-- 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Class Book Volume 
 
 My 08-15M
 
 ? t 4 
 
 > 
 
 ? \
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF ISABEL; 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 « THE FAVOURITE OF NATURE,' 
 
 £c. $c. %c. 
 
 \' ■ - 
 
 Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo !— 'tis confest. 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 SECOND EDITION- 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, 
 AND GREEN, PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1826.
 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 rRINTED EY COX AND BAVLtS, GREAT QUEEN STREET.
 
 or 
 po 
 
 m 
 
 
 £* MRS. MURRAY, 
 
 OF POLMAISE, 
 
 IN TESTIMONY OF GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE, 
 
 AND AS A TOKEN OF SINCERE REGARD, 
 
 Wfyttt Volunm 
 
 ARE INSCRIBED, 
 
 HER OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 U%ru\
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I am aware it is the opinion of many per- 
 sons, that a work of fiction ought not to be 
 made the vehicle for conveying religious sen- 
 timents. I could appeal to the highest Scrip- 
 tural authority as sanctioning my belief, that 
 the moral feelings are often the most success- 
 fully approached through the medium of the 
 imagination; but it might seem irreverent, 
 and, to avoid the possibility of being mistaken, 
 I forbear to do so. 
 
 That there are thousands of persons in the 
 world whose minds are only accessible on the 
 side of their fancy, and who turn with distaste 
 from the voice of instruction, except when it 
 steals upon them unawares, is a fact which, I 
 should suppose, would be generally allowed. 
 
 If, indeed, these unhappy persons are not 
 worthy of any consideration, I have spent my 
 a 3
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 strength for nought. But I am willing to be- 
 lieve, that amongst them many are to be found, 
 who, in the following history, will trace a simi- 
 litude of error and suffering which may prompt 
 a solemn thought, that works more professedly 
 serious have failed to excite. 
 
 If such be the case, I can well submit to the 
 criticisms of the more numerous party, who, 
 I am prepared to find condemning the whole 
 as mere cant, and (in the slang of the day) 
 altogether humbug. To please that class of 
 readers never entered into my plan, and cer- 
 tainly forms no part of my ambition. My first 
 desire is to be in the right : that I do not 
 err in believing true happiness, even in this 
 world, to consist in the pursuit of religion 
 as the predominant and influencing prin- 
 ciple of thought and action, is my settled 
 and immovable conviction. I do not pretend 
 to affirm, that the method I have taken of im- 
 parting that conviction to others is the best 
 * method I could have chosen ; but it appeared 
 to me one which was likely to prevail with
 
 PREFACE. VII 
 
 many, at least so far as to incline them to think; 
 and, to induce a reader to think, more especially 
 to think of the things which pertain to peace 
 in this life, and immortal happiness in the 
 next, being the only result to which, as a 
 writer, I direct my aim, I feel no hesitation in 
 believing, that, even upon this humble produc- 
 tion, the Divine blessing may be safely asked 
 and expected.
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 I have observed in ethers, and experienced 
 in myself, the truth of Addison's remark at 
 the commencement of the Spectator, " that no 
 persons feel much interest in a book till they 
 know by what sort of being it was written." 
 
 When I acknowledge myself to be a spins- 
 ter above fifty years of age, I will also add, 
 that it is not my own story I am about to re- 
 late — which it will be desirable, as speedily as 
 possible, to make known, in order to prevent 
 the reader from laying down the book at once, 
 in the certainty that nothing can be told of an 
 old maid that is worth attending to. But my 
 history being in some measure connected with 
 that which is contained in these pages, I am 
 compelled to say something about myself; but 
 I will be as brief as possible. 
 
 I was about forty when I was left, by the 
 death of my mother, to decide upon my future 
 plans. My income was very small, my con- 
 nections few in the place where I had hitherto
 
 X INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 resided, and, upon the whole, I was advised to 
 
 remove to the town of D , where I had some 
 
 distant relations of the name of Russell. 
 
 The Russells, however, would not have 
 proved any inducement to tempt me there, if 
 other circumstances had not combined to make 
 me contemplate it as the place best adapted for 
 me. Accordingly I removed there. 
 
 My habits were all of a quiet kind. I had 
 little or no intercourse with the world, com- 
 monly so called ; my religious opinions did not 
 permit of it — for I was of what is considered 
 the evangelical party ; that is, I had been used 
 to study religion as it is revealed in the Scrip- 
 tures, and to make it as such the guide of my 
 life. My name is Mary Delmond; — and this 
 I think is all I need say by way of introducing 
 myself to the reader's notice. 
 
 When I first came to D , I found my 
 
 cousin Elizabeth Russell in habits of intimacy 
 with a young lady, who, without distinguishing 
 me by any particular marks of notice, attract- 
 ed my affection and interest in a high degree. 
 Isabel Melville (which was the name of this 
 young lady) was a person whom it was impos- 
 sible to behold with indifference. It was very 
 probable that you might not like her; for there 
 was often an air of carelessness in her demea-
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. Xl 
 
 nour which the generality of persons mistook 
 for disregard or contempt, buj; which upon a 
 nearer view I detected to be the result of a 
 weariness of heart — a dissatisfaction with the 
 common routine of life and its vapid occupa- 
 tions, which nothing but experience could 
 have produced : and experience in onje so 
 young I could scarcely believe to have yet been 
 very strong. I was not a person to obtrude 
 myself upon the notice of others, for I 
 was of a reserved character ; but in the course 
 of her frequent visits at Mrs. Russell's, at 
 whose house I was often a guest, I did en- 
 deavour to obtain an intimacy with her. 
 for I thought I knew better than she did 
 herself the cause of her complaints of the 
 uncertainty of human pleasures, and of the 
 small inducement this world offered to sti- 
 mulate a wish to continue in it. I saw that 
 she had no religious principles : with a mind 
 of strong powers, and a heart of intense pas- 
 sions, which more especially required the safe- 
 guard and counteraction of sound religion, 
 she evidently knew nothing about it. 
 
 I was so happy as eventually to succeed in 
 my desire of obtaining a place in her friend- 
 ship. In her latter years I was her companion 
 — her only confidante : she left to my disposal
 
 x ii INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 all her papers, which consisted chiefly of me- 
 moranda of the principal events of her life. 
 
 From these MSS. I have selected the follow- 
 ing sheets, and have interspersed them here 
 and there with such remarks of my own, as 
 were necessary to explain where, for the sake 
 of brevity, I have abridged her narration.
 
 THE 
 
 NARRATIVE 
 
 OF 
 
 ISABEL MELVILLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 'Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears, 
 Our most important are our earliest years : 
 The mind, impressible and soft, with ease 
 Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees ; 
 And, tln-ough life's labyrinth, holds fast the clue 
 That Education gives her, false or true. 
 
 My father, who was the younger son 
 of a good family, eloped, in his nine- 
 teenth year, with a young lady from 
 boarding-school ; by which measure he 
 disobliged all his friends, got himself 
 disinherited, and, in one word, ruined 
 his fortune for life. This, indeed, was 
 but for a short period. Very soon after 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 his imprudent marriage, the regiment 
 in which he held an ensign's commission 
 was ordered upon foreign service, and 
 he was obliged to leave his young wife 
 in the most distressing circumstances. 
 
 Without more than the means of a 
 bare maintenance, and within a few 
 months of her confinement, this parting 
 was to her a source of indescribable 
 wretchedness. She was an orphan, and 
 had no friend to look up to in her severe 
 trial. In these circumstances, she found 
 an invaluable one in my father's eldest 
 brother — one of the kindest, the most 
 amiable of men. He was the eldest of 
 my grandfather's first family ; for he had 
 been twice married : of a number of 
 children, none but these two sons sur- 
 vived. My uncle being the eldest of 
 the first, and my father the youngest of 
 the second family, there was a sufficient 
 disparity in their years to make him re* 
 gard the latter in the ligrht of a son rather 
 than a brother.
 
 He endeavoured to intercede with his 
 father in his behalf; and, finding it in 
 vain, he resolved to befriend, as far as 
 possible, the hapless partner of his bro- 
 ther's errors in her distressing situa- 
 tion. 
 
 He provided for her comfort in her 
 approaching confinement ; and, when it 
 pleased Providence that the event should 
 be fatal to her, he took me into his own 
 house, with a determination to adopt me 
 as his own child. My father returned 
 no more from the Continent : he was 
 cut off, in the field of battle, while I was 
 yet too young to know his loss. I was 
 thus cast entirely upon the protection of 
 my uncle, who, upon the event of his 
 father's death, finding himself in the 
 possession of an ample fortune, married 
 a very amiable lady, to whom he had 
 long been attached, and thus bestowed 
 upon me another invaluable friend. 
 
 With this uncle and aunt I resided at 
 
 the large and populous town of D . 
 
 b %
 
 I recollect but little of my early years, 
 and what I can recall of them, it would 
 not be to my advantage to relate. I 
 know that, at a very early period, I be- 
 trayed such a high spirit, such a proud 
 and impatient temper, and such a deter- 
 mined will, that, neither my aunt nor 
 the governess being able to manage me, 
 I was at length despatched to school ; 
 where I acquired some accomplishments 
 and some knowledge, but not the power 
 of self-control, of which I stood in very 
 great need. 
 
 My aunt, who had no children of her 
 own, loved me as tenderly as if she had 
 been my mother — a love which was very 
 sincerely returned on my part. As I 
 had never known any other protection, 
 and had lived w T ith them from my infant 
 years, I looked up to her and my uncle 
 with the same feelings of reverence and 
 attachment with which I should have 
 regarded my real parents. It would have 
 been strange, indeed, if I had not ; for
 
 never did parental affection manifest 
 itself in more continued acts of kindness 
 and love, than those which testified 
 their regard for me. They only loved 
 me too much. It would have been far 
 more for my happiness to have lived with 
 those who were less tender and solicit- 
 ous to please me. My temper and will 
 required to be dealt with sternly ; but as 
 yet I knew nothing of myself; and, 
 nobody indulging me so much as they 
 did, it may be supposed what were my 
 sensations, when my aunt, finding her 
 health and spirits declining, requested 
 my uncle to remove me from school, 
 that she might have me for a constant 
 companion. 
 
 " I was now fifteen," she said ; " and 
 though, to be sure, I was still very high- 
 spirited, it was my nature so to be, and 
 nothing could entirely subdue it ; I was 
 a very sensible girl, and should see my 
 faults, and gradually correct them ; and 
 she must do the best she could with me, 
 b 3
 
 if I should be refractory — a case she did 
 not apprehend; I was past a baby; I 
 knew right from wrong better than many 
 persons twice my age. In short, Mr. 
 Melville,'* she continued, in answer to 
 my dear uncle's musing face and shaking 
 head, " I must have her with me ; for I 
 cannot be happy without her." 
 
 The result of the whole was that I re- 
 turned home, so happy, that I can find 
 no words to describe the transports that 
 filled my heart. I was put in possession 
 of a very pretty apartment adjoining my 
 bed-room, where I was allowed to spend 
 a great part of my time. I was per- 
 mitted to continue the league of friend- 
 ship into which I had entered with 
 Elizabeth Russell, a schoolfellow, who 
 returned home at the same time I did, 
 
 and who also resided at D . I had 
 
 a vast deal more money allowed me than 
 it was quite proper I should spend : in 
 short, I had every possible indulgence 
 that could add to the happiness of early
 
 years — those enchanting years, which 
 are in themselves so delightful as to 
 ask little else to increase their power to 
 charm. 
 
 But, perfect as I had imagined my 
 felicity, I soon found it had its alloy. I 
 should rather say, I soon discovered that 
 I had within me the alloy, which mixed 
 withevery source of comfort, and which 
 embittered every period of my exist- 
 ence. 
 
 Something more than I possessed was 
 always what I sought : a restless prin- 
 ciple of incessant activity doomed me 
 to perpetual disquiet. Novelty lost its 
 charms ; fresh excitement was requisite. 
 It was found : but, alas ! it became fa- 
 miliar, and then tasteless; and thus, 
 even at the age of fifteen, I began to 
 think that life was not altogether the 
 Elysian scene which, when I was re- 
 leased from the detested discipline of 
 the boarding-school, and installed in the 
 comforts and unbounded indulgence of 
 b 4
 
 8 
 
 my uncle's house, I supposed I should 
 find it. 
 
 While there was a work of imagination 
 unread in the house, I had within my 
 reach a store of unspeakable felicity ; 
 for I existed only in the regions of fancy. 
 I was a visionary from my cradle. I can 
 truly say, in the words of Macbeth, that, 
 for many years of my life, with me 
 " nothing was, but what was not." I 
 soon exhausted all those stores of lite- 
 rature — at least such of them as I could 
 prevail upon myself to read — and my 
 afflictions were getting very heavy 
 indeed ; for I had no solace for a detest- 
 able volume of Telemachus, of which 
 my aunt required me daily to make a 
 translation. She endeavoured to keep 
 up as many of my school habits as she 
 found it practicable to enforce ; but 
 these, indeed, were but few ; for she also 
 found, to her disappointment, that, in 
 removing me from school at so early a 
 period, she had augured rather too fa-
 
 9 
 
 vourably of my docility in yielding my 
 will to her's. She often talked to me 
 very seriously about my inattention to 
 my studies, and so did my uncle ; and 
 for a time I was affected by what they 
 said — though even from them, whom I 
 loved better than any other persons, I 
 could not well brook any sort of oppo- 
 sition. I did not, indeed, manifest my 
 dislike of their reproof by any disre- 
 spectful replies ; but the weariness and 
 wretchedness with which I listened, too 
 plainly evinced how ill I appreciated the 
 value of correction, When the impres- 
 sion was worn off, I returned to my 
 usual habits, without intending to slight 
 their advice, and only because I could 
 not practise the discipline requisite to 
 reform them. 
 
 I could not endure trouble of any 
 kind : I could not bear translating, or 
 practising, or studying history, or any 
 thing that was not amusing. 
 
 But, in defiance of my indolence, my
 
 10 
 
 mind contrived to run out into some- 
 thing extraordinary. Whatever I liked 
 to do, I could do well. Music I was 
 passionately fond of. My uncle was a 
 good judge of music, and was in habits 
 of acquaintance with many very eminent 
 performers. Hence I picked up, inci- 
 dentally and without trouble, just as 
 many hints and ideas as, assisted by my 
 own taste, rendered me no common pro- 
 ficient. It was chiefly in vocal music 
 that I exercised myself: first, because I 
 had a good voice ; and, secondly, be- 
 cause it did not require so much labour 
 as it would have done to become a fine 
 instrumental performer. 
 
 I had endeavoured to read and under- 
 stand French as well as English ; for I 
 could not meet with English translations 
 of the novels and romances which I 
 found in my uncle's library, and which 
 I devoured with an insatiable appetite. 
 
 Drawing or painting I never could 
 make any thing of; and, except two
 
 11 
 
 transparencies, which decorated the hall- 
 windows on an illumination-night, and 
 which I executed in one morning, I had 
 nothing to produce as a testimony of my 
 having been under the drawing-master's 
 hands. These works of art, I believe, 
 never would have been accomplished, if 
 my dear uncle had not brought the tears 
 into my eyes, by giving me at breakfast 
 a gentle reprimand for my utter indiffer- 
 ence to the accomplishments he had en- 
 deavoured to bestow upon me. 
 
 " Now, there's Elizabeth Russell," 
 said he, in his simple, quiet way, " her 
 father tells me she has painted fifteen 
 
 views of the country round D ; and 
 
 really, Isabel, it would be just as well 
 if you did something of the kind, in- 
 stead of wasting your time in reading so 
 many novels." 
 
 Fortunately there was, on that very 
 
 evening, upon some account or another, 
 
 to be an illumination ; and I knew of 
 
 nothing so likely to gratify my uncle as 
 
 b 6
 
 12 
 
 to produce a picture upon the occasion, 
 I held a council with Miss Russell ; and, 
 together, we concocted a raging erup- 
 tion of Vesuvius, and a very white moon- 
 light scene, both of which looked ex- 
 ceedingly well with candles shining 
 through them. My uncle was thus made 
 happy j and my aunt kissed me, and 
 said, " nobody could be a better girl 
 than I was when I liked." 
 
