling, and 
 the vision fled. Then were my eyes turned unto 
 heaven, whither they were gone, and my prayer 
 breathed to the God of my life whom they endless- 
 ly worshipped, that so I might tread on this earth 
 in the steps they trod, that, at the last, the one 
 abode might rjeceive us. I then rose, and not 
 trusting myself with another glance on the tomb, 
 took my homeward way, through meadows, where, 
 in other days, I had with Allan, 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 11 
 
 “ Brushed with hasty steps the early dew.” 
 
 On my return I was reminded of my promise ; 
 thus, C , I fulfil it. Perhaps you will be sur- 
 
 prised at the mode I have adopted ; but if from 
 the short history v O^Allan and his parents, you or 
 your young com a j^fth^shall gain a useful lesson, 
 you will allow thaPttie time spent at his grave was 
 not thrown away. 
 
 u And the life which I now live, I live by faith in the 
 “ Son of God.” Gal. ii. 20. 
 
 I need not describe to you the lodge at the west 
 side of the glen, where your father now lives ; 
 you daily see it from your window, peeping out 
 from its enclosure of thick plantations, where the 
 dark pine mingles with the light larch and beech, 
 and the stately fir is contrasted with the white 
 stems of ash. and silvery birch. 
 
 In former times that house was the abode of 
 Ellen Falconer: there she lived in seclusion and 
 happiness ; her mother had died when she was too 
 young to lament her loss, and until she parted with 
 her father on her marriage with Mr. Ruthven, 
 Ellen had hardly known what sorrow meant. She 
 was then introduced to a world that was new to 
 her : soon, shocked by its vices, or disquieted with 
 its manners, she would willingly have shrunk back 
 to her retirement ; but this could not be ; her 
 husband was in the army, and thus introduced at 
 once into society the least calculated to please a 
 person of her disposition, she was also unable to 
 withdraw from it ; yet, while he formed a part of 
 it, every society had a charm for her — with her 
 
12 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 husband, Ellen thought she could be happy any 
 where. 
 
 She was soon put to the proof ; for no very 
 great length of time had elapsed after his marriage, 
 when Ruthven’s regiment was ordered abroad — 
 and she stood that proof : for his sake she bade her 
 native land farewell, and undertook to share the 
 difficulties and hardships of a military life, in a 
 land not only foreign, but at that time the seat of 
 war. The thought that she should brave hardships, 
 dangers, sufferings, was sweet, when compared 
 with the idea of his meeting them alone. 
 
 Poor Ellen was now called to experience things 
 that would have shocked her in description : timid 
 and gentle hersplf, she was daily forced to witness 
 the horrors of war, continually to tremble for a life 
 far dearer than her own, and have her heart tom 
 by seeing the miseries of her fellow-creatures. 
 She had but one support, one stay— while her hus- 
 band was with her, all seemed bright ; while she 
 could see him, hear him, know he was safe, she 
 was content and happy ; but when left alone, then 
 she would feel hfr situation, then- would she find 
 there was none to colhfort. 
 
 Often when she has seen this beloved husband 
 march out at the head of a detachment, none of 
 whom might return to tell the fate of their com- 
 rades, she would throw herself on her knees to ask 
 an Almighty Guardian to protect him ; she would 
 raise an imploring look that his head might be 
 covered in the day of battle ; but she could not 
 leave him as in the hands of a gracious F ather ; 
 she could not bring herself to bow to whatever 
 might be his will. Of true vital religion, Ellen 
 and her husband were both destitute, and wanting 
 it, they wanted the only solid support, the only 
 true consolation in all trials of this mortal life. 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 13 
 
 One only object divided Ellen’s affections with 
 her husband — Allan, their darling boy, was alike 
 the idol of his father and mother — but Ruthven, 
 when he looked on him with a father’s fondness, 
 was often forced to feel the pain that our dearest 
 earthly joys and comforts bring with them. The 
 thought that he would leave him unprovided and 
 helpless, his mother forlorn and desolate, would 
 cause him hastily to withdraw his eye, and change 
 the fond smile of pleasure to the bitter boding 
 sigh. 
 
 A few days before the anniversary of little 
 Allan’s birth, a party of our troops had marched 
 
 into the small town of . On the morning of 
 
 the preceding day Ruthven had been entirely oc- 
 cupied by military duties, but in the evening he 
 sat with his wife and child to enjoy the cool 
 breeze at an open window. Allan climbed his 
 knee, and while he wound his finger in the 
 shining ringlets of his hair, exclaimed, “ Do you 
 know, papa, that to-morrow is to be a very par- 
 ticular day ?” Ruthven clasped him almost con- 
 vulsively to his bosom. Ellen, ever anxious, saw 
 the expression that passed over his face, and in- 
 quired if he knew to what the child alluded? 
 Ruthven looked in her face without speaking of a 
 meaning that seemed plain to him. That look 
 was enough: a death-like paleness spread over 
 Ellen’s faee, Ruthven was alarmed, “ Ellen my 
 dearest love !” She raised her head. “ A battle !” 
 Well, and you a soldier’s wife, to show such 
 fears ; besides, a skirmish is merely expected, our 
 brave fellows you know have only to show their 
 faces.” His words were careless, and he succeeded 
 in lessening Ellen’s fears ; but, as she left the 
 room to put her little boy to bed, had she turned 
 and seen the look with which he regarded them. 
 
14 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 she would have known they spoke not the feelings 
 of his heart — the idea of the desolate state of these 
 beloved ones, should he fall on the morrow, was 
 agony to Ruthven ; he could not endure it ; but 
 catching up his hat, went to occupy his mind by 
 examining the preparations that were making. 
 
 But he soon again wished to be alone, the crowd 
 and noise in the streets neither soothed his mind 
 nor relieved it of the load that oppressed it ; he 
 walked out of the town along the river side ; here, 
 with folded arms and head declined, he paced 
 heavily along, and tried to rouse himself from a 
 depression he thought unmanly and dishonourable ; 
 but the picture of Ellen alone, unbefriended, dis- 
 tracted at his loss, again presented itself to him ; 
 and his boy— his helpless darling boy ! — he stop- 
 ped and raised his eyes to the calm scene above 
 him; there all was peaceful, all was light. “ Heav- 
 en knows I would not shrink from death, were it 
 not for you, dear Ellen ; many a gallant fellow 
 would lie beside me — -many will sleep lowly to- 
 morrow night/* 
 
 At this moment a low strain broke on his ear ; 
 it was indistinct at first, as the voices seemed to 
 falter, or fearful of being heard ; soon they ga- 
 thered strength, and, wafted on the cool evening 
 breeze, the words they sung were distinctly heard ; 
 the strain died away by degrees ; once it seemed 
 to have closed, but was again caught up, while 
 louder and bolder they repeated the last verse. 
 
 If low we must lie on the blood-corer’d plain, 
 
 To each of our spirits let death be a gain ; 
 
 In Jesus still victors we’ll conquer in death, 
 
 And bless His great name with each quick fleeting breath ; 
 Then cold and disfigur’d our bodies may lie, 
 
 Our spirits shall soar to their home in the sky* 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 15 
 
 Ruthven stopped a few minutes, uncertain what 
 to think, and then softly advanced to some trees 
 that grew by the water’s-edge, and from whence 
 the sounds that he had heard came ; here, partially 
 concealed by the spreading foliage, and partly 
 revealed by the bright moon-beams, he saw a 
 small group kneeling on the ground : they were 
 soldiers, and duty as well as curiosity made him 
 wish to know how they were engaged ; he drew 
 near enough to hear what was said, for one spoke 
 for all ; some expressions surprised him, such as 
 — 6 to us let death be gain,— may we be more 
 than conquerors through Him who loved us — - 
 but when he heard them implore the favour of 
 Heaven for their friends, their leaders, their king, 
 and their country, he understood their meaning 
 better, and unconsciously breathed an Amen to 
 the prayer — the Amen was heard, for two of the 
 outermost turned their heads for a moment in the 
 direction where he stood, but soon again became 
 absorbed in devotion. 
 
 When they rose, and came from beneath their 
 leafy screen, Ruthven stood before them ; the 
 men started at seeing him, but calmly made their 
 salute. 
 
 <c Well, Serjeant/’ said Ruthven, recognising in 
 the leader of the little band, a man who, though 
 styled a Methodist by his comrades, was remark- 
 able in the regiment for regularity and exemplary 
 good conduct, “ is this the way you get up your 
 men’s spirits V 9 
 
 “ Yes, Captain, of some of them at least.” 
 
 u Why I thought you were a braver man than 
 to make all this ado at .the chance of deaths I 
 thought even the foreboding that it would be your 
 lot to-morrow, would not frighten you.” Ruthven 
 sighed as he spoke. 
 
16 
 
 A VISIT To 
 
 “ No, Sir, the thoughts of death in itself I call 
 truly say never did frighten me ; the thoughts of 
 a never-terminating existence after it, did.” 
 
 Ruthven felt a cold shiver run over his body as 
 the soldier solemnly pronounced these words ; a 
 feeling such as he could not describe, nor had ever 
 before known, was excited, while he murmured to 
 himself, “ a never-terminating existence !” After 
 a pause, he said, “ I should be sorry to doubt that 
 existence, Morton ; but why should that make a 
 brave man shrink ?” 
 
 “ He is brave indeed, who can contemplate 
 unmoved, an eternity of misery. Ah ! brave 
 beyond human bravery.” 
 
 “ So, serjeant, you would make cowards of us 
 all ; it is well your men are gone off.” 
 
 “ No, Sir, I would if I could make you truly 
 brave, for I would make you Christians ; true re* 
 ligion makes no man a coward ; the soldier, under 
 its influence, marching into battle, can feel a holi- 
 er, calmer confidence, than the most ardent en- 
 thusiasm bestows ; he knows that he marches 
 under a leader, who, if he sees fit, can cover 
 his head in the day of battle ; that, unless di- 
 rected, no weapon raised against him shall prosper, 
 and if he fall fighting for his country, he is to live 
 forever with his Lord ; to him, Sir, death must be 
 gain, leave what he may upon earth.” 
 
 “ Morton, you soar beyond me ; I comprehend 
 not this high flown religion ; but if so much of it, 
 as you and some others pretend, is indeed neces- 
 sary, what is to become of our regiment, aye, and 
 those of other regiments, whose bodies will strew 
 the ground to-morrow evening?” 
 
 “ It is a solemn question, Sir ; I judge no man; 
 but when I see, amid concern for wives and chil- 
 dren, or ambition to g4in a name on earth, or to 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE, 17 
 
 acquire some of its fleeting honours, no thought of 
 the world that is to come, no concern for the in- 
 terests of their never-dying souls, I cannot help 
 saying to myself, ■ Oh that they were wise, that 
 they understood this, that they woukt consider 
 their latter end l” 
 
 “ And is it to the merits of your prayers and 
 psalm singing, you ascribe the assurance that 
 you shall be happy hereafter, while so many of 
 your comrades and mine, who fall fighting for their 
 king, country, and religion too, shall perish for 
 ever ?” 
 
 “ Ah, Captain, the manner of your question 
 would persuade me you feel that more than those 
 would be necessary to inspire a well-grounded be- 
 lief of eternal happiness. No, Sir^ not to my 
 prayers, nor praises, not to my goodness do I as- 
 cribe the hope I feel ; while I was ignorant of true 
 religion, though usually reckoned a brave man, 
 and though when no time for serious reflection 
 was given, I often rushed forward to the jaws of 
 death, from which God as often saved me ; yet in 
 the hour of calmness, I secretly trembled at the 
 idea of an after life ; I wished I could be an unbe- 
 liever in the existence of a future state, but, thanks 
 to the early instructions of a pious mother, I could 
 not. Even after I had left off my bad ways, and 
 taken to a very strict life, I used to shrink when- 
 ever I thought of meeting my Judge, of having 
 every thought and action weighed ; I felt that not 
 even a well-spent life, a glorious death could en- 
 sure my acceptance with him ; but at last, Sir, I 
 heard of Jesus, that he had been made sin for us, 
 that we might be made the righteousness of God 
 in Him ; I heard that his blood cleanseth from all 
 sin ; I applied to it, and I do believe that the faith 
 in himself which He gave, has purified my heart 
 e 
 
I 18 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 from at least the love of sin ; that haying cast my 
 soul upon Him for salvation, and endeavoured to 
 live to Him, I shall be with Him for ever here- 
 after.' 5 
 
 “ I told you, Serjeant, your religion was too 
 high-flown for me," said Ruthven, after a minute’s 
 silence. “ Mine is a simple creed ; I desire to 
 fulfil my several duties in life; I do not wilfully 
 break God’s commandments, and I trust in the 
 end I shall be as safe as others ; and this I can 
 say, that the prospect of death on the morrow, 
 would not on my own account be bitter.’’ He 
 paused ; but the pious soldier, seeming to read his 
 thoughts, answered, “ c Leave thy fatherless chil- 
 dren, and let thy widows trust in Me.’ Sir, there 
 is every comfort in the Scriptures.’’ 
 
 This came home to his Captain’s heart ; as he 
 turned to leave him, he wrung his hand, saying, 
 C£ Morton, by this time to-morrow we may know 
 more of the things of the other world than we do 
 now." “ Oh, then, dear Sir," cried Morton, for- 
 getting, in the ardour of his soul, all differences of 
 rank, and clasping Ruthven’ s hand in his — “ will 
 you not, in the prospect of perhaps entering soon 
 on that unseen world, seek now to be prepared for 
 the change ?" 
 
 Ruthven shrunk ; the Serjeant inspired him 
 with feelings he was hitherto a stranger to ; but 
 assuming a gayer tone, he said, “ Come, Morton, 
 I cannot listen to any more preaching now, it will 
 only make a coward of me." 
 
 “ Ah, Sir," replied the soldier mournfully, re- 
 linquishing the hand he had held, <f perhaps the 
 coming day will show in many an instance that 
 the true Christian is not the worst soldier." 
 
 The following morning presented a scene of 
 deep interest : the trampling of horsemen in the 
 
31 Y BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 19 
 
 streets, the clang of warlike weapons, waving 
 plumes, and arms glittering in the sun-beams, all 
 announced that the work of death was to mark the 
 day ; and from the windows, pale mothers, holding 
 their helpless babes in their arms, stretching out 
 to catch a passing glimpse of the husband they 
 might never see again : thence many an anxious 
 ^ve sent its glance through the long ranks beneath, 
 in search of some object of individual interest. 
 
 All was ready, and Ruthven stole a moment to 
 clasp in a farewell embrace his Ellen and his boy : 
 a painful feeling that he should see them no more 
 hung over him ; yet he spoke comfort and hope to 
 them, and then, resuming his post, sought in the 
 spirit that animated others, to lose their remem- 
 brance. Not so Ellen ; she listened to the sound 
 of his martial accoutrements, as he ran down stairs, 
 with such intensity of feeling, that every step 
 seemed to accelerate the death of her husband ; 
 she then sat down to think of him, and feel in an- 
 ticipation the evil she dreaded. 
 
 Many a breast felt anxiety on that day, but 
 Ellen thought none felt as she did ; and, perhaps, 
 she was partly right, for she was endowed with 
 those keenly sensitive feelings that give to their 
 possessors the largest portion of sorrows as well as 
 joys that fall to the lot of mortals. At last the cry 
 of £ victory !’ struck on her ear ; she sprung to the 
 window ; in a short time the troops were seen re- 
 entering the town ; and Ruthven (all his forebod- 
 ings false) at the head of a thinned but elated 
 troop, her eager eye soon discovered, — his, passing 
 over all intervening objects, was fixed on the house 
 that contained his heart’s best treasure. 
 
 “ Thank God !” h& cried when he met them 
 once again. i( Thank God — thank God !” repeat- 
 ed little Allan, unconscious of the meaning of the 
 
20 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 words he used, and plucking his father’s sword to 
 engage his attention. 
 
 “ Well, my little soldier?” said his father, rais- 
 ing him delighted in his arms. 
 
 “ No, papa, I’ll not be a soldier !” cried 
 Allen, drawing back with a look of disgust, for 
 the plume of his father’s cap was stained with 
 blood. 
 
 “ Ellen, this boy’s heart will be as tender as 
 your own, a camp will never suit him.” 
 
 “ Oh, I hope not ; I hope his life will not pass 
 in camps,” replied Ellen; kissing the fair soft cheek 
 of her darling. 
 
 Domestic endearments were soon, however, 
 obliged to yield again to military duties : Ruthven 
 left them almost immediately, in order to oversee 
 the removal of the wounded from the field of 
 battle. 
 
 Though accustomed to scenes of blood, the 
 soldier’s heart is not always steeled. — A groan 
 was bursting from Ruthven’ s breast, as he trode 
 again over the field of death ; the Serjeant’s words 
 rushed to his mind. A cold shuddering, mingled 
 with a feeling of awe, while he looked round on 
 the thickly-covered ground, and repeated to him- 
 self involuntarily the question he had put to him— 
 “What is become of their disembodied spirits?” 
 But he started from the soul-thrilling enquiry. 
 “ Peace be to them,, poor fellows ; they died the 
 death of the brave !” As he proceeded on his 
 way, through ranks of dead and dying, agonized 
 by the groans of the wounded, one deep sigh 
 caught his attention ; it was followed by a groan,, 
 seemingly wrung by agony from a patient breast. 
 Ruthven turned to the spot from whence it came — 
 a soldier lay bathed in blood. He stopped — it was 
 Morton ! “ Ah, my poor Serjeant, have you too 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 21 
 
 met your fate?’” The dying man unclosed his 
 eyes, knew his Captain, and raised his now enfee- 
 bled hand to him. Ruthven grasped it in his. 
 His heart was full ; he picked up a knapsack, and 
 placing it under his head, bent again, to say he 
 would call the surgeon. The soldier’s glassy eye 
 feebly spoke his thanks ; but, after a struggle, he 
 articulated, “ No, I am gone !” Ruthven, not- 
 withstanding, flew in search of him, and soon re- 
 turned. The surgeon looked at the wounded 
 man ; one tremendous gash crossed his breast, 
 and his side was wounded in two places. “ Ah, 
 poor fellow, he must die,” he said, and then turned 
 to give his aid where it might be more efficient. 
 Morton met the distressed gaze of his Captain, a 
 faint smile stole over his stiffening features, he 
 raised his hand upwards, as if by the action he 
 would convey a meaning he could not express in 
 words; Ruthven kneeled on the ground to ask, had 
 he any trust, any message he wished to confide. 
 “ No,” replied the dying man, and then a sudden 
 recollection seeming to break on him, he mention- 
 ed to Ruthven to open his jacket, and drawing out 
 a small pocket Bible, he collected all his strength 
 to say, “*Read this, dear Captain, and tell your 
 friends, the soldier may be a Christian without 
 being a coward.” 
 
 The life blood that had nearly stopped flowing, 
 now burst forth in one crimson torrent, and then 
 again subsided — “ To Him who was wounded for 
 me” — — Ruthven stooped lower to catch the unfin- 
 ished sentence, but Morton would have committed 
 his soul toHim who had then forever received it. He 
 staid a moment to look on the martial countenance 
 of the man he could not help esteeming, although 
 he did not understand him ; there was a calmness 
 — a holiness depicted on it, such as he had seldom 
 e* 
 
22 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 seen the face of death to wear;* he felt he could 
 linger near him with a degree of saddened pleasure, 
 far different from what he experienced on viewing 
 other lifeless bodies. No cold shuddering crept 
 through his veins, as he thought his spirit had even 
 then entered the invisible world; he raised his 
 eye to the clear azure vault with emotions new 
 and indescribable, as if beyond its confines he 
 would trace the flight of the departed soul ; then 
 dashing from his eye the tear he would not suffer 
 to disgrace a soldier’s cheek, he turned away, say- 
 ing to himself, “ Morton, you were right, the true 
 Christian has proved a brave soldier.” 
 
 He placed Morton’s Bible in his breast, and 
 continued his disagreeable task, and o& his return 
 he drew it out; and relating to Ellen the substance 
 of his conversation with its late owner, and the 
 manner of his getting it, he gave it into her care, 
 as a relic of his humble friend. 
 
 And here I must pause a moment in the narra- 
 tion of my friends’ lives ; for in this part of them 
 my own heart was up in adoration to the God of 
 the children of men, while I thought how wonder- 
 ful are his counsels, his ways past finding out ! 
 The natural eye may see in these things but the 
 hand of chance, the eye of faith beholds in all a 
 divine agency ; even the weapon raised against the 
 pious Morton was Heaven-directed ; his death was 
 to be the means of giving new life to others, and 
 the book Ruthven received merely as a remem- 
 brancer of a departed friend, was to answer a high- 
 er purpose. Mrs. Ruthven had a Bible, it is true, 
 in her possession, but it was too seldom opened ; 
 the tale of the dying soldier interested her, she 
 looked on his well-read Bible as something uncom- 
 mon, and read in it with more pleasure ; at first 
 no doubt, she turned over leaf after leaf to find 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 23 
 
 fresh passages marked by the hand of its late own- 
 er ; but these passages were striking, and by de- 
 grees she sought them from other motives, and 
 learned to combine those that bore upon the same 
 point. She found in the Scriptures an interest 
 she never before possessed ; but it was gradually 
 that much of their spiritual meaning opened to her 
 understanding. 
 
 She learned from them the commonly received 
 truth, that God formed man upright, and that he 
 kept not his first estate ; and she also learned that 
 in consequence of our first parents’ transgression, 
 all mankind are alike included under the curse of 
 their offended Maker : thus was she by birth a 
 sinner ; and then the law of God, the rule given 
 for our conduct, appeared more holy and more 
 spiritual than it had done ; she saw that she had 
 broken it in numberless instances, and by doing 
 so had become obnoxious to its tremendous sanc- 
 tions : thinking on these things, Ellen would often 
 hold the book open in her hand, while she asked 
 the anxious question, ‘ wherewith shall I appear 
 before the Lord V Oh ! blessed be his name, that 
 holy word is profitable for all things ; it does not 
 only reveal to us our ruined state, but points to a 
 Saviour ; it not only convinces us of sin, but tells 
 us of an atonement, full, free, efficacious, already 
 made. 
 
 A verse with which Ellen, from a child, was 
 acquainted, without seeing any peculiar beauty in 
 it, was now read with delight, and joy, and thank- 
 fulness, — “ Thou shalt call his name Jesus, for he 
 shall save his people from their sins.” And she 
 would then desire to cast her soul on Jesus alone 
 for salvation, and pray that she might be numbered 
 among his people. Ellen’s whole mind , now re- 
 ceived a different bias ; even in the hours of lone- 
 
24 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 liness and anxiety she could gather happiness 
 in the feeling that a friend was with her 
 who loved her with an everlasting love, and she 
 desired calmly to leave all her concerns with one 
 who knew what was best for her. 
 
 In reading the history of the Israelites, Ellen 
 had almost felt anger at their ingratitude, but she 
 soon found her own heart was as ungrateful : she 
 had long given to the creature what was due to 
 the Creator ; her husband and child were the idols 
 her heart had bowed down to ; and though her 
 feelings of fond affection towards them were not 
 lessened, she earnestly desired that they should be 
 subordinate to those of a higher nature, and en- 
 deavoured to make them so. 
 
 Notwithstanding the transient emotions which 
 Serjeant Morton’s conversation and death had pro- 
 duced, Ruthven was surprised and grieved af seeing 
 the effects of reading his Bible, on his beloved 
 Ellen : he thought she was good, pure, and perfect 
 as mortal being could be before, and wondered at 
 hearing her express those deep sentiments of her 
 own unw'orthiness, which he thought degrading to 
 her character. At first he tried to laugh away 
 her strange notions, but not succeeding, for the 
 first time in his life, lie assumed an air of displeas- 
 ure towards her. This was grievous, indeed, to 
 poor Ellen, but she did not complain. She would 
 say to herself, “did Christ not warn his disciples, if 
 they would come after him, they must take up their 
 cross, and why should I repine ? May I learn of 
 Him to bear it.” 
 
 One of her greatest comforts was to take her 
 little boy to some quiet spot, there to read the 
 Scriptures, and speak to him on holy things. Her 
 own mind deeply impressed with the necessity of 
 yielding up all that would keep us from God, how- 
 
JMY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 25 
 
 ever dear ; of crucifying our affections and deny- 
 ing ourselves ; her conversation and instructions 
 gave a bias to Allan’s character it ever afterwards 
 maintained. How invaluable is a Christian parent ! 
 Allan has told me, the lessons of true wisdom and 
 virtue, that he learned sitting at her feet, or walk- 
 ing by her side, were never forgotten. 
 
 They were thus engaged one day, Ellen’s eyes 
 bent with maternal fondness on her son, and his, 
 beaming with expression, fastened on her face, 
 when Ruthven, who had been two days absent" 
 returned, and stood a moment in the open door to 
 observe them. When Ellen saw him, she sprang 
 to bid him welcome. Ruthven met her with all 
 his former warmth and tenderness : “ Dearest 
 Ellen, I always find you in some sweet domestic 
 employ !” 
 
 Ellen’s heart thrilled with transport ; the dread 
 that her husband’s affections would be alienated 
 from her, had been a weight upon her spirits, and 
 the removal of this gave a cheerfulness to her air, 
 an animation to her. conversation, that delighted 
 Ruthven. She had been accustomed, in an even- 
 ing when he was with her, to sing him some sweet 
 air ; he had of late declined her doing so, thinking 
 religion had given a gloom to her mind unaccordant 
 with such things. This evening he ventured to 
 ask for a favourite song : Ellen at once complied, 
 though, as she did so, she thought, “ Oh, when 
 shall 1^ hear him say , i sing me one of the songs of 
 Zion?’ ” The song was soft and melancholy : it 
 expressed the feelings of one exiled from his na- 
 tive land, looking back with regret to the days of 
 happiness and peace, — the mor.bid sensibility of a 
 heart sickened with the world, and lamenting the 
 loss of the friend who had been as a rose in a 
 path of thorns. 
 
26 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 When the song had ceased, Allan said, “ Maxi- 
 ma never sings those songs when you are away, 
 papa.” “ And what does she sing, pray ?” “ She 
 
 sings sweet pretty hymns.” 
 
 Ruthven smiled, and drawing the boy closer, 
 whispered, “ Ask mamma to sing us one of those 
 sweet pretty hymns now.” 
 
 -The request, though made only through a wish 
 to give her pleasure, brought a tear of delight to El- 
 len’s eye : she had adapted the following words to a 
 tune she knew Ruthven liked, and her voice fal- 
 tered a little when she began to sing them, for want 
 of other sacred music ; but in the latter verses 
 Allan’s voice assisted her, and his father, for the 
 first time, discerned that in sacred music, at least, 
 he had a sweet and even fine voice. 
 
 When lonely and sad through this dark world we stray, 
 
 By sorrows encompass’d around. 
 
 While ©f all the gay flow’rets Hope strewed in our way, 
 
 Not even the relics are found. 
 
 How sadly w^e think of the days that are gone, 
 
 How dark does the future appear, 
 
 To tread the rough path of this world all alone— 
 
 To lose every form that was dear. 
 
 But even in moments so gloomy as this, 
 
 The Christian with joy lifts his eye, 
 
 When lonely and sad it is comfort and bliss 
 To feel that one sure friend is nigh. 
 
 A friend, who himself all our sorrows has knoWDj 
 Will never his comfort deny ; 
 
 And Oh 1 it is sweet when all others are down, 
 
 To know that He ever is nigh. 
 
 Where home, friends, and country, no more can be lost, 
 
 Faith raises the sorrowing eye, 
 
 Says, There we shall dwell with the heavenly host. 
 
 To whom Jesus for ever is nigh. 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE, 
 
 When they stopped, Ruthven remained leaning 
 on the back of Ellen’s chair, Allan was pressed to 
 her side, her arm resting on his shoulder— but the 
 party was soon broken up by the -.entrance of Mai- 
 or L ~~' 7° st0 PPed on seeing them, and apolo- 
 gised for his interruption “No interruption. 
 Major, said Ruthven^ without rising. “ Mrs^ 
 Ruthven’s voice sometimes acts as a counterpoise 
 to the hardening influence of war; she has been 
 softening my spirits and 'undoing all that it has 
 done, by her sweet voice.” 
 
 “ You are a happy man, Ruthven.” 
 
 Ruthven smiJed ^ Why do you not marry 
 then Because I fear few women would retain 
 my affections as long, in all their warmth as Mr 4 * 
 Ruthven does yours.” 
 