 But, as I have remarked, I was, upon 
 the whole, not happy ; for I had some 
 pages of Telemachus to translate every 
 day, and I had read the greater part of 
 all the novels in the house ; and what 
 would have become of me, in such despe- 
 rate circumstances, I know not, if I had 
 not accidentally taken down a volume of 
 " Sir Charles Grandison ." All Richard- 
 son's novels I had hitherto avoided, be- 
 cause they were so terribly long. The 
 immense space they occupied on the 
 book-shelves frightened me very much ; 
 and a page or two, on which I had
 
 13 
 
 opened in " Clarissa Harlowe," where 
 she seemed to be moralizing, had alarmed 
 me still more ; and, therefore, I would 
 have nothing at all to say to them. 
 
 But, in mere despair, I one afternoon 
 took down, at random, the third volume 
 of " Sir Charles Grandison." I hap- 
 pened to open it at the precise part 
 where he retires with Miss Byron into 
 Lord L — — 's library, for the purpose 
 of communicating to her his history. 
 
 As if it were but a yesterday's remem- 
 brance, I can recall the whole circum- 
 stance. I began to read, standing at 
 the place where I had taken down the 
 book, because it was only as an expe- 
 riment that I ventured upon it. I 
 scarcely hoped to find in it any thing 
 that was amusing or interesting enough 
 to tempt me to proceed. But gradually 
 I became pleased, delighted, affected, 
 charmed. I sat down upon the library- 
 steps.- I remained there till I had finished 
 that volume ; and there I was found by
 
 14 
 
 my aunt, with my bead leaning on my 
 hand, wrapt up in visions about Sir 
 Charles and Clementina, and Miss By- 
 ron and Dr. Bartlett, and all the de- 
 lightful people with whom I had formed 
 the most enchanting intimacy, and the 
 prospect of returning to whom, the mo- 
 ment I had drank my tea, alone made 
 me obedient to my aunt's summons.
 
 15 
 CHAP. II 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 Oh, happiness ! our heing's end and aim — 
 
 Good, pleasure, ease, content — whate'erthy name; 
 
 That something still, which prompts th' eternal sigh, 
 
 For which we bear to live, or dare to die ; 
 
 Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, 
 
 O'erlookM, seen double by the fool and wise. 
 
 Thus, feeding the fever of my imagina- 
 tion, I generally contrived to throw over 
 life an illusive charm. When, indeed, 
 reality presented itself, and I was com- 
 pelled to look upon the face of rugged 
 truth, I was, as might be expected, dis- 
 gusted with the sight. 
 
 Sometimes in extacies, and sometimes 
 in the depth of wretchedness— but never 
 in that sober medium of tranquillity 
 which appears to be the best felicity 
 that life affords, I arrived at my nine-
 
 teenth year. Then an event occurred, 
 which gave a more decided turn to my 
 character and my destiny \ and which, 
 affording occupation to all the faculties 
 of my mind and the affections of my 
 heart, imparted for a time a new and 
 exquisite source of the happiness I had 
 hitherto so eagerly but so vainly sought 
 It was a mutual attachment which 
 occurred between me and a gentleman 
 of the name of Leslie, who came to 
 
 D to study with a clergyman there, 
 
 who was in the habit of finishing the 
 education of young men. Mr. Leslie 
 had been at the University, but had left 
 it in disgust, in consequence of some 
 transaction in which he appeared not to 
 have been well used ; and, in the interim 
 of his coming of age, of which he 
 wanted but a few months, he spent his 
 time with Mr. Hodson, the clergyman 
 above mentioned. Some mystery hung 
 over his situation, wi ich he could not 
 explain to me ; but I loved him too well
 
 17 
 
 to act the wiser part of declining his 
 addresses till he was able publicly to 
 avow his attachment. I was too happy 
 in his affection to forbid his acknow T - 
 ledging it till it could be imparted to 
 my aunt and uncle. I was accustomed 
 to obey no counsellor but my own head- 
 strong will ; and that I followed in this, 
 as in most instances, to the destruction 
 rather than to the fulfilment of the hap- 
 piness it promised me. Private as we 
 wished to keep it, my uncle and aunt 
 perceived our attachment ; and not hear- 
 ing, either from Leslie or me, that it 
 was sanctioned by any declaration on his 
 side, they disapproved of it, and finally 
 forbid him the house. Such measures 
 produced no other effect upon me than 
 to make me still more determined to 
 remain faithful to him. But I did not 
 act in opposition to these kind and dear 
 benefactors without experiencing pangs 
 of remorse, which even yet wring my 
 bosom with indescribable anguish, when
 
 18 
 
 I think of the sorrow I brought upon 
 them, and the misery with which, almost 
 to the end of my life, I overwhelmed 
 myself. I can say with truth, that, 
 even in the very act of following my 
 own inclinations, I found punish- 
 ment. My meetings with Leslie were 
 seldom pleasurable. I loved him, in- 
 deed, as such a heart as mine might be 
 expected to love, when, for the first 
 time, it bestows its young and impas- 
 sioned affections. But I was dissatisfied 
 with the mystery that enveloped him. 
 I had scarcely patience to wait till the 
 appointed period of his coming of age, 
 when he promised to be candid with me. 
 He was of a proud, independent spirit, 
 as well as me ; and thus we more often 
 met to dispute than to be happy. But 
 they were the quarrels of lovers — for 
 such we truly were to each other ; and, 
 in spite of all the sorrow he occasioned 
 me, I existed only in his presence. 
 The time for his coming of age ap-
 
 19 
 
 proached — that time to which I looked 
 forward as the crisis of my fate. Pre- 
 vious to it, he told me he must go to 
 London for three weeks ; and the after- 
 noon before he went we met to take 
 leave. We generally walked in company 
 with Miss Russell, through whose means 
 our communication with each other was 
 greatly facilitated ; but upon this occa- 
 sion we were alone. 
 
 We parted in mutual good-humour, 
 and with much pleasure in the prospect 
 of meeting again, and I returned home 
 unusually happy. On arriving there, I 
 was greeted with the information that 
 my uncle desired to see me in the dining- 
 room. Though I could not conjecture 
 any possibility of his knowing that I had 
 been in the companj' of Leslie, still my 
 conscience told me, that reproof upon 
 that subject awaited me, and such turned 
 out to be the case. He had, unperceived 
 by either Leslie or me, observed us at a 
 distance while he was taking his after-
 
 20 
 
 noon's walk. My aunt was with him 
 when I entered the room — they were 
 sitting at the tea-table, and in default of 
 my being there to officiate in its duties, 
 as I generally did, my aunt was presiding 
 at it. This was in itself a tacit reproof, 
 but a more direct one awaited me. 
 
 " Isabel," said my uncle, " you have 
 been walking with Mr. Leslie!" 
 
 As I could not contradict, and did not 
 chuse to acknowledge it, I was silent, 
 though far enough from submission. 
 
 " I have hitherto," he continued, " ad- 
 dressed you in the way of expostulation 
 on this subject; for I had that opinion both 
 of your head and your heart, which in- 
 clined me to believe that it would suffice; 
 but I begin to fear, Isabel, that you have 
 not the grateful sense of my regard and 
 attention to you, which, considering all 
 things, I think you ought to have." 
 
 My heart was deeply touched with this 
 appeal ; but pride, the strongest of my 
 passions, was too much wounded, even by
 
 21 
 
 the gentle manner in which he had 
 hinted at my obligations to him, to admit 
 of my making any proper reply. 
 
 He mistook my silence for the effect 
 of sullen resentment, and he proceeded in 
 a higher tone — 
 
 " Perhaps I did not act wisely in taking 
 upon myself the guardianship of one, 
 whose high and ungovernable temper is 
 likely, I fear, to occasion me trouble 
 enough!" and he sighed deeply; " never- 
 theless, as I have invested myself with 
 the office of your protector, I shall fulfil, 
 as far as I can, its duties. I once more 
 repeat, that I command you to break off 
 all intercourse with Mr. Leslie. If you 
 possessed any proper feelings of delicacy 
 and respect for yourself, you could not 
 condescend to accept the attentions of 
 any man, while they are tendered to you 
 in such an ambiguous and disreputable 
 manner." 
 
 "Disreputable !" I repeated, with great 
 indignation.
 
 22 
 
 " Yes, disreputable," he said : " is it 
 not disreputable to meet in a clandestine 
 manner any man, who has the power to 
 solicit your notice openly and in the face 
 of the whole world ?" 
 
 " Perhaps he has not this power," I 
 was on the point of saying ; but I re- 
 strained myself, not from any prudential 
 motive of avoiding inquiries that I might 
 not well be able to answer, but because 
 I scorned the insinuations which were 
 levelled against both me and Leslie. 
 
 " In short, Isabel," he added, " let us 
 understand one another : I have loved 
 you as well as if you had been my own 
 child — I do still love you. I have been 
 a friend and a father to you, when, but 
 for me, you would have been a beggar ! 
 I have a right to your obedience, and I 
 will have it — I will, or else we must part." 
 
 I never saw my uncle so angry before ; 
 in general he was the gentlest of human 
 beings ; but when disturbed he was ex- 
 ceedingly peremptory. His anger aug-
 
 23 
 
 mented my disdain of reproof. His ad- 
 dress to me I thought unkind in the ex- 
 treme ; and had I attempted to answer 
 it, I knew that the violence of my spirit 
 would have urged me to the most unbe- 
 coming expressions. To save myself 
 from this error, and from the remorse 
 which would have followed it, (for I 
 dearly loved my uncle,) I ran out of the 
 room. As soon as I had reached my 
 own, I locked and barred the door, and 
 gave vent to the storm that raged within 
 me 3 While in this distracted state, I 
 heard a gentle knock at my door ; I 
 knew that it was my dear aunt come to 
 talk with me in her gentle persuasive 
 manner ; but I was yet too much under 
 the dominion of my proud rebellious feel- 
 ings to render the present a successful 
 moment for her to address me. I could 
 have been glad to have excused myself 
 from admitting her ; but that was impos- 
 sible, and I slowly and reluctantly opened 
 the door. She shook her head as she
 
 24 
 
 looked at my countenance, swelled with 
 weeping. 
 
 " Now, why is this, Isabel ?" she said. 
 
 "Why is it!" I replied, with a fresh 
 burst of passion : "is it not enough that 
 my uncle is not contented to reprove me 
 for my faults, mildly and reasonably, but 
 that he should reproach me w T ith the mis- 
 fortunes of my poverty and my friend- 
 lessness !" 
 
 " Hush, hush !" she said ; " you are 
 so impetuous — so impatient — so unrea- 
 sonable !" 
 
 " I am every thing that is bad — no 
 doubt that I am every thing that is bad !" 
 
 She sat down upon a chair near me ; 
 and without addressing me, she leaned 
 her head upon her hand and seemed to 
 think aloud. 
 
 u What is it that we wish for — what 'is 
 it that we wish for ?" she said, " when 
 we ask for children ! This ought to teach 
 me how mercifully my prayers have been 
 denied ; for had I a daughter to inflict
 
 25 
 
 as much pain upon me, Isabel, as you do 
 now, what would be my case ? and per- 
 haps it might have been so ; but, still, 
 you have been to us both as a daughter, 
 and this is our requital !" 
 
 " I cannot bear this !" I exclaimed, in 
 a fresh paroxysm of emotion ; " I can- 
 not bear it ! — Do not think me disre- 
 spectful if I intreat you to leave me a 
 while to myself; I know that I shall say 
 what I shall deeply repent of — I am not 
 myself, I beseech you to leave me !" 
 
 " If I could leave you to something 
 better than your own heart at this un- 
 happy moment," she said, rising slowly, 
 and with evident unwillingness • " but I 
 fear I give you up to your most bitter 
 enemy !" 
 
 " Pray — pray leave me," I said ; and 
 in the energy of intreaty, I clasped her 
 hand in mine. 
 
 She seemed unable to comprehend 
 exactly the frame of my mind; but soli- 
 tude appearing to be so ardently de- 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 26 
 
 sired, she, at length, though with a sigh 
 that pierced my heart, withdrew. To 
 what did she leave me? — to solitude? 
 Ah, no ! The goadings of my intense 
 and various passions rendered my bosom 
 a den of demons. I formed alternately 
 the wildest schemes to free my uncle 
 from the incumbrance of me, since 
 such his words indicated that he began 
 to consider me ; at least, since such was 
 the construction I put upon them. 
 
 " Unless I can yield my actions, my 
 pursuits, my very thoughts and affec- 
 tions to his will,'* I said, " I shall daily 
 be subjected to tauntings and upbraid- 
 ings, which I must meekly yield to, be- 
 cause I am clothed and kept from starv- 
 ing by his bounty. And have I no 
 talents, no abilities, no means of pro- 
 curing a subsistence for myself? Surely 
 I have, and I will exert them ; I will 
 go out in some situationthat may enable 
 me to earn the bread, that is not to be 
 given me without a subjugation of soul
 
 27 
 
 too contemptible to be endured." Such 
 were the first ebullitions of my anger ; 
 but soon came softer emotions, which 
 brought with them such tender proofs 
 of my dear uncle's love and care for 
 me, as turned the current of my fury 
 against myself, as one of the most un- 
 grateful of created beings. Tears of 
 a more soothing kind now drowned my 
 cheeks. I could have been glad to have 
 cast myself at his feet, and promised 
 both him and my aunt unlimited obe- 
 dience. But to give up Leslie ! " Oh ! 
 any thing but that!" I said, aloud. — 
 I cannot part with Leslie ! But I need 
 not ; I need not. He will return and 
 acknowledge his love to me ; all will be 
 avowed. My uncle will be satisfied of 
 his honourable intentions, and I may 
 yet be happy. Oh ! surely I may yet 
 be happy ! 
 
 I felt that it was but a doubtful anti- 
 cipation : I felt that I was withholding 
 c 2
 
 28 
 
 the only sacrifice my uncle asked of me, 
 in testimony of my obedience to his 
 wishes ; the only sacrifice I was called 
 upon to make : a sacrifice that delicacy 
 to myself, as well as compliance with 
 his will, demanded to be made. But 
 it was in opposition to my inclinations, 
 and I could not attempt to give myself 
 the pain of crossing them. I could not, 
 therefore, return to him, and promise 
 compliance with his wishes ; a measure 
 which, at this time, would alone have 
 made my presence agreeable to him. 
 
 I remained up-stairs for the rest of 
 the evening. The following morning 
 dawned upon me bringing with it no 
 hope— no excitement. Leslie was gone : 
 all was uncomfortable at home ; the 
 whole creation was a blank to me. 
 " What a wretched thing is human 
 life !" I thought ; nothing stable ! no- 
 thing solid ! We no sooner believe our- 
 selves happy, than some blight falls
 
 29 
 
 upon hope, and every thing is dreary 
 and wintry desolation. How well has 
 the poet said — 
 
 •' When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat; 
 Yet fool'd by hope, men favour the deceit ; 
 Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay ; 
 To-morrow's falser than the former day ; 
 Lies more, and when it says we shall be blest 
 With some new joys, cuts off what we possest. 
 Strange cozenage ! none would live past years again, 
 Yet all hope pleasure from what yet remain ; 
 And from the dregs of life think to receive 
 What the first sprightly runnings could not give : 
 I'm tired of waiting for this chymicgold, 
 Which fools us young; and beggars us when old." 
 
 When I had given vent to some portion 
 of my misery, by repeating these fine 
 lines of Dryden, which Leslie, who com- 
 plained of human life as much as I did, 
 had taught me to admire, I felt more 
 composed ; satisfied, I suppose, that as 
 it was in days of yore, it must be now, 
 and so on to the end of time. Still it 
 occurred to me, that this never could 
 be the meaning and design of human 
 existence. So much beauty, and order, 
 c 3
 
 so 
 
 and actual contrivance for the happiness 
 of mere animal nature, pervaded the 
 universe, that it was impossible for any 
 mind, not perfectly stupid, to rest satis- 
 fied in a belief that human creatures 
 were only called into being to be mise- 
 rable. " But where is their happiness ?" 
 I said. It cannot be found. I know 
 by fatal experience, it cannot be found 
 in the indulgence of feeling, and the 
 gratification of will. I once thought 
 that if Leslie loved me I should have 
 nothing left to wish for ; I know that 
 he loves me, yet am I, upon the whole, 
 happy : am I even as happy as I was 
 when doubtful of his attachment? I 
 could not say that I was ; for before I 
 knew him, though never to be called 
 happy, because the restless ardour of 
 my imagination precluded the tranquil- 
 lity which alone deserves the denomina- 
 tion of happiness ; I was still not tossed 
 about on the waves of hope and fear ; 
 not agitated with suspense ; not racked
 
 31 
 
 with anxious doubts ; not thus entirely 
 the slave of feeling. " No," I con- 
 tinued : " I never have known what 
 happiness is ; I cannot even guess where 
 it is to be found: for who do I know 
 that apparently possesses it?" And 1 
 ran over in my thoughts all my intimate 
 connexions and friends. " My aunt 
 and uncle : they were not happy !" and 
 I sighed heavily as the conviction passed 
 through my mind, that I was the prin- 
 cipal, if not the only cause of their dis- 
 quiet. Miss Russell ! No : I could not 
 admit her to be brought forward as an 
 instance of happiness. She was in her 
 heart quite as restless, quite as ungo- 
 vernable as I was ; but she had more 
 skill in concealing her feelings. I have, 
 in a more enlarged intercourse with so- 
 ciety, seen many that resembled her ; 
 but at this time she was not quite well 
 understood by me : for though I cer- 
 tainly had great facility in reading cha- 
 racters, at the period of which I speak, 
 c 4
 
 32 
 
 I was very young, and not exempt from 
 being imposed upon by those strong 
 pretensions which many persons so reso- 
 lutely make to every thing that is fine 
 in sentiment, fine in conduct, and fine 
 in character, that people are obliged to 
 believe in their validity. In fact, these 
 pretenders at last arrive at believing in 
 them themselves ; so true is it, that by 
 often repeating a lie, a person may, in 
 time, succeed in imposing it upon him- 
 self for a truth. " No," I said, " I 
 must not turn to Elizabeth to teach me 
 where to look for happiness ; she knows 
 nothing about it." My thoughts now 
 involuntarily reverted to one, of whom 
 I ought to have known more, had not 
 I been wholly absorbed by the selfish- 
 ness of passion, which made my own 
 interest (oh ! how miscalled !) the one 
 sole engrossing object of my thoughts — 
 Miss Delmond, poor, neglected, I might 
 certainly say by the Russells, contemned, 
 occurred to me as the human being
 
 S3 
 
 most nearly in the possession of our 
 being's " end and aim." 
 
 We had frequently met at the Rus- 
 sells ; and she had, over and over again, 
 made advances to an intimacy with me, 
 which nothing but my being engrossed 
 by my connexion with Leslie had occa- 
 sioned me to overlook ; for I sincerely 
 respected her. I felt quite in the hu- 
 mour to benefit by her calm discourse, 
 and I determined to dedicate this morn- 
 ing to making her a visit, at her humble 
 dwelling, where I knew I should be a 
 welcome guest ; for by that indescriba- 
 ble sympathy which binds us to those 
 who are almost strangers to us, I felt 
 assured that she was interested about 
 me in the strongest degree. Very soon 
 after breakfast, therefore, I repaired to 
 her cottage. 
 
 c .5
 
 34 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 miss delmond's narration. 
 
 " Whence but from Heaven could men unskill'd in arts 
 In different ages born, and different parts, 
 Weave such agreeing truths ; or how, or why 
 Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie ? 
 Unask'd their pains, ungrateful their advice, 
 Starving their gains, and martyrdom their price." 
 
 dryden's religio laici. 
 
 As I find, on referring to a diary in 
 which, for many years, I have been in 
 the habit of inserting such recollections 
 as appeared to me to be worth preserv- 
 ing, that I have retained a far more 
 ample statement of what passed at this 
 interview, than Isabel's rapid sketches 
 permitted, I shall here present to the 
 reader my account of it. She came to 
 me, as she has said, and seldom did a 
 more welcome visitor greet my solitude ; 
 for she has but done herself justice in
 
 35 
 
 saying, that she believed me to be inte- 
 rested about her in the strongest de- 
 gree. It was easy to perceive, at the 
 first glance, that deep and agonizing 
 emotion was making heavy ravages upon 
 her heart. 
 
 I knew from my cousin, Miss Rus- 
 sell, that there was an attachment be- 
 tween Miss Melville and Mr. Leslie; 
 and it was too obvious, from the woeful 
 alteration in her spirits and appearance* 
 which had subsisted ever since her ac- 
 quaintance with him, that it was not 
 altogether a happy one. 
 
 I hastened with extended hand to 
 meet her. 
 
 " My dear Miss Melville," I said, 
 " this is indeed kind." 
 
 " Oh ! - do not say Miss Melville," 
 she replied, with a languid smile ; " I 
 never think I am talking to a friend 
 when I am called Miss Melville : you 
 know I am Isabel with every body." 
 
 " You have made a distinction which 
 c 6
 
 36 
 
 will certainly make you Isabel with me 
 henceforth," I replied. 
 
 " Well, but" she went on — " you 
 are very much surprised to see me, no 
 doubt?" 
 
 I began to say something about the 
 real pleasure she gave me by her visit ; 
 but, with an attempt at vivacity which 
 ill-concealed an aching heart — 
 
 " But you will never guess the pur- 
 port of my coming," she said. The 
 fact is, I am hunting, not like the phi- 
 losopher of old, for an honest person, 
 but for something, I believe, quite as 
 rare, and that is, a happy one." 
 
 " And what, may I ask, directed you 
 to look for one here ? You could not 
 possibly suspect me of being happy?" 
 and I laughed. 
 
 " I cannot tell you how it was, but 
 I thought of every body I knew, and 
 rejected them all as being no nearer 
 happiness than I am myself (though 
 that is saying a great deal) ;" and she
 
 37 
 
 sighed, in spite of her assumed gaiety ; 
 " but when I thought of you, I paused. 
 I considered, and I actually half be- 
 lieved, that you were about as happy as 
 any body in the world." 
 
 " A very favourite author of mine, 
 though certainly a quaint, and very far 
 from a polished one," I replied, " has 
 this remark : * He is the least unhappy 
 who makes least account of happiness 
 in this world ; who puts himself in 
 God's way to it ; patiently waits his 
 time for it, and can see a smile on the 
 face of death/ "* 
 
 " Ah ! that is a deep observation," 
 said she ; " be so good as to repeat it 
 to me ; or stay — let me write it down," 
 and she took out her tablets. " I am 
 like a miser in the article of aphorisms 
 and wise sayings," she continued ; " you 
 cannot conceive what a quantity of them 
 I have amassed : but, just like the miser's 
 
 * Adam's Private Thoughts.
 
 38 
 
 heap of gold, there they lie useless. 
 Nevertheless, I will add this to them, if 
 you please." 
 
 I repeated the remark, which she 
 wrote down — " Puts himself in God's 
 way to it," she said, with much em- 
 phasis, as she read over what she had 
 written, " that, perhaps, is the solution 
 of the whole. In that may be hid the 
 grand secret of happiness." 
 
 " Ah ! how plainly does such lan- 
 guage pourtray the state of your mind," 
 I replied ; " that, perhaps, is the solu- 
 tion of the whole. In that may be hid 
 the grand secret of happiness !" 
 
 " Is it, then, a perfect certainty ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " With me," I replied, " a perfect 
 certainty. No happiness can be found 
 by any human creature who seeks it in 
 any other way than God has appointed." 
 
 " Oh, no, certainly not," she said : 
 but it was in a tone which bespoke the 
 assent she felt herself, as coming under
 
 39 
 
 the denomination of a Christian, called 
 upon to give. 
 
 " If I dare to take the liberty of 
 speaking freely to you — " I said — 
 
 " Pray do," she exclaimed. " Say 
 any thing — say every thing. Indeed, 
 to tell you the truth, I came to you to- 
 day for a little comfort. I am not, just 
 now, quite happy." Here she rose from 
 her seat, and took a turn to the end of 
 the room. " But never mind that," 
 she continued ; perceiving my deep in- 
 terest in her, which increased when I 
 found, on resuming her seat, that her 
 countenance was bathed in tears. 
 
 " My dear Miss Melville," and sit- 
 ting down by her side, I would have 
 taken her hand, but for a moment only 
 she suffered me ; then, hastily withdraw- 
 ing it — " you must not be tender to 
 me," she said ; " be severe — be very 
 severe." 
 
 I saw that her good sense dictated the 
 sort of treatment best adapted to her
 
 40 
 
 case, and though my heart yearned to 
 soothe and comfort her, I believed she 
 judged well in forbidding it. 
 
 " I should be glad, indeed," she said, 
 as soon as she had regained her compo- 
 sure, " I should be truly rejoiced, to 
 fall upon ^me system of conduct that 
 might produce satisfaction ; for now I 
 know and feel that I am far wide of the 
 mark." 
 
 " And happiness, of course," I said, 
 " is your mark, for it is the mark of 
 every. one ?" 
 
 " How strange then, is it not," she 
 said, " that nobody can find it ?" 
 
 " A few find it, my dear !" I replied, 
 " and only a few ; because the great 
 mass, the world at large, look for it 
 where it never can be found — they look 
 for it in the perishable things of time 
 and sense — in what is every day and 
 every hour crumbling away even in their 
 very grasp, which the faster it decays 
 the firmer they endeavour to hold, till
 
 41 
 
 the poor nerveless hand itself and all it 
 so tenaciously clasped, is turned into dust 
 and ashes, and * clean gone for ever.' " 
 
 " But yet, the things of time and 
 sense," she said, after a few moments' 
 pause, in which she seemed to consider 
 what I had said, " are pressing upon us 
 so keenly on every side, that some atten- 
 tion must be given them. The world 
 could not go on if we were to live in that 
 state of total abstraction from them 
 which some classes of religionists seem to 
 insist upon." 
 
 " I would not wish vou to include me 
 amongst that number," I replied; "there 
 may be such persons, and I doubt not 
 that there are ; because, as human nature 
 is imperfect, it will not fail to introduce 
 its own errors and weaknesses into every 
 thing it approaches. Hence, even the 
 pure doctrines of Christianity will not be 
 exempt from corruption and distortion 
 in passing through the polluted chan- 
 nels of humanity ; but all who run may
 
 42 
 
 read. I would say, therefore, to you, 
 and to every one, take not up any 
 opinion upon mere human authority — 
 search the Scriptures ; endeavour to get 
 into the spirit of their whole purport 
 and meaning ; and leave it to those who 
 delight in quibbles and small details, to 
 dispute about the letter. In their large 
 and comprehensive sense, one principle, 
 one spirit pervades the whole, and is in- 
 cessantly inculcated, in precept and in 
 doctrine, which is the love and fear of 
 God producing its proper fruits, purity 
 of heart and holiness of life. Where this 
 exists, there will be no mistaken views 
 of happiness — no mistaken opinions as to 
 what is or is not lawful in our pursuit of 
 it. The proper and innocent pleasures 
 of life, which were created for our use, 
 and which lie about us in abundance, 
 will then be rationally and truly enjoyed, 
 because they will be enjoyed in their due 
 measure and degree, which they never 
 can be when they are made the predomi-
 
 43 
 
 nant, not, as they ought to be, the su- 
 bordinate source of delight. ' Let the 
 highest affection be placed above this 
 world/ says a very sensible and pious 
 writer, the amiable Miss Talbot, * and 
 every other will rise in just proportion, 
 and the harmony of life be complete.' " 
 
 " This is — yes, it must be true," she 
 said, again musing ere she spoke, as if 
 she deeply meditated on all I advanced ; 
 « yet—" ' 
 
 "What yet?" I said, "you have 
 desired me to say all I wish to say — let 
 me intreat the same of you ; speak all 
 your doubts : perhaps, with the divine 
 blessing upon my humble endeavours, I 
 may be the means of removing some of 
 them." 
 
 " Would not you look upon me then 
 with horror ?" she said ; " would you not 
 turn from me with recoil, were I to ac- 
 knowledge to you that — " she paused. 
 
 " That you cannot make the Scriptures 
 your rule of life, because you are not
 
 44 
 
 convinced of their divine authority ? — is 
 not this what you would say?" I in- 
 quired. 
 
 " Something like it — at least ;" — she 
 was evidently unwilling to make an open 
 avowal of infidelity. " The fact is," she 
 added, " I have never thought much 
 about it ; but if my faith were sincere 
 and fervent, it must be altogether a to- 
 tally different matter with me — this I 
 distinctly perceive." 
 
 " Doubtless you do," I replied ; " it 
 is very improbable that a young person 
 gifted with so much understanding as 
 you are, should be satisfied with that 
 loose assent which, without taking the 
 trouble to examine, or inquire whether 
 they do or not, multitudes take it for 
 granted they give, to the most important 
 question in which they can be interested ; 
 a question which, if it means any thing 
 at all, if it be not altogether a fable, in- 
 volves nothing less than their everlasting 
 happiness or misery — No ; you have had
 
 45 
 
 the sagacity to discover that this languid 
 state of the mind on a matter of such im- 
 mense importance, is not acquiescence, 
 but insensibility — the natural deadness 
 of the heart upon spiritual subjects ; that 
 moral death which by our first parents' 
 transgression came upon all their de- 
 scendants, and upon which the spirit of 
 God can alone breathe life and anima- 
 tion." 
 
 " Ah, now you are getting a little be- 
 yond me," she said ; " remember I am 
 stupid upon these things. Before I can 
 appreciate the sublimer truths of revela- 
 tion, I must understand first principles. 
 I must hear how you acquire the belief, 
 which must be the foundation of every 
 thing else. God knows I speak the 
 truth from my heart when I say, I would 
 give all I have, or ever hope to possess, 
 to be a sincere believer in the divine Re- 
 velation of which the Scriptures testify ; 
 but I cannot command this belief."
 
 46 
 
 " I admit it," I replied ; " I know 
 you cannot ; but you can pray for it ?" 
 
 She paused upon this. " I can at- 
 tempt it," at last she said, 
 
 * You can do more than that, surely," 
 I replied ; " for instance : you can ask 
 your temporal friends for what you think 
 they can grant you ; but here," I added, 
 " I find I must indeed go back to first 
 principles, to use your own expression. 
 Suffer me then to ask you, do you believe 
 in a God at all ?" 
 
 " Certainly," she replied, without a 
 moment's hesitation. 
 
 " You believe that every thing which 
 exists has been created by him ?" 
 
 " Unquestionably." 
 
 " Then, of course, you must also be- 
 lieve him to be the moral Governor of 
 the universe he has created ?" 
 
 " I have a vague belief of it," she 
 replied ; " but my feelings upon this 
 point are sadly indistinct."
 
 47 
 
 " Can you give me no idea of them ?" 
 " Why," she replied, " I think they 
 are of this kind: — I walk abroad, and I 
 look upon the face of nature, and am 
 struck with its beauty ; I observe in- 
 stances of wisdom and design in all that 
 surrounds me. I behold the sun in the 
 firmament : I feel sure that the hand 
 which formed that glorious object can- 
 not be less than divine. Perhaps I turn 
 my attention inward upon myself, and, 
 while my contemplations are thus di- 
 rected, I find something within me that 
 prompts a feeling of delight and adora- 
 tion, and my heart seems as if it invo- 
 luntarily ascended upwards in praise and 
 worship." 
 
 " But to whom ?" I inquired : " is it 
 not to an *. unknown god ?' Oh that, 
 like the inspired apostle, I might say, 
 ( Him, whom ye ignorantly worship, 
 him declare I unto you !' " 
 
 " Would that you could do me any 
 good!" she replied, with affecting ear-
 
 48 
 
 nestness ; " would that any body could 
 do me any good !" 
 
 " It is God alone that can effect that," 
 I said ; " but his weak creatures are 
 oftentimes permitted to be the means by 
 which he works his good purposes : and 
 fain — fain would I aspire to be thus em- 
 ployed for you. I would fain change 
 these vague uncertainties, which are mis- 
 leading you, into a glorious assurance 
 that nothing can shake. — But, to return 
 to our subject : you feel something 
 within you, you say, which prompts you 
 to praise and adore God. But this is 
 principally when your heart is elevated 
 by the contemplation of the beauty of 
 nature ?" 
 
 " No," she replied ; " I feel some- 
 thing like the san;.e emotion when any 
 sublime or exalted sentiment is excited 
 in my mind, by any other cause. For 
 instance, when I hear of noble actions ; 
 when I meet with extraordinary gene- 
 rosity or kindness from my friends ;
 
 49 
 
 when I read of illustrious characters, I 
 say to myself, * there must be a reward 
 for all this -> there must hereafter be some 
 stage of being where virtue will meet 
 with the requital, the due desert, it does 
 not find in this world." And then, per- 
 haps, my heart ascends in something 
 like prayer, that I may attain to a place 
 in those happy realms." 
 