 Ellen blushed, and Ruthven regarding her with 
 an affectionate smiie, said, in a low tone of voice 
 hhe is, 1. believe, one of the most perfect of 
 women.” r 
 
 Praise from her husband’s lips, Ellen was not 
 unaccustomed to : but it never was heard with the 
 same pleasure, as since it could give her a hope 
 that, at all events, he did not dislike religion. 
 
 Major L had called to inform Ruthven that 
 they were to march on the morrow for a village at 
 -some distance, on which the enemy were approach- 
 ing, and from its situation, it was deemed advisea- 
 ble to prevent their occupying it. Ruthven wished 
 his wife and son to remain at the place where thev 
 were by doing which, he said, if the army again 
 fell back on it, they would escape much fatigue 
 and unpleasantness, and if it moved forward on "the 
 dispersion ot the enemy, they could easily join 
 Fn -\ Ut 7 r , e it Was P ractica ble for her to go, 
 
 2“ rll t0 d ° S j T ? he knew an engagement 
 was shortly expected; Ruthven might need her 
 
28 A VISIT TO 
 
 care when she could not get to -him, or she might 
 see him no more, and should she hasten the hour 
 of separation ? She therefore persuaded Ruthven 
 it was better that she should go, and he reluctantly 
 consented. 
 
 Soon after the British troops had entered , 
 
 the enemy were seen occupying the heights, con- 
 stant skirmishes took place, and a general engage- 
 ment was daily expected. 
 
 On a lovely April morning, the arrival of some 
 fresh divisions having augmented their numbers, 
 the -English forces marched out to offer battle. 
 One feeling seemed to animate them : they seemed 
 to consider victory as almost the certain conse- 
 quence of the day ; and if here and there an ex- 
 pression of seriousness appeared upon a counte- 
 nance, in general, they bespoke hope, ardour, and 
 undaunted courage. 
 
 Ruthven shared this general feeling ; so often 
 spared in more desperate conflicts, he this day 
 felt an unusual confidence ; no painful forebodings 
 mingled with his affectionate farewell to his wife 
 and son: the preceding day he had gained a majority, 
 for which he had been strongly recommended by 
 his General ; and rejoicing in the opportunity of so 
 soon proving himself worthy of his new rank, he 
 parted with them in the hope of very soon return- 
 ing. But Ellen’s spirits seemed depressed propor- 
 tionably as his were elated ; her hopes sunk as his 
 rose. She never felt, not even the first day she 
 saw him march to danger, perhaps to death, as she 
 did when, on gaining the street, he turned, smiled, 
 waved his hand, mounted his horse, and was lost 
 in the crowd. 
 
 “ Father of all mercies,” she cried, “ have I 
 seen him for the last time ?” She sat down and 
 tried to bring her mind to be submissive to the 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 29 
 
 Divine will ; but when she thought of her hus- 
 band’s death, his death in battle, she shuddered ; 
 she trusted she should not yet be put to the trial, 
 and the attempt turned into a prayer for his safety. 
 Yet Ellen wished to leave every thing in the hands 
 of her God, to stay her mind on Him, and by stud- 
 ying His word, by earnest prayer, and even by 
 speaking with her son, to have her mind in some 
 degree prepared for whatever might be before 
 her. 
 
 For some time she had dreaded intimation that 
 the battle raged ; the long and frightful roar of 
 musketry, though distant, was heard from the back 
 windows of the house ; at length, it died away, 
 was renewed again at intervals, and soon altogeth- 
 er ceased — the inhabitants who had been endeav- 
 ouring, from eminences, to watch the fate of the 
 day, now began to fill the before deserted street, 
 and these were soon mixed with parties returning 
 from the field : the day had been better contested, 
 and consequently more bloody, than had been ex- 
 pected. Victory proclaimed for the English, but 
 it was blood-bought ; the remains of a gallant army 
 returned, but many an anxious enquirer met no 
 answer, to many a repeated name no eager voice 
 responded ! Alas ! to many a home, to many a 
 heart, the tidings of that day brought sorrow ! 
 
 Among the number 6f agitated enquirers w r as 
 poor Ellen ; but in vain she enquired — in vain she 
 waited — no tidings or no Ruthven came. In the 
 early part of the day, he had been seen and heard, 
 and in the heat of the action many had seen him 
 giving the proof he wished ; but whether he fell 
 amongst the heaps of slain, or escaped unhurt, no 
 one said. For some time straggling parties com- 
 ing in, gave her hopes that with some of these he 
 too might come, but this ceased ; and small room 
 
 * D 
 
30 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 seemed left for hope, yet Ellen wished to be calm ; 
 for long wearisome hours she sat with Allan, lis- 
 tening to every sound, starting at every footstep, 
 and endeavouring to catch hope from the ideas he 
 suggested.— Again she thought all this was wrong, 
 li6r mind was not yet submissive — she had not yet 
 learned to bow her will to her God's. 
 
 Ellen rose and went into the inner room, there, 
 easting herself on her knees, she implored pardon 
 tor her impatience ; and continued in prayer until 
 she felt composed and willing to bear whatever 
 might be laid upon her. Then, sitting down on a 
 chair by Allan's bed, she hoped to be prepared to 
 hear the worst. 
 
 She had not been long sitting in this way, when 
 a military step was heard on the stairs ; it was 
 slow, but still it could be none but Ruthven’s ; the 
 outer door opened just as Ellen, pale, trembling, 
 and with extended arms, had sprung to it. Not 
 Ruthven, but Major L— — met her disappointed 
 view— the disappointment was great, so great that 
 Ellen’s strength, already exhausted, nearly sank 
 under it ; she leaned her trembling form against 
 the wall, but could not find words to make the in- 
 quiry she dreaded to hear answered. Major L— 
 took one of her powerless hands in his, “ My dear 
 Mrs. Ruthven”— he seemed not to know what to 
 say— u I am grieved to see you thus.” “ Oh Maj- 
 or L— , do not add to my sufferings, tell me at 
 once, I conjure you, has he fallen ?” 
 
 “ Dearest madam, do not torture yourself in this 
 manner ; why should you think I am the herald 
 of such dreadful news ? My friend Ruthven lives, 
 and I hope will live.” 
 
 The concluding part of the sentence was un- 
 noticed. “ Ruthven lives,” was enough for Ellen. 
 She had thought she was prepared to hear of his 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 31 
 
 death with fortitude, but the overwhelming joy 
 whic'h these words gave her, told how keen would 
 have been the reverse. She threw herself upon a 
 seat, and burst into tears, — tears of joy and grati- 
 tude. Major L saw how she was affected ; 
 
 he turned to the window, and Ellen suddenly 
 raising the face she had hid, saw him wipe a tear 
 from an eye rarely moistened. It was now the 
 import of his words struck her : “ Ruthven lives, 
 and ! hope will live.” Her tears at once ceased ; 
 
 she looked earnestly at Major L ; he turned 
 
 away his faqp, on catching a glimpse of her speak- 
 ing countenance. She instantly became composed 
 and calm, and rising, she stood beside him in the 
 window, and said, in a low quiet voice, “ Ruthven 
 is wounded : you would not, you, his friend, would 
 not be so cruel as to conceal it from me, it is only 
 mistaken kindness : do, dear Sir, for Ruthven’s 
 
 sake, for my sake, tell me all?” Major L 
 
 took her hand in both of his, “ Yes, Mrs. Ruthven 
 I will tell you all ; for I see, I know you have a 
 mind capable of sustaining you under your afflic- 
 tion : Ruthven is* wounded, but not mortally.” 
 
 Ellen betrayed no emotion : she was pale before 
 and now she resembled a lifeless statue— so colour- 
 less, so unmoved. Every feature was motionless 
 and all expression, except it might be that of a 
 fixed sorrow, appeared to have forsaken them. At 
 last, as if speaking to herself, she said, “ Not mor- 
 tally ; death is not certain.” She sighed deeply 
 and almost unconscious of what she was doing" 
 
 gave her hand again to Major L , saying 
 
 1 ake me to him.” He looked at her compas- 
 sionately, “ Dear madam, he has not been brought 
 here yet.” “No matter, take me to him.” He 
 hesitated “ Oh Major, if you have any friendship 
 ior me, for my husband, take me to him ; or tell 
 
S2 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 me where he is ; I will go to him, I can find him 
 on the field.” 
 
 “ God forbid that I should send you there ! No ; 
 poor Ruthven was removed, by my directions, to a 
 house adjoining, where I desired the surgeon to 
 follow him. There, if bent on going, I will bring 
 you , but I think it might be as well to wait the 
 surgeon’s decision, respecting the propriety of re- 
 moving him.” 
 
 The truth was, that Major L was reluctant 
 
 that Ellen should go to Ruthven, since, from the 
 glimpse he had of the wounds he had received, he 
 feared she would only arrive to see him die ; but, 
 in the joy of having her desire granted, she did 
 not perceive this. In a short time she had put 
 together whatever she thought would be necessary ; 
 and, with Allan, who would not be left behind, 
 was seated in a carriage Major L had pro- 
 
 cured to take them to the place where Ruthven 
 lay. 
 
 On the road, he kindly exerted himself to divert 
 Ellen’s mind ; but at one time he redoubled his 
 efforts, and seemed desirous of Occupying her at- 
 tention, to prevent her looking out ; but though 
 her heart thanked him for his kindness, and she 
 seemed to attend to him, minutes passed away like 
 hours. At last she started up to see if any sign of 
 a house was discernible. But what a scene met 
 her !— sickened and shuddering, she fell back. 
 They were passing through the field of battle ; 
 there lay the mangled, lifeless corpses of numbers 
 of her fellow creatures : the hand that in the morn- 
 ing, in the strength of manhood, grasped the 
 sword, lay powerless : cast at some little distance, 
 the shivered blade showed how it had failed its 
 owner ; many an up-turned face, late glowing with 
 animation, was there stiffened in death : the vet- 
 
33 
 
 MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 countr7clfimed!VnTther^ wvere^n^a^ 
 
 there met in mortal comhat 7 g / d them > had 
 war-horse fallen dead £d l P D ° more ' The 
 
 » w™., i™t B t£tSS w Th ,he cl °'; 
 
 far more than these in kL u ’ these > and 
 met Ellen’s sight • she 7 7* hurned Z knc e, 
 
 el STT 3£.*.^ ■ “^p'eT,- 
 
 fought their tafighi endu“°r', hare 
 
 they .died as soldiers should 7, g ° nous one •’ 
 honour though she cannot reward^’’ ^ ^ 
 
 said Allan Ur conifc « a breaking heart ?” 
 
 p«t - ;r s* £ «. w 
 
 & s h"i P r^s s si r 
 
 rows the sigh ’ that the g 7 G t0 their sor - 
 
 would not have* caused. ° Ught ° f hls ovvn death 
 
 Starte^up. V was^^il ^ e ^Iaimed— Ellen . 
 
 tall trees 1 and « y Cot ’ d,Vid ed by a few 
 
 field. A’few minu^T st ^m from theWdy 
 Ruth ven’s. wounds had been^lr^^T" t0 7 Poor 
 a httle recovered from the faim sed ’ and he had 
 caused by pa i„ and loss of exhaustion 
 
 of Ellen. “ p oor pji \ ^ ? he was thinking 
 
 "ill comfort h“ ,» Si «“ ''or, whS 
 
 gentle. voice inquiring ifV'w 5b h “ r<i ier 
 
 he thought so ; the next 11 P ' for a mom ent 
 drawing aside the curin' v '°m^ an of the house 
 
 up to shut out the evening S 7 bad charitably put 
 J t was not fancy Fllen^ SUnbeam » showed him' 
 
 E n SJ,ran S t0 ‘he becfsufe/ 
 
 , \r 
 
34 A VISIT TO 
 
 she could not speak, but falling on her knees hid 
 her face on his extended hand, with his other he 
 attempted to take her’s, but had not strength : 
 “ Dearest Ellen, why" this distress ? a trifling 
 wound.” Even these few words overcame him, 
 
 his lips grew paler. Major L -, who had just 
 
 come in, thought he was gone. Ellen rose quick- 
 ly, he saw the agony of her countenance, and 
 another glance at Ruthven told him his apprehen- 
 sion was at present goundless : Allan brought some 
 water, and Ruthven soon opened his languid eyes, 
 but was incapable of speaking. Ellen then re- 
 solved not to disturb him again, and begging every 
 one to leave the room, she took her seat beside his 
 bed, fixing the curtain so as to prevent his seeing 
 her : here she resolved should be her post, until 
 attendance in one case or other was no more 
 needful. The surgeon’s next visit did not give 
 her much hopes ; he said removal would most 
 probably be fatal, and though his visits must nec- 
 essarily be fewer, still he thought Ruthven would 
 be far safer by remaining where he was. 
 
 When he was gone Ellen resumed her seat, 
 saying to herself, “ Here then is to be my post r 
 I thank God I can watch by my husband, I can ad- 
 minister to his comfort, I can soothe his sufferings 
 
 until he recovers, or ” she could not say “ dies.” 
 
 u Oh not yet, heavenly Father,” she cried, clasping 
 her hands in agony ; “ Oh take him not yet — not 
 until he is thine, thine by adoption and grace.” 
 
 Night and day Ellen sat unweariedly by the 
 bed side of her suffering husband ; he was too ill 
 and weak to notice the continuance of her attend- 
 ance, or know that she was injuring herself in her 
 anxiety for him. In vain the surgeon set before 
 her the consequences of doing as she did ; in vain 
 Allan begged to take her place ; the most she 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 35 
 
 wouid ever grant was, that he should supply it 
 whde she took an hour or two of sleep when morn- 
 ing had dawned ; and often when that dawn found 
 
 S5 Ve E T re i e : eri8h > weak > or suffering than 
 usual, she denied herself this short and nectssary 
 
 repose until wo m .° ut nature compelled her to 
 throw herself on her, son’s mattrass, and then she 
 
 ^gslumber ^ & heaVy and S eneraI, y unrefresh- 
 
 Sometimes when she hung in agony over him 
 fearing that soul and body were about to disunite,’ 
 her soul would be pleading with her God for him. 
 At length the surgeon told her that he thought on 
 bC aWe to g ,ve a more decided 
 Sf”!™ State; the da y he na med was 
 bavl d f n r b i y E e " Wlth an anxiet y those who 
 J ! feIt onl y , can understand. When it came, 
 ituthven seemed worse to her than he had been 
 the preceding day ; she watched the surgeon’s 
 countenance on his entrance, and it rather revived 
 her hopes. He wished to be with his patient for 
 
 bTaiJT’ f u begSed ° f E1,en meanwhile to 
 breathe the fresh air in the fields behind the house. 
 
 yielded and took her son with her; it was a 
 ovely evening the air was balmy, the country, 
 though desolated by war, looked fair in her eyes ; 
 
 of h a ?l T Uld ’ She sti11 came in sighi 
 
 of that dreadful field from which she turned shud- 
 
 graSS Seats raised in th e small gar- 
 den afforded a resting place from whence this 
 uew was shut out ; they sat down, a few sweet 
 
 and odour ShmbS them y ielded bot h shade 
 
 be hwe!”^’” Sa ‘ d Allai ’’ “ k iS V6ry P Ieasant to 
 
 v.lpa J e f’ my lo J e ’ after the confinement and un- 
 pleasantness of a small and very close room, this 
 
A VISIT TO 
 
 BG 
 
 little spot appears delightful : l ow sweet then, how 
 delightful will that glorious place appear,” pointing 
 to the skies, “ after this sinful, sorrowing world?” 
 “ Yet, mamma, if papa was to die and go there 
 now, you would be very sorry, and Oh ! I should 
 be very sorry too !” 
 
 Ellen clasped her boy to her bosom ; but she 
 thought, if certain that he gained admittance there, 
 she would not, could not, dare to repine. 
 
 “ But, mamma, I am sure papa will not die ; 
 because you have often told me that God has 
 commanded us to pray to him, and loves to answer 
 prayer. Now I know you pray for papa’s life, 
 and I think if God gives us what we ask for, he 
 will give you papa’s life.” 
 
 . “ My boy, you know the same blessed lips that 
 said, 4 Ask and ye shall receive,’ said also, ‘ Ye 
 ask and have not, because ye ask amiss.’ Too 
 often we ask for what we should not, and then our 
 requests are denied.” 
 
 But you told me God’s Holy Spirit taught his 
 children to pray as they ought to do ; and if this is 
 ^o, you could ask for nothing amiss.” 
 
 u Yes, Allan, I could ; and I fear often do ask 
 for things that would be bad for me. When w,e 
 ask for the gift of God’s Holy Spirit, when we 
 pray that a new heart may be given ns, that we 
 may learn to hate sin and love our Saviour ; when 
 we ask for strength to fight against this evil world, 
 our own evil desires, and our evil enemy, then the 
 Holy Spirit teaches us how to pray, and we know 
 that if we ask in faith we shall assuredly receive ; but 
 very often our own will, our own corrupt inclina- 
 tions are listened to, and we ask for things God 
 does not see fit to grant, and then it frequently 
 happens, that when we are denied what we wished 
 for, we take it very impatiently, and fret under the 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 37 
 
 denial, until He in, some way or other leads us to 
 see our error. 
 
 “ Now we pray that if it is His will your dear 
 papa may be spared to us, but He may see best to 
 order it otherwise ; He may know that we have 
 been too long without the rod, that we need chas- 
 tisement : or — ” Mrs. Ruthven’s voice faltered, a 
 tear rolled down her cheek, as she added, “ or he 
 may know that our hearts have been too much 
 wrapped up in him, that we have dared to make 
 him our idol.” 
 
 Allan appeared thoughtful for a moment. 
 “ Mamma, I could not like papa to die.” “Like! 
 Oh, my boy”— Mrs. Ruthven checked herself— 
 “ no, it would be unnatural if you could ; but, 
 Allan, you must learn to like what God likes. 
 His will must be ours or we shall be miserable ; 
 but when our will is laid down, when we submit 
 to be ruled in all things by His, then we shall feel 
 happiness in every state. Happiness,” continued 
 Mrs. Ruthven, as if now speaking to herself, 
 “ happiness, at least in looking forward to the time 
 when that will shall no more rise in opposition, 
 when earthly affections need no longer be cruci- 
 fied.” 
 
 At this moment, as she sat under the shade of 
 the sweet flowering shrubs, whose pale lilac blos- 
 soms hung over her head, her cheek, colourless by 
 anxiety and watching, resting on a hand as white, 
 and her eyes meekly regarding the fair blue cano- 
 py above them, as if there only grief could be 
 known no more — she looked like the statue, sculp- 
 tured in pure marble, of patient, resigned sorrow, 
 calmly contemplating the tomb of all its joys and all 
 its pleasures. 
 
 When Ellen returned to the house, the surgeon 
 gave her the only ray of hope she had received ; . 
 
38 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 he was a humane and sensible man, and had never 
 attempted ato deceive her respecting her husband’s 
 state, knowing that if Ruthven died after she had 
 been led to think he would certainly recover, the 
 consequence might be fatal to her — but he now 
 told her, and he seemed happy in having it to tell, 
 that his wounds had assumed a much more favour- 
 able aspect, and that he had every reason to think 
 he should be able, on seeing him again, to pro- 
 nounce him entirely out of danger. 
 
 Poor Ellen bore the good tidings calmly, but 
 when she went to thank Mr. D. for all his kind at- 
 tention to her husband, she burst into tears, say- 
 ing, u God reward you.” As he shook hands with 
 her, parting at the door of her humble abode, he 
 said, “ When Major Ruthven’s case seemed worst, 
 I could never think so much sorrow was reserved 
 for so amiable, so good a wife.”. “ Ah,” thought 
 Ellen, as with her Bible in her hand, she resumed 
 her seat beside her husband’s bed, “ thus does the 
 world think and speak.” 
 
 Ruthven, fatigued by the operation of having 
 his wounds dressed, had fallen into a deep slumber. 
 Ellen drew aside a corner of the curtain to look 
 at him ; he seemed worn out, his slumber was so 
 still, so heavy, that he did not appear to breathe : 
 she almost feared his spirit had passed away ; the 
 idea in this case was soul-harrowing, and starting 
 from it, to remove the sensation it caused, she 
 gently touched the hand that lay outside the 
 clothes— though pale and thin compared to what 
 it had been, the warmth told her life was still wan- 
 dering, though languidly, in those veins. She 
 drew 7 back, quietly murmuring half aloud, “ Oh 
 God, convert his soul !” Ruthven unclosed his 
 eyes; her touch though light had dissipated his 
 slumbers, he heard the words, and the unaffected 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 39 
 
 lervour of the spirit that breathed in them, affected 
 him. “ Pray your God. my Ellen, to make me 
 such as you are.” Ellen was surprised, thou-rh 
 not very sorry, that she had been overheard. “\t, 
 would be but a poor standard to propose! dear 
 Ruthven, but I do pray him to make you what be 
 will approve of, to make you a sincere follower of 
 he Lord Jesus.” “ Your prayers in any case, my 
 love, must be profitable.” Ruthven closed his 
 eyes again, and Ellen took up her Bible to seek in 
 it tor consolation, direction and encouragement 
 lifting up from time to time a heart-breathed 
 prayer to the God it revealed, that He would make 
 himself known to the beloved ones of her soul arid 
 teach them more perfectly the way of salvation. 
 
 Mr. D — was not mistaken in his opinion of 
 his patient ; the next time he called at the cottage 
 lie was able to declare him out of danger. 'The 
 transport with which his tidings were received by 
 EJlexi is well known to those, who like her, have 
 
 “i f eS ' e th f Suff T‘ n 2 C0Uch ‘heir dearest 
 earthly friend, and trembled at the thoughts of the 
 terirnnation of their watchings, attendance, anxie- 
 ties. But her joy did not vent itself in idle ebulli- 
 tions ; while the surgeon remained with Ruthven 
 taking her son’s hand, she invited him to join her 
 in thanksgiving to the Father of all mercies. The 
 house affording no spot of retirement, they went to 
 he little arbour among the trees, and there kneel- 
 ing together, the pious mother and her son vented 
 
 me gratitude with which their hearts overflowed 
 
 JVor only so, Ellen implored a continuation of past 
 mercies, the bestowal of fresh ; and while she 
 
 S e t d b 0rherSeI n f ’ that wisdom > S race and strength 
 
 truth thafT her ? T aIk , Steadily in the paths of 
 vorlbin ? It might deIivered from creature- 
 worship, from the entanglements of earth, and ena- 
 
40 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 bled to set an example of faith, holiness, meekness, 
 patience ; she did not forget her husband and her 
 chifd, that the life of the one, now redeemed from 
 the grave, might be henceforth devoted to his God, 
 a reasonable sacrifice, acceptable through faith in 
 the Redeemer ; that the other, like holy Samuel, 
 being yet a child, might be taken to serve the 
 Lord, might early enter His spiritual temple, and 
 find His service great delight.” 
 
 Allan long remembered that prayer, remember- 
 ed the holy expression that beamed on his moth- 
 er’s features when she arose, and, embracing him, 
 said, “ Allan, I trust we wished to bow our will to 
 the Lord’s ; He has not now tried us, but shall we 
 not learn to love His will, to trust in Him for- 
 ever?” 
 
 « I kissed her hand,” Allan said in after years 
 to me, “ and then wiped away with her gown, the 
 tear I dropped on it.” 
 
 Insensible to almost every thing but suftenng 
 and weakness, the consequences of Ellen’s con- 
 stant attendance upon him had not struck Ruth- 
 ven as it otherwise would : though, on finding her 
 at all hours ready to administer to his every want, 
 anticipating his very wishes, he would often ex- 
 press in broken sentences, his tear that she would 
 harass herself; he still did not observe that his 
 feeble remonstrance was unattended to. It was 
 not until he was freed from acute pain, and re- 
 covering his strength, that he saw, with distress 
 and alarm, the faded cheek and drooping form of 
 his more than ever beloved wife. He was taking 
 from her hand a drink she had prepared, when 
 her altered looks struck him. “Dearest Ellen, 
 how pale you look, how thin you are grown!” 
 Ellen smiled, but that smile seemed to maxe her 
 look paler, thinner still. Ruthven laid down the 
 
Ml BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 41 
 
 Uniasted draught “ My love, you have forgotten 
 yourself in anxiety for me. Oh, Ellen, Ellen 1 
 were your life, your health, to be the sacrifice for 
 mine — would to God I had died before ever I left 
 the field !” 
 
 “ Hush ! hush ! dear Ruthven, do not speak 
 so. If my health, or even my life was lost, I trust 
 you would not murmur, but rather bless God for 
 granting you a longer date, if it was to be the 
 means, — ” Ellen hesitated for a second, “ if it was 
 to be the means of securing your eternal salvation, 
 by allowing time to seek an interest in our Re- 
 deemer’s death. Oh, for these blessings, the sac- 
 rifice of myself I could count all joy !” — But seeing 
 the distress of Ruthven’ s countenance, she added, 
 ** Yet why think my health or life has been en* 
 dangered ? Believe me, I never felt more free 
 from any kind of illness : confinement and anxietV 
 may have stolen away the little rose that ever 
 bloomed on my poor cheek, but Mr. D— — ’s visit 
 last week recruited my spirits ; and when you can 
 walk, with me in yonder fields 3 I think, if joy and 
 happiness can bestow a colour, mine will resemble 
 the damask rather than the blushing rose.” 
 
 The liveliness of her manner relieved Ruthven’s 
 apprehensions ; and when he was sufficiently re* 
 covered to move about the little apartment, with 
 the assistance of Allan and herself, joy, as she 
 said, lent a glow to her cheek— an animation to 
 her manner, that banished them entirely. Nor 
 did her solicitude for him end with his danger : 
 for she watched every variation of his face, 
 prepared herself whatever he was to take ; flew to 
 his help when he wished to change his posture, 
 Ruthven felt that he had not before known her 
 value. “ My Ellen,” he said, one day when she 
 brought a foot-stool she had formed from an old 
 E 
 
42 
 
 A VISIT Tfc 
 
 military cloak, and tenderly raised his foot upon it 
 — <c What should I do without you ! You are all 
 the world to me ! Oh ! how much I pity them 
 who have not such a friend !” “ Oh ! how much 
 
 I pity them who have not a friend far exceeding 
 all that I could be ! Human friends may deceive : 
 the truest, faithfullest, may — nay, one time must 
 leave us. There is but One, who is the same yes- 
 terday, to-day, and for ever.” “ I remember, El- 
 len, a hymn you sang me once ; will you sing it 
 again V’ 
 
 “ Yes ; and Allan shall join.” 
 
 It was in this manner this truly amiable wife 
 and mother endeavoured to give every trifle a turn, 
 which, without the air of forcing religion upon her 
 husband, might, through the good blessing of God, 
 be made instrumental in leading him to prove its 
 power, and love its service. 
 
 Though Ellen had longed for Ruthven’s recov- 
 ery, yet, when it brought with it the prospect of 
 his again joining the army, she almost wished it 
 had not been so rapid : but Ruth veil, though he 
 loved his gentle nurse, was impatient to share in 
 the victories of his companions in arms ; and ac- 
 cordingly, as soon as returning health and strength 
 permitted, he joined them. His military spirit 
 was not abated, and his mind soon again became 
 completely engrossed in the affairs of his profession. 
 Ellen saw his late danger had produced no saluta-* 
 ry effect in leading him to think more of the one 
 thing needful ; and this was no light grievance to 
 her. Her manner of life was not calculated to 
 strengthen a constitution naturally delicate, and 
 her late fatigues and anxieties had completely shak- 
 en it ; yet, so insensibly did she decline, that 
 Ruthven for a considerable time, could not bring 
 himself to think that she was at all in a dangerous 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 43 
 
 condition . lie still cherished the pleasing hope, 
 that being now free from the care and anxiety 
 which she had experienced in attending upon him, 
 in a short time she would again be reinstated in 
 her former health. Each succeeding day, howev- 
 er, having only served to prove the fallacy of his 
 hopes, Ruthven came to the determination of re- 
 turning, at least for a time, to his native land, in 
 the hope that it might prove beneficial in restoring 
 health to his beloved Ellen ; to whom he took 
 the earliest opportunity of mentioning his de- 
 sign. 
 
 Ellen listened, well pleased ; and in the con- 
 templation of pleasures yet awaiting her in her 
 native land, began to forget that she had looked 
 forward to speedily reaching the shores of a still 
 happier country. 
 
 She soon, however, awaked from her dream, 
 and started to find how content she had been to 
 remain an exile from her true home. The cam- 
 paign had just opened ; and though Ruthven was 
 anxious to take her home, she saw nothing, less * 
 dear to him than her health or life, could compel 
 am to resign at this juncture. She felt every day 
 that she was more rapidly hastening to her end : 
 and then lonely and sad, Ruthven would doubly 
 1 egret the step he had taken ; she, therefore, rath- 
 ei delayed than hastened his purpose. He was 
 engaged almost constantly abroad, and did not 
 know her real state : but sometimes she was re- 
 duced to that state of debility, that Allan support- 
 ed her m his arms, dreading to seedier die: These 
 
 hours of suffering were not unblessed, and the 
 words that fell from his beloved mother, came 
 fraught with instruction to Allan’s heart. 
 