 " In short," said I, " whenever the 
 natural feeling is strongly excited, your 
 heart rises up to an unknown Being?" 
 
 She did not make any reply ; and I 
 proceeded: — 
 
 " But these moments must be of un- 
 certain recurrence. It happens very 
 often that the face of nature is cloudy ; 
 that the sun is not visible ; that persons, 
 instead of acting nobly, act selfishly, 
 meanly, and ignobly ; that you are con- 
 demned to hear and read of unworthy 
 characters ; that, instead of meeting with 
 friends, you find enemies.— Then, Isa- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 
 
 bel, how does your heart feel affected 
 towards this unknown Being ?" 
 
 She paused ; and, finding she made no 
 reply, I went on ; for my earnestness to 
 persuade her to think upon this great 
 point, gave me an energy in speaking 
 which I knew not how to repress. — 
 
 " Do you then feel the same desire to 
 praise and adore him ?" I said. 
 
 " I then try to pray," she said, in a 
 doubting voice. 
 
 " With what feelings do you pray ?" 
 
 " Surely, with those of hope, that my 
 supplications will be answered," she 
 replied. 
 
 " Not with an assurance, a certainty, 
 that they will?" 
 
 Again she was silent But I con- 
 strained her to speak openly to me. 
 
 " Speak to me, dear Isabel," I said ; 
 " lay your heart open to me, dear child, 
 without fear." 
 
 " I cannot then say," she replied,
 
 51 
 
 " that I do feel the certainty and assur- 
 ance of which you speak." 
 
 No," said I; "I should be surprised 
 if you did, with these vague, unsettled 
 notions you have acquired upon the sub- 
 ject — chiefly, it seems, on a day, when 
 the sun shines, or when some extraor- 
 dinary benefit has been conferred upon 
 you by a fellow- creature ; or when, in 
 fact, the animal spirits are more espe- 
 cially excited. But, my dear child, I 
 would only ask you — arguing from what 
 you observe in the works of Nature, and 
 what you feel towards their Author — can 
 you think it strange that he has mani- 
 fested himself by revelation to his crea- 
 tures, and given them some certain 
 knowledge of himself to guide their con- 
 duct and reconcile them to their lot in 
 life ? Would it not rather appear to you 
 strange, if he had left them in uncer- 
 tainty ? You see design in every thing 
 that exists— a plain and palpable design : 
 you see and comprehend it to be such. 
 d 2
 
 52 
 
 But, without revelation, you can never 
 discover the purpose of your own crea- 
 tion : you can never discover why you 
 should be subject to suffering, or death, 
 or evil of any sort ; or why you should 
 strive against the corruption you feel to 
 be in you. If it be only for your well- 
 doing in this world, it would be hardly 
 worth while to practise the self-denial 
 requisite to form virtuous habits ; yet 
 the good opinion of the world and your 
 own conscience lead you to do this with 
 much pain and discipline — but why or 
 wherefore (without a revelation) you 
 cannot tell." 
 
 " Oh, yes !"— and here she interrupted 
 me — " 1 beg your pardon : / cannot, 
 indeed, tell you — for I have a wretched 
 memory for every thing but sorrow ; but 
 Adam Smith would give you whole pages 
 to inform you why you feel so, and 
 why you do so ; and why it is right, and 
 why it is wrong." 
 
 " No doubt," said I ; " and a beau-
 
 53 
 
 tiful book is Adam Smith's * Theory of 
 Moral Sentiments j' but the cause I am 
 now advocating he will not help." 
 
 " Still, you must allow, he has accumu- 
 lated a great quantity of truth," she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I will give him his due 
 merit," I replied. " But I find the same 
 truths in Scripture, and expressed with 
 a simplicity that is, in my opinion, much 
 more charming. The other morning, in 
 reading some of his ■ Theory of Moral 
 Sentiments' (which, as a philosophical 
 work, is one I exceedingly admire), I 
 was forcibly struck with a remark, which 
 I think very just and useful. Speaking 
 of the great source from which, he con- 
 ceives, both the misery and disorder of 
 human life to arise — namely, our over- 
 rating the difference between one situa- 
 tion and another — ' Examine,' he says, 
 1 the records of history ; recollect what 
 has happened within the circle of your 
 own experience ; consider with atten- 
 tion what has been the conduct of al- 
 d 3
 
 54 
 
 most all the greatly unfortunate, either in 
 public or in private life, whom you may 
 have either read of, or heard of, or re- 
 membered, and you will find that the mis- 
 fortunes of by far the greater part of 
 them have arisen from their not knowing 
 when they were well — when it was proper 
 for them to sit still and be contented/* 
 
 This is very true, I thought, as far as it 
 goes; but David has said it better — he has 
 shewn us the whole truth ; and I turned 
 to the thirty-seventh Psalm, in which the 
 restlessness of human desires is more es- 
 pecially attacked, and the only method 
 of subduing them simply and beautifully 
 taught : — ' Dw r ell in the land, and verily 
 thou shalt be fed. Rest in the Lord, 
 and wait patiently for him : commit thy 
 way unto the Lord ; trust also in him, 
 and he shall bring it to pass.' What a 
 counteraction is here for the turbulence 
 and inquietude which fills the world with 
 
 * Vol. i. p. 370.
 
 55 
 
 wretchedness ! Here, indeed, is truth 
 complete ! Nevertheless, I do not des- 
 pise philosophy ; only we have a better 
 guide, and cannot, therefore, rest upon it." 
 
 * Well, let us leave it," she said ; " I 
 believe it will never do much for me. Go 
 on, if you please : I am interested in 
 what you say. You were telling me that 
 I did not know why I took (or, in my 
 case, perhaps, you should rather say) 
 why I ought to take pains to govern 
 myself aright and be good," 
 
 " Yes," I proceeded, " I repeat with 
 confidence, that, without the aid of re- 
 velation, you can assign no satisfactory 
 reason for these exertions. The vague 
 feelings of praise and adoration, and de- 
 pendance upon a superior Being, of 
 which you have spoken, warrant nothing 
 beyond a probability that he has allotted 
 you another stage of existence ; and can 
 you, I repeat, think it consistent with 
 the course of his manifest proceedings, 
 that he should give you nothing beyond 
 d 4
 
 56 
 
 a bare probability to excite your efforts 
 for moral improvement ? Do you not 
 think it more consistent with reason, 
 that he should have revealed to his intel- 
 ligent creatures the purpose for which 
 they were placed here, and why he has 
 given them a motive to resist sin and 
 cultivate virtue, than that he should 
 have left them to grope their way in the 
 dark, only animated by a probability that 
 their end would not be ' like that of the 
 beasts that perish ?' Do you not think 
 it also consistent with his manifest bene- 
 volence, that, in the tremendous hour 
 of nature's last trial, he would provide 
 for them some sure rock to rest upon — 
 some sure house of defence ?" 
 
 " It doubtless is reasonable to sup- 
 pose it," she replied, " and the comfort 
 of it no one can dispute. Would that I 
 could perfectly and completely embrace 
 such an opinion !" 
 
 " Are you, indeed, sure that this is 
 your wish ?" I inquired.
 
 57 
 
 *' I know it is," she unhesitatingly 
 replied. 
 
 " Then you, most assuredly, may have 
 it accomplished ; for you can try to 
 adopt such an opinion. You can pray to 
 be enlightened : this is the first step. A 
 willing heart is all that is requisite. 
 Those, indeed, who love the world, and 
 the things that belong to the world, can 
 have no desire to be taught these things, 
 which belong to a kingdom which, we 
 are expressly told, * is not of this world.' 
 In this poor, perishable scene, such per- 
 sons find their god, and he blinds their 
 hearts. * Verily, they have their re- 
 ward !' But you, Isabel, I am persuaded, 
 cannot be satisfied with so poor a por- 
 tion ; you must be deeply sensible of its 
 emptiness and vanity— a character which 
 is pronounced to belong to it, even by 
 the poor deluded creatures who still can- 
 not turn from its acknowledged deceits 
 and unsatisfactoriness." 
 
 " Indeed, I am sensible of it," she 
 P 5
 
 58 
 
 said. " Even at my age, I should esteem 
 it a blessing never to have been born." 
 
 " I hope you will live to reckon that 
 one of the blessings for which you ac- 
 knowledge the most joyful gratitude," 
 I said. 
 
 " Ah ! if I were like you," she re- 
 plied ; " but life to me is so full of 
 suffering ! My heart — my affections ! 
 Oh ! by how many avenues does sorrow 
 approach me ! Alas ! if it were lawful 
 to wish for death " 
 
 She paused. 
 
 " What comfort would it bring to 
 you, my dear Isabel?" I said. 
 
 She shook her head, but said nothing ; 
 and I went on. — 
 
 " ■ What do I look forward to ?' must, 
 then, be your inquiry, if it never oc- 
 curred before. ' What sort of judge am 
 I to meet?' " 
 
 " He must be good," she said ; " for 
 all his works bespeak him so." 
 
 " But you are not certain of it," I
 
 59 
 
 replied ; " you have no assurance that 
 he is not arbitrary : the existence of evil 
 might warrant a fearful doubt of it ; and, 
 surely, you must think it an argument 
 against the goodness to which you trust, 
 that he should have given you nothing 
 certain — nothing real — nothing comfort- 
 ing, to support you in this tremendous 
 crisis — no knowledge whither you are 
 going ; or, if all is to end with your fast 
 fleeting life ! Oh, Isabel! do you think 
 that, at that awful moment, if not before, 
 you will not do as countless thousands 
 have done — eagerly catch at the pro- 
 mises of Scripture, and cry out, in the 
 anguish of your soul, « Oh, slighted 
 Bible! would that I had valued you 
 aright ! Oh, neglected Saviour ! wilt 
 thou now manifest thyself to me, and 
 give me comfort ? Wilt thou accept this 
 death-bed faith ? Wilt thou pardon me 
 so many neglected opportunities of seek- 
 ing and of finding Thee ? — so much ob- 
 stinate indifference and hardness of heart 
 d 6
 
 60 
 
 towards Thee ? — so much disdain of thy 
 word? — so much contempt of thy pre- 
 cious promises, which now I would so 
 gladly have a share in — now that, per- 
 haps, I must hear thee say, * Thou hast 
 ' neither part nor lot in this matter ! De- 
 ' part from me ; J never knew ye !' 
 Oh, Isabel ! think of this — not in the 
 fearful hour of death, but now — now — 
 while life and health put salvation in 
 your power — my dearest, think of it !" 
 
 She was affected by the genuine sin- 
 cerity with which I pleaded. 
 
 " I am not, perhaps, so senseless upon 
 this subject as you may suppose," she 
 said. " The sacred volume is not a 
 sealed book to me ; I often read it" 
 
 " But how ?" I said. " Do you read 
 it upon your knees ? By which I mean, 
 do you read it with a praying heart — an 
 uplifted voice ? ' Lord, 1 believe ; help 
 thou mine unbelief !' " 
 
 " I fear not," said she, with a deep 
 sigh ; I have been too much accus-
 
 6i 
 
 tomed to read the Bible as any other 
 book." 
 
 " Then do not wonder that you have 
 made little progress in understanding it," 
 I replied. " Read the Bible as you 
 would any other book ! What ! do you 
 believe that the word of God is to be 
 perused as a common, human compo- 
 sition? — that it is to be approached 
 without feelings of awe, of humiliation, 
 of reverence, of prayer? Do you rush 
 upon it with a presumptuous idea, that, 
 without the divine blessing, you can pos- 
 sibly enter into its spirit ?" 
 
 " Surely, the historical parts -" 
 
 said she. But I interrupted her. 
 
 " It is curious," said I, " how in- 
 stinctively persons apply themselves as 
 learners to those parts of the Scriptures 
 with which they have the least concern ! 
 I would not preclude the perusal of any 
 part of the Bible, when the mind is pre- 
 pared to receive it properly ; but I 
 should say to you at present, « Do not
 
 62 
 
 turn to the historical parts. Read the pro- 
 phecies, in order to understand the well- 
 established fact in the Jewish history — 
 that they looked for the coming of an 
 extraordinary person, therein foretold in 
 the clearest terms. However incredulous 
 you may be upon other subjects con- 
 tained in holy writ, this must command 
 your assent.' It must strike you with 
 wonder to remark how literally the life 
 and character of the Saviour coincides 
 with what the prophet Isaiah foretold of 
 him many ages before he came into the 
 world ; a coincidence so complete, that, 
 as it has been justly observed, it seems 
 more like a history than a prophecy. 
 Many persons are constrained to admit 
 this, who still, by the most marvellous 
 blindness, remain, upon the whole, ad- 
 versaries to the Christian faith. Read 
 the prophetic Psalms — the second, espe- 
 cially ; see how David, long prior to the 
 prophecy of Isaiah, clearly foretells the 
 same events. Then trace up this illus-
 
 63 
 
 trious prophecy yet higher ; you find it 
 interwoven in every part of the Jewish 
 records — till you discover its announce- 
 ment from God himself to our first pa- 
 rent immediately after his fall. What 
 can w r e say to these things, Isabel ? They 
 stand their ground, you see ; they live 
 — they triumph even over the sneer of 
 the insidious, and the open assault of the 
 bolder infidel. What can we say, but 
 that truth is in them ? And the cause of 
 truth must prevail." 
 
 " I will certainly forthwith apply my- 
 self in a very different manner to search 
 into them/ 1 she said. " Still, I must 
 say, admitting all you advance to be 
 unanswerable, there are parts of the 
 Scriptures which stagger my perfect re- 
 liance upon other parts. Such, for in- 
 stance, as represent the Deity ordering 
 the destruction of whole nations — the 
 murder of particular persons " 
 
 " Excuse me," said I, " for inter- 
 rupting you ; but all that you are now
 
 64 
 
 saying has been advanced and refuted 
 by the enemies and the advocates of di- 
 vine revelation over and over again. I 
 do but repeat, therefore, what its far 
 more powerful defenders have said for 
 it on this point, when I remind you that, 
 upon the same principle on which you 
 now argue against it, you might reason 
 against entertaining any of the vague 
 feelings of praise and adoration you 
 sometimes experience towards the Deity. 
 Because, the fact is, that evil always 
 exists. Innocent beings and whole na- 
 tions, though not now by miracle extir- 
 pated from the earth, are still as much 
 afflicted. A child, that cannot have in- 
 curred any actual guilt, is born blind or 
 deformed ; earthquakes make ravages 
 amongst whole nations ; men murder 
 and rob, and injure those who not only 
 never injured them, but who, perhaps, are 
 amongst the most exemplary of created 
 beings. Though the Almighty does not 
 now, by visible signs, command these
 
 65 
 
 things to be performed upon a part of 
 his creatures, yet he evidently permits 
 them, and it does not stagger your faith 
 in his goodness. But this is a curious 
 fact in human nature. Put revelation 
 out of the question, and persons bring 
 to every thing else the right disposition. 
 Upon the existence of evil they will 
 talk with infinite wisdom ; that is, they 
 will acknowledge the subject to be be- 
 yond the reach of finite faculties, and 
 conceive it best disposed of by humble 
 acquiescence in its being useful, because 
 it is the will of God that it exists. But 
 once bring them closely to speak of their 
 opinions upon revelation, and they will 
 confess with you, that there are certain 
 points in it which stagger them. In 
 short, there they cannot exercise the 
 same simplicity of assent ; there, where 
 it most behoves them to yield it; there, 
 where every thing depends upon a hum- 
 ble, meek, perfect acquiescence, and the
 
 66 
 
 simple acknowledgment, ' Lord, I be- 
 lieve ; help thou my unbelief!' " 
 
 "We may all of us put up that prayer," 
 she replied ; " I am sure I very sincerely 
 make it mine ; for I cannot tell you how 
 fervent is my desire to be a real be- 
 liever." 
 