 Trembling lest she should be taken from him 
 he urged his father to hasten his departure : and 
 
44 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 Rath veil, not less anxious, though not so well 
 aware of her imminent danger, told him that on 
 the next day he would send in his resignation : 
 and then, as no time should be lost, added, as if 
 to reconcile himself to it, “ her life is dearer to me 
 than all things.” The next day, however, he 
 found there was yet work for him to do. 
 
 On the opening of the campaign, a strong divis- 
 ion of the enemy’s forces laid siege to S- , while 
 
 their main body moved onward towards that of the 
 British. The garrison at S— — was small, and it 
 was expected, would be forced to surrender, if as- 
 sistance did not soon arrive : it was therefore pro- 
 posed, that a body of troops should set out that 
 evening, and by a forced march, throw themselves 
 into the town by day-break. Ruthven had waited 
 mi the General, to acquaint him with his motives 
 for resigning and leaving the post of honour, just 
 as he was consulting with some of his officers on 
 the plan to be pursued ; and, as an officer of tried 
 courage and known ability, before he had made 
 his business known, he offered the command to 
 him. Forgetful of every thing but the honorable 
 opinion his General entertained of him, and the 
 opportunity of again distinguishing himself, Ruth- 
 ven instantly accepted the office. But a moment’s 
 reflection brought other recollections ; and he 
 sighed as he thought of the effect this might have 
 on poor Ellen. The General observed the shade 
 that had gathered on his before animated counte- 
 nance— a What, Major, thinking of dangers and 
 difficulties-?”—' “ No, General, I was not thinking 
 of myself,” said Ruthven, starting from his reverie. 
 It was some hours before he could return to Ellen 
 she knew he had gone to offer his resignation, 
 and when he did return, looked up, expecting to 
 hear him say, “ Now I am free ; we will go home 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 45 
 
 but he did not ; sitting down beside her, he pulled 
 out the paper, saying, “ Not presented yet, Ellen.” 
 Your own time, Ruthven, will suit me ; in- . 
 deed, , I would rather you did not withdraw yet a 
 little.” “ In two days, my love,. I hope ; but I 
 lound our General had something for me to do 
 first, and as I wished to withdraw with a good 
 grace, I could not refuse.” 
 
 Ellen raised a trembling glance to his face. 
 She had long been accustomed to read his counte- 
 nance ; and now, though the hectic colour rose 
 upon her cheek, and fading again, left it pale as 
 marble, she only said, “ He know'eth what is best 
 for us.” Ruthven had often admired the beauty 
 of the religion that influenced his wife’s conduct, 
 but never more than at this instant. She had 
 committed herself, and all that she loved, into the 
 hands of her heavenly Father ; praying Him to do 
 with them as he saw best for their eternal welfare ; 
 and she wished to leave them there, and to be 
 still, and to see in every dispensation. His over- 
 ruling hand. 
 
 This pious dependence seemed now to lend her 
 strength. She drew from Ruthven an account of 
 the destined expedition. She listened as if she, 
 too, took share in her country’s glory — as if she 
 valued the laurels at which he grasped : but as he 
 was leaving the room, she said, “Oh that he would 
 seek the nonour that cometh from above !” 
 
 Ruthven heard her, and came back— “ Ellen ” 
 said he, “ the soldier’s fate is uncertain , the 
 prayer of the righteous availeth much — will you 
 pray for me ?” 3 
 
 Deaiest Ruthven, do you suppose you are 
 ever forgotten in my poor prayers !” 
 
 At another time the allusion to the soldier’s fate 
 would not, perhaps, have been borne with equal 
 
46 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 calmness ; but Ellen’s mind seemed strengthened 
 by her body’s weakness. That body was fast 
 sinking : when Ruthven returned to take leave of 
 her, she feared her little strength would fail in 
 the moment, of parting. “ Farewell, William! 
 My beloved William, fhrewell, if we meet no more 
 here, Oh ! seek, through the efficacy of a Saviour’s 
 blood and righteousness, to ensure acceptance at 
 that bar where I must shortly appear?’ 
 
 “ Ellen, Ellen,” cried Ruthven, “ do not— in 
 pity do not, speak so ; do not let your spirits sink, 
 and break my heart by speaking of death. Oh, 
 my love, you are all to me ! A gracious God 
 knows you are necessary to me— to our son. He 
 will leave you with us. In a very few days we 
 shall prepare to return to your own native vale ; and 
 past sorrows and anxieties shall all be forgotten 
 in peace and happiness.” 
 
 “ Ruthven, you are now going to face danger: 
 perhaps — Ellen shuddered— u perhaps death — - 
 willingly, joyffilly, would I die in your place ; for, 
 though kind, upright, honourable— though as a 
 a friend, a husband, a father, none could lay any 
 thing to your charge ; yet, my too fondly-loved 
 husband, I fear — Oh greatly fear, that you are not 
 prepared to stand before a God so pure, so holy,, 
 that the sin which cleaves to our very best actions, 
 would banish the purest from his presence, who 
 had not fled for refpge to the blood that cleanseth 
 from all sin. This — this alone, is my plea — my 
 claim for mercy ; no goodness of my own have I 
 to boast. Oh, that you would apply to the Sav- 
 iour that I found, for faith to make it your’s.” 
 Ruthven was silent ; but Ellen saw that he was 
 not unaffected. She stopped to allow him time to 
 speak, but he did not ; and knowing he must very 
 
31 Y BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 47 
 
 *oon leave her, she proceeded to express another 
 wish. 
 
 Leaning forward on the couch, she looked iri his 
 face with one of her accustomed smiles, 3vhich, 
 though its playfulness w as now gone, w^as sweet as 
 ever. “ William, I have another request to make 
 — you were ever wont to grant my requests.” A 
 large, round drop fell from Ruthven’s eye upon her 
 cheek, as, almost suffocated w r ith emotion, he pres- 
 sed it to his. Ellen’s smile faded : she wiped 
 away the tears that streamed down her pale face, 
 arid then suppressing her emotion, still holding 
 her husband’s hand between her’s, spoke to him 
 on the subject that, next to his own eternal inter- 
 ests, lay nearest her heart : — “ My dearest William. 
 I have long wished, but still put off to the parting 
 hour, to speak to you my last w ishes respecting 
 our boy. Since that blessed time, w^hen, by the 
 reading of the pious Morton’s Bible, it pleased a 
 merciful God to give me juster ideas of myself and 
 Him — to show w hat a holy service a holy God re- 
 quires — how miserable a sinner I w r as — how r much 
 I needed a Saviour, and what an imperious claim 
 lay on me to devote myself to Him — to live to him, 
 and serve him in despite of the sneers, the reproach- 
 es, or opposition of the world ; since that time it 
 has been my unceasing effort to give our dear Al- 
 lan the same views — to train him up in that path 
 which can, I am convinced, alone lead to true 
 happiness here and hereafter. W~hen I am gone, 
 he will miss one w r ho was ahvays at hand to admon- 
 ish, counsel, direct ; he will miss her when he be- 
 gins to need her most : in future life he w ill meet 
 many a temptation . to leave off the w ay s of holi- 
 ness : his path seems to be more peculiarly beset 
 with evils, w T hich nothing but the pow er of Divine 
 grace can enable him to escape from. I trust, 
 
48 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 young as he is, lie is a child of God- — as such, he 
 will be preserved, I would hope, from final ruin ; 
 but he may draw much unhappiness on his own 
 head, by imbibing a worldly spirit. — Nor is it in 
 man to judge whether the hopes I have formed of 
 him may not be fallacious ; he may only act in 
 conformity to my wishes and example, and have 
 learned my sentiments, without experiencing the 
 same renovation of heart. If this is the case, I 
 see little to preserve him in after life, but the re- 
 mains of those impressions I hope he has received. 
 What I would ask of you, dear Ruthven, is — nev- 
 er, by word or deed, to lessen the effect of these 
 impressions — never, however detrimental you may 
 think it to his advancement in the world, to seek 
 to turn him from the way in which he has hitherto 
 gone, or force him to act, in the slightest degree, 
 contrary to his own ideas of right.” 
 
 Ruthven readily promised all, and mor§ than 
 his wife asked ; and soon after, with a distracted 
 heart, took leave of her, and headed the party 
 destined for the relief of S . 
 
 Ellen watched them from the window ; she 
 shook like the light leaf in the breeze, while lean- 
 ing on Allan’s shoulder, she saw the gallant band 
 move off, followed by the good wishes of their 
 comrades, who remained. Her eye was fixed on 
 one alone ; and as long as a glimpse, even of his 
 nodding plume, could be seen, she maintained her 
 station : when all was gone, that eye was raised 
 with her heart in fervent supplication, and then 
 she turned away. What passed that night between 
 God and her soul, is known to Him alone : but 
 the next morning, though Ellen looked worn out 
 wjth illness, anxiety, and want of sleep, she was 
 patient, calm, resigned, during the day; and having 
 laid down on the sofa, she fell into a short slumber ; 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 49 
 
 on awaking, she saw Allan leaning his face on the 
 arm of her couch, and gazing on her altered coun- 
 tenance, with looks of intense anxiety, and deep 
 melancholy. “ Allan, it is a serious thing to 
 die.” 
 
 “ Dear Mamma ! why will you always talk in 
 this way ; you will not die ! Oh do not say so !” 
 “ God says. so, my son.” Mrs. Ruthven put her 
 arm round her son’s neck, and drew him close to 
 her : “ Dear boy ; my comfort, my solace — it is 
 
 hard to leave you exposed to all the evils of this 
 bad world ; hard to part, and leave your inexperi- 
 enced youth to tread the uphill path of a Christian 
 life, without the encouragement, the guidance of 
 one true Christian friend.” 
 
 “ My mother, my mother, I cannot part with' you ! 
 Who will speak to me as you do ! Who will ad- 
 vise me, and teach me ! Who will be my kind 
 companion — my always affectionate friend !” 
 
 Mrs. Ruthven and her son wept together in 
 silence ; but soon, raising her head — “ Allan,” she 
 said, “1 have erred; I spoke of you as being, after 
 my death, left without one to supply my place. I 
 was wrong ; God himself will be your friend, your 
 guide, your all— ^His holy word your counsellor, its 
 promises exceeding rich and precious, your sup- 
 port, its examples your encouragement.” 
 
 Mrs. Ruthven then proceeded to give her son 
 advice respecting his future w 7 alk in life, on which 
 that life, as I draw sketches from it, will be the 
 best comment. Weakness obliged her to stop, but 
 she still seized every moment of strength and ease 
 to enforce upon his mind the truths she had taught ; 
 she continued ill and weak all night, but her mind 
 was kept stayed upon God : once she seemed dis- 
 tressed; Allan, ever watchful, heard her sigh deep* 
 ly ; he rose and crept to her bed ; she did not per- 
 
oO 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 ceive him ; but again sighing, she murmured, “ Oh 
 my poor husband, Lord, hear my prayers, let my 
 cry come unto thee.” Allan breathed a silent 
 amen, and retired again. 
 
 Returning day brought with it no returning 
 health for Ellen ; she was unable to leave her bed” 
 and Allan kept his place beside it ; all his tender- 
 ness, love and affection, were now called forth, 
 and endeared him doubly to his fond parent.— 
 TVhile he gave with gentlest care the draught she 
 wished for, smoothed her pillowy or supported her 
 weakened frame in his arms, she regarded him 
 with looks of maternal love, and wondered how a 
 boy nurtured in camps, accustomed from his earli- 
 est age to society best tending to harden and 
 roughen the mind, should possess such a feminine 
 softness, such acute sensibility, a modesty almost 
 amounting to bashfulness, and as great a diffidence 
 of strangers as if never used to meet them. “ But 
 why do I wonder that he is such as he is,” she 
 would think ; “ he was given to bless and cheer 
 my earthly way, and did I part with him for aught, 
 but to go to him who gave the blessing, severe in- 
 deed would be the trial.” 
 
 Three wearisome days had passed since Ruth- 
 ven s departure ; they had been spent in pain and 
 suffering by his unrepining wife. “ He may re- 
 turn,” she wnuld say, as returning night marked 
 the close of another day of suspense ; “ he may 
 return ; but I shall see him no more in this world, 
 if that return is not soon indeed.” The change 
 in her complaint again led her to think she was 
 mistaken : she woke, after a quiet sleep, much 
 refreshed, took some nourishment, and exchanged 
 her bed for the couch in the next room : here she 
 spoke to Allan on subjects high and holy ; she felt 
 that time for her would soon be no more, and 
 
my birth-place. 
 
 51 
 
 every fast-fleeting breath she wished to devote to 
 her God to her child, and, if she yet/had one, to her 
 husband. J he soft hour of twilight now stealing 
 on suited well the frame of both their minds, and 
 hillen, leaning back, lay a while in silent meditar 
 tion, out still, thoughts of Ruthven would mingle 
 with other things. Half rising, and looking tow- 
 ards the window, as if to see whether it were so late 
 as the appearance of the room seemed to say “ No 
 news from S— yet,” she said, again drawing 
 . back No news yet,” repeated Allan, “ but that 
 speaks well, I think, for their success.” “ I trust 
 they have succeeded.” A deep sigh followed. 
 
 ( mu f not g tgh so, Mamma, I feel almost 
 
 confident that my father will return safe.” “ Yes 
 A Han I trust my prayers have been heard ; I have 
 asked life for him— long life, even for ever and 
 ever; I have prayed that he might not be cut off 
 ram this life, until that to come was secured to 
 J 1 " n t!i J°ugh Jesus Christ ; and I feel that he will 
 be spared, though not for me.” 
 
 She had hardly finished speaking, when the 
 quicK trampling of horses’ feet startled them 
 
 1 hat horseman’s speed speaks tidings from S— 
 perhaps. Allan threw up the window, and lean- 
 mg out exclaimed, “ My father !” The next in- 
 fctant, Ruthven stopped under it. 
 
 1 he party he had commanded had been suc- 
 cessful ; on its arrival at S , the garrison had 
 
 made a sally upon the enemy, entirely routed them 
 and made themselves masters of a great part of 
 their baggage and ammunition. 
 
 Ruthven was warmly complimented bv the 
 commanding officer on his conduct, — but military- 
 glory at this time failed of raising his spirits “ I 
 must send advice of this to the General directly ” 
 said the commanding officer. “ fc will bear the 
 
[j# A Vigil' VO 
 
 dispatches,” cried Ruthven ; I should be glad to 
 return immediately ” The officer turned away* 
 saying, in a whisper, to a subaltern who stood near, 
 “ Major Ruthven used not to be the trumpeter of 
 his own fame.” “ You mistake,” replied the other, 
 “ a far different cause makes him wish to rejoin the 
 General— he has a wife whom he adores* she is, I 
 hear, dying* perhaps ere this dead.” “ Oh, enough,” 
 cried the officer who addressed him, and who had 
 himself a wife and four children in England, “ I 
 was indeed mistaken.” The dispatches Were soon 
 ready, and Ruthven, urging his horse to his full 
 speed, reached the place of his destination in safe- 
 ty. The dispatches were read, and he was 
 thanked and praised for his behaviour. “ I have 
 ended well,” thought Ruthven. He drew the re- 
 signation which he had still kept there from his 
 breast, and laying it on the table, shortly mention- 
 ed his reason for resigning, thanked the General 
 and Officers who stood by, for their favourable 
 opinion of him, and, fearful of betraying his feelings, 
 hurried away, threw himself on his horse, and 
 rode as if a similar journey to that he had just 
 taken, lay before him. 
 
 Allan’s exclamation on seeing his father, sent 
 the blood back to Ellen’s heart, a faintness came 
 over her, she endeavoured to rise, but sank again : 
 Allan ran down to meet his father ; she heard his 
 voice eagerly enquiring for her, and the sound re- 
 vived her ; she got up, and staggered towards the 
 door. “ My own Ellen, all your anxieties are 
 over ! my last light is fought, now we will go 
 home.” 
 
 Ellen raised her face from her shoulder, an ex- 
 pression indescribable passed over it— “ Home ! 
 she repeated the word once more, and then sank 
 more heavily ufkm her husband’s breast, (< Ellen, 
 
MV birth-place. 
 
 <53 
 
 dearest Ellen, you are overcome; he bent his eyes 
 in alarm on her face, and then called to Allan for 
 water. Allan flew for it, and Ruthven carried her 
 to the couch. Laid there, not many moments 
 passed, before one deep-breathed sigh dismissed 
 Mrs. Ruthven s spirit to a better world ; but Ruth- 
 ven would not believe the form over which he hung 
 was lifeless. The surgeon was sent for ; he came 8 
 a glance was sufficient for him : he knew the 
 strength of Ruthven’s attachment to his amiable 
 wffie, and felt for him. “ Major Ruthven,” he 
 said, this is an hour to try your fortitude, your 
 courage more than that of the hottest battle.” 
 
 Alas m such an hour, fortitude, courage, often- 
 times fail ; the brave, the strong, yield in the day 
 of overwhelming sorrow. Major Ruthven’s an- 
 swer was that of a madman ; and the surgeon 
 pitying his grief, but seeing he could be of no use 
 
 serve/ Wlthdrew > and him to indulge it unob- 
 
 Kneeling beside the corpse of her whom he had 
 loved truest best,-of her who had loved him so 
 as no other had done, Ruthven passed the first 
 Hours of his deepest sorrow, either uttering the 
 incoherent ravings of grief, or gazing on the death- 
 cold clay, with that look of silent stupifying agony 
 E e T 6 ° feeli ^ known toJs/wffi 
 dead ■ h elves over the form of the beloved 
 
 “ Ere yet decay’s effacing fingers 
 
 Have w ept the lines where beauty lingers.” 
 
 Allan in fears for his father, almost forgot his 
 
 own grief; his efforts to draw him from the corpse 
 were d findi „ g him ^ »P“ 
 
 never for he L PP j. ed to a resourc e he believed 
 
 never failing : bending his head on his clasped 
 
54 A VISIT TO 
 
 hands, he fervently, but lowly ejaculated, i( Oh 
 Thou, who being made in all things like unto us, 
 can be touched by a feeling of our infirmities, 
 look down on my father, pour comfort into his 
 heart !” 
 
 Ruthven turned to his son ; he thought he heard 
 Ellen speak, he drew him to his bosom, and wept 
 with calmness ; then, not venturing another look 
 at the couch, he let Allan lead him out of the 
 room. 
 
 He desired Allan to go and lie down, telling 
 him he would be ill for want of sleep, and looking 
 after him as he went out, said to himself, “ Happy 
 age, when no sorrow sits deep nor long!” But he 
 did not know the depth of a sorrow, that could not 
 vent itself in childish lamentations. 
 
 Ruthven continued to pace, with sadly measur- 
 ed steps, his small apartment, occasionally stopping 
 and pressing his hand upon his forehead, as if to 
 assure himself that he was not under the influence 
 of a frightful dream, to be certain that his lovely, 
 his beloved companion, had actually slipped from 
 his side, and left him to continue his way alone. 
 To man, whose heritage is wo, one would think 
 nothing could be more delightful than the Scrip- 
 ture character of God, as a present help in time of 
 trouble : pitiable, indeed, is the man who, in the 
 dark hour of sorrow, neither feels that help, nor 
 knows how to seek it. And such was poor Ruth- 
 ven’s case, and he was wretched : — he could not 
 raise his eye from this sublunary scene.; could not 
 see his beloved Elle$ in her new habitation, escaped 
 from sin and sorrow, and every taint of mortal cor- 
 ruption, pure and free, entered into the joy of her 
 Lord ! He could not look forward with holy joy 
 and humble confidence to spending an eternity of 
 blessedness together, when a few more rolling 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 55 
 
 years at most, should see them united, to sing for 
 ever the praises of redeeming grace. 
 
 Ruthven did think of death ; but it was with 
 that rash despair which could desire it, as a relief 
 to present woes, reckless of what would come after. 
 Before the lingering night had worn away, he stole 
 back to the chamber of death, thinking the sense 
 of his loneliness would not be so great when he 
 saw even the corpse of his Ellen. All was still 
 and silent here ; the windows were open, and the 
 moon-beams, palely illuminating the room, and 
 falling over the lifeless body, made death seem al- 
 most more deathly. There lay the cold, inanimate 
 form of his beloved wife ; it seemed but as yester- 
 day, since he had married her in all the bloom of 
 youth and loveliness ; and beside her, his pale 
 cheek resting on her ice-cold hand, knelt poor 
 Allan. Ruthven bent over them. Oh ! sin, by 
 thee came death ! Hateful and abhorred of God ! 
 worker of all evil to men, why not equally abhor- 
 rent to them ! Allan had given free vent to his 
 grief, until, tired and stupified by it and by his late 
 wakeful nights, he fell asleep : the traces of recent 
 tears — the deep impression of mental suffering — - 
 his very atittude bespoke the feelings of his mind. 
 Ruthven’s sorrow seemed alleviated by finding a 
 sharer in it : “ Poor motherless boy,” he said, 
 u never, never can your loss be made up !” He 
 raised him in his arms, and carried him gently to 
 bed ; then threw himself on his own to rest his 
 tired limbs ; but not to seek repose. 
 
 There is a sorrow, which, mingled with hope, 
 yields, by degrees, to a softened melancholy — 
 retains a cherished remembrance of those it 
 mourns — finds no bitterness in recalling their im- 
 age ; though, when the loved companions of our 
 happiest or saddest moments are missed, the sigh 
 
56 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 of natural regret will arise — though the void then- 
 absence causes in the heart, is felt : “ They are 
 not lost, but gone before,” can change even that 
 sigh to a smile — that aching, desolate feeling, to a 
 blissful hope, full of immortality ; for that, we can 
 look beyond the things that are seen, and, tracing 
 their path to mansions in the skies, hope, by the 
 same way, to become partakers in their blessed- 
 ness. 
 
 Far different the sorrow Ruthven felt; well 
 might it be denominated — one without hope ; its 
 first emotions over, his might have passed into a 
 sullen, regardless apathy, a listless indifference to 
 life, and its concerns, had not the manner of his 
 past life, the sphere in which he moved, produced 
 other effects, to banish in society the melancholy 
 that preyed upon his spirits — in the hurry of occu- 
 pation to lose reflection : — these soon became his 
 aims ; his commission had been reserved for him, 
 when it was known that the reason for his resign- 
 ing was at an end, so that he remained still in his 
 profession ; and Allan saw, and sighed, to see his 
 hopes soon wither : he had hoped his father would 
 leave the army, that in a quiet retirement he might 
 pursue the studies he loved, and lead a life often 
 ideally sketched. His fancy had drawn a delight- 
 ful picture of a happy home ; such a home, as in 
 fancy only he had known. The noise — the tumult 
 of camps — the tented plain — the strife of arms, 
 had no charms for him ; his soul was attuned to 
 peace : and while he beheld the wide-wasting mis- 
 ery which was flung around, his sick heart turned 
 upward, while he asked — Oh ! when shall men 
 1 earn war no more ? 
 
 Early was Allan called to practise his mother’s 
 lessons ; the laying down our own will is, perhaps, 
 one of the most difficult and painful, though nec~ 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 57 
 
 essary lessons, which all who come to God must learn. 
 From his earliest youth, Allan was taught the dan- 
 ger of setting his heart on aught below the skies ; 
 he, too, had his dreams of earthly happiness : of him 
 might be said, as the poet said of himself, that he 
 was the 
 
 “ Dupe of to-morrow— even from a child.” 
 
 In all these pictures of happiness, the scene lay 
 not in courts, in palaces, or in castles of state — 
 not among the great or the rich, but in some se- 
 questered spot, where, far from strife and wrong 
 he should spend a tranquil, and, he hoped, a use- 
 ful life— the simple pastor of a simple flock. 
 
 His mother favoured the desire, and wished to 
 send him home, in order that he might better 
 prepare to realize the desire of his heart : once it 
 seemed almost accomplished ; but her death, and 
 his father’s continuance in the army, again threw 
 it at a distance. Knowing herself dying, Mrs. 
 Ruthven could not wish her son to leave his father. 
 Ruthven wished him to follow his own profession ; 
 and though Allan’s nature recoiled from it, he 
 could not think of leaving him, perhaps, to see 
 him no more for ever. 
 
 While in the common affairs of life, Ruthven 
 appeared the same as ever, he was, nevertheless, 
 changed : the air of happiness, once spread over 
 his features, was gone; though he smiled or laugh- 
 ed with others, a sad, withered feeling, lurked in 
 
 Jus heart, that told him something was wanting 
 
 that, m the midst of a crowd, he was alone. Oft- 
 en, in his lonely rounds, when all was still— or 
 the stillness broken only by the measured steps of 
 the sentry, the distant voice replying to the ‘same 
 repeated question or the low whistle, with which 
 the watchman cheered the lone hours of night, 
 
58 A VISIT TO 
 
 when the busy sounds of day were hushed to si- 
 lence — silence deep and calm, that seemed to in- 
 vite the soul, tired with the vanities, the noise, the 
 hurry of life, to draw in its scattered powers, to 
 turn within itself, and meditate on the great for- 
 gotten subject — its own existence, its end, its aim : 
 then would he pause and glance round, while 
 feeling gave a deeper shade to his eye ; an oppres- 
 sive sensation to his breast ; then would he think 
 of days that would dawn no more for him ; days of 
 departed happiness, till his full soul found vent in 
 the tear that suffused his eye, and ofttimes rolled 
 down his sun-browned face. After such seasons, 
 Ruthven would, with an unwonted fondness, lean 
 over his sleeping boy. “ Poor boy/’ he would say, 
 “ how calm, how innocent he looks : may you, at 
 least, be spared from sorrow. It may be I deserve 
 to feel it ; but you, pure, holy, given to your God 
 — Oh ! you must escape ! She taught you to be so,' 
 perhaps, even now, her angel spirit watches over 
 you ; you shall be preserved.” 
 
 Thus would Ruthven feel; and thus, though des- 
 titute himself of vital religion, though he knew 
 nothing of that which influenced the conduct of 
 his wife and son, neither the advice of friends, the 
 sneer of some, or the pity of all who knew Allan 
 Ruthven, could lead him to try to turn him from 
 treading in his mother’s steps. And Allan held 
 on his way, a lonely being though surrounded by 
 numbers, unbiassed by the society, untinctured by 
 the manners of those with whom he lived. Some- 
 times in his nightly walks with his father, he 
 would seize the moment, when a passing remem- 
 brance softened his mind, to point to the clear 
 blue heavens, with their spangled hosts above their 
 heads, to speak with all the simplicity of boyhood, 
 the glowing ardour of youth, of the world their 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 59 
 
 glorious curtain veiled. And Ruthven from his 
 raptured gaze, would cast his eye upon tlfe sweet 
 countenance that looked up to his ; “ dear enthu- 
 siastic boy,” he would think, ‘Met men talk as 
 they will, your sensibility, affection, warmth, 
 purity of thought, were ill exchanged for the cold- 
 ness, the arts, the customs, and manners seen 
 among them.” 
 
 Thus time rolled on, and Allan still remained 
 among the scenes his soul hated ; he thought it 
 was his duty to stay, and he hushed every repining 
 thought, yet longed for the time when he could see 
 a chance of entering on the life he loved. “ I 
 honour those,” he would think, “ who can with a 
 Christi&n spirit serve their country in the field : — 
 were my single blood required, I trust, I feel, that 
 its last drop would not be spared ; but to see whole 
 ranks of my fellow men cut down, to trample over 
 the dying and the dead, to view the desolation, the 
 wide-wasting miseries of war — Oh ! my heart was 
 not made* for this ! — Be mine the station, however 
 ignoble, however lowly, where my ear cannot be 
 pained, my soul grieved, with sights and sounds 
 like these.” From scenes of rapine and ruin — from 
 where the aged father wept his lost son — the wife, 
 her husband, Allan’s oppressed soul rose in sup- 
 plication, “ when, Prince of Peace, shall men bow 
 to thy sceptre— own thy righteous sway ? hasten, 
 Lord, the time.” 
 
 Speaking one day to some men of colour in the * 
 Regiment, about their native country, the situa- 
 tion of the heathen who knew not God struck 
 him forcibly ; and the desire to bear them the glad 
 tidings of salvation, took possession of his mind ; 
 there was none to whom he durst impart it ; but 
 still he cherished the idea. 
 
 Few could know Allan Ruthven well, without 
 
GO A VISIT TO 
 
 loving him, but strangers thought him a mere 
 bashful boy ; yet there was something in his looks 
 that interested even them, and prompted the ques- 
 tion,— how could such a youth be reared in such 
 a school 1 — Gentle, but firm, diffident yet sensible, 
 simple as one nursed in his native woods, Allan 
 seldom heard the voice of praise, more rarely of 
 encouragement ; for against the path in which he 
 trod, all he knew best had theij faces set ; but he 
 knew a heavenly Father’s smile shone on it ; and, 
 hard though it might be to persevere, in that light 
 he loved to walk. 
 
 Though the army could not perhaps then boast 
 the many it now does, who, to their other arms, 
 are not ashamed to add the shield of faith, the 
 sword of the Spirit ; putting on for an helmet, the 
 hope of salvation, and taking the full panoply of 
 Christian warfare ; yet in every age, and every 
 station, some of the faithful servants of the Most 
 High are to be found, and to Allan’s great delight, 
 one of these joined the regiment about the time I 
 speak of : this was Captain Macdonald : he had 
 known Ellen from her childhood ; it was while on 
 a visit with him, that Ruthven had first seen her ; 
 he was not then, what he now was ; Macdonald’s 
 circumstances were low ; — sometime after Ellen’s 
 marriage with Ruthven, he had exchanged into 
 another regiment, and on obtaining promotion, 
 married the person to whom he had been long at- 
 tached. Her life was not even as long as Ellen’s ; 
 she left him soon a widower, with one little girl. 
 In real grief, Macdonald brought his child to his 
 native place, left her to the care of his fond mother, 
 and then felt himself indeed alone : his spirits 
 were broken, and he could find no enjoyment in the 
 society he formerly liked ; he would often reflect 
 on the uncertainty of all cheated good — the vanity 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 til 
 
 of all that earth can yield, and feel that man, as 
 aspiring after happiness, must seek it elsewhere : 
 and gradually he was taught where to seek it ; and 
 amidst all life’s trials and conflicts, he now found 
 a peace, a happiness, its storms could not shake, 
 its pleasures could not purchase. Not liking the 
 regiment he was in as well as his old one, he ex- 
 changed again, and felt no less surprise than 
 pleasure, on becoming acquainted with the son of 
 his old friends. A friendship, whose foundation 
 could not be sapped, was soon formed between 
 them : a father in years and experience — he was 
 all that Allan required ; his heart was knit to him 
 m ties the closest, save one, by all that bound his 
 heart m earthly chains ; he flew to him for advice 
 lor comfort, direction ; he forgot that he had learned 
 to do without a teacher, or monitor ; and Macdon- 
 ald soon supplied a mother’s place. But this friend 
 was not left with him long ; he had found him 
 when his need of such an one was almost over 
 but even this short time was pleasant to him. 
 
 In the spring, the army again took the field ; 
 they were encamped on an open plain, bordered on 
 °“ e & ™ e a ran ge of mountains, round whose 
 side Macdonald would sometimes walk with his 
 young companion, and look with mild affection on 
 ms glowing countenance, while he spoke of things 
 to come, and uttered feelings and sentiments never 
 breathed to another. 
 
 One evening sitting in his tent, he saw Allan 
 coming towards it ; words were not needed to tell 
 him the feelings of his mind, his countenance 
 always declared them; he saw he was distressed 
 and Allan soon unburthened his mind to his friend, 
 Kuthven had been speaking to him respecting his 
 future prospects in life ; he seemed so inclined to 
 indulge him in any choice of a profession, that in 
 
62 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 an unguarded moment Allan declared his wish to 
 become a missionary : Ruthven looked at him a 
 moment in silence, and then rising to go away, 
 said, “ Allan, in yielding to your mother’s request, 
 that I should never interfere with you in religious 
 matters, I thought I could not do wrong ; I fear I 
 have been mistaken ; to what length your present 
 wild ideas may grow, I know not, or to what ex- 
 travagant conduct they may lead you ; but this I 
 say, that from the moment you forget you have a 
 father, I shall study to forget that I ever had a 
 son. 
 
 Cut to the heart by words like these, the first 
 of such a kind that Ruthven ever used to his son, 
 poor Allan remained motionless : his first act was 
 to hasten to Macdonald to tell him all, and seek 
 his advice. Macdonald smiled at his young friend’s 
 distress, before he heard his father’s words, but 
 then he was serious. “ Yes, my dear Allan, you 
 have been wrong ; your father ought to be your 
 first object; remember how his interests pressed 
 on your mother’s heart, and then there is, your na- 
 tive land : for my part, I have no wish to see you 
 a missionary ; much remains to be done therfe, and 
 as a minister at home, you may be happy and 
 useful.” 
 
 Allan sighed ; “ I was wrong, I rashly risked 
 giving pain to my father ; nay, for the first time I 
 remember incurring his displeasure, when perhaps, 
 was permission given me, I might not, could not 
 accept of it : but I will go and tell him I see my 
 error, and will endeavour to remove the idea that 
 caused it.” 
 
 Some time afterwards the Colonel of Ruthven’s 
 regiment being shot while reviewing some out- 
 posts, he got promotion ; but did not act long in 
 his new capacity ; for in an ensuing engagement. 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 G3 
 
 while his arm was extended cheering his men to 
 the charge, it was carried off by a cannon shot, 
 which passing on, dashed lifeless to the ground 
 the officer who stood next. Ruthven dropped at 
 the moment, and a brother officer coming up, 
 tendered his assistance. “ No, no,” he cried, 
 “ my life is now useless, take my place ; let it not 
 
 be said the — regiment failed in their duty ;” 
 
 then raising his sword in his left hand, he cried, 
 “ forward, forward !” Ah, how often has a simi- 
 lar cry sounded from lips fast closing in death — 
 how often has a similar contempt of death been 
 shown by those who stood on the very brink of a 
 world, to them shadowy, dark, uncertain ; by them, 
 who, if they thought at all of the life to come, 
 would feel no solid, well-grounded hope of enter- 
 ing on its joys. 
 
 The same day that dismissed Ruthven from the 
 service of his country, dismissed Macdonald to a 
 world of peace, of rest, and joy : he received a 
 musket ball in his side in the early part of the en- 
 gagement, and was immediately carried from the 
 field ; but his wound was beyond the surgeon’s art. 
 Allan soon stood beside him, and received his last 
 bequests, — “ Dear Allan, farewell, I go to a bet- 
 ter world, perhaps you will see my mother and my 
 child.” — Here a father’s feelings overpowered him 
 — Allan’s heart was full to bursting. “ Tell them, 
 I hope to see them in glory — tell them, if they 
 would see life they must walk by faith in the Son 
 of God — tell them , in my last moments He was' all 
 my confidence, my hope, my trust — farewell, dear 
 Allan, trust in the Lord.” 
 
 Macdonald grasped his hand tighter, and when 
 the convulsive spasm passed from his face, that 
 grasp was loosened, and his soul was gone. 
 
 Allan thought the cup was full, when he saw T 
 
04 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 the friend of his heart stretched dead before him ■ 
 but the next moment he was called to attend on 
 his wounded father ! 
 
 “Thou art gracious still, Father of mercies,” 
 he said, when he sat through the night beside his 
 couch ; “ in the midst of judgment thou remem- 
 berest mercy; did I dare to think thy dealings 
 hard ; Oh ! if my father’s life is spared, I surely 
 never can repine !” A long illness caused by his 
 wound completed the overthrow of Ruthven’s 
 health ; and as soon as a partial recovery would 
 permit, he returned to his native land, changed in 
 form, in manner, and in feeling. 
 
 Ellen’s aged father, the sole survivor of his 
 family, still lived at the lodge I spoke of; there 
 the first visit of Ruthven and his son were paid. 
 Even in foreign lands, when memory recalled the 
 scenes he now beheld, a tear would sometimes 
 steal into the soldier’s eye, a pang of misery would 
 shoot across his breast, when he thought that never 
 again for him could they have the same charms. 
 On first beholding them, he turned away sickened 
 at their sight ; but first emotions over, he took a 
 melancholy pleasure in reviewing scenes endeared 
 to him, as those where the happiest days of his 
 life had been spent. The conversation of his 
 father-in-law too, though painful at first, became 
 agreeable ; he could talk to him of other days, of 
 all that since befel him ; and the old man, left 
 childless in his latter years, thought Ruthven' and 
 his son sent back to cheer and bless him. Ruth- 
 ven had no very near relatives alive, nor was there 
 any place where he thought he could be happier 
 than in our peaceful glen ; and to the great delight 
 of Mr. Falconer and Allan, he took up his resi- 
 dence in it 
 
 Allan’s desire was now at last granted; he was 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE, 
 
 65 
 
 in the spot imagination had often presented, able 
 to follow the pursuits and studies he loved, and 
 looked forward to entering on the life to which he 
 had always aspired. At the back of the Lodge, you 
 know the hills begin to rise that enclose the valley 
 you live in ; the trees thin by degrees on the as- 
 cent of the lowest, giving place to the streaming 
 laburnum, the yellow broom, and white and colour- 
 ed lilac. A small mountain stream pouring from 
 the top, falling from one little precipice to another, 
 hurrying on its impetuous tiny course, min- 
 gles its tributary waters with the fine un- 
 ruffled river, that rolls peacefully through the 
 green amphiteatre below. On this ascent, over- 
 looking larger dwellings, you may have seen a 
 small but beautiful cottage — it was Macdonald’s 
 his own romantic dwelling, to which his heart had’ 
 turned with yearnings such as the lonely exile feels, 
 his own beloved home, which he was never to see 
 again. Allan had not forgotten his friend ; he 
 hastened to bear to his mother and child his part- 
 ing messages ; and anxiously hoping to find in them 
 friends who would in some degree compensate for 
 his loss, with a palpitating heart he knocked at 
 the cottage door : it was opened by a rosy little 
 girl, who invited him in — Mrs. Macdonald was 
 knitting in the window : that he was the son of 
 Lllen Falconer was enough to secure his welcome 
 that he had been the bosom friend of her idoli- 
 zed, deeply regretted son, ensured him her warm- 
 est affection. x 
 
 Allan had brought her two miniatures of Mac- 
 donald and his wife which he had given him ; she 
 
 looked at them till tears dimmed her sight “just 
 
 so they looked when they came to me after their 
 marriage, beloved Ethelind, dearest, dearest Nor- 
 man!” She pressed them to her lips again, “ Ethie, 
 
GG ' A VISIT TO 
 
 my child, come here.” Ethie threw down her 
 work and ran to her— Mrs. Macdonald looked 
 from her happy blooming countenance to that of 
 her father’s — “ are they not like?” “ The picture 
 is strikingly like.” “ Then Ethie is not like what 
 her father was when you knew him.” “ Yes, her 
 features are ; but the expression of Captain Mac- 
 donald’s face must have altered after this likeness 
 was taken — his was serene, mild, at times cheerful, 
 but not so animated, so lively as this.” “ Nor as 
 Ethie’s, I suppose ? Ah ! my poor son, he met 
 enough to sadden the gayest heart, to shade the 
 most lively face.” Ethie had moved behind her 
 grandmother’s chair, and asked, “ is that papa?” 
 — “ Yes, my love.” “ Ah! let me see him.” She 
 took the picture and kissed it again and again. 
 “ Dearest papa, what would I have given to have 
 seen him, to have been with him ; but I shall 
 never see him again, never until I meet him in 
 heaven.” Allan regarded her with double interest 
 while she bent her face, wet with tears, on her 
 father’s picture. Though rather disappointed in 
 his hopes respecting the family of his friend, Allan 
 soon became their intimate companion. The 
 cottage was his other home ; thither he went for 
 relaxation after studying, and for society when 
 lonely : Ethie was the solace of his leisure hours, 
 and he was her preceptqr, her counsellor, her 
 friend. But Ethie’s playful manners did not always 
 suit Allan ; he felt at times to want another friend, 
 and he soon found one in Edmund Ashley. Ash- 
 ley was about two years older, and well formed to 
 win the heart of such a lad as Allan Ruthven ; but 
 there was one thing wanting ; on other subjects 
 they seemed to have one feeling, but on the mo- 
 mentous one, religion, they disagreed. 
 
 There is no truth more universally Rejected. 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 67 
 
 because none more humbling to the pride of man 
 than the Scriptural one, that there is none good' 
 no, not; one.” Truly I have thought some- 
 times, no marvel that it should be so, when I 
 have seen such amiable dispositions, lovely virtues 
 and noble principles, seemingly inherited from 
 nature. Ashley, Allan Ruthven’s new friend, was 
 an instance of this — yet Ashley owned the necessity 
 and admired the beauty of religion, but then he 
 thought himself religious ; he had sketched out one 
 for himself, that Allan would tell him was not 
 drawn from the Scripture ; but though Ashley ad- 
 mired and loved the character of his young friend 
 there were parts of it he did not understand and* 
 these he wished to observe as little as possible : 
 their pursuits, their studies, became the same • in 
 this one thing alone there seemed an answering 
 chord wanting in Ashley’s heart. The two friends 
 went to college together ; here I first became ac- 
 quainted with Allan, and on our return was ad- 
 mitted a favoured guest to the society of the lodge 
 and the cottage. Days of early happiness, how 
 truly does memory recal you ! Methinks I am 
 seated again m Ruthven’s favourite parlour, whose 
 windows, opening on a garden blooming with flow- 
 ers that sent in their delicious odour, partially ad- 
 mitted the evening sunbeams through their screen 
 ot jasmine, rose, and graceful eglantine ; there I 
 can see a group these eyes shall never rest on 
 more, except in memory’s glass. The aged Falco- 
 ner the venerable Mrs. Macdonald, the disabled 
 soldier, looking back on the years that are gone 
 sigh tor many a lost companion, then smile with 
 pure affection on their youthful representatives 
 ^itt, W ! S *u they niay mherit their parent’s virtues 
 h61r Pa / ent ’ s S rlefs ' And ^ one of that 
 y outhful party, if aught of the character of future 
 life could be gathered from the expression of a 
 
68 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 countenance, the wish appeared likely to be grant- 
 ed : the laughing blue eyes and glowing cheek of 
 Ethie Macdonald seemed to say that sorrow was 
 unknown to her ; her every movement spoke the 
 lightness of a heart unbowed by its iron hand- — 
 her very step announced the approach of one as 
 yet a stranger to the thousand ills that flesh is 
 heir to ; and looking on her innocent, happy face, 
 one felt inclined to believe, she must escape the 
 sad inheritance of man. 
 
 In those evenings the conversation, though live- 
 ly, was often blended with what was serious : from 
 his mother, Allan had learned the art of sweetly 
 turning whatever might be said to profit, without 
 the appearance of forcing religion into conversa- 
 tion, or casting a shade over the innocent mirth of 
 his young companions. Mrs. Macdonald, Allan, 
 and myself, would sometimes converse more deeply 
 on religious subjects, and Ethie would come and 
 listen to us ; and when Allan, anxious that Mac- 
 donald’s desires for her should be granted, would 
 ask her opinion on what was said, she would agree 
 with him, would yield her ready assent to the 
 truths he spoke ; but rarely give her opinion, or 
 express her own feelings. 
 
 Ruthven’s health, though much broken, was so 
 far re-established by the life he now led, as to 
 allow him to extend his walks with Allan to some 
 length. Along the sea-shore was his favourite 
 ramble ; there he would look over the blue waters, 
 recal the scenes that passed in foreign lands, and 
 think of her whose remains lay beyond them. 
 
 “ Yet not lost, my father , 53 Allan would say at 
 such times ; “ from the four winds of heaven shall 
 the redeemed of the Lord be gathered . 53 “ Ah ! 
 Allan, you find in religion a remedy for every 
 grief . 33 Allan sighed / 4 at least I hope I find con- 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 69 
 
 solation ; the heart that feels and mourns must do 
 so, though religion sheds its balmy influence there ; 
 but it is a quiet, resigned sorrrovv, that dares not 
 repine.” 
 
 “ Tell me, Allan, were your dearest hope cut off, 
 your fondest expectations blasted, your choicest 
 blessings taken away, would you feel as you now 
 describe ?” 
 
 ’ Allan s thoughts flew away for a moment to 
 other scenes, former trials and crosses, above all 
 the tented plain, his disappointed hope, his friend 
 Macdonald ; he sighed again and said, “ I trust, 
 
 through all sufficient grace, I should.” Ruth- 
 
 ven did not understand these things, nor did he 
 seek to do so ; he took his son’s arm and turned 
 homeward. Allan left him at the door, his ques- 
 tion had given rise to a multitude of thoughts, he 
 wished to examine his heart, to know if he was 
 right in thinking he could give the required proof: 
 he retraced his steps, and rambled slowly along 
 the sounding shore : but he was not long left to 
 the solitude he wished, a step behind started him. 
 “ Meditating, Allan ?” “ Yes, Ashley.” “ And 
 
 .the subject?” “Myself.” “A pleasing one, 
 doubtless ?” “ No, Ashley, after such meditation, 
 
 I think it is out of myself I must look for pleasure , 
 within I find cause for self-abasement alone ” 
 “ Forgive me, Allan, but I have often thought if it 
 were not for some peculiar sentiments, your mind 
 would be as faultless, as perfect, as your character; 
 but these strange ideas, so derogatory to the hu- 
 man character, so unworthy of a mind like your’s.” 
 ‘‘Yet so conformable to truth, so consistent with 
 the declaration of God himself — tell me, Ashley 
 when you look over that wide spread ocean, on 
 tiiat expanded firmament, that fair orb rising in 
 loveliness, as it were from a watery bed, that splen- 
 ic* 
 
70 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 did train of newly risen stars, over all nature, in 
 short, earth, seas skies, — does not the sense of 
 the majesty, the inexpressible greatness of their 
 Creator, fill you with a sensation overwhelming and 
 awful “ It does, Allan, and some years back 
 when quite a boy, I have stood here and seen the 
 storm gathering in blackness round that mountain’s 
 brow, when the sea, tinged with the black reflec- 
 tion of the clouds, has been tossing its foaming 
 waves, and the wind hoarsely murmuring among 
 these rocks ; then I felt all this, and more than this ; 
 then your opinions might have suited the frame of 
 my mind ; for I have thought, what mortal could 
 stand before his God when he sat in the terrors of 
 his judgment ; I have felt — felt more than I could 
 now express.” 
 
 « You have felt, in short, that more than his 
 own righteousness is requisite to enable any man 
 to stand before his God untremblingly — and why 
 not think so now 1 ” “ Because I have now form- 
 
 ed better ideas of myself and of my Maker ; I 
 could not now stoop my mind, I acknowledge, to 
 the self-debasing doctrines you hold.” “ Oh pride, 
 pride!” cried Allan, “dear Ashley, would you 
 could see these things as I do ; trust me, the hour 
 may come, when in those very self-abasing doc- 
 trines of justification through faith, salvation 
 through Christ, you can only find comfort and 
 peace.” 
 
 Their conversation had led them on insensibly 
 round the head land and down the slope towards 
 Macdonald’s cottage ; the sound of voices among 
 the rocks beneath caught their attention ; Allan 
 approached the edge, and looking down, called 
 his friends to do the same. “ How picturesque 
 they look !” Ashley smiled. Two figures were 
 standing on a low piece of rock that jutted into 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 71 
 
 the water , the black garb and venerable form of 
 the one was contrasted with the white dress and 
 light youthful figure of the other. Mrs. Macdon- 
 ald’s arm rested on the shoulder of her grandchild 
 who, without her bonnet, her fair hair moving in 
 the sea breeze, was speaking to her with a liveli- 
 ness that seemed as if she would dissipate the 
 melancholy feelings that cast a shade over her 
 face. 
 
 While the two gentlemen were making their 
 way to them over the rocks, they turned to leave 
 their place ; but Mrs. Macdonald, whom age and 
 infirmities rendered inactive, found more difficulty 
 in getting off the place where she stood than she 
 had in ascending : Ethie’s assistance was not suf- 
 ficient ; but Ashley seeing their embarrassment, 
 wound his arm round a point of the rock on which 
 he was standing, and gaining thus another resting 
 place, sprang from that upon the shore, and ran to 
 their relief. Ethie saw his prompt good nature, 
 and her looks and words expressed as much thanks 
 and gratitude as if he had saved the life dearest to 
 her. Allan followed, and as Ethie supported her 
 grandmother s unsteady steps along the gravelly 
 beach, ran to ask her to take a stronger, though he 
 added smiling, “ a less beloved arm.” “ Less 
 dear than Ethie’s only, Allan,” said Mrs. Macdon- 
 ald, as she took it, “ you know I am your second 
 mother.” Allan sighed involuntarily as he pressed 
 her hand, and thought earth could contain no 
 mother for him, like her he had lost. This speech 
 led to conversation interesting to both, and while 
 tney spoke, Ethie walked by their side, seemincly 
 listening with pleasure to what Allan said. Though 
 accustomed to see her attention engaged by his 
 conversation, yet, on the j®esent occasion, Allan 
 could not forbear wondering, that after the expres- 
 
A VISIT TO 
 
 sion of so much obligation to Ashley, she should 
 appear to forget that he was by, and let him walk 
 on in silence, while she gave to the conversation 
 that was passing, as deep an attention as ever he 
 had seen excited by the most important subject. 
 This and similar little occurrences, might have 
 shown Allan something of a mind too light to receive 
 lasting impressions ; but one who did not view 
 Macdonald’s daughter with his prejudiced eye, 
 could have discerned in her a fickleness of mind, 
 an indecision of character, which rendered her 
 uncertain and liable to be led by the society into 
 which she was thrown. But Allan did view her 
 with a prejudiced eye ; he had been prepared to 
 find her worthy of her excellent father ; he was 
 at first disappointed, but her innocent, engaging 
 manner, won his youthful heart ; he was surprised 
 that he could have expected to meet so much in 
 one so young : as she grew up, he thought her 
 mind had been strengthened and expanded by his 
 instructions, and the thought was not a little pleas- 
 ing. On religion, he made no doubt they had the 
 same views, mnd as she advanced in years he 
 thought she would lose a certain giddiness of man- 
 ners and character, which, when he reflected on 
 his mother, gave him Uneasiness. Ethie had long 
 been marked out as his future wife ; it seemed 
 tacitly but generally understood, and Allan’s chief 
 foible was to be blind to the faults of those he 
 loved. 
 
 When they reached the cottage, Ethie holding 
 up a piece of pencilled paper, asked, “ Have I the 
 writer’s permission to read some lines written on 
 a lovely Saturday’s evening, and left on the crags 
 for whoever chose to pick them up ?” 
 
 u You have my #eave to do what you please 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 73 
 
 with them : Ethie, you know my poetry is never 
 worth much.” 
 
 “ You have owned yourself the writer of these, 
 however, so I will read them,” and she began 
 accordingly : 
 
 How lovely the sun beams fade o’er the red west, 
 
 Earth’s fairest beauties adorning; 
 
 They seem, as they fall, the purest and best, 
 
 To promise a glorious morning. 
 
 Yes, that awakening light wili bring 
 A ’blessed, holy morrow. 
 
 Whose hoped return can comfort fling 
 O’er six days' toil and sorrow. 
 
 j Nature now seems hushed to peace, 
 
 Day’s busy tumult past, 
 
 Would that all mental strife might cease, 
 
 And all be peace at last. 
 
 The ocean wave at rest is laid, 
 
 Calm ’neath the red beam flowing ; 
 
 Thus be my mind on Jesus staid, 
 
 Thus with his love be glowing. 
 
 The shades of night each lovely scene 
 In darkness now are veiling, 
 
 Thus error’s mist the mind can screen 
 From truths of God’s revealing. 
 
 To-morrow will disperse the gloom, 
 
 Its brilliant sun appearing, 
 
 Shall show again all Nature’s bloom 
 Each eye, each bosom cheering. 
 
 Oh may a sun more purely bright, 
 
 In glory then uprising, 
 
 Scatter the gloom of mental night, 
 
 A darkened world surprising. 
 
 Lord, on thine own most holy day. 
 
 Let thine own glory shine ; 
 
 Send to each darken’d mind a ray, 
 
 And show us things divine. 
 
74 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 One evening X called at the Lodge, as usual, to 
 walk with Allan : Ruthven, who was only recov- 
 ering from one of those severe attacks of illness to 
 w hich he was subject, was sitting in the window, 
 and told me he had just gone out. “ I saw him/’ 
 he said, “with a book in his hand, going along the 
 low walk by the river, towards Nairn Point ; you 
 will find him, X dare say, in that direction, in one 
 of his romancing meditating moods/ 5 
 
 “You think " Allan then romantic? 55 “ No— 
 though I used the term, X cannot say I do, a little 
 enthusiastic, perhaps ; but he is an excellent lad — - 
 he is all to me. 55 
 
 After joining in the praises of my friend, 1 
 parted with Ruthven, hoping he would soon be 
 able to join us in our walks. “ I hope so too, 5 ' 
 said he, “ for I am tired of this confinement, but I 
 suppose I must often endure it. Well, it is the will 
 of God that I should suffer. 55 As he said this, he 
 drew his head up by the window frame, and, for 
 the first time, I thought his upturned countenance 
 resembled Allan's. 
 
 My search for him was for some time unsuc- 
 cessful ; at last, reaching the top of Nairn Xfoint, I 
 saw him a little below, stretched on its side that 
 fronted the sea : one hand ; supported his head, 
 the other held a book, but his eyes were over the 
 waves there was an intenseness in his expression, 
 while a light seemed to play round his brow. I 
 sat down by him before he perceived me ; he then 
 looked at me, as if calling in his thoughts for a 
 moment before he spoke ; putting his finger on the 
 book he held, which was an origal copy of the 
 prophecies, he said, “ I have been thinking, my 
 friend, of the ‘ isles that sit in darkness, 5 of the 
 villages that ICedar doth inhabit, 5 of the time when 
 the i inhabitants of the rock shall sing a new song 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 4l» 
 
 Unto the Lord/ when they shall ‘ declare his nraise 
 Irom the Islands.’ ” The bent of my friend’s 
 mind now, for the first time, struck me ; I con- 
 nected this with other things, and did not imme- 
 diately answer : he continued— “ I was thinking 
 how delightful, how honourable, to go, trusting in 
 the strength of the Lord, relying on his promises 
 
 to declare unto the Gentiles things they know 
 not— to preach Christ among the heathen.” 
 
 In short, Allan, you were wishing to go vour- 
 se.f a messenger of glad tidings to the people sit- 
 ting in darkness.” r F 
 
 “ It was long the latent wish of my heart, but it 
 has long been repressed, indeed latterly resigned • 
 each have their appointed sphere in life — the mis- 
 sionary path does not seem to be mine ; why should 
 1 wish to make it so.” 
 
 “ And could you then contentedly give up your 
 home— your native land ?” 1 r 
 
 “Ah! my friend, there is the thought that 
 sometimes pains me; once I was ready— once I 
 would have counted it all joy, but latterly I believe 
 earthly ties are stronger; perhaps, now, were the 
 wish granted, I should feel loth to burst these 
 
 b ?i,ni! he . missl0nal t s, wuld not be tied to earth 
 —the Christian, neither, should not.” Allan seem- 
 
 ^l!:r, Ver V° 1US tho . u S hts > as if to himself; he 
 resumed his former attitude, thus pursuing the 
 
 ' ■ lea ! e ah— friends, and home, and coun- 
 
 ty the privileges of Christian intercourse and 
 Christian worship— the endearments of social life • 
 but leave them for Christ— leave them to bear his 
 our^God f, he Gentl,es ~ t0 s P rea d the knowledge of 
 “ Well my friend, I think I was right; you 
 
 iToTom'* 1 ^ t0 - be a “ 1 a dmire Ld 
 
 lonmir tne missionary, but, strange to say I do 
 
76 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 not know my own mind so well upon this subject 
 as I did lome few years since; I fear a call to missions 
 would now involve greater sacrifices than it would 
 then : other views, other habits* or it may be, as I 
 would fain hope, that feeling it not my duty, I have 
 endeavoured to turn my mind from an idea, I was 
 perhaps wrong in long secretly and fondly cherish- 
 ing.” Saying this, he rose, and we walked on, 
 still holding ‘ converse sweet/ On our way, Ash- 
 ley, and a friend who lately came to see him, met 
 us. Allan seemed to like this young man, and 
 soon grew intimate with him ; a liberal education 
 and a knowledge of the world rendered his con- 
 versation pleasing ; his manner and appearance 
 were agreeable, he seemed lively, frank, sensible, 
 and sincere ; he had lately been on the continent, 
 and his remarks on the state of religion there, a 
 subject on which Allan was always ready to inquire, 
 and glad to hear, were judicious and sensible. 
 