 " Only promise me," said I, " that 
 you will daily read such parts of the Bible 
 as you feel that you can comprehend — 
 the New Testament and St. Paul's Epis- 
 tles more especially ; you would soon be 
 enabled to judge whether the belief o 
 them is calculated to impart comfort oj 
 not — whether they tend to form any sure 
 basis for the mind to rest upon in afflic- 
 tion or death ; both of which are the only 
 circumstances you are certain of having 
 to encounter. You will be capable of 
 understanding whether this conviction : 
 1 I have fought a good fight ; I have 
 finished my course, I have kept the faith 
 — henceforth there is laid up for me a 
 crown of righteousness, which the Lord,
 
 67 
 
 the righteous judge, shall give me at that 
 day,' is calculated, not only to smooth 
 the rugged brow of death, but even to 
 make it lovely as the image of immor- 
 tality. You will judge whether it would 
 be sweet and comforting to the soul to 
 receive this assurance from a Divine Be- 
 ing, as powerful as he is willing, to save 
 all w T ho fly to Him, ' if a man love me, 
 he will keep my words, and my Father 
 will love him ; and we will come unto 
 him, and will make our abode with him.' 
 In short, Isabel, you will find in this pre- 
 cious study, so much to console and to de- 
 light your heart ; so much to strengthen 
 and to guide your conduct \ so much to 
 awaken your love and confidence in the 
 Saviour, that when once you have stea- 
 dily and constantly entered upon it, I 
 feel persuaded I shall never again hear 
 you speak of 'vague feelings of praise and 
 adoration ; nothing will then be vague, 
 for you will know whom you have be- 
 lieved \ you will not then be the sport of
 
 68 
 
 uncertain devotion, which rises and falls 
 with external circumstances, springing 
 from mere feeling, and as variable and 
 as valueless as the source from whence it 
 rises ; no, you will have one constant 
 stable principle, the same at all times, 
 and under all circumstances ; for it will 
 be built upon Him who is the same, yes- 
 terday, to-day, and for ever !" 
 
 "God grant it !" she said, with energy. 
 
 "He will grant it, my dear !" I re- 
 plied ; " You have His promise repeated 
 again and again, that those who seek 
 Him shall surely find Him. 'If any 
 man lack wisdom,' says St. James, ' let 
 him ask of God, who giveth liberally, 
 and upbraideth not.' ' Ask and it shall 
 be given to you,' says our blessed Lord 
 himself: i Seek and ye shall find ; knock 
 and it shall be opened unto you. If ye, 
 then, being evil, know how to give good 
 gifts unto your children, how much more 
 shall your heavenly Father give the holy 
 Spirit to them that ask him ?' Be com-
 
 69 
 
 forted, then, dear child ! in all your sor- 
 rows you have always at hand a sure 
 source of comfort, if with your whole 
 heart and soul you apply to this divine 
 Book with a praying heart ; and for hu- 
 man consolation, if I can at any time, be 
 of the least use to you, I cannot say how 
 grateful an occupation I should deem 
 it!" 
 
 She pressed my hand, but did not 
 speak. I could have wished yet longer 
 to have detained her ; but I believed we 
 had discoursed sufficiently long for the 
 present upon this subject ; and dreading 
 nothing so much as wearying her, I did 
 not oppose her rising to take leave ; only 
 stipulating that she would not leave me 
 quite ignorant of her proceedings relative 
 to what we had talked of. She assured 
 me she would not fail to tell me all the 
 feelings of her heart. Alas ! I felt a sad 
 anticipation that the world and its delu- 
 sions were yet too potent, and that the 
 hour of her emancipation from its thral-
 
 70 
 
 dom was yet far distant ! But at this mo- 
 ment I could not venture such a surmise 
 to her ; against hope I was willing to 
 hope. But her own account of herself, 
 which I now resume, will pourtray a too 
 faithful picture.
 
 71 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 Heaven would not all this woe for man intend, 
 If man's existence with his woe should end ; 
 Heaven would not pain, and grief and anguish give, 
 If man were not by discipline to live , 
 And for that brighter, better world prepare, 
 That souls with souls, when purified, shall share 
 Those stains all done away that must not enter there ! 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 My conversation with Miss Delmond 
 produced, for a short time, a very pow- 
 erful effect upon me ; for, from the ear- 
 liest period that I was capable of re- 
 flection, I had frequently turned my 
 thoughts to the great subject of religion. 
 But it had been in the vague and unset- 
 tled manner in which I usually turned my 
 mind to the consideration of every thing. 
 Now, however, I did for a while dwell 
 upon it, but it was only for a while ; my
 
 72 
 
 anxieties about Leslie engrossed me 
 wholly. I expected to hear from him 
 as a matter of course, during his ab- 
 sence. He had not, indeed, promised 
 that he would write to me, nor had I 
 requested it, because I took it for granted 
 that he would, without my saying any 
 thing about it. For the first week of his 
 absence I was tolerably patient, because 
 I allowed him time to have arrived com- 
 fortably at the end of his journey, and to 
 have written me the most diffuse epistle 
 before I would permit myself to be made 
 quite miserable by his failing to do so. 
 
 " He could not very well write till 
 such a day," I used to repeat to myself 
 almost every five minutes ; and then I 
 went over and over again with unceasing 
 interest in my calculations of the dis- 
 tance that divided us, the accidents 
 that might impede a letter from being 
 written exactly at the moment I ex- 
 pected, &c. &c. At last, when it became 
 quite clear, that time had been granted
 
 13 
 
 for every sort of trifling impediment to 
 his writing, my state of mind bordered 
 upon frenzy. 
 
 I know of nothing more agitating to a 
 nervous, irritable frame, than the expec- 
 tation of an interesting letter. Every 
 morning brought with it such feelings of 
 excited hope as were positively agoniz- 
 ing, so terrible was the possibility of 
 their being disappointed. 
 
 A lover's letter is at all times a matter 
 of no small interest to the person it ad- 
 dresses ; but in my peculiar case it was 
 especially so : for the departure of Leslie 
 was involved in much mystery; and, from 
 some vague hints he had dropped, I had 
 reason to suppose it connected with that 
 explanation of his future views and in- 
 tentions, upon which my destiny was sus- 
 pended. Ever since I acquiesced in the 
 clandestine measures he proposed, I had 
 found sufficient sorrow and disquiet to 
 attend them ; but not till now had I ex- 
 perienced so fully their wretched conse- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 
 
 quences. I saw that I had put my hap- 
 piness in the power of a man who might 
 or might not, make a generous use of his 
 influence. His present neglect of me 
 too painfully warranted a belief that he 
 regarded our connexion in a far less 
 sacred light, than he would have done 
 had it been honourably acknowledged to 
 my best and natural protectors. 
 
 " He would not have dared to trifle 
 with me thus," I said to Elizabeth Rus- 
 sell, one morning when I had made my- 
 self sure of receiving a letter from him, 
 and had been as usual disappointed. 
 
 " He would not have dared to trifle 
 with me thus, if he did not know that 
 I cannot speak of it to my aunt and 
 uncle. I cannot complain of his con- 
 duct ; he knows that I cannot do this, 
 whatever I may suffer : and thus he pre- 
 sumes upon my folly — my idiotism 1" 
 and tears of scorn almost choked my ut- 
 terance. 
 
 « I am sure, if I really thought this,"
 
 75 
 
 said Elizabeth, " I would soon shew 
 him his mistake — I would break with 
 him directly." 
 
 " You would !" I exclaimed, only 
 wishing at that angry moment for some 
 spur, some incitement, to retaliate upon 
 him the wretchedness he occasioned me. 
 
 " Undoubtedly I would," she replied, 
 " if I really believed that he was pur- 
 posely trifling with my feelings. But 
 you do not believe this of him, Isabel — 
 you cannot." 
 
 " I know not what to think," I re- 
 plied \ u I know nothing but that I am 
 most miserable, most wretched ! Oh, 
 what would I give, never — never to have 
 seen his face !" 
 
 " Come, come," she replied, endea- 
 vouring to soothe and comfort me, " you 
 take the matter too seriously. Leslie 
 loves you very dearly." 
 
 " Do you think he does, Elizabeth ?" 
 
 " I am certain of it. What ! would 
 
 E 2
 
 76 
 
 a man act so and so ?" and she specified 
 instances wherein she believed he had 
 strongly manifested his affection for me > 
 instances it charmed away my grief to 
 hear her speak of. " Do you think a 
 man could act thus without being very 
 sincerely attached ?" 
 
 " Surely he could not !" I replied in a 
 doubting tone : not because -I really 
 questioned his love ; but because it was 
 so sweet to me to hear it confirmed by 
 the opinion of another, that I could 
 have been glad to have listened to her 
 through the whole day, while she spoke 
 of Leslie's attachment to me. In pur- 
 suing this enchanting theme I forgot my 
 indignation against him ; I united with 
 Elizabeth in conjecturing once more 
 some causes for his silence. The result 
 of the whole was, that, considering all 
 things, he might not have been able to 
 write so soon as we supposed. " I think 
 to-morrow, Isabel, you will have a
 
 77 
 
 letter," she said, as she parted from 
 me. 
 
 I shook my head. This delusive to- 
 morrow had failed me too often to be 
 much trusted. 
 
 " Yes, I feel a presentiment that you 
 will hear of him to-morrow, " she re- 
 peated, with a confidence which imparted 
 something of the same feeling to me. 
 She then departed, leaving me with a 
 temporary exhilaration of spirits, which, 
 in my ignorance of poor deceiving and 
 deceived human nature, I mistook for 
 an interval of reasonable thought. 
 
 " It is very foolish to be so impatient 
 as I am," I said to myself; " I am cer- 
 tainly very wrong — very much mis- 
 guided ; I must discipline my heart and 
 affections ; I must bear to suffer for a 
 time;" — and I thought of my serious 
 conversation with Miss Delmond. This 
 thought brought with it a recollection 
 that I had paid no attention to her wish 
 of seeing me again. It had been impos- 
 
 e 3
 
 78 
 
 sible, indeed, that I should do so, while my 
 mind was in the disturbed and miserable 
 state it had been in during the last week. 
 Now, however, I felt an interval (as I 
 supposed) of sober reflection, and now 
 I thought I would call upon her; but on 
 looking at my watch, I found it was her 
 dinner-hour, and I postponed it till the 
 morrow. A thought crossed my mind, 
 as I decided upon this, that my capa- 
 bility of visiting Miss Delmond, and 
 listening to her tranquil, quiet conver- 
 sation, would very much depend upon 
 my hearing from Leslie ; for if I was 
 again disappointed, I knew I should have 
 no spirits for any society but that of Miss 
 Russell ; but it was the thought only of 
 an instant — I gave it no indulgence. I 
 was, for the present, in too good humour 
 with myself, to suppose I was at all 
 likely to be such a victim to circum- 
 stances, or that I could so soon forget 
 the moral lesson in which I was now 
 trying to instruct myself.
 
 I sat down to read for the first time 
 since Leslie's departure. I did not feel 
 inclined, just then, to turn to the sacred 
 volume which Miss Delmond had recom- 
 mended me to study. " By and bye, I 
 shall read it regularly," I said. 
 
 A little volume of detached thoughts 
 and sentences, by the Reverend Mr. 
 xldam, which she had lent me when we 
 parted after our last interview, suited me 
 exactly, and I sat down to it with some 
 interest. I was always fond of exercising 
 my mind in reflection, and this little volume 
 afforded me ample materials for thought. 
 
 Many of the sentiments were expressed 
 in quaint, and even coarse language ; 
 some I could not understand, and some 
 were, as I thought, ludicrous in their con- 
 ception, and in the words that conveyed 
 it. But here and there I met with one 
 which not only made me think, but 
 which made me feel deeply — painfully. 
 
 " Lord forgive me my sins, and suffer 
 me to keep them — Is this the meaning 
 e 4
 
 80 
 
 of my prayers?" was a remark which 
 occasioned me for a long time to muse 
 upon the coldness, the heartlessness, 
 with which, from habit rather than any 
 better motive, I daily offered up a formal 
 petition to the Throne of Mercy. 
 
 " Have I ever earnestly, and with a 
 fervour proportioned to my great need 
 of help, solicited for a new heart ; a 
 more subdued will ; a more patient 
 spirit ?" I asked myself. 
 
 " How true is that !" I said, as I read 
 the following ; " We expect submission 
 and amendment from the wrong person : 
 we should expect them from ourselves." 
 
 I went on to another, and my heart 
 sunk within me ; and I closed the book 
 for awhile to think upon it. " God has 
 only one way of bringing all to himself: 
 viz. by martyrdom, or the crucifixion of 
 our wills," 
 
 " Must I suffer ?" I thought— " is it 
 indispensable ?" and I shuddered at the 
 suggestion. I never had but one idea
 
 81 
 
 of suffering at this time, which was, 
 the possibility of Leslie's deserting me. 
 " Any thing but that," I thought ; * I 
 am sure I could be resigned to any trial 
 but that !" 
 
 Alas ! is not this the language of every 
 sufferer, professing acquiescence in any 
 species of trial but that which is or- 
 dained ? My reflections became so pain- 
 ful that I could not bear to dwell upon 
 them ; I resumed my book, in the hope 
 of finding them directed into a less agi- 
 tating channel. I was, as usual, willing 
 to be taught, but not to be troubled ; 
 as if instruction were not to be pur- 
 chased with some difficulty — some en- 
 durance : as if any tiling valuable could 
 be introduced into the mind with the 
 same facility as ideas enter it during 
 sleep ! 
 
 But the very next remark I read, 
 could not be considered without point- 
 ing to the same sacrifice ; that subjuga- 
 tion of will, which can alone improve 
 e 5
 
 82 
 
 the human creature, and bring him into 
 communion with his Maker. 
 
 " I did not know," Mr. Adam re- 
 marks, " how much I was given up to 
 earthly comforts, till they were taken 
 from me, and I was reduced to the ne- 
 cessity of living upon God." On read- 
 ing this, I felt compelled to muse upon 
 the total surrender I had made of my 
 time, my talents, my thoughts, to one 
 object — one earthly object — of which it 
 was in the power of any casualty to 
 bereave me : and if such were to be the 
 case, what had I to turn to ? I thought 
 that I would read no more ; but I had 
 cast my eyes upon the succeeding sen- 
 tence, and insensibly I went through 
 with it. The writer seemed to rejoice 
 in having obtained a sudden ray of truth, 
 and thus expressed himself: — 
 
 " Now for a single eye, and a pure 
 heart ! now there seems to be an open- 
 ing to the happy time of forsaking all ! 
 It is only a glimpse ; but if I keep my
 
 83 
 
 attention fixed upon it, it will bring me 
 full into the light." 
 
 Something like conviction darted upon 
 me respecting his meaning, and seemed 
 to let in a ray of faint illumination 
 upon the dark chaos of my own mind ; 
 but an instinctive assurance that I must 
 suffer pain in tracing out this ray of 
 light and truth, induced me at once to 
 close the book. 
 
 " He is a strange writer," I said ; 
 and, like Felix, I thought "at a more 
 convenient season, I will talk with him 
 again." 
 
 But this convenient season was not 
 likely to happen very soon. 
 
 The following morning brought with 
 it only one thought — one feeling — one 
 wish — one hope : should I hear from 
 Leslie ? 
 
 Whether it had been the representa- 
 tion of Elizabeth Russell, or the sole 
 work of my restless imagination, or the 
 result of all together, I never had felt 
 e 6
 
 84 
 
 more confidence that I should receive 
 a letter from him, than on this morning*. 
 I went down to breakfast in the most 
 joyous expectation. My aunt and uncle 
 looked at me now and then with sur- 
 prise : for it was now a very unusual 
 thing to see any expression of pleasure 
 or animation on my face. 
 
 The moment that breakfast was over, 
 I took my station at the window to 
 watch for the welcome sight of the post- 
 man. The letter, if any arrived, would 
 not, I knew, be brought into the par- 
 lour : for my discreet old Mary, the 
 housemaid, understood better how to 
 manage my interests. But I should 
 have the satisfaction of seeing if the 
 postman stopped at the door j and the 
 possibility of his stopping for any other 
 purpose than to leave a letter for me, 
 never occurred to me. At last I saw 
 him stop at a house exactly opposite 
 our's. Nothing but the presence of 
 my uncle and aunt prevented me from
 
 85 
 
 throwing up the window, and asking 
 him across the street if he had got a 
 letter for me. 
 