 Thus the past, the present, and future, alter- 
 nately furnishing topics of discourse, and calling 
 forth the rich stores of the minds of my young 
 friends, I walked, a well pleased listener, by their 
 side. What blinded mortals are we ! The future 
 ■ — the unknown future* — seems fair and promising; 
 the present is despised, the past regretted ! I was 
 even then panting for the future, looking with im- 
 patience to the time when I should enter on a 
 busy bustling scene, and realize all hope’s fairest 
 visions. Ah ! what would I now give to recall 
 those days of purer happiness, than, with few ex- 
 ceptions, I have since known — to enjoy again the 
 endearing commerce of early friendship, then val- 
 ued, it is true, but held secondary in the list of 
 earthly good. But thus would my repining heart 
 ever be leading me astray : forgive. Thou who 
 seest my error ; like Allan, like his pious mother, 
 
3IY BIRTH-PLACE, - 
 
 may I learn submission ; since thou thyself hast 
 been my friend, hast never left nor forsaken me in 
 all my wanderings from thee, shall I murmui 
 though all others be taken away ? 
 
 Following the windings of the river, we walked 
 on until we came in front of the old church I have 
 mentioned ; this was a favourite haunt of Allan’s * 
 the fine skirting of beech and fir suddenly break- 
 mg off, presented a lovely landscape, terminated in 
 trout by an arm of the sea running up its rocky 
 shore. There the light fishing boat, bounding on 
 its trackless path — the more stately merchantman 
 that sometimes bore in sight, bringing, it might 
 be, goods from afar— or even the fishermen re- 
 turning from their toil, and disposing 0 f their 
 gams, could furnish matter for reflectioiTto a mind 
 like his. 
 
 Gardiner, for so shall 1 call Ashley's friend 
 stopped to admire the fine prospect ; Allan’s arm 
 was raised pointing out some favourite views when 
 another object attracted his attention; it waa 
 Ftme coming down the height beside us with a 
 female companion : they drew pretty near without 
 perceiving our party ; when they did, they stopped 
 a moment, and then with a nod and smile passed 
 on in another direction. “Who is that?” asked 
 
 Whfey er " ShC iS 5 M * SS Macdonald >” replied 
 
 As I was not so near a3 Allan, I did not hear 
 what Crammer said in answer, but I saw Allan 
 turn a quick glance to the speaker, and then 
 strain his eye in the direction Ethie had crone : he 
 saw hey white gown flutter in the breeze as she 
 turned the point, and then we walked on. 
 
 But I intended merely to give you the outlines 
 ofmy friends life, and must not enter into detail. 
 Our last college term drew on, after which we 
 H 
 
78 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 were to prepare to enter on our several professions. 
 Ruthven, whose delicate health made him still 
 more value the society of his son, always regretted 
 the approach of the period which deprived him of 
 it ; and this time his absence was to be much pro- 
 longed in consequence of his intention to visit 
 some relations in the south of England before his 
 return. 
 
 The evening before our departure, Mrs. Mac- 
 donald, her grand-daughter, Ashley, his friend, 
 and myself, met at the Lodge. We were only 
 about to exchange, for a time, our several man- 
 sions for more unpleasant lodgings near college ; 
 it was not to be supposed that this could diffuse 
 a melancholy feeling through our usually happy 
 party ; yet how often has such a party been left 
 under similar circumstances by those who never 
 again saw it assembled. Before we separated, 
 Allan, who had been speaking to his father, cross- 
 ed the room to the window where Ethie was sitting ; 
 some straggling branches of jessamine had crept 
 in, and she was bending her forehead, almost as 
 fair, upon their white blossoms. I was sitting op- 
 posite and looking at them both, and could not 
 help thinking, that if I did not know their lot in 
 life was to be one, judging by their different coun- 
 tenances, I should assign to each a lot as different. 
 When Allan rose to exchange his seat again for 
 one at the table, in order to conclude the evening 
 by family worship, to which act of propriety he 
 had won over Ruthven and his grandfather, 1 
 heard him say in a low voice, “ I should leave my 
 poor father, Ethie, with much greater reluctance, 
 did I not rely on those kind attentions I know he 
 has already met with in my absence ; did I not 
 leave near him his equally dear nurse', his other 
 diild” Allan had bent* his head to smell the 
 
MY BIIITU-PLACE. 
 
 79 
 
 branch of clustering flowers she had released, and 
 on raising it, his face, if I had not heard his words, 
 would have made me curious to know them. Al- 
 lan did not in general give an exposition of the 
 chapter he read at the family service ; but this 
 evening, laying his hand on the book he closed, he 
 looked up with an expression of holy trust, saying, 
 * yes, this God is our God ; circumstances may 
 change, friends may part, we may wander far from 
 our home and kindred, but place and time are 
 alike with him ; He is the same for ever and ever, 
 he will be our guide even unto death.” 
 
 In the morning we set off, each perhaps forget- 
 ting that we were not to travel thus through life 
 by each other’s side ; but we all returned alone. 
 College business over, Allan went to see his fath- 
 er s relations, it being his particular wish that he 
 would do so; and Ashley and myself went for 
 some time to London. We were detained there 
 longer than we expected, and before our return, 
 Asnley received intelligence that made him wish 
 to delay it longer, and I therefore went back alone. 
 The day after my arrival at home, I called at the 
 Lodge ; Ruthven told me, he every day expected 
 his son s return, and while we were speaking, a 
 chaise drove to the door, and Allan sprang from it. 
 After seeing him, and making a few inquiries, I 
 was going to leave him to his father, when Ruth- 
 ven leaving the room to give some directions in 
 the hall, Allan threw himself uoon the sofa ex- 
 claiming, « Oh ! my dear B I would never 
 
 do to live among the great ones of the earth, nor 
 even among the people of the world; all my desire 
 ls to be made useful in some sequestered spot, 
 where with a few chosen friends, in a peaceful 
 happy home, I might only hear at a distance of 
 the stirs of this great Babel.” u Andhappv would 
 
A VISIT TO 
 
 SO 
 
 be the home, Allan, where you dwelt.” I thought, 
 but a sudden recollection made me start ; I wished 
 to prepare Allan for what was before him; his fath- 
 er’s entrance, however, prevented me ; and feeling 
 he was the proper person to do so, I left them. 
 Ruthven, willing to put off the evil moment, delay- 
 ed until after dinner the tidings he had to commu- 
 nicate, and then being unexpectedly occupied, 
 Allan left the house without his knowledge, atid 
 took his accustomed way to Macdonald’s cottage. 
 He walked up the narrow path shown him by 
 Ethie, as that cut by her father in his boyish days, 
 and still called ‘ Norman’s Path.’ He remembered 
 the day when he first saw her on it, her fair hair 
 blowing in the wind, her colour heightened by the 
 $ir and exercise ; he retraced the progress of a 
 friendship he fondly hoped would end but with 
 their lives. u If aught of mortal birth can be call- 
 ed innocent, she might.” u In the world I have as 
 yet met none like her, so natural, simple, affec- 
 tionate.” The cottage door was open, and he 
 went in, the parlour door likewise stood open, but 
 none appeared : es they have gone to take their 
 evening walk already,” thought Allan. A step 
 just then crossed the passage ; it was Mrs. Macdon- 
 ald’s — she started on seeing Allan, nor did sur- 
 prise subside, when he sprang w ith extended hand, 
 and face beaming unaffected pleasure, to meet her. 
 « — “ My dear good friend, it seems so long since I 
 have seen yon !” Mrs. Macdonald pressed his 
 hand, but only faintly smiled. “I did not hope to 
 sep you so soon, Allan.” “■ My lather has been 
 looking for me these some days.” But you had 
 not arrived last night.” “ I only came home to- 
 day ; but, dearest madam, you know the cottage 
 was ever wont to be my first visit after I had seen 
 my father : are you sorry that it is still so ; that re* 
 
OT BIRTH-PLACE, 
 
 81 
 
 speet and affection for its inhabitants grow with 
 my years ?” “ No, Allan— Oh ! that its inhabi- 
 
 tants had deserved a respect, an affection, that so 
 truly honoured them.” Allan looked not to un- 
 derstand her. “ But where is Ethie ; I remember 
 when she used to run to meet her cross tutor.” 
 Mrs. Macdonald changed colour, she looked sur- 
 prised, and pained. Allan looked at her attentive- 
 ly ; he saw all was not right — some change — he 
 could not bear the suspense. “ Tell me, Mrs. 
 Macdonald, for pity’s sake, tell me has any thing 
 happened ? Is Ethie” — he glanced in terrified 
 anxiety over her dress, to see if it was deeper than 
 usual — “ is Ethie ill ?” “ I hope not,” she repli- 
 
 ed in a low voice, “ but I thought you knew” — 
 “ Knew what ?” “ That she has left me.” “ Left 
 
 you!— you — where is she?” “She has married 
 Gardiner.” The words were almost inarticulate, 
 yet to Allan stunning as a thunder-clap ; without 
 withdrawing his fixed gaze from Mrs. Macdonald’s 
 fallen countenance, he repeated them slowly after 
 her, paused a moment, as if considering them ; 
 then starting as from a trance, turned to the win- 
 dow. After a few moments he again stood before 
 her. “ I should be ashamed of myself, dear mad- 
 am, for the manner in which I received your tid- 
 ings, for you must think my conduct strange, for 
 
 indeed I had” Allan stopped and cleared his 
 
 voice, “ there was no cause — if Ethie” Poor 
 
 Allan began well, but could not continue ; he once 
 m^re turned abruptly away ; Mrs. Macdonald sat 
 leaning her face on her handkerchief, unwilling 
 to meet his eye, unable to speak to him : he again 
 drew near her, and taking her hand— “ Forgive me, 
 Mrs. Macdonald, forgive the friend of your son 
 this weakness. I hope at another time better* to 
 evince the interest I take in the happiness of those 
 
S3 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 he loved ; now, I own I am not master of myself?" 
 He pressed her hand to his lips, and hastily left 
 the house. 
 
 From that hour, the name of Ethie Macdonald 
 never passed Allan Ruthven’s lips ; once his 
 father, willing to discover his feelings, said some- 
 thing to her dispraise— Allan’s colour rose ; “ my 
 dear father ? 5 he said hastily, “ let us believe that 
 the number of our friends is still the same, though 
 some of them are parted from us . 55 
 
 Allan did not reproach you, Ethie — why should 
 I ? his God knew what was best for him, 
 
 Ashley did not soon return ; he had heard that 
 Gardiner had married Ethie Macdonald, and an- 
 grily vowed he should be his friend no longer : he 
 shrunk from meeting Allan, thinking he had been 
 the innocent cause of wounding his peace, but he 
 did not yet know the mind of his friend. 
 
 For some short time after this, Allan was much 
 alone, and I have reason to believe much in prayer 
 and self examination : then he seemed to start 
 forth from a lethargy : I thought him all that was 
 to be loved, valued, admired, and imitated before, 
 but now he seemed a new creature, a double ener- 
 gy was given to his mind, a fresh zeal to his con- 
 duct, a deep spirituality to his feelings ; like the 
 luminary of the day, bright, rapid, cheering, he 
 seemed daily more drawn away from earth, to have 
 his conversation more in heaven, to live in this 
 world solely to do his Master’s work— to look to 
 the other for rest, peace, happiness. That large 
 spreading oak I showed you, still seems to stand a 
 memento of him, whose labours are over : labours 
 retiring, lovely it is true, but which were viewed 
 with approbation by the King of kings. Beneath 
 those spreading boughs, I have seen him encir- 
 cled by a group of little ones, t© whom he pointed 
 
MY BIRTII-PLACE, 
 
 83 
 
 out the path of life. Yes ; there is many a one 
 who, kept by divine grace, from a life of sin, in 
 passing that tree can point to it and say, while to 
 the memory of their young teacher is given the 
 tear of gratitude — “ There I first heard the words 
 of wisdom ; there I was first Jed to Jesus." 
 
 Dear Allan, friend, companion, guide, from 
 your lips, I too, a careless sinner, heard these 
 words of wisdom ; by you 1 was first led to Him, 
 whose smile has since enlightened a dreary path! 
 
 Every day that endeared him more and more to 
 me, lessened the period that I should enjoy his 
 society. I had but a very short time longer to re- 
 main at my native place, and knowing that I was 
 so soon to lose him, I kept closer to his side. In 
 an intimacy in which every thought almost was 
 revealed, I was not long in discovering that Allan's 
 mind was resuming its former bent ; his one sole 
 wish was to devote his life to his God, and this, 
 were it possible, as a missionary to the benighted 
 heathen. He delighted to hear, to reflect, to speak 
 of the time when the heathen should be given to 
 Christ for his inheritance, and the uttermost parts 
 of the earth for his possession. I have met him 
 rambling on the mountain's side, returning it might 
 be, from some labour of love among his neighbours ; 
 or thrown on the river's bank, seeking rest from 
 study, while he thought of these things; and a holy 
 joy would lighten his countenance, a transport spring 
 to his eye, when, after musing on the superstitious 
 barbarity of the Hindoo, the ignorant state of the 
 benighted negro, he could recall some promise of 
 holy writ, and say, “ All nations whom He has 
 made shall come and worship before Him ; they 
 shall cast their idols to the moles and to the bats— 
 unto Him shall the Gentiles seek, and find His 
 rest glorious." But though Allan longed to bear 
 
84 r A VISIT TO 
 
 the glad tidings to far distant lands, he knew that 
 in this also his will was not to be done. 
 
 “ No / 5 he said to me once, 44 no, the work is 
 not for me : highly favoured indeed are they who 
 are permitted to enter on it. Oh , 55 he exclaimed, 
 as his eye sent its ardent glance over the wide 
 waste of waters, 44 Oh, favoured men, the wilder- 
 ness and the solitary place shall be glad for you . 55 
 
 Observing in him those dispositions so requisite 
 in a missionary, zeal, self-denial, patience, dead- 
 ness to the world, and a spirit as if caught from 
 Paul, when he said, 4 To me to live is Christ, and 
 to die is gain , 5 I once repressed the selfish feelings 
 that made me wish to keep him among ourselves, 
 and hinted at the possibility of his being one time 
 at liberty to devote himself to this work. 
 
 44 Yes, B- , that time may come , 55 and he 
 
 sighed deeply ; 44 but you know I must shrink 
 from its approach. Besides, I do not feel as if that 
 time would ever come ; it may be a wrong presen- 
 timent, but I have thought that my life will not be 
 a long one . 55 
 
 I started at hearing this. 44 God forbid , 55 I 
 exclaimed. 
 
 44 Why, B— — -, should you wish my life to be 
 prolonged? Yet why do I ask such a question, 
 when I know you can assign many a reason. If, 
 however, the Lord has work for me to do, he will 
 spare me ; and if not, I hope it will be fiis pleasure 
 to take me early from a waste howling wilderness, 
 where the few flowers that meet our eyes perish al- 
 most as we meet them- — where the sorrow arising 
 from in-dwelling sin, earthly affection, and blind 
 self-will, cast a deeper shade over the scene . 55 
 
 Allan looked in another direction while he 
 spoke, which gave me an opportunity to observe 
 him closer : his countenance, always mild and in- 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 85 
 
 teresting, appeared to me to have assumed latterly 
 an expression of placid, resigned, but fixed melan- 
 choly ; his complexion, never florid, had become 
 paler, and his figure more delicate than formerly. 
 I sighed heavily — he turned quickly towards me, 
 and with one of his accustomed smiles, which 
 Ruthven, in former days, used to say he borrowed 
 from his mother, took my arm, saying, “ Come, my 
 friend, I will make you melancholy, and yet believe 
 me, I am not so myself — Oh no, the Christian 
 should not — dare not be so.” 
 
 On our way home, after a long walk, a horseman 
 overtook us ; he threw himself off, and grasped Al- 
 lan’s hand — it was Ashley : he told me afterwards, 
 that Allan’s cordial greeting removed a load from 
 his breast. I too was glad to see Ashley return, 
 but he only came to supply the place of another of 
 Allan’s companions, for I was almost immediately 
 to leave home. Allan saw me entering with a far 
 too careless spirit, on a life that he thought might 
 abound with trials, to one who wished to live, not 
 as the woild does ; and especially during the last 
 days I spent near him, had always some useful 
 hint, some word of Christian advice for me. As 
 our conversation generally passed in walks togeth- 
 er, I must give an account of one more, the last I 
 had with Allan Ruthven. 
 
 It was the morning before I was to bid farewell 
 to the place of my birth, the scene of youthful hap- 
 piness, the friends of my heart ; anxious as I had 
 been for its arrival, regret at these things now sad- 
 dened my pleasure. At Allan’s request I had 
 risen with the sun and called for him at -the Lodge ; 
 he was already in his study, and taking his hat 
 from the table, stepped through the window and 
 joined me. 
 
 How faithfully does memory recall every trifle 
 
86 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 of things she loves : the suii had risen with splen- 
 dour, but we had not walked far when it lost its 
 brightness ; the clear^blue ,sky was overcast, the 
 face of the heavens wasV ‘changed, and the wide 
 extended prospect, lately smiling in the early sun- 
 beam, became obscured. I remarked the change. 
 “ So,” said Allan, “ fades many an early promise, 
 so sinks many a one in . the clouds of worldly cares, 
 business, or even pleasures'”’ . He saw, I suppose, by 
 my countenance, something of what passed in my 
 mind, for he instantly said with a look of affection, 
 turning to me, “ Do not suppose, my dear friend, 
 that I meant to allude to what might be your case. 
 
 No, B , I trust the Lord has chosen you for his 
 
 own, and as such, he will guide you through every 
 trial, temptation, and difficulty, until he receive 
 you to himself. 
 
 “ You think, then, I must necessarily meet those 
 things V’ 
 
 “ In every situation in life, dejir B , the 
 
 Christian must expect to meet with trials ; if he has 
 not much of those that come from without, he has 
 those that come from within.” 
 
 “ But do you think that God gives his people 
 strength and grace to stand against them ?” 
 
 “ Undoubtedly — to those who rely on His help 
 —who are continually seeking to Him for it— who 
 are fearful in trusting to themselves; but, my friend, 
 it is not of the final ruin of souls I speak. I fear 
 there are many who embitter their own cup in life, 
 who bring an awful darkness over their souls, and 
 oblige the Almighty to visit their iniquity with the 
 rod, and their sin with scourges, if He would 
 bring them again to their first estate.” Allan 
 here related to me a conversation he had with his 
 mother a day or two before her death, adding, 
 
MV BIRTH-PEACE. 
 
 87 
 
 “ this made an impression on my mind, 1 hope 
 never to be effaced.” m 
 
 “Yet, Allan, I cannot" .'think it so difficult to 
 persevere in a religious life While living in the 
 world, and surrounded by incitements and exam- 
 ples to the contrary, when I know that while yet a 
 boy, you could hold on in a life of profession and 
 practice so totally opposed to all around you.” 
 
 “ B , there are some more likely to fall into 
 
 peculiar temptations than others ; I believe my na- 
 ture was averse to many of those things that had 
 proved fatal to many ; there are certainly others 
 into which I should run, were it not for the re- 
 straining power of Divine grace': It was my belov- 
 
 ed mother’s daily /mploy. during her last illness, to 
 endeavour td" fortify 'fob for the state of Christian 
 warfare upon 'which ishe saw I must enter : while 
 she was with me, F scarcely knew myself— when 
 she was gone, I started at finding myself left in 
 such a world without one friend to guide, to en- 
 courage me in the Christian course. I besought 
 God himself to be that friend ! • I asked his grace to 
 preserve me, and it was given. The plan! adopt- 
 ed afterwards was the best ; "the only way to keep 
 my heart firm, was to live close -to God : this was 
 the sum of my pother’s advice. Knowing the 
 danger of walking carelessly by the edge of the 
 narrow road, or in any instance, or for any purpose 
 seeming to diverge from it, I thought, as it were, 
 to keep in tne middle of the patn, avoiding even a 
 glance at the crowded -way along which 1° grieved 
 to know my dearest friends were hurrying with the 
 rest : to the Bible, as lire rule of my conduct, I 
 referred for direction every doubt, I brought for 
 solution to One all-wise : feeling that I had no 
 mortal guide, no counsellor, or teacher in spiritual 
 things, I learned to be more watchful over myself. 
 
88 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 I feared to trust my own heart, to listen to its sug* 
 gestions, until I had first examined their source* 
 and looked out of myself, above all creatures, for 
 strength and comfort. Thus* though breathing an 
 atmosphere deleterious, it would seem, to piety, I 
 was, through continued grace, kept from wander- 
 ing, and acquired a steadiness, a spirituality in re- 
 ligion, at that early age, which, in seemingly more 
 favourable circumstances, did not, I grieve to say, 
 exist in the same degree.” 
 
 I did not fully understand what Allan meant by 
 the last sentence, and was going to ask him to ex- 
 plain himself, when looking up, I was rather sur- 
 prised to see the earnest attention with which Ash- 
 ley was listening to him : he had joined us at the 
 beginning of the conversation I have related, and 
 after Allan and I had sat down on a rustic seat by 
 the river, he threw himself on the bank, and seem- 
 ed entirely occupied in watching the fish dashing 
 through the water, or rising to the top, and some- 
 times springing some way out of it ; we had soon 
 forgotten he was by ; but he was not long inatten- 
 tive : he was now raised on his elbow, evidently 
 desirous of hearing and understanding our conver- 
 sation. Allan partook in my surprise at the change 
 in his friend’s manner, for when topics humbling 
 to the pride of man were introduced, Ashley seem- 
 ed to wish to avoid hearing the only things that 
 made him think Allan Ruthven was an imperfect 
 character. The fact was, Ashley had reason lat- 
 terly to doubt the truth of the doctrines he held 
 himself ; he had begun to suspect his high-flown 
 maxims were not sufficient to carry him unspotted 
 through a world like this ; in the short time he 
 had spent among people with whom all he prided 
 himself on was a jest, he had found it was a harder 
 thing than he thought, to maintain the principles 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 89 
 
 m practice, of which, when no temptation assailed, 
 he had boasted in profession : he now heard Allan 
 describe his former situation and conduct, and the 
 subject roused and rivetted his attention : he had 
 seen too many things that led him to think, that 
 that renovation of heart, of which he had heard, 
 was needful indeed before man could offer unto God 
 any acceptable service; he had thought of these 
 things more deeply amid crowds, hurry, and excite- 
 ment, than ever he had done in his own retired 
 vale ; and the vices, the profan^ness, and careless- 
 ness he had seen in the world, did more to con- 
 vince him of the truth of what Allan said, than 
 any thing he met there. Seeing he had attracted 
 our observation, he started up, saying, “ he believ- 
 ed breakfast hour was come.” Allan remembered 
 his father would be waiting for him, and asking 
 me to call on him in the evening, hastily took his 
 way across the meadow to the Lodge. 
 
 Evening came, and all preparation for the 
 next day being made, I went to take leave of my 
 dear friend and companion at the Lodge. As I 
 drew near, I saw him sitting at the window 
 reading. * 
 
 “ May I come in, Allan ?” 
 
 Certainly, dear B , no fear of disturbing 
 
 me. Except my father, yourself and Ashley are 
 my only guests here.” 
 
 While he said this, I remembered how often I 
 had seen Mrs. Macdonald occupying that seat, 
 while Ethie adorned the little apartment with flow- 
 ers, or looked through his books for one she in- 
 tended to borrow ; but Ethie’s name seemed for- 
 gotten, and Mrs. Macdonald, though often at the 
 Lodge, seldom came into Allan’s study. After 
 speaking a little on my future plans and prospects, 
 
 T 
 
90 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 we came back to the subject we were on in the 
 morning. 
 
 “Now Allan, will you let me ask you a question,” 
 Allan looked at me a moment — “ Surely my 
 friend; you could not— you would not ask’ one 
 that it would not give me pleasure to answer.” 
 
 “ Wllat did y° u mean by saying this morning 
 that in seemingly more favourable circumstances 
 you did not maintain an equal steadiness in relig- 
 ion V* 6 
 
 He looked thoughtful for a little; then said, “J 
 
 will tell you, B , for my short experience of a 
 
 religious life may be useful to you. But do not 
 suppose that what I say is meant as a general opin- 
 ion ; I speak of my own case individually when I 
 say, I have found the society of open opposers 
 more conducive to the life of religion in my souk 
 than that of cold, dead, professing Christians/ 7 
 “ I do not clearly understand you still/ 7 
 "Well, I will explain myself more fully. My 
 manner of life before I came here I have often told 
 you; with what feelings I changed it, I believe 
 you also know. I often look back to the feelings 
 with which I came to this place, with shame and 
 regret that they so soon subsided. My heart was 
 then filled with love to Gbd for his dealings with 
 me ; I longed to be emploved in his service ; to 
 devote myself, body, soul, and spirit to him : but a 
 
 sad change took place. You look surprised, B : 
 
 but, my friend, though you were not aware of that 
 change, I have since discovered it. I met here 
 with friends, I was prepared to love and esteem. 
 
 1 saw, it is true, that they were not without errors, 
 but I had reason to hope I had been useful to them. 
 
 1 accommodated myself to their manners, in some 
 degree at least, in the hope of winning them more 
 effectually to my side ; and this point apparently 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 91 
 
 gained, I did not perceive the deadening effect 
 their half christianized spirit had on mine, "until I 
 was painfully aroused to a knowledge of the truth.” 
 “ Dear Allan, you judge yourself hardly ; surely, 
 since the time you came to live among us, your 
 life has been spent in active usefulness. I, for 
 one, to the latest hour of my life, must owe you 
 much more than I can ever pay, for the benefit of 
 your conversation, advice, and example.” 
 
 “ Ah J yes ; I could speak, -and feel too ; but, 
 
 , I repeat, the life of religion in my soul was 
 
 not so vigorous as ft had been; my walk of faith 
 was not so close. I yielded to many a thing I 
 formerly would not have consented to, either not 
 giving myself the trouble of examining if I was 
 light in doing so, or I fear too often listening to 
 the pleadings of my corrupt heart, which would 
 allege in excuse of every deviation, ‘ Is it not a 
 little one V or persuade me I was right in yielding 
 in trifles to the wishes of my friends.” 
 
 “ Well, Allan, you know your heart best; it is 
 not for me to dispute the truth of what you say : 
 and far be it from me, to give more honour than is 
 due to the creature ; but this I can say with truth, 
 that I have wished, and do wish, to form my life 
 on your’s.” 
 
 Take care, B— , I fear you do give undue 
 
 honour ; but attachment to your friends prevents 
 your seeing their defects, or you would choo.se a 
 better model ; and this makes me remember what 
 I intended saying to you before we part. God 
 only knows where we shall meet again— but this is 
 the last advice of one to whom you have always 
 listened, as if age or superior wisdom gave him 
 authority to speak : I would say to you, beware of 
 that rock on which so many split; beware of giv- 
 ing to the creature the love due only to the Crea- 
 
9:2 
 
 \ VISIT TO 
 
 tor. Your heart, like my own, is, I fear, prone to 
 twine round earthly objects : but I warn you, let 
 not your high opinion of any one, however belov- 
 ed, lead you from your God. In every thing study 
 to know and do his will ; whatever pursuit, em- 
 ployment, or desire, opens to your view, before you 
 suffer your affections to be engaged, try to find if 
 it is acceptable to him ; when once they are so, 
 we are apt to mistake our will for God’s, and then 
 they bring sorrow to our hearts.” 
 
 “ Attachments to any objects, however pure, 
 if allowed to grow to an inordinate degree, are sin- 
 ful, and to the Christian must be painful,” I 
 said. 
 
 “ Yes, B— , an instance of this I had in mine 
 to dear Macdonald.” Allan sighed deeply, “ While 
 he was lent to me, I was very willing to abide in 
 his light — to look to him for that guidance, direc- 
 tion, and support I had before been used to seek 
 at a higher source. I sat beneath the shadow of 
 Christian friendship with great delight ; but when 
 he was taken from me, I sought to walk only in 
 the light of Christ my Lord — to find him a refuge 
 from the storm — a shadow from the heat. In the 
 same way, our homes, our social pleasures, our 
 domestic enjoyments, may be our idols and our 
 punishments. Do you remember, B , a con- 
 
 versation we had one evening on Nairn Point, 
 respecting Missionaries ?” 
 
 “ I do, Allan, well.” 
 
 “ Ah, my friend, I have since thought I deceiv- 
 \ ed myself in believing that I yielded up the desire 
 of going a messenger of Christ to the Gentiles on 
 the best grounds- — I now fear other things mingled 
 with the sense of duty that I persuaded myself 
 alone compelled me to resign it ; — home, friends, 
 ties of social life — these things twined more about 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 93 
 
 my heart, were preferred even in prospect to the 
 service o f my God, to the good of perishing souls. 
 But I have been roused from my dream ; I have 
 been shown the frailty of the reeds on which I 
 have leaned. Never more, I hope, shall creatures 
 share the first devotion of a heart I would conse- 
 crate to God alone. O now, if He would send me 
 to bear his everlasting Gospel to the nations of the 
 earth, how gladly, how quickly, would I go ! But 
 no,” he said the next moment, the transitory illu- 
 mination fading from his face, and leaving it paler 
 
 than before — “ He may have other work for me 
 
 that may be to die. Something tells me, that in- 
 stead of the wide, pathless main, I soon shall pass 
 the narrow waters of Jordan.” 
 
 “ De ar Allan, do not speak so— do not let these 
 forebodings get possession of your mind. An ex- 
 tended, useful, happy life is, I trust, before you. I 
 shall yet see you in some pastoral mansion, blest 
 with all your heart can desire, and imparting bless- 
 ings to others. You will find you can be useful 
 here, and cease to wish that a missionary path lay 
 before you : in your country, your home, and 
 friends, you will find happiness as unmixed as falls 
 to the lot of mortals. We shall be united a^ain 
 and”— * 5 
 
 And our hearts, mine at least, will centre in 
 these earthly enjoyments,” interrupted Allan. 
 
 Sanguino B ,” he continued, smilino* 
 
 though with an air of melancholy, “ I fear you 
 look for more happiness on earth than earth can 
 yield. Yet there are those to whom the things 
 you look for are given, and they can use without 
 abusing these precious gifts. But ah ! my friend, 
 
 I have learned to mistrust this heart ; and though 
 1 hope creatures shall never again possess that as- 
 
u 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 cendency over me they have done, yet I know 
 how prone it is to idolatry.” 
 
 The shades of the evening now stealing over 
 the lawn, reminded me that I was to set out with 
 the dawn, and had yet something to do. Though 
 I could have willingly sat for hours with Allan 
 Ruthven, I was obliged to look at my watch. He 
 started at the action. 
 
 “ B dear B ,” he cried with an emo- 
 
 tion I did not expect, “ we must part, God knows 
 when to meet. Have I wasted time in speaking of 
 myself? Trust me, the subject would have been 
 avoided, did I hot hope my example — my experi- 
 ence, would be useful to you. But now we part ; 
 such days as we have spent we never may spend 
 again ; both of us may look back to them in our 
 pilgrimage through life with fond remembrance ; 
 we have taken sweet counsel together : we have 
 walked as friends. Beware now of the world — 
 watch over your own heart— live close with God — 
 be much in prayer, in self-examination, in self-de- 
 nial and my parting prayer for you is, may the 
 grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your 
 spirit.” 
 
 “ Dear, dear Allan ! no prayer for you need 
 my heart now breathe and at the moment of 
 parting I felt it was more needful for myself than 
 him. 
 
 Here, except by an occasional letter, my inter- 
 course with Allan Ruthven ceased. In one of 
 these truly valuable letters, he says, e * I feared that 
 in losing you I lost the last friend, every chord in 
 whose heart responded with mine. On other sub- 
 jects in our little society, all was harmony ; but 
 religion touched on, produced a dissonance. You 
 were the only one of my chosen friends who view- 
 ed it in the light I did, and when you left me, I 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 05 
 
 could not forbear asking, did the Lord see it right 
 that I should be always alone ? Was I never to en- 
 joy the communion of saints, which, indeed, I 
 prize? But His mercy still follows me, and, my 
 friend, I have found one, who in a truly Christian 
 spirit can supply your place to me. Ashley, our 
 dear Ashley, is the man ! methinks I hear you 
 say the pride of man shall be brought down, and 
 the haughtiness of man shall be laid low, and the 
 
 Lord alone shall be exalted. Yes, B , Ashley’s 
 
 pride is laid low, the Lord is exalted in his eyes, 
 it is laid even at the foot of that cross, from whence 
 he now, like Paul, draws all his glory.” 
 
 After this I had a letter from Ashley, in which 
 he tells me himself of his change of opinions, and 
 gratefully and affectionately speaks of Allan as the 
 means of leading him to know himself and to know 
 his God. 
 
 “I now see,” he says, “ by the deeds of the 
 law, no flesh can be justified ; that the heart of 
 man is truly deceitful above all things and des- 
 perately wicked that an impure fountain cannot 
 send forth pure waters ; that only in Christ, God 
 can be the pure, the holy, just God, and yet the 
 justifier of sinful man.” 
 
 In this letter he also tells me, that Allan and he 
 expected to be ordained at the same time, and 
 describes the frame of mind in which his friend 
 looked forward to entering on his sacred office, 
 and his own desire to catch a portion of the spirit 
 that animated him ; ee but whether from study, or 
 some other cause,” he writes, “ Allan does not 
 look as well as when you saw him ; he has grown 
 thin and pale, and has very little appetite ; his 
 father is very uneasy, and wishes him to change 
 the air, but Allan only smiles when the subject is 
 mentioned ; he feels himself quite unapprehensive, 
 
A VISIT TO 
 
 9ti 
 
 and indeed I, would find difficulty in thinking that 
 when the Lord has so much to be done on the 
 earth, he would remove so efficient an instrument 
 front it. You will say how often do we see such 
 taken away ? True — His ways lire not as our ways, 
 but they are just and wise.” 
 
 This account of Allan gave me an alarm the 
 writer did not seem to feel — the presentiment he 
 had so often expressed recurred to my mind, and I 
 feared it would be realized. I tvas on the eve of 
 leaving the kingdom, I could only write to Ashley 
 to express something of what I felt respecting our 
 dear friend, and beg of him to give me from time to 
 time every information respecting him ; but as I 
 might not ever receive those letters, I also request- 
 ed, that if my fears were verified, he would pre- 
 serve for me an account of the closing scene. I 
 am not, I believe, one of those who are easily made 
 to shed tears, yet as I wrote the request, one fell 
 and blotted the word. 
 
 As I had feared, change of place and circum- 
 stances prevented my ever receiving letters if they 
 ever did write to me ; it was not until my return 
 that I received any information of Allan. 
 
 From the time that his increased delicacy of 
 appearance became obvious, it rapidly grew more 
 observable; but as his body decayed, his mind, 
 like that of his mother, became more vigorous ; he 
 seemed to think time w ould be too short to devote 
 to the service of his God, and over exertion some- 
 times reduced him to a state of languor and debil- 
 ity that alarmed his friends ; but Allan strove to 
 dissipate their anxiety, when he looked up and 
 saw his father regarding him with an expression of 
 sorrow' that touched his very heart ; he would smile, 
 and gently and assiduously endeavour to divert his 
 thoughts. Ruthven loved him more than ever ; 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE, 
 
 97 
 
 he wished to have him always near him, to hear 
 him, to see him; he now frequently led the way 
 to religious conversation, which he before shunned, 
 and Allan feeling every day more deeply for the 
 state of his father and grandfather, seized every 
 opportunity of introducing it. Ruthven listened 
 to him with pleasure, and sometimes proposed 
 questions Allan delighted to answer ; but at times, 
 when he saw his face lighted up with holy energy, 
 while he pointed out to him the path of life, his At- 
 tention would be drawn from what he was saying 
 to his altered appearance, and he would suddenly 
 interrupt him by some anxious inquiry or the pro- 
 posal of some plan for the recovery of his health. 
 Once he said, tf * Allan, when I see myself, as it 
 were marked out for sorrow, I am tempted to think 
 I must have been a. great sinner.” “ All, all are 
 sinners, my dear father/’ Allan would say, “ but 
 do not suppose that those who suffer most in this 
 world are always marked out for vengeance ; no, 
 many are the troubles of the righteous, but the 
 Lord delivereth him out of them all. Look on 
 your afflictions, my father, as sent by the hand of 
 love to draw you to himself; then his loving cor- 
 rection shall make you great — refuse to acknowl- 
 edge his hand and turn to him, and then indeed 
 you may think that he wounds in wrath.” 
 
 Ashley always met his friend every Saturday 
 morning in his study, to read the Scriptures with 
 him ; Ruthven latterly used to come into the room 
 and throw himself on the sopha opposite the table 
 where they sat ; they soon perceived that he at- 
 tended to their remarks, and leaving all hrnh and 
 controverted points, kept simply to Gospel doc- 
 trines, explaining and enforcing them as if solely 
 ior each other' s benefit — and doubtless their own 
 souls were also benefited ; but Ruthven was the 
 
98 
 
 A VISIT TC) 
 
 chief gainer, for thus was the son conferring new 
 life, and light, and instruction upon the father, 
 and thus, was the Lord, in his own good time and 
 way, answering the praters of the pious Ellen and 
 her son, and even at the eleventh hour calling in a 
 long wandering sheep to the Shepherd and Bishop 
 of his soul. 
 
 Ellen never saw the answer to her prayers for 
 her husband : Allan was permitted to do so, but 
 not long to see that which he had ardently wished 
 for, his father walking in newness of life. 
 
 I now take up the remaining narrative in Ash- 
 ley’s own words. 
 
 “ On the 7th of last September I called at the 
 Lodge, and found Allan had not risen to breakfast ; 
 I went to his bed-side ; he looked ill and weak, 
 and owned that he had passed a restless and fever- 
 ish night. In a few days, however, his illness 
 wore away, and we again walked and sat as usual. 
 I need not tell you how dear the recollection of 
 this time is to me < you know how I loved Allan 
 Ruthven, even when that bond did not unite us 
 that now made us one in soul. Every day he be- 
 came more and more dear to us, and every day he 
 seemed to sit lighter by earth, to acquire new en- 
 ergy and zeal, to wish to live solely to do his 
 Master’s work, and to look forward to heaven as the 
 exile to his home. Nor were his labours of retired 
 usefulness lightened in consequence of the failure 
 of his health : each -period of the day had its ap- 
 pointed work but one ; the evening, was at this 
 season reserved for that he loved best : for teaching 
 the ignorant, instructing the simple, Allan was 
 peculiarly calculated ; this was one cause perhaps 
 that led' him to wish to go to the ignorant heathen, 
 and next to them, I believe he found greatest 
 pleasure in instructing his poor children. Return- 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 99 
 
 ing one evening from a visit at some distance, I 
 heard Allan's voice beneath the oak which you 
 remember well : he was sitting on the little mound 
 he had raised at its foot, surrounded by the atten- 
 tive inquiring countenances of his little flock ; he 
 generally, you know, chose some story or parable 
 from Scripture for their instruction ; the present 
 was Naaman the leper. As I drew behind him he 
 was saying, ‘ Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damas- 
 cus ; mark how they are exalted rivers of the great 
 city, the city Damascus; ‘are they not,’ proud 
 .Naaman asks, ‘ better than all the waters of Israel?’ 
 let the despised waters of Israel are those alone 
 which can heal his diseased body : thus we despise 
 or overlook means of God’s appointing, thinking 
 we can procure better, more honourable for our- 
 selves. To the true ‘waters of Israel,’ to the 
 fountain opened for sin and uncleanness, to the 
 ~°j Jesu ?’ T the P roud heart of man, like Naaman 
 to despised Jordan, finds difficulty in returning. 
 
 -Like Lot driven from flaming Sodom, and 
 trembling for his life, he will not flee to the moun- 
 tain of God s appointing for safety, but chooses for 
 himself a place of refuge : and various are the re- 
 fuges to which we fly for deliverance from flames 
 more dreadful ; but if we are to escape them, we 
 shall be driven from these refuges of lies, as Lot to 
 the mountains, as Naaman to the despised waters 
 to the only place of safety for the soul, to the only 
 J™ can remove its leprosy, even to Christ 
 
 When Allan dismissed his little auditory and 
 rose up, he saw he had had another hearer beside 
 nimselt ; Ruthven had stood unperceived behind 
 us and as Allan had turned his face round the 
 hall circular group, its paleness, sweetness, mild- 
 /S 9 J ome d to his words, and adding additional 
 
100 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 weight to them, forced the tears so thickly to his 
 eyes, that when his son arose, the scene swam be- 
 fore him. “ Welcome to our pleasant oak, my 
 father,” said Allan smiling ; “ we shall hope since 
 you have made your way here, often to see you be- 
 neath it, soon an assistant, not a listener.” Ruth- 
 ven I believe could not reply ; he endeavoured to 
 return his son’s smile, and we walked back to- 
 gether. 
 
 “ I believe, Allan,” said I, £C when we were 
 alone together, there are few things for which you 
 would exchange your little assembly beneath the 
 oak, unless it be for the shade of a palm tree and 
 a circle of darker faces.” 
 
 Allan smiled. “ I believe you may be right, 
 Ashley.” I had turned his mind to the subject it 
 loved to dwell on. “ Often,” he said, “ in my 
 lonely rambles, I picture to myself some poor 
 negro, straying by his sea-girt coast, looking on 
 creation’s wonders with an unconscious gaze, not 
 knowing the hand that made them : it seems as if 
 I heard him deploring, ‘ No man careth for my 
 soul.’ Oh ! who would refuse to send the Gospel 
 of salvation ? Some may,— Yet a time will come, 
 when the isles shall sing his praise ; when in the 
 wilderness and the desert, streams of water, pure 
 living water shall be found. When they shall 
 come in crowds, saying, ‘ This is our God, we 
 have heard of him, we will serve him.’” 
 
 Then Allan’s eye brightened from its languor — 
 “ Oh ! who would count their life dear unto them, 
 might they but advance that blessed time when 
 one God shall be worshipped from the rising to the 
 setting sun.” 
 
 “ Allan, have you ever considered the difficul- 
 ties and trials of a missionary life ?” 
 
 “ Yes, and more than this, I have weighed them 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 101 
 
 against its joys, its obligations, and have found 
 them lighter ; I found that in the strength of my 
 God I could leave all, could undertake all. I 
 think I know what a missionary should be ; the 
 dispositions are dear to my own mind, such as 
 through life I fain would* practise. I own my de- 
 ficiency, but one thing would support me, even 
 that which supported the great Apostle of the Gen- 
 tiles, — the grace of God is sufficient for me.” 
 
 How cold, indeed, must be the mind that caught 
 no reflection from one so glowing, though in other 
 things I fear I did not improve, sufficiently, the 
 privilege of such society ; in this I think I caught 
 ■j & portion of his spirit. But, ah ! I soon saw cause 
 to fear that Allan’s course, as yet a retired one, 
 a lovely one, was not to expand. Like the stream, 
 that, oozing from the mountain’s side, ran clear 
 and low through the neighbouring meadows, giving 
 life and refreshment to things in its own immediate 
 way, without attracting notice or applause, save 
 from some humble admirer who tasted its freshness, 
 or listened well-pleased* to its soft murmur, Allan 
 wound his gentle way : other streams deepening 
 and widening in their progress might roll on, com 
 veying life and health, noted and admired at a 
 distance from their source — this soon poured its 
 waters into the ocean, and following up the meta- 
 phor, I sighed while I thought, ‘ So wall Allan’s 
 course be stopped, so wall the wide ocean of eter- 
 nity receive him, ere he commences a course brill- 
 iant, shining, useful !’ 
 
 The period of our ordination drew on ; its ap- 
 proach seemed to lend new vigour to Allan’s frame, 
 but he sank again ; Ruthven watched and nursed 
 him with a mother's care, his life seemed to hang 
 upon his son’s. * 
 
 I remember one evening coming through the 
 
 K 
 
102 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 shrubbery to the house, and seeing him endeav- 
 ouring to fasten up a branch of the latest roses of 
 the season, that grew by a southern wall, and now 
 hung down, threatening by its motion, the destruc- } 
 tion of its flowers ; the want of his arm prevented 
 his success, and after every effort, he was disap- 
 pointed. I hastened on and offered my assistance; 
 Ruthven yielded me his place ; saying, as he did 
 so, in a tone that spoke him, I thought, a little 
 tinctured by those romantic feelings, which he 
 seems always to have possessed : “ thus every ef- 
 fort of mine to raise again the drooping plants I , 
 loved, has proved abortive.” 
 
 But, in Allan’s case, Rutliven’s hopes revived, 
 for his health was evidently amended, his strength 
 renewed, and it seemed that in answer to our 
 prayer, length of days would be added to him. I 
 must, my friend, be brief, although I know every 
 incident would be interesting to you. In the latter 
 end of the month, Allan and I were ordained — or- 
 dained, I trust, ministers of Christ. 
 
 “ Ashley,” he said, “ we have started on our 
 course together, it may be that we shall not con- 
 tinue it so, but while we serve Christ on earth let 
 our light shine before men.” 
 
 The following Sabbath he preached his sermon 
 in our parish church, on the words, “ Necessity is 
 laid upon me — Yea, wo is unto me, if I preach 
 not the Gospel.” I need not say that there was 
 an attentive audience, for you know the feelings of 
 the neighbourhood towards him. Ruthven’s seat 
 was conspicuous, and there every eye that could 
 be attracted from the young preacher was directed ; 
 but his face, except when he withdrew his hand 
 for a moment to catch one look at his son, was 
 concealed. Old Falconer, leaning over the side of 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 103 
 
 the seat, never removed his dim eve from his belov- 
 ed grandson. 
 
 Of Allan’s sermon I need say nothing ; but as 
 I passed through the church-yard, and heard the 
 remarks of the congregation, I feared that I myself 
 was giving too much honour to the creature. As 
 I was not .to enter on the duties of my calling for 
 some little time, I looked forward to enjoy Allan’s 
 ministry in the interim : going, however, as was 
 my custom on Saturday morning, to the Lodge, to 
 read and search the Scriptures together, 1 heard 
 he had been taken ill the preceding night, and 
 was still confined to his bed. I went directly to 
 his room, hoping that it was but a slight attack ; 
 the physician and Ruthven were there, and one 
 glance from them to their patient, convinced me 
 there was danger. When they were gone, I drew 
 near to make enquiries from himself. 
 
 “ 4 h ! m friend,” he said, “ the time is come. 
 Methinks I am drawing near the banks of that 
 Jordan I have looked forward to.” 
 
 Dear Allan, do not think so ; I trust this sick- 
 ness is not unto death.” 
 
 Ashley, it is because you wish to keep me 
 here you think so ; yet why wish it ? It is far 
 better to depart and be with Jesus.” 
 
 I now took up my abode entirely at the Lodge, 
 determined that his recovery or death should alone 
 separate me from the friend of my soul. At night, 
 though he was evidently suffering and uneasy, he 
 would not admit of my attendance, hinting, that 
 when the sand of life had run lower, he would al- 
 low me to sit up with him, but now he would not 
 weary me. Early, on the Sabbath morning I enter- 
 ed his room ; he was freer from pain than he had 
 been through the night ; I drew the curtain at his 
 lequest, and he raised himself on his arm to look 
 
104 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 out at the fa'ir scene glowing beneath the newly- 
 risen sunbeams. 
 
 “ Last Sabbath morning, Ashley, we went to 
 the house of God in company. — Last Sabbath I 
 was permitted, high honour for one like me, to 
 declare the name of Jesus : never more shall I do 
 so ; there is no temple there — neither shall that 
 light-spreading orb be seen there ; a brighter glory 
 shall enlighten it.” 
 
 “ We have spent some happy Sabbaths, Allan.” 
 
 “ Most happy, Ashley ; Ah ! my friend, we do 
 not rightly know the worth of ordinances -until we 
 lose them ; when confined by illness, we see oth- 
 ers moving in company to the temple of the Lord, 
 or when in far other lands miss the things that 
 marked the day the Lord has made, then we feel 
 our loss.” 
 
 “ And the missionary, Allan, think you in his 
 field of distant labour, when the seventh day’s re- 
 turn brings to his recollection the sounds he heard 
 in his native land, of the 4 church-going bell, ring- 
 ing its summons to the house of prayer of friends 
 saying, 4 Come, let us go up to the house of our 
 God,’ think you he then casts back no longing, 
 lingering look ? 
 
 “ He feels too, doubtless, the loss of these 
 things ; their memory is entwined in his heart 
 with all that is dear and sacred ; he cannot let it 
 part — but the God of ordinances is his, a com- 
 fort ordinances cannot yield is, I doubt not, bestow- 
 ed on him.” > 
 
 His father and Doctor M— - now came in : 
 when they were going away, Allan called the latter 
 back, and drawing him closer, whispered his 
 earnest request that he would not buoy up his 
 poor father with hopes that could only prove falla- 
 cious.” 
 
^\1Y BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 105 
 
 Doctor M pressed his hand, saying, “ My 
 
 dear young friend, what would I give to be able to 
 meet death with your composure.” 
 
 “ And who enables me to do so, Doctor ?” Said 
 Allan with animation, “ he can enable you too : 
 the only spell that bears me up, is trust in the 
 Saviour who conquered him that had the power of 
 death ! Oh, my dear Sir, seek Him while he may 
 be found, call upon Him while he is near !” 
 
 It was thus our dear Allan always had some 
 word of exhortation for all who approached him. 
 He remained ill and feeble through the week, and 
 our hopes, occasionally revived, as often sunk. 
 Colonel Ruthven seemed to envy me the perform- 
 ance of those little attentions so grateful to the 
 sick, and from which he was disabled by the 
 loss of his arm ; finding it sometimes impossible 
 to control his feelings, he was often obliged to 
 absent himself from the room, lest he should 
 distress his son : whenever Allan was speaking in 
 his accustomed way of death, and his feelings re- 
 specting it, he generally changed the subject, un- 
 willing to pain his father ; but on Friday, whether 
 he thought his dissolution now near, or felt that it 
 was not right to shun any thing that might be 
 useful, he continued the subject he was upon. 
 
 “ Some very eminent Christians have, I know, 
 felt a dread of this last enemy, the grave, the 
 shroud, the mingling with the cold silent clay, the 
 parting struggle ; these are dreary images — But 
 when we think that the same moment when that 
 parting gasp dismisses the spirit, the body that 
 enshrined it is nought ; that it alone, capable of 
 feeling, suffering, enjoying, enters into blessedness ; 
 these things are nothing. That Jesus passed the 
 gates of death, and because He liveth we shall live 
 also ; this ought to be an anchor of confidence to 
 
106 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 the soul. I remember once speaking on the sub» 
 
 ject to B . Dear B!” (he suddenly exclaimed, 
 
 partly forgetting the present in retrospect of the 
 
 past,) ‘ Dear, dear B ! Ashley, 1 shall see 
 
 him no more on earth ; tell him — tell him — he was 
 not forgotten — No proud boast have I to make of 
 dying as I have lived— but tell him, though weak 
 and unworthy, I trust to my latest breath to have 
 strength to cling to Christ — say, that the cross 
 was all my glory — ail my trust — that through the 
 victory gained on it I hope to conquer death.” 
 
 “ Oh ! Allan, my son, my son!” cried Ruthven, 
 unable to contain his emotions longer ; and he fell 
 on his knees by the bed-side, and buried his face on 
 the coverlet. 
 
 Allan seemed oppressed almost to suffocation ; 
 he raised his meek eyes to heaven, as if to gain 
 strength to speak a word in season ; he took his 
 father’s hand, which was stretched despairingly 
 over the bed : “ My father, when my mother died, 
 my boyish prayer was made for you— you knew 
 not then the God who smote you— you now know 
 the rod, and who hath appointed it ; it is not for 
 me therefore, to say— submit.” Ruthven bent his 
 forehead on his son’s pale hand ; his fears fell 
 on it. 
 
 After a silence as impressive as affecting, Allan 
 said, “ A few short years, my dearest father, will 
 re-unite us all— think of that — -or rather think, 
 that though I go away, Jesus is ever with you.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I would, I would submit,” murmured 
 Ruthven. The hand he held fell from Allan’s 
 grasp ; I thought he was gone— Ruthven cast me 
 such a look as I shall not easily forget ; I saw he 
 had only fainted, he soon came to himself, and his 
 father wishing him to repose, left him to my care. 
 
 During the next day, Saturday, he was mostly 
 
MV BIKTH-PLACE. 
 
 107 
 
 in a kind of slumber, that flattered poor Ruthveu 
 with hopes that he would yet do well : but these 
 slumbers were broken half-hourly, and as I never 
 left his room, I had the privilege of seeing the 
 state his mind was in ; he generally awoke from 
 them repeating some text of holy writ: he had 
 many a message to leave for his friends ; as a per- 
 son leaving home for a long period, from time to 
 time, remembers some other direction, so he re- 
 peated them to me. 
 
 44 My poor children, Ashley, bid them follow on 
 to know the Lord.” 
 
 Again, “ tell our young friend S , that it 
 
 was not the recollection of a well-spent life sup- 
 ported rne through the dark valley of the shadow 
 ol death ; it was my Saviour's death that supported 
 and cheered rne ; it w as not with the flimsy robe 
 of my ow n righteousness I thought to stand before 
 my Judge, but with one blood-bought by Him.”,., 
 
 Mr. Falconer coming in when he w as labouring 
 under much oppression and uneasiness, exclaimed 
 in his .usual manner, “ The scion is cut down, and 
 the withered, leafless tree is left.” 
 
 M hen a little recovered, Allan said, “ The scion 
 is about to be transplanted, dear grandfather, to a 
 better, purer clime. Oh ! that the tree long kept 
 in the ground, may be found of the planting of the 
 Lord, one of those “ trees of righteousness by which 
 he shall be glorified.” 
 
 After this, Allan became more lively, he spoke 
 without much effort on various subjects, but alw ays 
 arae back soon to the one. In the evening, Mr. 
 Falconer, Ruthven and myself, were sitting round 
 his bed : he looked at us with his usual affection- 
 ate smile; it soon passed away, and he turned aside 
 his face ; I guessed what passed in his mind, he 
 iound, in saying, ‘ farewell, 1 one parting pang. 
 
108 
 
 -"A V1S-T TO 
 
 But. even this' was soon over, arid he turned to us 
 again, saying, “ It is strange that any person could 
 suppose, that in heaven we do not know our friends ; 
 for my part, 1 love to think I shall meet there those 
 who have gone before, arid those, who, through 
 grace, shall follow alter me.” 
 
 When I was again left at home with him, Mrs, 
 Macdonald came to take perhaps her last leave, to 
 bid him, it might be, an endless good-night. ! On 
 seeing the alteration that had taken place in him, 
 she burst into tears; he w r as affected, but taking 
 her hand, said in a gentle voice, “ Dearest Madam, 
 weep not for me” He then sweetly expressed his 
 obligation to her for all her kindness, saying, 
 “ The Lord reward you for all the kindness you 
 have sfiown his unworthy .servant— reward you in 
 the happiness of those you love ;” he paused— 
 then, as if every earthly feeling that once gave him 
 pain was removed, lie added, “ When you see 
 Ethie, tell her I remembered her in prayer ; she 
 once seemed to know the grace of our Lord Jesus. 
 Oil 1 I trust it was not only in seeming — Warn 
 her, dear Madam, warn her to beware of the world, 
 of letting earth or earthly objects possess her heart. 
 Oh ! I have felt, I do feel much for her, — I think 
 at this moment earthly feelings are so far laid aside 
 — but no — this is now impossible — tell her I hope 
 to meet her in heaven.” 
 
 Mrs. Macdonald did not speak, but her bursting 
 sobs spoke for her. When she left the room, Al- 
 lan, who seemed quite exhausted, said, “ Now all 
 is over, I have nothing to do but wait for my God.” 
 In the course of the night, when I brought him a 
 drink, he asked me what night it was — “ Saturday,” 
 he repeated after me ; “ then my last week is spent; 
 the morrow, oh ! the morrow !” He clasped his 
 handsj, and lay some time in prayer : hearing him 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 109 
 
 lowly repeat my name, I stole to his bed, for from 
 the faintness of his voice, I thought it might be in 
 sleep. 
 
 “ Is that Ashley ?” he asked. 
 
 “ It is, my friend.” 
 
 “ Dearest Ashley, I wanted to thank you,” — 
 but I need not repeat this ; Allan’s heart was 
 ever alive to gratitude, ever anxious to find or 
 make cause to express it — 44 Farewell, Ashley,” 
 he said, “ farewell, my friend, until we meet in 
 glory.” 
 
 The next time I went to him he appeared almost 
 unable to speak, but in answer to my enquiries, 
 replied by tfle expressive words, 44 Peace — -all is 
 peace.” 
 
 Ruthven had made me promise against Allan’s 
 wish, that I would call him if he was near his end : 
 hearing his low deep breathing, I drew near and 
 leaned over him ; he unclosed his eye ; it was gla- 
 zed and darkening — 4 Allan, dear Allan” — He 
 moved his lips, I bent lower to catch his words. 
 