 The detestable servant kept him wait- 
 ing at the door, and there he stood, so 
 careless, not conjecturing how my heart 
 was beating, till it was almost convulsed 
 with anxiety for his arrival. Presently 
 the maid-servant opened the door! The 
 wretched woman had got no money 
 about her to pay for the letter he deli- 
 vered, and was gone for a century to 
 fetch it. Then he counted the change 
 as slowly into her hand, as if he had 
 nothing to do but to wait upon her. 
 " What business has a postman to be 
 slow ?" I thought ; " he should fly — fly 
 — Oh ! but he is coming ! No ! yes ! he 
 does come ! he does ! he knocks at the 
 hall door !" and I flew out of the room. 
 " For me ? it is for me !" and I almost 
 snatched a letter out of the footman's 
 hand. " It is for my master, ma'am." 
 I scarcely listened to, or believed, till
 
 86 
 
 old Mary, who had also appeared in 
 high expectation, repeated in a compas- 
 sionate tone, " It is only a letter for 
 my master, Miss Isabel !" I hurried up 
 stairs — I threw myself upon my bed — 
 I gave myself up to floods of tears : I 
 sobbed — like the veriest infant disap- 
 pointed in its wishes, I sobbed as if 
 my heart would break ! Many hours 
 wore away, and I still reclined upon my 
 bed, exhausted with the indulgence I 
 had given to feeling. It was so usual 
 with me to retire to my own room from 
 the hour of breakfast till dinner, that 
 no inquiry had been made for me by my 
 aunt or uncle. My mind had not been 
 idle during this time : I revolved every 
 sort of letter to write to Leslie, for to 
 write to him I was resolved. I must 
 act — I must do. I could not endure 
 this state of horrid stillness and sus- 
 pense ; but how should I write to him ? 
 What had I to say ? Break with him 
 at once, said pride, " Yes ; I will — I
 
 87 
 
 will !" and I not only got up to put in 
 force my intention, but I began several 
 epistles to him to testify it. I could 
 not, however, proceed further than the 
 first three lines. I remembered some 
 testimony of his love ; and then the 
 burning tears fell in streams upon the 
 paper, and I was constrained to cast it 
 away from me, and think of nothing 
 but what was tender and affectionate. 
 Then I would write to him soothingly : 
 I would expostulate with him — I would 
 entreat him not to trifle with my love ; 
 and thus I addressed him. But the 
 thought of what he had caused me to 
 suffer, of what he still might cause me 
 to suffer in protracted suspense, again 
 brought over me the sternest feelings. 
 Anger and scorn induced me to tear 
 into a hundred pieces what I had thus 
 written : and, hopeless and helpless, 
 once more I cast myself upon my bed, 
 and became again the prey of the most 
 deplorable wretchedness. I wished to
 
 88 
 
 see Elizabeth Russell, and had, in one 
 short interval of misery, written a note, 
 in treating her to call. She had sent me 
 word that she feared she could not ; 
 but, if possible, she would. This an- 
 swer had, of course, augmented my sor- 
 rows ; I knew and cared nothing for the 
 reason that prevented her complying 
 with my request — I thought and cared 
 for nobody but myself : my sorrows 
 were my world. About an hour before 
 dinner, I heard a knock at the house 
 door ; I locked from my window, and 
 perceived Miss Delmond standing there. 
 The idea of encountering her, and her 
 tranquillity, at this moment overwhelmed 
 me with horror. I ran to the top of the 
 stairs, in terror that I should not be in 
 time to prevent her admission. 
 
 " Not at home ! not at home !" I said 
 to the servant, who was about to answer 
 to her signal : " I am at home to no- 
 body but Miss Russell." 
 
 I heard her repeat after him, in a
 
 89 
 
 tone of real vexation, " Miss Melville 
 is not at home ! I am very sorry. Pray, 
 give my best regards to her." 
 
 Almost at the same instant Miss Rus- 
 sell arrived, and was admitted, before 
 Miss Delmond had quitted the door. 
 Absorbed as I was in selfishness, 1 felt 
 ashamed of the affront I was putting 
 upon her, in thus openly testifying that 
 I preferred the society of Miss Russell 
 to her's ; and, when Elizabeth first 
 greeted me, I could not avoid speaking 
 of my regret upon the occasion. 
 
 She soon, however, silenced me by 
 proving that Miss Delmond never was 
 offended with any body ; and that, in 
 fact, if she were, it was not of the least 
 consequence in the world. 
 
 She then began to inquire into my 
 present discomfort with a languid and 
 dissatisfied air, which soon proved that, 
 to add to my miseries, I had applied to 
 her at a time when something or other
 
 90 
 
 of her own occupied her too much to 
 permit her to give me the whole, undi- 
 vided attention, which alone suited the 
 unreasonableness of my demands. 
 
 " Yesterday, how kind she was !" I 
 thought ; " and, to-day, how cold !" 
 
 Poor, blind creature ! Why did I not 
 rather look within, and see the radical 
 error there, in my deficiency of that 
 sole principle which would have elevated 
 me beyond the caprice of people and of 
 circumstances. 
 
 " Such fs friendship !" was my petu- 
 lant conclusion. Nevertheless, I asked 
 her opinion about the propriety of my 
 writing to Leslie, and breaking with him 
 at once. 
 
 " He would not believe you 1" was 
 her only reply. 
 
 " Would he not?" I retorted, with 
 the utmost scorn. " To prove to him 
 that I will do it, you yourself, Eliza- 
 beth, shall see me write— for it will be
 
 91 
 
 only a few lines, and you shall put 
 them into the post yourself." 
 
 " You seem to have made many un- 
 successful attempts to address him, how- 
 ever, Isabel!" and she glanced at my 
 writing-desk, where fragments of letters 
 lay in all directions — the result of my 
 profitless, unhappy morning's occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 There was a tone of irony in her ad- 
 dress which I could not bear. 
 
 " I see," said I, " that 1 have pre- 
 sumed upon you too much ; I see that 
 I am troublesome ; don't let me detain 
 you !" 
 
 I tried to speak calmly ; but the rage 
 that possessed me rendered it a fruitless 
 effort. 
 
 " Intrude ! presume ! what is it that 
 you mean ?" she said. 
 
 " I mean what I say ! Pray go." 
 
 She seemed half-inclined to obey me, 
 but I was really suffering too visibly and 
 too deeply to be abandoned ; and, though
 
 92 
 
 with evident displeasure, she returned 
 towards me : 
 
 " 1 don't know how Leslie manages 
 with you, Isabel !" she said, " but, 
 upon my word, if you are as provoking 
 to him -" 
 
 She paused, unwilling to say any thing 
 to exasperate me, but not much disposed 
 to submit to my imperious spirit. 
 
 I felt the justice of her resentment; 
 I felt sensible of my faults — God knows, 
 I felt deeply sensible of them ! 
 
 " I am very provoking, Elizabeth," 
 I said ; " I know I am. But, if you 
 knew what I am suffering " 
 
 She soothed me, and I became more 
 composed. I once more resumed the 
 wretched theme of my disappointed ex- 
 pectations. Once more she besought 
 me to have patience — to think of what 
 my pride demanded of me. 
 
 " He must soon be explicit/' she 
 said. " Even granting that he did not 
 write at all during his absence, he must
 
 93 
 
 soon come back ; and then all will be 
 explained." 
 
 I yielded a reluctant assent to the 
 probability of what she advanced, and 
 mournfully promised to be guided by it.
 
 94 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 When wishes only weak the heart surprise, 
 Heaven, in its mercy, the fond prayer denies ; 
 But when our wishes are both vain and weak, 
 Heaven, in its justice, gives us what we seek. 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 Three weeks at length elapsed, dur- 
 ing which time I had been sick, and 
 dying with the agonies of suspense, and 
 ready to have obtained intelligence of 
 Leslie almost by the sacrifice of my 
 pride, to me the greatest of sacrifices. 
 I had been watching daily and hourly 
 for something like incident ; but life 
 seemed to stand still with me ; a more 
 than usual monotony pervaded every 
 thing. My uncle and aunt were evi- 
 dently not satisfied with my behaviour, 
 which, without being disrespectful, was
 
 95 
 
 not far from appearing sullen, owing to 
 the terrible dejection of my heart. I 
 could not go to Miss Delmond — for my 
 mind was inaccessible to any kind of 
 calm or rational conversation. Elizabeth 
 Russell was evidently weary of support- 
 ing my spirits, by re urging, every time 
 we met, the same counsel. In short, 
 vacuity the most terrible pervaded me 
 in every shape ; and with such sickness 
 at heart did I daily rise to crawl through 
 the heavy day, that, if I had not been 
 compelled, by respect to my aunt and 
 uncle, to pay some attention to appear- 
 ances and regular habits, I should, I 
 believe, have taken to my bed at once, 
 and continued there till some intelli- 
 gence of Leslie had reached me. 
 
 I had now become so far insensible to 
 the postman's knock, as to feel sure 
 that he brought me nothing. Neverthe- 
 less, till that was past, the horror of 
 having nothing to expect was not quite 
 complete. At the end of three weeks
 
 96 
 
 I began insensibly to revive a little; 
 for now the period of Leslie's return 
 was arrived. But still very little com- 
 fort came with this idea: for every 
 answer Miss Russell brought me, to the 
 daily inquiries I caused her to make, in- 
 formed me, that as yet Mr. Hodson 
 had received no letter to announce his 
 pupil's return. At last she came to me 
 one morning, very early, and, by the 
 first glance I cast upon her countenance, 
 I saw she had something to impart. 
 
 I have generally found, in the course 
 of my experience, that it seldom answers 
 to be in a hurry for events. 
 
 A peculiar faculty I possessed of look- 
 ing for evil, made me fancy that what 
 she had to communicate was not of a 
 pleasant nature. In fact, my imagina- 
 tion had so often misled me by false 
 promises, and had so frequently brought 
 upon me the bitterest disappointment, 
 that, young as I was, it had become so 
 far sobered by experience, that I ever
 
 97 
 
 mistrusted its delusive voice when it 
 whispered that happiness was at hand. 
 
 My aunt was present, and some com- 
 mon-place discourse for a few minutes 
 occupied us, or rather them ; for I could 
 only study Elizabeth's countenance with 
 an anxiety which rendered me silent. She 
 made some excuse of wanting to borrow 
 something from me, and we hastened up- 
 stairs together. The door was scarcely 
 closed upon us, when I impatiently in- 
 quired, — 
 
 " Have you not some news for me?" 
 
 " I have," was her reply. 
 
 " Good or bad ?" 
 
 " I will tell you presently." 
 
 i( We were now in my own room, 
 and, without again urging my question, 
 I fixed upon her a look that, I doubt 
 not, told her my whole soul ; for, turn- 
 ing away from me with real emotion, — 
 
 " I know not how to answer you, 
 Isabel," she said; and then she sat 
 
 VOL. I. f
 
 98 
 
 down, and pressed her hand before her 
 eyes. 
 
 I sat down, too, for my whole frame 
 shook with agitation. I saw that some 
 dreadful storm was about to burst upon 
 me, and, without knowing what was the 
 nature or extent of what I was to suffer, 
 I quailed beneath the terror of it. 
 
 " Something respecting Leslie !" I 
 faltered out. 
 
 She raised her head. 
 
 " He is unworthy of you, Isabel !" she 
 said, with an energy which left me no 
 doubt of her believing the truth of what 
 she asserted. 
 
 My heart died within me ! I had no 
 power to defend him — no power to in- 
 quire how or why she condemned him. 
 All I could say w 7 as, — 
 
 " Don't tell me so, Elizabeth ! tell 
 me any thing but that !"— and I gasped 
 for breath. I saw that all mystery was 
 about to be resolved by some tremendous
 
 99 
 
 burst of intelligence, and, as if my 
 shrinking from the communication of it 
 could reduce it to a fable or a dream 
 with wretched infatuation I recoiled 
 from hearing it. 
 
 " Say any thing but that Leslie does 
 not love me !" I repeated. " You have 
 not to say that?" — and with desperate 
 eagerness I caught her hand — " you have 
 not to say that, Elizabeth ?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " Say all — say every thing !" I faintly 
 exclaimed : '• if you have that to tell 
 me, I can hear nothing worse !" and I 
 waited without tear or sigh for all she 
 had to impart ; for my feelings were far 
 beyond the mournful relief of either. 
 I only tried to dissipate the pent-up 
 agony of my spirits by walking up and 
 down the room, endeavouring to allay 
 the beating of my heart by the pressure 
 of my clasped hands : yet in vain ! it 
 throbbed as if it would have burst my bo- 
 som, and I was compelled to sit down. 
 f 2
 
 100 
 
 " My dear Isabel!" said Elizabeth, 
 coming to me, with the tears stealing 
 down her cheeks, as she observed and 
 pitied the dumb sorrow which so heavily 
 oppressed me, " do not thus give way ; 
 I shall fear to tell you any thing." 
 
 « No— do not fear," I said : " tell 
 me all ; I shall be better in hearing it. 
 You say that he does not love me ! I 
 can hear any thing after that." 
 
 " I know not how to reconcile the 
 idea of his loving you with the un- 
 doubted fact I have just heard of 
 his " 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " Say on," I exclaimed — " say every 
 thing !" 
 
 " I have just heard, then," she pro- 
 ceeded, " from Mrs. Hodson, that Leslie 
 has been long engaged to a young lady 
 near London, and that he is certainly to 
 marry her as soon as he is of age." 
 
 Well as I believed I could have sup- 
 ported any tidings after I had listened to
 
 101 
 
 those which informed me that he did not 
 love me, I found there was in store for 
 me a pang more poignant still — a pang 
 unrivalled by any in the anguish which 
 attends on disappointed love — "Engaged 
 to another ! love another !" 
 
 I did not want for tears now ! they 
 burst in torrents from my eyes — they con- 
 vulsed me ! " Love another !" was all I 
 could, for many minutes, incessantly re- 
 peat. At length, 
 
 " It cannot be, Elizabeth ! it surely 
 cannot be !" I said. " Can you think 
 that he loved any one but me ? oh, 
 tell me sincerely all you think — can you 
 believe that he loved any one but me ?" 
 
 " No, certainly," she replied, "judg- 
 ing from his conduct, I should say, with- 
 out hesitation, that he was passionately 
 attached to you." 
 
 " Oh ! and so he was ! he was — I ne- 
 ver will believe otherwise !" I vehe- 
 mently repeated, as if in the very assu- 
 rance I convinced myself of its truth. 
 f 3
 
 102 
 
 " Yet, this strange intelligence ! what 
 can it mean ? tell it me just as you heard 
 it, Elizabeth/ ' 
 
 She repeated it ; but my questions 
 were so numerous and so involved, from 
 the confusion that reigned in my mind, 
 that I scarcely knew what she said. 
 The substance of it seemed to be this : 
 that on calling upon Mrs. Hodson, she 
 had received from that lady the intelli- 
 gence she had just imparted to me ; 
 which intelligence it did not appear had 
 arrived from Leslie himself (as of him 
 they had heard nothing since his depar- 
 ture) but had accidentally been com- 
 municated to them by some person lately 
 arrived who knew the lady, and all the 
 circumstances relative to the affair. 
 
 Greatly as I was disturbed in the first 
 instance by so unexpected a blow, I 
 could not avoid to try and find comfort 
 for myself by the very many ways in 
 which it appeared to me this intel- 
 ligence might turn out of no impor-
 
 103 
 
 tance. " It might be an old affair that 
 Leslie wished, and was gone to dis- 
 solve," I said ; but Elizabeth could not 
 agree with me. The person who brought 
 this information was so certain of the case; 
 nay, he added " that Leslie now, at this 
 very time, was visiting the young lady." 
 
 " Now !" and I interrupted her, with 
 a hope that she was not sure of what she 
 said ; " not now —perhaps you may be 
 mistaken !" 
 
 " No, Isabel, I am not mistaken ; I 
 could have thought, with you, that he had 
 been entangled in some engagement be- 
 fore he saw you, with a girl he could not 
 love, and that this was the obstacle which 
 impeded his being candid with you till it 
 was removed ; with a view to which, I 
 should have concluded, he was now 
 absent. But when we find him now, 
 at this time, after his connexion with 
 you—" 
 
 " Oh yes," I said, " it is too intelli- 
 gible ! he is, indeed, unworthy of my 
 f 4
 
 104 
 
 love ! Now, indeed, I may write to him ; 
 now I. have a subject!" and my poor 
 wounded heart felt a momentary revival, 
 in the triumph of being the first to break 
 our connexion. 
 
 " He shall not have to discard me, 
 Elizabeth ! — no, no ; he shall not do 
 that !" 
 
 " Wait a little while," she said, taking 
 my hand with a smile which could not, 
 perhaps, have been suppressed by any 
 one who saw the curious sort of comfort 
 which my wayward nature was providing 
 for itself; but a smile, nevertheless, 
 which I stigmatized in my heart as cruel 
 mockery at such a moment — " Wait a 
 little while," she repeated. 
 
 But, again bursting into tears, I turned 
 away from her. 
 