 44 My Saviour is with me still — Ashley, farewell 
 —tell my father” 
 
 Supposing he wished to leave a parting message 
 for his father, I concluded his hour was come, and 
 hastened to call Ruthven. Even in the moment 
 that elapsed before I again stood by the bed, his 
 face was changed, death was marked in all its lin- 
 eaments — he fixed his eye upon me, and once 
 more moved his lips — I raised his head on my arm, 
 and with the motion, I believe his spirit fled ! 
 Allan, my guide, my counsellor, my own familiar 
 friend was gone, and I had not time to express one 
 plaint of sorrow, to give vent to the emotions that 
 swelled my breast. I heard his father’s steps along 
 the passage, and fearing to give him an additional 
 pang, I gently laid down the head I sustained en 
 
A VISIT TO 
 
 11 0 
 
 the pillow, arid quickly crossing the room, met 
 him at the door. 
 
 “ How is my son V’ 
 
 X laid my hand on his shoulder, and turning 
 with him into the passage, and speaking slowly, so 
 as to gain time for drawing him farther from the 
 door, X said, “ You need not, dear Sir, now come 
 in, my calling you was useless— Allan sleeps/’ 
 He -turned me a fearful glance, that seemed to de- 
 mand whether it was a sleep from which he might 
 awake. X believe he felt my hand tremble ; nei- 
 ther of us had taken a light ; but the moon shining 
 bright through a window near us, showed him my 
 agitated countenance— he leaned his back to the 
 wall, asking, as if he dreaded to hear the answ T ei\ 
 
 “ Is he— is he— gone V* 
 
 “ Yes, my dear Sir, Allan is gone to his rest.” 
 
 Rutnven bowed his head — But oh ! the expres- 
 sion oi that countenance, increased perhaps by the 
 pale light that revealed it, will long be remember- 
 ed. It seemed as if, while the iron entered into 
 his very soul, while his every earthly joy and hope 
 fell prostrate, he tried to say, he did say, “ It is 
 the Lord,” X brought him to his own room ; I left 
 him there without a witness but One on High, 
 whose ear is ever open, whose pitying eye is ever 
 on .us, and telling him X would remain in 
 the room I had left, X hurried back. I brought 
 over the light, and took another look, °as 
 if to assure myself Allan was gone— No more was 
 needed— X closed the curtain and sat down to 
 watch by the corpse of him that was my friend. 
 
 I trust that it was not an unprofitable night to mv 
 soul. 
 
 When the first grey light appeared, X opened 
 the shutters, and sat watching its progress ; the 
 mists, of night were dispersing, the moon was re- 
 firing, the sun was coming forth by degrees,, until 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 a deep crimson flush over the sky announced its 
 approach, and soon it was up in its brightness ; the 
 wave beneath its glow seemed of burnished gold — 
 It ushered in the Sabbath morn, the morn that 
 Allan loved. Oh! on such a morn, how would his 
 eye be up unto the heavens, and his prayer unto 
 the God of his life. Wliile I looked out at the 
 fair new morn, and thought how often I had en- 
 joyed this fresh hour of prime with him ; thought 
 of him living, moving, glowing with ardour, affec- 
 tion, love ; then turned to the bed, that held him 
 cold, inanimate, insensible, — a heavy weight op- 
 pressed my bosom, a desolate aching feeling hung 
 over me ; but when X thought, fair was the Sab- 
 bath that had dawned upon his soul, brilliant the 
 sun in whose beams he now rejoiced, a calm and 
 holy feeling took its place. Yes, Allan, I mental- 
 ly said, those who walk in the light of God’s coun- 
 tenance upon earth, enjoy but a partially obscured 
 glimpse of a sun that has risen on you for ever. 
 
 When it was perfect day, I rose to take another 
 view of all that remaned of what had been my 
 dearest bosom friend ; drawing back the curtain, 
 the bright sun-beam fell over his face ; it was 
 mild, composed, it is true, in death, but still sweet; 
 an expression of languor and suffering was upon 
 it ; but so partially had death as yet fixed its soul- 
 harrowing characters on that sweet and holy coun- 
 tenance, one might suppose him in a sweet sleep. 
 
 I bent over him until I found myself again unman- 
 ned, until I felt — but why should I thus dwell on 
 my own feelings ? forgive me, B — — , you know 
 there are not many to whom I can impart them. 
 
 Allan’s relatives now claimed my care ; to 
 them I hastened : Ruthven seemed composed, and 
 asked me to go to Mr. Falconer ; but hardly had 
 X left the room, till he hastened to Allan’s cham- 
 
112 A VISIT To 
 
 ber: for two full hours the door was fastened on 
 him and the corpse of his beloved son. What pass- 
 ed between his God and him, I know not, but 
 though his soul had drank deep of sorrow, no im- 
 patient, no angry murmur ever passed his lips. 
 
 A short time alter, we committed all that was 
 earthly in our beloved Allan to its kindred dust. 
 
 He had expressed to me a wish which he said he 
 thought was toolish, but still he wished to be laid 
 in the old burial ground, endeared to both our re- 
 membrances, I think I may say, by a long train of 
 associations. 
 
 Early on a fine autumnal morning, this spot 
 presented a scene at once solemn, affecting, and 
 .interesting ; the poor whom he had relieved, the 
 ignorant whom he had instructed, the comfortless 
 whom he had consoled ; these formed principally 
 the groups that were scattered through it. There 
 garrulous age extolled the merits of him who had 
 truly been the poor man’s friend ; in another part, 
 a circle of children spoke of him who had ever 
 acted towards them in compliance with his Lord’s 
 desire ; and not only suffered them to come, but 
 laboured to bring them unto Jesus : they spoke of 
 his kindness, gentleness, love ; and wondered how 
 so good, so young a person should die. Nor were 
 all thus engaged : here and there a single one sat 
 solitary and silent, showing only, by occasionally 
 dashing a tear away, that they were not unconcern- 
 ed spectators. These were they whom Allan, 
 though some of their heads were silvered by time, 
 could call his sons and daughters in the Gospel : ; 
 
 they felt that now their master was taken from 
 their head. But a mournful sight aroused them 
 all. From the grove behind the Lodge, a small 
 party issued : the remains of Allan Ruthven were 
 carried in the midst : his father, with a firm and 
 
MV BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 113 
 
 composed air, walked on one side : his eye was 
 downcast, and unless it might have showed the 
 feelings of his breast, the death-like paleness of 
 his face alone gave intimation of them. On the 
 other side, the venerable grandfather supported his 
 tottering steps on my arm, sometimes groaning 
 deeply, sometimes lifting his eyes to heaven, or 
 uttering some expression of grief and surprise that 
 he should follow his grandson to the grave ! The 
 intimate friends and servants were all that follow- 
 ed, Allan and his father wishing that it might be 
 private. We were surprised to see the concourse 
 which had assembled in the church-yard. I stood 
 beside Allan’s grave ; I heard the dust rattle on 
 his cott : I felt it — what must his father have felt ? 
 Truly, each sound seemed to deaden me more to 
 the w<#ld, to loosen the cords that bound rne to 
 earth, 
 
 I saw Ruthven’s fine martial figure, now shrunk 
 with suffering, tremble at the sound ! The hand 
 that held the handkerchief to his face, appeared 
 incapable of doing its office : he held up his hat 
 before his eyes, and in the act I caught a glimpse 
 of his countenance : its strong workings, its ex- 
 pression of agony, he shrunk from revealing, wrung 
 my very soul. Old Falconer was leaning upon 
 his stick, his silver hair hanging down his sunken 
 cheeks, and his tears flowing without restraint or 
 concealment. I went to Ruthven, drew his arm 
 within mine, and without speaking, led him to a 
 seat at a little distance. We sat here till the grave 
 was filled, and then a low, sweet strain broke out : 
 it came from Allan’s children, and the words they 
 sung were written by himself in his earlier days, 
 for another person. 
 
 l # 
 
114 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 Cbr friend is lost, our Brother flown, 
 
 He is hid from our sight for ever ; 
 
 To the dark cold tomb he’s gone, 
 
 And we shall see him never. 
 
 The cold grave stone is o’er his head, 
 
 In silence he is sleeping, 
 
 Now in his damp and narrow bed 
 An endless night he’s keeping. 
 
 But hark ! from yonder blissful plains, 
 
 What raptur’d notes are breaking, 
 
 Midst seraph bands, its sweetest strains 
 Another harp is waking. 
 
 And see around Emmanuel’s throne 
 Another spirit bowing, 
 
 Low at his feet it casts its crown, 
 
 With love and rapture glowing. 
 
 ’Tis he w hose body here is laid, 
 
 Who now these joys is sharing ; 
 
 From earth and eai th’s remembrance freed, 
 
 A crown of glory wearing, 
 
 His body rests in hope to rise 
 When the glad trump is waking; 
 
 His soul with Jesus in the skies. 
 
 Of endless joys partaking. 
 
 When it died away, Ruthven rose. He looked 
 calm, and was resigned. Mr. Falconer raised his 
 head from the top of the stick on which he rested 
 it : they each took the arm I offered, and we walk- 
 ed back to the house : not a word was spoken. f 
 Allan had begged me to endeavour to prevail 
 on his father, when he was gone, to leave a place 
 where every spot must remind him he had had a 
 son. He said he thought if he would consent, his 
 grandfather would go too for his sake. I soon 
 saw, that as Allan feared, this place was breaking 
 Ruthven’s heart. While the corpse even of his son 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 115 
 
 remained in the house, he did not seem to awake 
 to the sense of his loss ; but when he found the 
 room, lately tenanted, empty, the favoured resorts 
 solitary, the accustomed avocations suspended, 
 then a blank, desolate feeling stole over him. He 
 would stand in Allan’s study and bed-room, and 
 look round with an air of abstracted sorrow on 
 every object : he would start when I sometimes 
 answered a question, as if he expected to hear 
 another voice. I feared, though I saw Christian 
 resignation mingled with his sorrow, that still it 
 would draw him sooner to the grave. At last I 
 proposed to him to leave the Lodge. He looked at 
 me for a moment, then turning away his head, said, 
 “ Ashley, I thank you, but no ; where he died, I 
 will die, and there will I be buried.” 
 
 And now, my dear B. , I have fulfilled my 
 
 promise, and given you an imperfect account, it is 
 true, but in the outlines faithful, of the death of 
 my friend — the friend to whom my soul was knit 
 in bonds never to be disunited. Allan sometimes 
 asked me, could friendship be so close among men 
 who lived after the course of this world ? I know 
 among some of them, frendship can, and does ex- 
 ist : nay, when my own soul was yet unregenerate, 
 I loved Allan Ruthven, but not as I afterwards 
 did. No ; the ties of Christian love are the clos- 
 est, the most durable, they cannot be rent asunder 
 even by death. I have now none to supply his 
 place, no objects to claim the first affections of 
 my heart that might be given to earth, and I feel 
 the void — but be Allan’s God, my God, his friend, 
 my friend, then shall I be happy. 
 
 Allan, my friend, my guide, my soul could even 
 now take up a lamentation for you, and say, “ I 
 am distressed for thee, my brother ; very pleasant 
 wast thou unto me. ? ’ 
 
116 
 
 A VISIT TO 
 
 Here, my' dear C ends my account of a 
 
 life unknown to fame, unnoticed in the annals of j 
 the great, but well pleasing to Him to whose ser- 
 vice it was dedicated. On the rolls of fame the 
 name of Allan Ruthven was not inscribed, but far 
 higher, though less sought for honour, it was en- 
 tered in the Lamb’s book of life. 
 
 On my return to this country, I found the 
 packet Ashley had left for me ; truly the conclud- 
 ing sentence I could have joined in, for I too was 
 distressed for Allan. 
 
 Many changes had taken place even in the 
 short time that I had been absent, I had no longer 
 motives for returning to my native place ; it was 
 not, as you are aware, until business called me 
 into its vicinity, that I came on your worthy fa- 
 ther’s invitation to visit my birth-place. Of the 
 rest of my friends, little remains to be said — Allan’s 
 tomb informed me of some of them ; for casting 
 down my eye from that which at first absorbed 
 every faculty, I saw beneath the simple inscription, 
 
 “ Here lies the body of the Rev. Allan Ruthven, 
 aged 23 the addition also of “ Lieutenant-Colo- 
 nel Ruthven, who died the 1st of January, 18 — 
 and underneath, “ Here lies the body of George 
 Allan Falconer, who on the tenth of June, in the 
 same year, followed his son-in-law and grandson to 
 the grave, trusting in Him through whom they con- 
 quered death.’ 3 
 
 The tale of their tombstone concludes by these 
 lines : u The ashes of her, who by training up her 
 son in the way he should go, was the means of 
 bringing him, and through him, her husband and 
 father, to the knowledge of the truth as it is in 
 Jesus, rest not beneath this stone, a foreign land 
 contains them— but when from the four winds of 
 heaven the angel of the Lord shall gather his re- 
 
MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 117 
 
 deemed, then shall he also appear with them in 
 glory.” 
 
 I saw Ashley’s hand in this inscription, but I 
 found him not. I came a stranger to my native 
 vale : the houses of my friends, strangers inhabited, 
 or they were desolate, not having an inhabitant! 
 Allan Ruthven, Falconer, are gone : Ashley 
 treads a distant land. It seems that Allan, like 
 the prophet of old, left his spirit with his friend. 
 From him, Ashley learned to love the missionary 
 cause. His death loosened him from a world he 
 was too much bound to before. Studying the 
 more lovely parts of Allan’s character, he drew 
 them into his own, and practised those things for 
 which he was so conspicuous, and which should 
 adorn the missionary. He had no near relatives ; 
 he was at liberty to act as his dear departed friend 
 desired, but could not, so he went a messenger of 
 glad tidings to the Gentiles, and so far away from 
 his home, and his native country, he labours among 
 the heathen, desiring, it is true, a great reward, 
 even to have souls for his hire. 
 
 Ethie’s wishes were gratified, she had seen the 
 world, the object of her ambition — she had known 
 it, and she was disappointed. Some time after the 
 death of those who had been her friends, Mrs. 
 Macdonald’s declining health brought her to her 
 native vale, to try to prevail on her to go to live 
 with her ; with what feelings she returned to the 
 cottage is not for me to say, but I have heard she 
 once sat on the grave of her friends, and dropped 
 a tear upon it. Mrs. Macdonald quitted the cot- 
 tage with her, and I believe her declining years 
 were soothed by her attentions, her broken heart 
 consoled by seeing her act unblameably in life, as 
 a wife, a mother, a friend. 
 
 And now, C , farewell ; you will perhaps 
 
 L* 
 
118 A VISIT TO MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 think your apprehension correct, and that you did 
 indeed draw something like a sermon on your 
 head, when you jestingly asked for the result of my 
 meditations ; but if I ha ve been serious, remember 
 my subject has been often so. The recollections 
 a visit to my birth-place and to Allan’s tomb have 
 furnished, are before you ; may they be useful to 
 you, in leading you early to choose the good and 
 refuse the evil, so that, if like him, you are called 
 to an early grave, or descend there adorned with 
 that hoary head, which if found in the way of 
 righteousness is a crown of glory, you shall like 
 him be happy for ever. 
 
 B- 
 
COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 — « 4 »— 
 
 I had read, in my morning studies, the third 
 chapter of Genesis, which so* affectingly relates 
 the history of our first parents’ fall. All day the 
 heat was most oppressive, and my weakness so 
 great, that I could with difficulty keep myself 
 from fainting repeatedly. I lay on a sofa in the 
 parlour of our cottage, the windows of which 
 look towards a green meadow. Two fine elms 
 overshadow that part of the house which I oc- 
 cupy. Beyond the meadow is the little river, 
 bordered by a row of tall English poplars ; and 
 across it, on one side, stands the little village 
 church and the good minister’s house. All this 
 day, though my body was so weak, my mind was, 
 thanks be to God, remarkably peaceful. I seemed 
 to have no will but my Father’s will, and no hope 
 but that of an abundant entrance into the king- 
 dom of our Lord Jesus Christ . I repeated over 
 and over again to myself the different stanzas of 
 that beautiful hymn, beginning — 
 
 “ When languor and disease invade 
 This trembling house of clay, 
 
 *Tis sweet to look beyond the cage, 
 
 And long to soar away.” 
 
120 
 
 THE COOL OP THE DAY. 
 
 My extreme bodily weakness, I suppose, dis- 
 qualified me from even thinking of active duty here 
 on earth ; for, for the first time since my return to 
 jjngland, I was not visited by any painful and op- 
 pressive thoughts of the work I had resigned to 
 other hands when my Master was pleased to call 
 me away. In the evening, however, as the air 
 began to freshen, and the sun to descend below 
 the distant hill, I revived, and crawled out to enjoy 
 for a few minutes the breeze of evening in my fa- 
 vourite walk by the river side. I sat down on the 
 bench, under one of the spreading poplars by the 
 water’s edge. There thought seemed to return 
 again, and my mind was once more busy with the 
 contemplation of things done upon earth, still, 
 however, in close connexion with a future and 
 eternal state. I saw the labourers returning tow- 
 ards their homes : one by one the waggons passed 
 by me from the neighbouring hay-fields with their 
 last loads : the idle loungers, too, in the boats on 
 the stream, began to think of moving homewards : 
 and, feeling the approach of the dews of night, I 
 thought it prudent to retire also. To men in health 
 mine would have seemed but a melancholy day’s 
 work ; but in my evening prayer I could thank 
 God for many 
 
 “ Springs of consolation from above ; 
 
 Secret refreshings, that repair’d 
 
 My failing strength, and fainting spirits upheld.” 
 
 Certain it is, that with every day’s experience 
 of my declining powers I feel more powerfully the 
 blessings of religion. To a dying man, these must 
 be, in a great measure, matters of personal experi- 
 ence. He cannot look much about him to see 
 what Christianity is doing for others; still less can 
 
 * Toplady. 
 
THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 121 
 
 he find ability or inclination to speculate among 
 the externals of religion. He knows that he be- 
 lieves the doctrine of divine assistance vouchsafed 
 to our wants, because he feels prayer to be his 
 prime blessing. He knows it is his duty, even to 
 the very last of life, to worship God with his under - 
 standing, as w'ell as with his heart ; therefore his 
 daily endeavour is to measure his prayers, and the 
 general character of his pursuits, by the spirit of 
 the Scriptures, and to guard against those weak 
 and superstitious feelings to which a state of bodily 
 weakness often leads : but while he guards this 
 point’ he does not dread giving way to those sooth- 
 ing and cheering thoughts which spring up like 
 some refreshing well in a dry and thirsty land . 
 He can call himself happy — happy at heart — in 
 the midst of suffering. 
 
 But I return. On the evening of which I speak, 
 I was unwilling to retire to rest. My nights are 
 more trying than my days, and I sat up, desirous 
 of keeping off the evil hour. Gradually, my 
 thoughts settled upon the chapter I had read that 
 morning, and upon one verse of it in particular — 
 And they heard the voice of the Lord God ivalking 
 in the garden in the cool of the day : and Adam 
 and his wife hid themselves from the presence of 
 the Lord God among the trees of the garden. 
 From reflections upon the feelings of our first pa- 
 rents on this memorable evening, I was led to 
 consider what must be the thoughts of many of 
 my fellow-creatures in “ the cool of the day.” 
 What multitudes are there who pursue their vari- 
 ous schemes of folly, of business, of pleasure, and* 
 it may be, of vice, without thinking of “ the cool 
 of the day !” Yet, when it comes, how painful 
 must be their thoughts ! how little can they - enjoy 
 the presence of their Lord, when he comes to their 
 
122 
 
 THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 consciences, &s he came to Adam and Eve, in the 
 evening hour ! 
 
 There are some who rise but with the purpose 
 of doing evil : sin is in all their schemes, and 
 they know it is so : they begin the day deliberately 
 with it ; they are pursuing guilty pleasures from 
 morning till night. To them, perhaps, the voice 
 of God does not speak in “ the cool of the day 
 their consciences are hardened ; they scarcely feel 
 a pang at the thought of breaking his law. O 
 what a night will follow such a day ! for never let 
 it be forgotten, that if the evening hour has no 
 power to touch them, they must be awakened to 
 misery unutterable when the night of death comes. 
 Then, indeed, will they hear the Lord God’s voice, 
 and tremble. 
 
 There are others, who rise in the morning with 
 no plan, no principle of action, no particular de- 
 sire to do good ; perhaps no wish to do evil. As 
 they thus trust life, as it were, to accident, they of 
 course, make no preparation for the day. Look 
 into their chambers : you do not behold their ado- 
 rations ; you do not hear the voice of pleading for 
 fresh supplies of that divine grace, which the Chris- 
 tian prizes more than his necessary food. They 
 neither foresee nor provide for the spiritual trials of 
 the day. When temptation overtakes them, they 
 fall an easy prey to its allurements ; they fall, per- 
 haps, far below their original ideas or intentions of 
 wrong. In “ the cool of the day” they will mourn 
 their blindness. 
 
 There are others who stand high in their own 
 opinions, who rise in the morning well satisfied 
 with themselves, and would on no account miss 
 their prayers : for it is a part of their righteous- 
 ness to pray ; they would not be complete, in their 
 own opinion, without it : yet as to hungering and 
 
THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 123 
 
 thirsting, seeking and longing, for the help of the 
 Lord, tlfey know not what it means. They do not 
 feel poor, 'and afflicted, and needy; they only want 
 to prove that in all things they obey the Lord their 
 God. As the proudest spirits feel most acutely the 
 disgrace of a fall, it is to be expected that their 
 mistakes and omissions, if not wilful transgressions, 
 will painfully affect their souls in “ the cool of the 
 day.” 
 
 There are others, who leave their beds with the 
 rising sun, ready and vigorous in the service of 
 their Maker. How beautiful is their opening 
 morning ! how fervent, how warm, how earnest, 
 their prayers ! They want no repeated admoni- 
 tions to awaken up and seek the Lord in his holy 
 temple. His service is delightful to their souls. 
 Poor though they may be, and needy, the flame of 
 hope is lighted up within them, and they believe it 
 never will be overshadowed by this world’s troubles 
 Earth does not present a more delightful spectacle 
 than the morning sacrifices of a fervent and pious 
 mind. But Oh ! how often is human confidence 
 rebuked, and taught not to rely on these early ap- 
 pearances ! The tumults of the day come on; 
 the man forgets his morning resolutions; the fer- 
 vour of piety is checked by the cold spirit of the 
 world By and by, a fierce temptation comes : all 
 all is forgotten. O what an hour will “ the cool of 
 the day” be to such a one ! when he hears in his 
 soul the voice of the Lord God— not speaking to 
 him, as in the morning, with mild complacency, 
 but rebuking, with holy sternness, his weakness 
 his fickleness ; reminding him of the manner in 
 which he promised, like Peter, though all men 
 should forsake thee, yet will not I for sake thee ! 
 there are many degrees of insincerity ; and 
 though we cannot, in strict propriety of language, 
 
124 
 
 THE COOL OF THE BAY. 
 
 call him sincere in his desires after holiness, whose 
 goodness is thus proved to be as the early dew 
 that soon passeth away % we are bound to draw a 
 broad line of distinction between him who lias 
 sought the Lord, and felt, in a degree, the power 
 and influence of religion, and him who never gave 
 it any portion of his serious and most earnest 
 thoughts. In proportion as a man has experienced 
 these desires after a better state, in proportion as 
 he has longed to know the Lord more and serve 
 him better, in that proportion will be his bitter 
 regrets, if, in “ the cool of the day/’ conscience 
 brings him a heavy tale of departures from the 
 spirit which animated him in the morning. The 
 probability is, either that some darling sin was se- 
 cretly encouraged at that better time, or that he 
 prided himself on his sincerity, on his virtuous 
 resolutions, and thought too little of his own weak- 
 ness and sinfulness, and of the perils before him. 
 Grief and repentance to such a one are painful in- 
 deed. He cannot, at first, feel the tenderness of 
 a broken spirit; there is an irritation in wounded 
 pride, in the mortification of not having kept up 
 to what he promised, which for a while precludes 
 the beneficial effects of sorrow from being felt. 
 Deal gently with such a man, you who are his 
 friends and spiritual advisers! To taunt him 
 with his fall, will be only to arm his pride against 
 better considerations. Mourn with him, mourn 
 for him ; let him see you feel the force of his 
 temptations, that you admit his former earnestness : 
 but press upon him the words of Holy Writ, and 
 pray with and for him, that he may henceforth 
 seek his God in deeper humility of mind, with a 
 more heartfelt sense of his own poverty. 
 
 There are some, blessed be God! even now, || 
 who can often meet their Maker, their Lord, their g; 
 
THE COOL OP THE DAY. 
 
 125 
 
 Father, in “ the cool of the day/’ with calm and 
 peaceful spirits ; who though they feel, more deep- 
 ly than any, every transgression of their own, and 
 the guilt of all transgression whatsoever, have 
 yet accepted with all humility of mind the offers of 
 grace and pardon through Jesus Christ, and are 
 endeavouring faithfully to follow him in the way 
 in which he trod. They sin; yes, they cannot 
 escape all remains of the universal defilement ; but 
 their sins are not habitual : they are betrayed into 
 remissness and neglect of duty, but they do not 
 remain in them. Every hour in the day brings 
 the remembrance of their all-seeing God. They 
 habitually regard themselves, as in imminent dan- 
 ger of falling, and know their only chance of es- 
 cape is in keeping close to God in prayer. When 
 they err, they have not the aggravation of looking 
 back on presumptuous thoughts of their own 
 strength in goodness : they resort immediately , 
 even as soon as the departure from virtue is felt, 
 to the throne of grace, looking unto that High 
 Priest who is touched with a feeling of our infirmi- 
 ties. Prayer for deliverance follows close upon 
 the perception of sin. As it has been beautifully 
 observed, “ He (the true penitent) mourns after a 
 godly sort, with a godly sorrow, or a sorrow which 
 directly regards God. His sorrow springs from 
 the consideration of the majesty, purity, and Ex- 
 cellency of that glorious Being whom he hath of- 
 fended, the reasonableness of the law which he 
 hath transgressed, the obligations to obedience 
 which he hath violated, the ingratitude of which 
 he hath been guilty. As every sin partakes of the 
 same nature, and implies the same disregard of 
 God, he mourns for all and every one ; Whether 
 man were injured by it or not, whether it were 
 secret or open, a sin of omission ox of commission, 
 
126 
 
 THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 and whether it were or were not contrary to the 
 notions, maxims, customs, and allowance of the 
 world. Yea, every sinful temper, imagination, 
 and inclination, every idle, unprofitable word, 
 every evil action of his whole life, as, upon exam- 
 ination, it recurs to his remembrance, excites 
 afresh his godly sorrow.”* Yet his character is 
 stamped — “ A mourner that shall be comforted.” 
 His is a sweet sorrow : while, with tears of con- 
 trition and gratitude, he praises a pardoning God 
 and a bleeding Saviour, he realizes the paradox — 
 Sorroivful , yet always rejoicing. 
 
 It is not only in “ the cool of the day” that the 
 Lord God’s voice is heard by the true Christian ; 
 at morning, at noon, at every hour, he watches for 
 those dear intimations of his presence, which are 
 only denied to them whose minds are debased by 
 constant attention to lower objects. He sees his 
 Maker in every blade of grass, hears him in every 
 breath of air, listens to the gentle whispers of con- 
 science within him, looks upon every distressed 
 object, every abuse and corruption of society, as a 
 call from his Creator to remember Him, and the 
 end for which he was sent into the world. Though 
 every hour brings its need of repentance too, yet 
 it is his comfort and joy to feel that this does not 
 lessen his sense of the value of religion : on the 
 contrary, the more he feels the difficulties of his 
 path, the more thankful he is for the guidance of 
 the Gospel ; the more cordially does he embrace 
 its consoling truths ; and when “ the cool of the 
 day” comes, with what soothing thoughts do his 
 evening meditations fill his soul ! “ Welcome, 
 
 blessed hour!” well may he exclaim: “ welcome* 
 the leisure, the rest, the quiet of nature which en- | 
 ables me to hold converse with my Father and my 
 God!— 4 
 
 * Scott on Repentance. 
 
THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 127 
 
 ‘ How sweet to wait upon the Lord 
 In stillness and in prayer 1* 
 
 Welcome, thoughts of that better time when no 
 hurry, ho tumult shall separate me from Him ! 
 Here c the cool of the day/ the quiet time, is soon 
 over and gone ; but in that blessed world how per- 
 fect, how uninterrupted will be our devotions ! 
 how will the soul possess itself in peace !” 
 
 I write this while all nature is as calm as the 
 sweetest of summer evenings can make it ; not a 
 breeze ruffles the water, not a cloud obscures the 
 splendour of the moon which, now nearly at the 
 full, is rising above the trees. And yet here is not 
 perfect harmony : from the neighbouring cottage, 
 the voice of harsh and unpleasant discord often 
 reaches my ears ; at a distance, comes in the drun- 
 ken and sometimes blasphemous language of the 
 labourers at the village alehouse ; and now and 
 then I have been pained to see the noble horse 
 goaded past by an inhuman rider. It is difficult 
 to hear and see these without a disheartened, dis- 
 pirited feeling, which checks the cheerfulness and 
 freedom of devotion. Often do I need to admon- 
 ish myself not to seek for rest here ; often do I 
 need to remember that the world would be more 
 loved, and heaven less desired, but for the vexa- 
 tions we meet with on our way ; and more fre- 
 quently still, perhaps, does a dying man want re- 
 minding that the sinfulness of his fellow-preatures . 
 is not merely a thing to mourn and be vexed at, it 
 calls for all his labours, while he has breath and 
 strength, to intreat them to consider their ways 
 and be wise ; and when every other toil is too 
 .great for him, it still reminds him that these are 
 subjects for fervent, Christian prayer. 
 
 But “ the cool of the day” will soon be past, the 
 
128 
 
 THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 midnight hour is coining, and I must betake my- 
 self to my rest. How long will it be thu$ ? A 
 few, a very few nights more, and it will be over ; 
 and, blessed be God ! my hope is sure aud stddfast. 
 I will, then, lay me down in peace and sleep ; for 
 thou , Lord , only makest me to dwell in safety. 
 
 If there be any* of the readers of this little nar- 
 ative who are conscious that “ the cool of th^ day” 
 has often been to them a time of bitter and heart- 
 rending repentance, let them know that it /is not 
 even now too late ; let them know that the Lor & waits 
 to be gracious ; let them prepare in their morning 
 hours for the trials of the day ; let prayer, frequent 
 and fervent prayer offered up through thq great 
 Mediator, draw down those supplies of grace which 
 may enable them to reach “ the cool of the day” 
 without dread of hearing the voice of the Lord 
 God. But if that quiet tipie be already come, if 
 the sun is gone down, and they have eveii now 
 been admonished of the presence of the Lord ; 
 still it may not be too late : the night, though (near, 
 is not yet arrived. Though the labour be hard 
 indeed, though misery unutterable be endured, O 
 let them not lose those few precious hours,: we 
 dare not say they will be available, for wq can 
 neither look into the human heart, nor the coun- 
 sels of the Almighty ; but we do know that it is 
 their only chance of escape ; the only glimmering 
 of light left to them ; and we are sure that by 
 losing this , they lose every thing. 
 
 Let not those who are at an earlier period of the 
 day of life, wait for such an uncertainty as jthis. 
 What ! will you prepare for yourselves sighs and 
 tears for “ the cool of the day”’ instead of comfort, 
 
THE COOL OF THE DAY. 
 
 129 
 
 and joy, and peace ! Alas ! you know not what 
 you do. Ask the drunkard, ask the irreligious 
 man, what it is to set about a reformation in the 
 evening of their days ; ask him if the labour be not 
 almost inconceivable, the suffering unutterable ; 
 ask them if it be not an awful thing to hear the 
 voice of the Lord God, when, in “ the cool of the 
 day,” they are yet pursuing their guilty pleasures, 
 their senseless and wicked rebellion against Him ? 
 For a moment compare such feelings as these with 
 those of the men who are calmly and joyfully ex- 
 pecting the presence of the Lord ; to whom, let 
 Him come when He may, their hearts will give a 
 delighted welcome. And ever remember, that 
 there are, there most certainly are, such charac- 
 ters, though too few it is true, and far apart : yet, 
 blessed be God ! we have some such. May He 
 increase their number, and even in our own time, 
 in our own land, in our own neighbourhood, among 
 our friends and kindred, and those of our house- 
 hold, lead many sons and daughters to glory ! 
 
THE 
 
 POOR STRANGER. 
 
 It was in the month of August, 1816, that two 
 travellers drove up to the Crabmill Inn, Broms- 
 grove. One of them gave orders for refresh- 
 ment, while the other loitered down the I ad- 
 joining lane leading to a neighbouring vil- 
 lage. On reaching a little wooden bridge*, 
 erected over the brook that crosses the lane, he 
 pondered awhile on the running waters ; for, in 
 the days of his boyhood, he used frequently to pass 
 that way from school to church, and sometimes 
 slaked his thirst there. With his pencil he wrote 
 the following lines— 
 
 This brook, wherein, when a stripling wild, 
 
 I bath’d my burning brow. 
 
 It rapidly ran when I was a child, 
 
 And it runs rapidly now. 
 
 In the days of my youth our acquaintance began ; 
 
 It brings back old scenes to my view : 
 
 Not only its waters have rapidly run, 
 
 My life has run rapidly too. 
 
 This brook may roll onward for ages to come, 
 
 And rapidly running be found, 
 
 When I have long slept in the heart of the tomb, 
 
 Or moulder’d away in the ground. 
 
 And haply, when time its departure shall know, 
 
 And this brook shall be seen again never, 
 
 My life in eternity’s channel may flow, 
 
 And rapidly roil on for ever. 
 
THE POOR STRANGER. 
 
 131 
 
 He was in a solemn mood : for his companion 
 was ill. His days, alas ! were numbered ; and 
 this was the last journey they were to take togeth- 
 er. Taking a book from his pocket, and walking 
 onwards, he became absorbed in its contents. 
 Suddenly a well-dressed working man, who, it ap- 
 peared, had followed him dowfi the lane, abruptly 
 but respectfully accosted him with the enquiry, 
 whether he might be permitted to ask what book 
 he was reading. 
 
 The traveller was fearful by the appearance of 
 the stranger, and the wildness of his mien, that 
 his mind was somewhat unsettled; but whether 
 by a partial deprivation of reason, or by the influ- 
 ence of intoxication, he could not tell. He re- 
 plied to his question, that although the book he 
 was reading was not the best of books ; yet it af- 
 forded much useful reflection. It was the “ Night 
 Thoughts” of Dr. Young. The stranger enquired 
 if the traveller was not a clergyman. Being an- 
 swered in the negative, he said, that the distressed 
 and desponding state of his mind had latterly led 
 him to wander much alone, and that he had follow- 
 ed him under the dominion of something which he 
 could not resist, believing him to be a clergyman ; 
 and added, that God had brought him there, for 
 what purpose he did not know. The traveller 
 perceiving that the wish of the stranger was to en- 
 gage him in serious conversation, made some 
 remarks calculated to gain his confidence. The 
 stranger, in a state of great perturbation, confessed 
 that he had been one of the most abandoned beings 
 upon earth. There had been a time when he 
 knew something of the goodness of God, regularly 
 attended divine worship, and found such ways to 
 be ways, of pleasantness , and such paths the paths 
 of peace. But when stationed as a soldier in the 
 
132 
 
 THE POOR STRANGER* 
 
 West Indies, he had given free course to his evil 
 inclinations ; he had followed the “ devices and 
 desires of his heart/’ and lived without God in 
 the world. For this his apostacy God had with- 
 drawn the light of his countenance, and left him 
 in despondency, and nearly in despair* The 
 Bible, from whence he once derived comfort, he 
 dared not read. The heavens appeared to frown 
 upon him, and the wrath of God incessantly to 
 pursue him. 
 
 As the stranger proceeded, his agitation increas- 
 ed, and the agony of his mind became more and 
 more apparent. The traveller attempted to mod- 
 erate the stranger’s excess of terror : he acknowl- 
 edged the exceeding sinfulness of sin ; but pointed 
 out the long-suffering and tender mercies of the 
 Redeemer, manifested to his unworthiest crea- 
 tures, if repentant ; he enlarged on the goodness 
 of God, who in the ordinary course of his provi- 
 dence rarely gave repentance to forsake sin, with- 
 out eventually adding faith to receive the consola- 
 tions of his promises, and concluded by expressing 
 his heartfelt desire, that the stranger might be* de- 
 livered from his present bondage, and that the 
 same bountiful Being who apparently had hidden 
 his face from him, in everlasting mercies would 
 return unto him. 
 
 The stranger’s agitation here was extreme : his 
 whole frame trembled with emotion ; he clung to 
 the traveller, perceiving him about to depart, and 
 while the tears rolled down his cheeks, earnestly 
 besought him to promise, that when he put up a 
 prayer to that merciful Being of whom he had 
 been speaking, he would not forget to plead the 
 cause of a poor benighted stranger. 
 
 The traveller returned to the inn, reflecting on 
 his interview with the stranger. There are few 
 
THE POOR STRANGER. 
 
 133 
 
 employments attended with greater advantage 
 than that of considering carefully the different 
 circumstances of life, in connection with the good- 
 ness of God. Most persons, whose powers of 
 memory have not been destroyed or weakened, 
 may call to mind circumstances which have puz- 
 zled their judgment and confounded their reason : 
 unusual support in affliction and sorrow ; unex- 
 pected assistance in distress ; unlooked-for deliv- 
 ery from danger. Where the mind is sceptically 
 inclined, these circumstances are called happy 
 chances , and lucky events ; and thus the acknowl- 
 edgment of an ever active, benevolent, and almigh- 
 ty power is evaded. How different are his views, 
 how abundant his consolations, who is mercifully 
 instructed to ascribe all to His providence, who 
 ordereth all things aright, who is Governor among 
 the nations, and who knoweth our frames, and 
 considers that we are but dust. While the chang- 
 ing events of this life, the moving sands of this 
 wilderness, are continually obliterating our foot- 
 prints, and the pathways by which we have been 
 led, it becomes us to erect landmarks of our troub- 
 les, and commemorations of the goodness of our 
 heavenly Guide. Did we more frequently retrace 
 our steps with an humble and grateful spirit, “ In 
 such a place , 57 we might say, “ we were afflicted, 
 and found comfort. Here my heart was over- 
 whelmed, but I was led unto the Rock that is high- 
 er than /. There, cast down and desponding. 
 He was my refuge and strength , a very present 
 help in time of trouble . And yonder, surrounded 
 by temptations, my foot had well-nigh slipped , but 
 the Lord sustained me / 5 These commemorations 
 would increase our dependence, strengthen our 
 hopes, and confirm our confidence in our heavenly 
 Father, We, should be more convinced that God 
 
134 
 
 THE JPOOR STRANGER. 
 
 is 7iigh unto ,all that call upon him in truth , and 
 touched by our infirmities ; so that in all our afflic- 
 tions He is afflicted, and the angel of His presence 
 preserves us. 
 
 As they journeyed together over the Lickey 
 Hills, the traveller narrated to his companion the 
 singular circumstance that had occurred. The 
 poor stranger had entered into a narration of the 
 scenes he had engaged in when a soldier in the 
 West Indies, and the desperate and wanton acts 
 committed by him and his companions. There 
 was, he had said, nothing too wicked for them to 
 engage in, and they had taken their fill of iniquity, 
 as a sow wallowetn in the mire, and revelled in 
 every abomination. The exceeding sinfulness of 
 sin became the subject of a prolonged conversation 
 that will not soon be forgotten. And who shall 
 say that the most humble Christian may not have 
 exhibited to his view, in another state of being, the 
 catalogue of his sins, with all the infectious conse- 
 quences thereof, through the period of time ? Al- 
 though our Redeemer, hath put away the sin of 
 those who through faith will inherit the promises, 
 by the sacrifice of himself ; yet may not a disclos- 
 ure of our secret sins more effectually strip us of 
 self-righteousness, and bring us in guilty before 
 God, thereby increasing the value of that redemp- 
 tion which can, at best, but be imperfectly estima- 
 ted ? We can never fully estimate our own sinful- 
 ness here ; and the exhibition of our sins may be 
 permitted in another world, not to overwhelm us 
 with despair, but to convince us of the extent of 
 our depravity, and the magnitude of the mercy of 
 our God. What a thought ! that our secret sins 
 may be set in the light of God's countenance, and 
 made apparent to an assembled world. Well may 
 
THE took stranger. 135 
 
 we pray to be “ guided by his counsel, and after- 
 wards brought to his glory.” 
 
 This circumstance was not of a nature to be 
 forgotten; and when, after a long lapse of time f 
 the traveller returned to the same place, he became 
 desirous to find out the habitation of the stranger. 
 He remembered that during the conversation with 
 him, a person passing had accosted him by his 
 name ; he was therefore enabled to pursue his en- 
 quiries. A train of gloomy reflections presented 
 itself to his mind as he drew near the abode he 
 sought. He knew enough of human nature to 
 entertain a fear that the stranger, with all his so- 
 licitude after peace and salvation, might be living 
 in the progress of sin, the slave of his debased 
 passions, rebelling against the words of God, and 
 contemning the counsel of the Most High. 
 
 On enquiring the character of the stranger, a 
 significant look accompanied the unwelcome infor- 
 mation that he was a drunken man. The travel- 
 ler entered his habitation : it was clean and com- 
 fortable. A little girl, the only inhabitant, had 
 the roses of health and buoyancy in her cheeks. 
 Her father was in his garden, and instantly recog- 
 nized the traveller. The stranger approached 
 with respect and apparent pleasure, said he had 
 thought much of the conversation he had had with 
 the traveller, had made many enquiries after him, 
 but not knowing his name, could obtain no infor- 
 mation, and despaired of ever seeing him again. 
 The traveller adverted to their former discourse* 
 and the effect it had produced on his own mind ; 
 and then expressed his regret that a man, appa- 
 rently so much impressed with the sinfulness of 
 his past life, and so anxious to obtain a remission 
 of his trespasses, should wound his own conscience, 
 *.and become a reproach among his neighbours, by 
 
136 
 
 THE POOR STRANGER. 
 
 intemperate acts of revelry and drunkenness. 
 The stranger confessed, though he abhorred him- 
 self for it, that there was too much truth in the ac- 
 cusation ; that the desponding state of his mind 
 had driven him to the commission of a crime which 
 frequently rendered him more wretched. He had 
 for a time estranged himself from his companions ; 
 but thinking himself able to associate with them 
 without partaking of their follies, he had sought 
 their society, and fell into his old errors. But he 
 trusted that God, who had in mercy delivered him 
 in a great measure from despondency, had also 
 removed this evil from him : for that finding him- 
 self unequal to resist temptation, he had been in- 
 duced to leave his companions altogether. He 
 knew that he had been considered a drunkard ; 
 but that he had not, for some time past, disgraced 
 himself ; and the character he had among his 
 neighbours did not refer to his present mode of 
 living. He expressed himself as truly grateful for 
 the long-suffering and forbearance of God, who 
 had not visited him according to his sins, nor re- 
 warded him according to the multitude of his ini- 
 quities ; thanked the traveller again and again fbi 
 the interest he had taken in his temporal and eter- 
 nal welfare ; and humbly hoped that an extended 
 knowledge of his own weakness would lead him 
 with great earnestness to seek for strength from on 
 high. 
 
 As the traveller departed, the poor stranger took 
 his hand with visible emotion, wrung it earnestly, 
 and, with tears in his eyes, expressed a hope that 
 should he ever again so far favour him as to en- 
 quire into his character, a very different answer 
 would be given. 
 
 It is not impossible, in the course of providence, 
 that this little narrative may reach the hand of the 
 
THE POOR STRANGER. 
 
 137 
 
 stranger. If so, it will remind him of resolutions 
 of amendment once made, and obligations incurred, 
 which were known to Him who is well acquainted 
 with the secret thoughts of the children of men. 
 And if it should fall into the hand of any other, 
 who, like the stranger, because of his transgress- 
 ions and iniquity has been afflicted, let such an 
 one ask, if he has redeemed the pledge which he 
 gave when minished and brought low , through op- 
 pression, affliction, and sorrow. Let him enquire 
 of his own heart, if, when he cried unto the Lord 
 in his trouble that he might save him out of his 
 distresses, whether he did not promise and vow, 
 that his knees should be bowed more frequently, 
 and his heart be lifted up to God more fervently in 
 prayer and supplication , and whether he has, more 
 devotedly, since the season of his affliction, praised 
 the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful 
 works unto the children of men. 
 
 And thou, reader ! whether thine eye be lighted 
 up with ecstacy, or thy heart bowed down with 
 a o 0n y> forget not that there is a God that judgeth 
 the nations upon earth. He knoweth thy secret 
 sins , and he alone can restrain the unruly wills 
 and affections of sinful men. Humble thyself be- 
 fore Him, and he shall exalt thee ; acknowledge 
 him in all thy ways, and he shall direct thy 
 paths. J 
 
 N 
 
STANDARD SCHOOL BOOKS. 
 
 JAMES LORING, 132 Washington-StreeS, Boston, has published 
 ALDEN'S SPELLING BOOK, 1st part* 6th editioiw AXDEN S 
 SPELLING BOOK, 2d part, 10th edition. ALDEN S READER* 
 third part* 5th edition* 
 
 The above Spelling Books are used in the Providence Town Schools* 
 and other parts of Rhode Island* in Massachusetts, Connecticut, Maine 
 
 “"ft improbable that no less than eighty thousand of the second part have 
 been sold. They have received the approbation of the Hon. Wm. 
 Hunter, Hon. David Cobb, Rev. Dr* Messer, Rex* Dv. Chapi n, Hon. 
 Tristram Burges, Hon. Wm. Baylies, Rev. Mr, Wilson, and many 
 other distinguished gentlemen. 
 
 The following recommendation of Alden’s School Books, is extracted 
 from a letter sent to the publisher by a respectable clergyman, the 
 Chairman of the town school committee. ^ JpHl 4> , 828 . 
 
 w From a dozen years experience in the business of instruction, I have 
 no hesitation in saying, that these books possess a decided supenonty to 
 any other among us. Alden’s Third Part, for 
 
 to read , is of more worth, in my estimation, than all the Readeis publish 
 ed besides. Other Readers contain, good composition, but I think the 
 compilers have gone quite aside from the object of eo nstruct, n g a book 
 to teach youth to read. It our professional men would study and leant 
 Aiders third part, we should hear better reading Jr , 
 
 Dr. Snow’s FIRST PRINCIPLES OF ENGLISH JELLING 
 AND READING, containing the words of the New Testament, &c. 
 
 ** l lt 1ms been recommended in the American Journal of Education, 
 Parkhurst’s Teacher’s Assistant, Zion’s Herald, and Boston Literary 
 
 G Thefollowing notice of the above is from the August number of the 
 Sabbath School Treasury: — “ To all our schools, which use .any spell- 
 ing books, we cheerfully recommend a little volume, entitled, ttiH 
 Principles of English Spelling and Reading. Containing s 
 
 the New Testament, arranged in Lessons adapted to the capacity of 
 learners in Primary and Sabbath Schools. By Caleb H. Snow, M. , D. 
 
 “ We rejoice to learn that some of our S. Schools have aheady collected 
 several classes of little children, only two or three years old. 
 ersofsuch children will find the little book we have lecommended, a 
 valuable assistance in their interesting labours. 
 
 7th Edition BLAIR’S CATECHISM OF COMMON THINGS 
 necessary to be known at an early age. Together with a Catechism of 
 the American Revolution, another of the Customs ot Nations, Anthme- 
 
 'MfS&Srs GRAMMAR Abridged by a Teacher of 
 Touth of Boston. Price Jgl per dozen. This is used in the town schools 
 ntaSid other parts of Rhode Island, 
 
 icut and elsewhere. No primary grammar in use is bettei adapted tor 
 be S I EdUton n MASON’S SELF KNOWLEDGE, with Question, for 
 S td“EdW«nWATTs'0N THE IMPROVEMENT OF ( THE MIND 
 w 13tSt™n m'uk'ha LIS H* EXERCISES, without any 
 
 ^POKE’S ESSAY ^ ON* *LAN. 0I1 This is in use for exercises in parsing ; 
 Alger’s Elements of Orthography. 
 
CORNHIXiIi 
 
 SUNDAY SCHOOL BOOK-STORE, 
 
 •ion of Washington’s head. 
 
 „ J a A ‘ V J E J. LORING, at the Comhill Sabbath School Book-Store, No. 
 1 -i U sbmgton-Street, has just replenished his stock of Juvenile Books, 
 with the publications of the American Sunday School Union, which he 
 offers at the same rates as they are sold at the Union depositories. Reg- 
 ular supplies of new books suited for Sabbath School Libraries are 
 received from various publishers in the United States, which are also 
 offered at veir cheap prices. Within a few years he has published 
 upwards of 50,000 copies of books adapted for this purpose, and intends 
 pursuing the business so long as public patronage is extended. 
 
 Narratives of Hindoo Converts. 
 The Pilgrim of India. By Mrs. 
 Sherwood. 
 
 The Hindoo Traveller. By Mrs. 
 Sherwood. 
 
 Choice Gems for Children. 
 
 Guilty Tongue. 
 
 The Young Jewess, a Narrative. 
 The Banks of the Irvine. 
 
 Maternal Solicitude for a Daugh- 
 ter’^ Best Interests. 
 
 Reciprocal Duties of Parents and 
 Children. 
 
 Practical Hints to Young Females. 
 Watts on the Mind, with Questions. 
 Edwards on Religious Affections. 
 Beautiful Vine, and other Sketches. 
 Familiar Letters between a Mother 
 and her Daughter at School. By 
 Mrs. and Miss Taylor. 
 
 Village School. 
 
 Mason’s Self Knowledge. 
 
 Elizabeth Palmer, or Display. By 
 
 Jane Taylor. 
 
 Youth’s Casket, or Teacher’s Pres- 
 en i .By Mrs. Sherwood. 
 Rainsford Villa. 
 
 Snow’s New Testament Spelling- 
 
 Book. . ° 
 
 James Somers, the Pilgrim’s Son. 
 Story of Jack Halyard. 
 
 Orphans of Normandy. By Mrs. 
 Sherwood. 
 
 Jane and her Teacher. 
 
 George Wilson and his Friend. 
 Nott’s Religious Scenes. 
 
 Christian Father’s Present. 
 
 Catherine Brown, the Indian. 
 Sunday School Teacher’s Guide. 
 Anna Ross. 
 
 Memoir of Miss Sinclair. 
 
 Choice Pleasures for Youth. 
 
 Mother’s Portrait. 
 
 Walks of Usefulness in London. 
 Sketch of My Friend’s Family. 
 Profession is not Principle. 
 
 The Decision, or Religion must be 
 8ll) or is nothing 
 
 Picturesque Piety. By I. Taylor. 
 Female Sunday School Teacher. 
 Italian Convert. 
 
 Lily Douglas. 
 
 The Catechist. 
 
 Jane Taylor’s Memoirs, 
 
 Ayah and Lady. ByMrs.Sherwood. 
 Memoirs ofElizabeth. 
 
 Spiritual Voyage. 
 
 Infant’s Progress from the valley 
 of destruction to everlasting 
 glory. By Mrs. Sherwood, 
 Caroline Lindsay. 
 
 Rural Rambles. 
 
 Farmer’s Daughter. 
 
 Bible Questions. 
 
 Lincoln’s Scripture Questions. 
 Mary’s Visit to Boston. 
 
 Harriet and her Cousin. 
 
 Thornton on Repentance. 
 
 Helen of the Glen. 
 
 Little Henri, the Lost Child, 
 
 Nina, an Icelandic Tale. 
 
 Warning and Example. 
 
 Young Convert’s Apology. 
 
 Lottery Ticket. A Tale. 
 
 Peaceful Valley, 
 
 Factory Girl. 
 
 Beauties of Fenelon. 
 
 Economy of Human Life. 
 
 Wisdom in Miniature. 
 
 Fenelon’s Pious Reflections. 
 Piikinton’s Scripture History. 
 Hieroglyphic Bible. 
 
 Father Clement. 
 
 Hints on Nursery Discipline. 
 Seraphical Shepherd. 
 
 Is this Religion ? 
 
 Brooke’s Apples of Gold. 
 
 Innocent Poetry. 
 
 Visits to a Cottage. 
 
 In School and out of School. 
 Adelaide Murray. 
 
 Pastor’s Sketch Book. 
 
 Sherwood’s Stories. 
 
 Providential Care. 
 
 Scripture Natural History. 
 
 Happy Family. 
 
 Continued to the next page. 
 
Catalogue of Sunday School Books , continued , 
 
 Allan McLeod. 
 
 Wellesley Grey. 9 
 Sherwood’s Governess. 
 
 Maria’s Reward. 
 
 Juliana Oakly. By Mrs.Sherwood. 
 My Early Days. 
 
 Pierre and his Family. 
 
 Gleanings for "Youth. 
 
 Rose and Emily. 
 
 Good Grandmother. 
 
 Examples of Piety. 
 
 Orphan Boy. 
 
 Jessy Allan. 
 
 Integrity. 
 
 Alfred and Galba. 
 
 The I' win Sisters. 
 
 History of Susan Gray. 
 
 Choice Stories. 
 
 Early Piety. 
 
 Memorial for S. School Boys. 
 
 do. do. Girls. 
 
 Mary Grant. 
 
 Happy Choice. 
 
 Hedge of Thorns. 
 
 Lucy and her Dhaye. 
 
 Two Friends. 
 
 First of April. 
 
 Robert and Louisa. 
 
 Sergeant Dale. 
 
 Harriet and Scholars. 
 
 First day of the Week. 
 
 Last day of the Week. 
 
 Week Completed. 
 
 Ermina. 
 
 Election Day. 
 
 Father’s Reasons. 
 
 Dairyman’s Daughter. 
 
 Wild Flowers. 
 
 Mahommed Ali Bey# 
 
 Martyn’s Life. 
 
 Marten and his Scholars. 
 
 Lady at Farm House. 
 
 Elnathan. 
 
 Scottish Farmer. 
 
 Brainard’s Life. 
 
 Religious Fashions. 
 
 Clare Stevens. 
 
 Scenes in Switzerland. 
 Luther’s Life. 
 
 Moravian Missions. 
 
 Evening Conversations. 
 Researches in Holy Land. 
 Destruction of Jerusalem. 
 Labourers in the East. 
 Christian Religion. 
 
 Holy War. 
 
 Scripture Illustrations. 
 Gardiner’s Daughter. 
 
 Two Friends 
 Emma and her Nurse. 
 Draper’s Discourses. 
 
 I*le of Wight. 
 
 Infant Hymns. 
 
 Buchanan’s Life. 
 
 I Scenes in America, 
 do. Africa, 
 
 do. Europe. 
 
 Religious Extracts. 
 
 Death of Abel. 
 
 Rural Scenes. 
 
 Pillmore’s Narratives. 
 
 Simple Truths. 
 
 Pleasing Moralist. 
 
 Eskdale Herd Boy. 
 
 Scottish Orphan. 
 
 Arthur Monteith. 
 
 Life of Moses. 
 
 Natural Theology. 
 
 Life of Joseph. 
 
 Rose and Agnes. 
 
 Matilda Mortimer. 
 
 Bear and forbear. 
 
 Tale of Warning. 
 
 Evening Entertainments. 
 
 Son of a Genius. 
 
 Young Moralist. 
 
 Self Denial. 
 
 Always Happy. 
 
 Young Pilgrim. 
 
 Mason’s Remains. 
 
 Flavel’s Keeping the Heart. 
 
 Nott’s 1 essons to Children. 
 Burder’s do. 
 
 Walks in Kent. 
 
 Sister’s Gift. 
 
 Juvenile Forget Me Not. 
 
 Eliza J. Drysdale. 
 
 Fairchild Family. 
 
 Visit to the Sea Side. 
 
 Caroline Lindsay. 
 
 Edward Duncombe. 
 
 Lucretia and her Father. 
 Sherwood’s Lucy Clare. 
 
 Taylor’s Character Essential to 
 Success in Life. 
 
 Dunailan. 
 
 Modern Martyr. 
 
 Soldiers Orphan. 
 
 Well Spent Hour. 
 
 Advice to Young Men. 
 
 Young Cadet 
 Short Stories. 
 
 English Mary. 
 
 Pink Tippet. 
 
 Visit to My Birth-Place* 
 
 Juvenile Library. 
 
 Henry Milner. 
 
 Pastor’s Tales. 
 
 Choice Stories. 
 
 Familiar Dialogues for S. Schools. 
 Sherwood’s Stories on Church. 
 Catechism. 
 
 Swartz’s Life. 
 
 Scenes in Georgia. 
 
 Cotton Mather’s Life. 
 
 Week’s Holidays. 
 
 Persuasives to Piety. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 064594929