 " No one feels for me !" I said ; 
 " would that I were in my grave ! — oh ! 
 would that I were in my grave ; for 
 in this world I never, never shall be 
 happy !"
 
 105 
 
 She was forbearing and considerate. 
 She would not speak unkindly to me at 
 this bitter moment \ and when she hung 
 over me with compassionate and sooth- 
 ing words, I felt and acknowledged the 
 petulance which wrung such expressions 
 from me. 
 
 " I know that I am very unjust and 
 very unreasonable," I said ; " but this 
 is so hard a blow — so very hard !" and 
 again my voice was lost in anguish. 
 
 " I know it is a dreadful stroke !" she 
 replied ; u but you will get the better of 
 it; depend upon it, my dear Isabel, 
 your pride will support you." 
 
 " My pride !" and I shook my head ; 
 I felt how poor a prop was human pride 
 at this sad moment. 
 
 " You cannot, just now, perhaps, feel 
 otherwise than deeply wounded by such 
 treatment," she continued; " but take 
 my word for it, in one week you will see 
 him in his true colours you will despise 
 him as he deserves." 
 f 5
 
 106 
 
 "Oh! Elizabeth/' I exclaimed, "this 
 is sad comfort! to think that all the conso- 
 lation I can look forward to, is in despising 
 a man so dear to me ! — ves, even now — " 
 
 "What, even now !" and she looked 
 at me reproachfully, " Just think of his 
 deceit ! just think of what he has caused 
 you to suffer during the last three weeks ! 
 just figure to yourself how his time has 
 been passing in devoted attention to 
 another woman, while you — " 
 
 " Oh! no, no, no!" — I almost shrieked, 
 " I cannot think of it ! I will not think 
 of it !" 
 
 " But, my dear creature, you must 
 think of it," she said ; " why will you 
 deceive yourself! — of what use is it to 
 shut your eyes against conviction ?" 
 
 " Of none — I know 7 it is of none," I 
 replied, " and I will not do it ! yet, oh, 
 Elizabeth ! what can I do ? Ah ! God di- 
 rect and comfort me !" and as the invo- 
 luntary prayer escaped my lips, I felt 
 that I had touched the only string that
 
 107 
 
 breathed of consolation. I pressed my 
 hands before my eyes, and silently ejacu- 
 lated a fervent supplication for divine 
 assistance. The very thought in some 
 degree composed me, though but for 
 a brief interval. I wish, indeed, most 
 clearly to state, that in these upliftings 
 of an agitated heart, I trace nothing be- 
 yond mere natural impulse ; nothing of 
 the regular, habitual, instinctive turning 
 of a pious heart, under all circumstances 
 and in every situation, to God, as its su- 
 preme source of comfort, of joy, of hope, 
 and of delight. Alas, no ! as yet this 
 sublime principle had no dwelling in my 
 heart ! my prayers were the result of an 
 amazed and terrified spirit, broken by 
 unexpected misfortune, and not knowing 
 for what or by whom it is afflicted, flying 
 for succour to its long-neglected God ! 
 Yet, so merciful and tender is He over 
 all his creatures, that even to the prayer 
 which nothing but distress extorts, He 
 lends a ready ear ! He waits to be gra- 
 f 6
 
 1C8 
 
 cious ! — Oh ! how many slighted oppor- 
 tunities of giving myself up to his de- 
 signs, and casting myself low before his 
 throne, have I to number ! Sorrow after 
 sorrow has He sent me — summons after 
 summons I would call them ; and yet my 
 stubborn heart still lingered in this vale 
 of misery, and all its aspirations after bet- 
 ter things, all its consciousness of suffer- 
 ing and unkindness, and the deceitful- 
 ness of those it loved and trusted ; all its 
 bitterness and all its agony, has only 
 prompted a few passing thoughts of God 
 and of eternity, and back it wanders to 
 its idols and its vanities, till the last 
 warning comes ! — Oh, wise are those who 
 know the precious use of trial and adver- 
 sity ! and well may we all adopt the lan- 
 guage of the Poet, when he exclaims — 
 
 O sacred sorrow ! by whom souls are tried, 
 Sent, not to punish mortals, but to guide ; 
 If thou art mine, and who shall proudly dare 
 To tell his Maker he has had his share ? 
 Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent, 
 And be my guide, and not my punishment. 
 
 CliABEE.
 
 109 
 
 It was but a temporary aid I derived 
 from supplications like those I offered to 
 Heaven. The root of an earth-directed 
 spirit was within me, and nothing but 
 earthly passions could spring from it. 
 After seeing me every successive minute 
 the sport and victim of a fresh burst of 
 feeling, Elizabeth, at the end of the morn- 
 ing, left me decided to write to my per- 
 fidious lover. This was the only measure 
 I could pursue, if I intended to adopt 
 any upon the information 1 had re- 
 ceived ; and when we came to talk the 
 matter over more calmly, she seemed to 
 see, equally with me, the propriety of my 
 having the wretched gratification of be- 
 ing the party to break the connexion, 
 since it appeared that broken it must be. 
 
 To have something to do, especially 
 something so decisive, so energetic as 
 this, gave me a degree of animation, and 
 protracted, for a while, the full force of 
 this heavy grief from totally overpower- 
 ing me. I was able to make my appear-
 
 no 
 
 ance before my aunt and uncle at dinner, 
 though with a prodigious effort, and only 
 in the strength of thinking over in my 
 mind the letter I was to write to Leslie 
 directly afterwards. 
 
 As soon as I could, I returned to my 
 room, and with a vehement struggle I 
 repelled the rising tears, w r hich almost 
 blinded me as I began to write, in a 
 strain — oh ! how different from that in 
 which I had so often addressed him! 
 But this was to be a day of event ! for, 
 ere I had concluded three lines of w T hat 
 I intended to say to him, the old maid- 
 servant, who was the medium of his com- 
 municating with me, entered the room 
 with a note, which I saw in an instant 
 came from Leslie ; and before she could 
 speak her errand, I had snatched it out 
 of her hand, and read as follows : 
 
 " I am just returned ; I need not say 
 how impatient I am to see you ; do, 
 dearest Isabel ! repair in about an hour,
 
 Ill 
 
 to our usual place of meeting, where 
 you will find your devotedly attached 
 
 " E. Leslie." 
 
 The servant had retired, and I was at 
 liberty to ponder and exclaim, and walk 
 up and down my room in a paroxysm of 
 new and tumultuous feeling, made up of 
 fresh hopes and expectations. It was 
 impossible, I assured myself, that he 
 could be now prosecuting his attentions 
 to another woman, and yet so anxious to 
 keep up an intercourse with me that the 
 very instant of his return he should seek 
 an interview with me -perhaps he came 
 to tell me every thing ; to explain every 
 mystery — perhaps ! oh, it was certain ! 
 there could be no doubt of it ! no, not 
 the shadow of a doubt ! — Dear, dear 
 Leslie ! how unjust have I been to you ! 
 at the very time, too, when you were has- 
 tening towards me, full of love and con- 
 fidence ! But this misery was all from 
 my impatience ; if I could but have
 
 112 
 
 waited a few hours longer, how much 
 anguish should I have been spared ! But 
 all is well ! all is well ! and now v ith 
 tears of joy I tore in pieces the letter I 
 had begun to write to him, and turned 
 my whole attention to thinking over our 
 approaching interview. 
 
 " The happiest it will be that ever we 
 have known !" I thought ; " for now all 
 will be explained." 
 
 I persuaded myself that the first in- 
 stant of our meeting would be that of 
 candid acknowledgment on his part ; 
 and, again the slave of fancy, I sat down 
 with my watch in my hand to count the 
 tedious moments. At last the time ar- 
 rived — the weary hour were away. With 
 more attention to appearances than since 
 his absence 1 had thought of, I dressed my- 
 self to look well, and pleasing in his sight, 
 and tried to chase away with smiles the 
 traces which the morning's grief had left 
 upon my countenance ; and thus, with 
 hope, too treacherous hope, fluttering in
 
 ]\S 
 
 my bosom, I hastened to the destined 
 spot. 
 
 He was there before me ; but not as 
 I had anticipated, did he, with joy cor- 
 responding to mine, seem to be eagerly 
 watching for my arrival ; but, on the 
 contrary, in the most dejected manner, 
 he was leaning his head upon his hand 
 as he stood by a gate, and appearing to 
 be lost in melancholy abstraction; an 
 abstraction so deep that, till he heard 
 my steps, he did not rouse from it. 
 
 Then, indeed, a gleam of pleasure 
 lighted up his countenance ; but I saw 
 that it was but a gleam, and my variable 
 feelings sunk from their elevation. I 
 know not well what I had precisely ex- 
 pected his greeting to be, but something 
 different from — " Isabel, this is, in- 
 deed, most kind !" Still, for the first few 
 minutes, I received him with cordial 
 delight, for, as yet, it did not, even to 
 my impatient, distorted mind, seem quite 
 clear that he had no communication to
 
 114 
 
 make, though it was not given in the 
 same breath with which he welcomed 
 me, as I had, no doubt, expected. 
 
 But when I found him proceeding in 
 a strain which betokened ardent plea- 
 sure indeed, in our meeting, but no- 
 thing like elucidation, or the slightest 
 reference to the terrible report I had 
 heard, all my former fears of being de- 
 ceived returned with tenfold force, agi- 
 tating me so terribly, that, as I leaned 
 upon his arm, he perceived the trem- 
 bling of my frame. 
 
 " My dear Isabel !" he said, " what 
 is the matter?" and, alarmed by the 
 paleness of my countenance as he looked 
 anxiously in my face, whilst he made 
 the inquiry, " what is the matter ?" he 
 repeated. 
 
 Never in my life had I made such 
 an effort of self-control, as that which 
 restrained me, when he asked me this, 
 from answering, " Your perfidy it is 
 that kills me !" but I struggled till
 
 115 
 
 cold drops stood upon my forehead — I 
 struggled to be silent. I was obliged to 
 sit down upon a bank that was near us ; 
 for these repeated attacks upon my feel- 
 ings were more than I could support. 
 
 " Tell me, dearest, I beseech you to 
 tell me, what affects you thus ?" he 
 incessantly inquired of me, as he 
 hung over me with the fondest atten- 
 tion ; but I would not be any longer 
 misled by his tenderness. I would be 
 firm — ah ! too confident — too dependent 
 upon my erring feeble powers ! Now, 
 indeed, had I prayed, it might have 
 been well ! but I thought that I was 
 strong and sufficient for myself, and as 
 soon as I grew more composed, I rose 
 and proposed to resume our walk. 
 
 He looked at me with an earnest and 
 penetrating eye. It was quite manifest 
 to him, that I was not myself. It was 
 not like me, thus coldly to repel his no- 
 tice—thus decidedly to intrench myself
 
 116 
 
 in reserve — thus evidently to labour at 
 subduing some strong emotion — No, 
 this was not natural to me. Still he 
 chose not to notice it directly : at least, 
 such was the construction I put upon 
 his remaining silent for a short time 
 after we resumed our walk. " He sees 
 something strange in me," I said to 
 myself; "he must see that!" But he 
 will not inquire into it. No : that would 
 lead to an explanation, and that he 
 clearly wishes to avoid ! To avoid ! what 
 the very circumstance I supposed him 
 most anxious should occur ! and so he 
 would have been anxious for it, if he 
 had an honourable purpose in view ; 
 but he has not ! all is too intelligible ! 
 all is too well explained ! But I will un- 
 deceive him before we part ! yes — yes ; 
 we will not continue thus playing upon 
 each other. / will be candid, at least : 
 but, gently — I will do it gently — calmly 
 — patiently. " Oh, yes ! I will be quite 
 calm."
 
 117 
 
 At length these incongruous medita- 
 tions were interrupted by his address- 
 ing me. 
 
 " You cannot think," he said, " how 
 tired every body has been of me, since 
 I have been away. You spoil me, Isabel, 
 for all other society.' ' 
 
 " Do I ?" was my only reply ; but I 
 attempted a smile, and he went on. 
 
 " If I could have spoken of you, I 
 should have been eloquent, and then, 
 perhaps, I might have been agreeable ; 
 but having only one thought to utter, 
 and nobody to understand it, I was 
 obliged to be silent." 
 
 " If this one thought had been very 
 solicitous for communication," I could 
 not forbear to say, " I should have sup- 
 posed that, in the course of three weeks, 
 it would have tempted you to direct 
 your attention to the object of it." 
 
 " If I had been able to have addressed 
 you exactly as I could have wished,"
 
 118 
 
 he replied, gravely, " I should not have 
 drawn upon myself your reproof." 
 
 " I. dare say not," said I, with as 
 much calmness as I could assume, which 
 was little indeed ; for the tempest that 
 raged in my soul every moment in- 
 creased in force as my conviction of his 
 treachery appeared to be more and more 
 justified by his present behaviour. 
 
 " But the moment of explanation, 
 though protracted, is not now far dis- 
 tant," said he, with a sort of proud sub- 
 mission which seemed to resent my dis- 
 satisfaction, as conveying an indirect 
 doubt of his honour, quite insupport- 
 able to him ; a pretended resentment — 
 for such I thought it — which disarmed 
 me at once of all my self-possession, 
 all my previous resolutions, all my hard- 
 ly-acquired patience." 
 
 " No : it is not now far distant," I 
 said, with my heart beating terribly ; 
 " it is at hand — it is come."
 
 119 
 
 He fixed upon me a most expressive 
 look, but did not speak. 
 
 " Yes, it is come 1" I repeated, with 
 undissembled anger ; my overwhelming 
 passions rushing upon their victim at 
 once, and making me their unhappy 
 slave. " The explanation is made, Les- 
 lie, and I am undeceived. Yes ; do not 
 wonder — do not look at me with so 
 much astonishment : truth will make its 
 way ; it will reach the ears of even those 
 from whom we labour to disguise it. It 
 will — it will, you see !" 
 
 " What can this mean !" he said, 
 with, what I concluded to be well affect- 
 ed surprise, " what can you mean ? 
 Surely, Isabel, you must have lost your 
 senses ?" 
 
 " No, rather say that I have but 
 just found them," I replied ; " I lost 
 them indeed when I believed that a 
 man, who began his addresses to me 
 with a request they might be concealed, 
 could mean me honourably ; I lost them
 
 120 
 
 when, for three months he was avowedly 
 mysterious with me, and still I believed 
 that he intended me well. I lost them 
 when, for three weeks together while he 
 was absent from me, he never could 
 address to me one word of remembrance, 
 and still I depended upon his faith and 
 constancy. But now, Leslie, I have 
 found them, for now I know that you 
 are deceiving me — I know it." 
 
 " You know it!" he repeated, " you 
 know it!" 
 
 " Yes I know it ! what need of this 
 frivolous repetition of my words ? you 
 have nothing to say — let it pass — you 
 have nothing to say !" 
 
 " I must say, that I think you are 
 distracted !" 
 
 " Perhaps so ! very likely ! I don't 
 know any thing more likely to distract a 
 sensitive and affectionate heart, than to 
 mid itself deceived where it had reposed 
 the most undoubting confidence !"
 
 121 
 
 " And how have I deceived you? 
 how have I betrayed your confidence ?" 
 
 " By plighting your affections to me, 
 when they were before pledged to ano- 
 ther." 
 
 His countenance underwent an evi- 
 dent change as I said this ; surprise was 
 visible in every feature ; still he main- 
 tained a composure of manner which 
 irritated me to the very verge of dis- 
 traction. 
 
 " But again, perhaps, I am testifying 
 the loss of my senses!" I proceeded; 
 " again you will tell me I am distracted ; 
 doubtless I am dreaming ! no such thing 
 has ever occurred ; you never spoke of 
 love to any but me ; you will tell me this 
 — beyond all question you will tell me 
 this, to cajole me yet a little longer !" — 
 My vehemence compelled me to pause, 
 of which he took advantage to speak. 
 
 " I do not tell you this," he said, with 
 a calmness which made no part of his 
 character, and which I do not believe he 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 
 
 would have felt, if my violence had not 
 given him time to collect all his powers, 
 and, in fact, invested him with that ad- 
 vantage which the most erring creatures, 
 while self-possessed, will ever obtain even 
 over those who have truth on their side, 
 when the latter unfortunately suffer them- 
 selves to be governed by passion. 
 
 " I do not tell you this," he said. 
 
 " Indeed ! you acknowledge it then !" 
 I replied ; " you acknowledge that you 
 have deceived and trifled with me — that 
 you selected me as a fit subject for the 
 gratification of your vanity ! — that — " 
 
 " I make no such acknowledgment," 
 said he, interrupting me ; he would have 
 added more, but I had not patience to 
 wait for it. He had tacitly confessed 
 to my face, that the worst part of my 
 suspicions of him were true, and every 
 moment that I staid with him after that, 
 seemed a degradation too humiliating to 
 be borne. 
 
 " No, you would not do that," I said :
 
 123 
 
 " that would be carrying candour a great 
 way indeed ! It is sufficient that all is 
 told which it behoved me to hear. I 
 know that you were under an engagement 
 to another when you solicited my hand. 
 I know that you have deceived me — 
 what need I know more than that ?" 
 
 " You do not know it !" he replied, 
 with great indignation, for now his tem- 
 per was roused, and he appeared deter- 
 mined to defend himself. " I know not 
 what you have heard, and I care not." 
 
 " I dare say not," said I, interrupting 
 him again with the utmost scorn, " why 
 should you care ? What is a woman's 
 love ! what signifies a woman's heart ! 
 if it is distressed, or wounded, or 
 broken, what matter? It serves to 
 swell a triumph ; and when it is talked 
 of in your presence, you have only 
 to say, poor Isabel Melville ! Ah 
 poor girl ! I was sorry she had fixed her 
 affections so extravagantly upon me ! 
 g 2
 
 124 
 
 The matter will no doubt pass off thus ; 
 and what have you to care for ?" 
 
 " God give me patience with you, 
 Isabel !" he said — and I believe with 
 sincerity enough, for 1 suppose I might 
 have passed the bounds of being endured 
 with any kind of composure. But my 
 very soul was overwhelmed with the 
 intensity of my various passions, and I 
 scarcely could be called in the possession 
 of my senses. 
 
 " Give you patience!" I said; " 'tis 
 I that should intreat for patience ! 
 Humbled, and injured, and deceived, 
 and insulted as I am !" and I felt the 
 tears, which indignation had hitherto 
 restrained, now rising to my eyes, and 
 threatening every moment to burst forth; 
 a sight I would not have exhibited to 
 him — no, not for any consideration that 
 could have been named to me. Yet if I 
 staid another instant I knew it must be 
 so — yes — oh yes — for he took my hand !
 
 125 
 
 " Isabel, for God's sake, be com- 
 posed !" he said. 
 
 " Composed ! how can you speak to 
 me of composure ? Have you not broken 
 my heart ? have you not — " But no 
 more — I rushed away from him. I 
 would not stay to let him see, in the 
 agony that oppressed me, how dreadful 
 was the devastation he had made of my 
 happiness. 
 
 I heard him pronounce my name once 
 or twice in a tone of intreaty, but I would 
 not listen ; I hurried from him, as if 
 destruction was in his presence ; and 
 never did I pause till I arrived, I scarcely 
 knew how, at my uncle's door. 
 
 I hastened to my own room : I shut 
 — I bolted the door ; and, on my knees, 
 I tried to pray — but I could not ! hu- 
 man passion had the full possession of 
 me, and my soul was too much unsub- 
 dued for prayer. Amidst the tide of 
 feelings that overwhelmed me, I was 
 most of all distressed by the remem- 
 Q 3
 
 126 
 
 brance of ray own impetuosity, which 
 had prevented me from reaping the only 
 advantage this wretched interview could 
 have afforded, in drawing from Leslie 
 the confession I had so long and so 
 eagerly desired respecting his real situa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh ! fool, fool that I am !" I in- 
 cessantly repeated ; " when shall I learn 
 wisdom ? when shall I obtain common- 
 sense ? Never — never ! These tremen- 
 dous feelings ! — Oh ! why was I born ?" 
 And then the bursting tears a little re- 
 lieved the fulness of my labouring breast. 
 The intensity of my sufferings made me 
 pitiable even to myself! I could not 
 forbear to believe that He who made 
 me thus, would look upon me with com- 
 passion, and, with softer emotions, again 
 I bent my knees before him, and besought 
 His aid — though not with words, for I 
 had none ! I did but lift my wounded 
 spirit in the mournful intreaty of heart- 
 breaking sighs and sobs, that drowned
 
 127 
 
 every faint attempt I made for utter- 
 ance. I felt an instinctive assurance, 
 that the refuge I sought was my all, 
 though I knew not how to seek it aright. 
 A still but awful voice within me, though 
 fiercely resisted by the clamour of out- 
 rageous passion, assured me that I was 
 myself the source of all my wretched- 
 ness ; and that some transformation, far 
 beyond my feeble efforts to produce, 
 must be wrought in me, before any thing 
 like peace could be my portion. Yes — 
 even in this hour of noise, and fury, and 
 earth-born corruption, I heard and trem- 
 bled at the voice of conscience — the 
 voice of God ! 
 
 " Oh, teach me !" I said ; " forgive, 
 and teach me !" 
 
 The words were few, but they as- 
 suredly rose from my inmost soul ; and, 
 though the supplication was not imme- 
 diately answered, I am well persuaded 
 it was treasured up in heaven. 
 g 4
 
 128 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 MISS DELMOND WRITES. 
 
 They also serve, who only stand and wait. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 I must here pause to remark, in rela- 
 tion to this subject of prayer, that Chris- 
 tians are too apt to fancy their petitions 
 are not accepted, if not speedily answer- 
 ed. We offer them up, and we rise 
 from our knees, and too commonly forget 
 the subject for which we have in treated, 
 even though it may have been with the 
 sincerest fervour ; more especially if 
 some little time elapses, and we expe- 
 rience not the desired blessing : whereas 
 it may be months, and even years, be- 
 fore it is bestowed. The answer to our
 
 129 
 
 prayer, if withheld, is not forgotten; 
 but, if earnestly sought, and it is fit for 
 us to receive, it never fails to come in 
 God's good time, in which a thousand 
 years are but as yesterday. 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 I was far too much disturbed and 
 agitated to attend the tea-table. I had 
 no resource to escape it but the usual 
 resort of Miss Russell's dwelling, to 
 which I repaired without loss of time, 
 for fear of being prevented by any mes- 
 sage from below. In doing this, I was 
 increasing the dissatisfaction both of my 
 uncle and aunt, who did not approve of 
 this extreme intimacy, to the neglect of 
 allmy domestic duties and attentions to 
 them. But, as one wrong step infallibly 
 involves a great many more, my con- 
 nexion with Leslie had paved the way 
 to this indiscretion, or at least to its 
 g 5
 
 130 
 
 subsisting in a far greater degree than it 
 would have done otherwise. And these 
 visits were never beneficial to me ; for 
 Miss Russell was a worldly counsellor, 
 and my unhappy case required to be 
 guided by the wisdom which was from 
 above. But she did her best for me. 
 What that best was, may be gathered 
 from our conversation, which, as soon 
 as we had resorted to her room, and 
 were quite free from interruption, I in- 
 troduced by relating, in a manner scarcely 
 to be called intelligible, from the excess 
 of my emotions, the scene which had 
 taken place with Leslie — of whose re- 
 turn she heard, of course, with the ut- 
 most astonishment. 
 
 " What can you think of it, Eliza- 
 beth ?" I said, when I had finished what 
 I had to relate ; " what can you think 
 of him ? Can you believe that he has 
 any thing to say in vindication of him- 
 self?" 
 
 She inquired what he had already
 
 131 
 
 said, which, I was obliged to confess, 
 my violence and impatience had reduced 
 to nothing. 
 
 " But, doubtless, he had nothing to 
 advance." — I went on, in much anxiety, 
 to relieve myself from the folly of having 
 been the obstacle in the way of deriving 
 the only satisfaction that remained to 
 me, — " what could he have to say, you 
 know, Elizabeth, after he had acknow- 
 ledged that what I accused him of was 
 true ?" 
 
 *' Why, we don't know," she replied ; 
 " he might have been able to prove that 
 itwas an entanglement against his wishes; 
 or, he might " 
 
 " Oh! don't— don't tell me this!" 
 I exclaimed, bursting into tears. 
 
 " Well — but," said she, willing to 
 soothe me, " if he has any thing to say 
 in his justification, you will still hear it. 
 If he sincerely loves you, he will not 
 part with you thus." 
 g 6
 
 132 
 
 " I think not," I eagerly exclaimed, 
 full of joy to find she had fixed upon a 
 suggestion which, since my wretched 
 parting with Leslie, I had been inces- 
 santly clinging to for comfort. " Oh, 
 no!" I continued, " he surely would 
 not part with me thus ! You do not 
 think he would, Elizabeth?" 
 
 She repeated her conviction that he 
 would not. 
 
 " But, still," I went on, " if he is ac- 
 tually engaged to another woman ! What 
 can be said to justify such a case as 
 that?" 
 
 She mused a little while before she 
 spoke. 
 
 " He might happen to be engaged to 
 her before he saw you, and, after that 
 time, he found his affections transferred 
 to you." 
 
 " Oh ! but, if that should be the case, 
 how could I listen to addresses from a 
 man who must have acted perfidiously, 
 in entering into an engagement with one
 
 S3 
 
 woman, while he was still under a similar 
 engagement with another ? How could 
 I, Elizabeth*" 
 
 Again she paused. 
 
 " To be sure," said she, " your know- 
 ing that he had acted thus, would sub- 
 ject you to a great deal of censure from 
 the world in accepting him. What a 
 pity that you did know it ! No doubt, 
 Leslie was desirous to have kept it 
 from you till he had entirely broken 
 it off." 
 
 I thought I should have lost my senses, 
 as this sad conviction became clearer and 
 clearer to us both, the more we mused 
 upon it. 
 
 " However," said she, after a long 
 discussion, " I don't see why people are 
 to suppose that you knew of his being 
 engaged when he offered himself to you." 
 
 " I did not know it," I said, eagerly. 
 
 " No, to be sure," said she ; "no more 
 you did ! Well, well, that settles the 
 whole question, then. Make yourself
 
 134 
 
 easy : all will be explained, and, per- 
 haps, you will be ten times more happy 
 together than ever you have been yet. — 
 Perhaps, did I say ? Nay, it is more 
 than a perhaps — you certainly will ; for, 
 no mystery remaining, you will mu- 
 tually talk of your future plans, and I 
 shall see you his happy wife by this 
 time twelvemonth." 
 
 " My dear Elizabeth !" said I, return- 
 ing with fervour the embrace with which 
 she congratulated me upon this delight- 
 ful prospect, " you are my best com- 
 forter ! What should I do without you ? 
 But then, my dear, this unhappy girl, to 
 whom he is engaged !" 
 
 " You have nothing to do with her, ,, 
 she replied ; " you are not supposed to 
 know any thing about her." 
 
 " Ah ! but I do know! I could not 
 comfort myself with the idea of not be- 
 ing supposed to know any thing about 
 her, when the fact of her misery would 
 be haunting me night and day."
 
 135 
 
 " Not the fact!" and she smiled. 
 " She might be very glad to get rid of 
 him, for any thing you know ; at any 
 rate, it would be as well to suppose 
 it." 
 
 " Ah ! but could / suppose that, 
 Elizabeth ? It must be some other per- 
 son, and not me, who can suppose that 
 any woman would do otherwise than 
 mourn, even to the grave, the loss of such 
 a man as Leslie. I know too well what 
 it is to love him, not to feel the deepest 
 sympathy and commiseration for her 
 who loves him without hope of a re- 
 turn." 
 
 " Well, but, if he does not love her, 
 you can't make him, you know. Let her 
 alone, whoever she may be ; you have 
 nothing to do with her." 
 
 " Nothing more than to do as I would 
 be done by ; nothing more than to fulfil 
 the duty which one fellow-creature owes 
 to another. I must not be blind to this, 
 Elizabeth ; I must not be callous to the
 
 136 
 
 common feelings of humanity. Alas ! 
 this unhappy attachment has already 
 made me selfish enough — already blind- 
 ed me too much to every duty — every 
 claim ! God grant that it may ever turn 
 out well !" 
 
 " You are such a self-tormentor, Isa- 
 bel !" she said. " Now, just when 
 every difficulty appears to vanish, and 
 you have the brightest hopes breaking 
 in upon you, why should you create 
 evils to distress you ?" 
 
 " I need not do that," said I, yielding 
 to her remarks ; "I am sure I need not 
 do that. But the fact is, I have an un- 
 happy mind, which never will let me 
 rest in security. However, as you say, 
 I will not think about this nameless per- 
 son I so much dread — at any rate till I 
 know more about her ; and I surely 
 shall — don't you think I shall? He 
 surely will seek me in some shape or 
 other i" 
 
 She interrupted me by again testify-
 
 137 
 
 ing, in the most positive manner, her 
 conviction that the matter could not 
 end thus, and once more I was the 
 victim of hope and expectation.
 
 138 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 It's good to be off with the old love, 
 Before ye be on with the new. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 But it was only for a short time. 
 My way was made clear by a letter, 
 which, on my return home from Miss 
 Russell, was put into my hands by Mary, 
 who told me that Mr. Leslie had brought 
 it himself, not more than half an hour 
 before. My uncle and aunt were gone 
 to bed, and I had no impediment to 
 hinder me from hastening up-stairs, and 
 sitting down immediately to peruse, or 
 rather to devour, the following lines : 
 
 " I should not have left it to chance,
 
 ]3J L 
 
 Isabel, to make you acqnainted with my 
 real situation, had I not entertained the 
 most sanguine expectation that, long ere 
 this, I could myself have explained to 
 you the circumstances which compelled 
 me to solicit your indulgent acquiescence 
 in my desire of concealing our engage- 
 ment. That desire being now fruitless, 
 I have only to throw myself upon your 
 generosity, whilst I make you a faithful 
 relation of such parts of my story as 
 have hitherto been withheld from you, 
 To make myself intelligible, I must en- 
 treat your patience if I advert, in the 
 first instance, to what may seem irrelevant 
 to the point. You will soon perceive 
 how fatally my errors are connected 
 together ! You have heard me frequently 
 speak in terms of the highest respect of 
 my guardian, Mr. Sutton, in whose care 
 I was left an orphan at a very early age. 
 You have also heard me relate the grief 
 it occasioned him, when, in a fit of pas- 
 sionate resentment, for what I considered
 
 an unwarranted usurpation of authority 
 in one of the college dignitaries, in pu- 
 nishing me for a slight offence, I so far 
 forgot my subordinate station at the 
 University, as to testify my feelings in a 
 manner which occasioned my dismission 
 from it. But you have never heard me 
 speak of the heaviest sorrow of all, which 
 it was — and, alas ! must ever be — to my 
 shame to have occasioned this excellent 
 man. 
 
 " As he was unmarried, you would 
 not have expected, perhaps, to hear that 
 my heart was in danger, during the va- 
 cations I used to pass at his house, from 
 the society of any young ladies that 
 might be assembled around him. But 
 before I went to college, I had been too 
 much pleased with the beauty of his 
 niece, Matilda Sutton, who, with her 
 mother, generally spent a part of the 
 summer with him. She was exceedingly 
 pretty — very young — very gentle — and, 
 altogether, a sort of girl who, without
 
 exciting any enthusiastic passion in my 
 mind, it was impossible otherwise than 
 to love. Still it never occurred to me 
 that any thing serious would be expected 
 to follow our mutual pleasure in each 
 others society. She was only sixteen : 
 I was only eighteen ; and, in fact, I 
 supposed it was clearly understood to 
 be nothing more, on both sides, than the 
 attachment of a boy and girl, who looked 
 upon each other in the light of a brother 
 and sister. 
 
 " It was not till I took leave of her 
 for the university, that I had any cause 
 to suspect the strong interest I had 
 awakened in her heart ; but her emo- 
 tion upon that occasion betrayed it all. 
 I will not say that I was otherwise than 
 gratified to discover it : for I believe 
 there are few young men who could 
 have been indifferent to the affection 
 of a girl so attractive as she was. With 
 the ardour of my character, I vowed her 
 instantly eternal constancy : I sought,
 
 142 
 
 and without difficulty obtained, a ready 
 promise of her hand, as soon as I was 
 of age ; and, in short, every thing was 
 openly acknowledged and approved of 
 by her friends, and we became hence- 
 forth engaged to each other, But ab- 
 sence, which removes the veil from many 
 a lover's eye, soon taught me that Ma- 
 tilda was not altogether the woman I 
 could wish to marry. I loved her very 
 dearly ; but it was more as I would have 
 loved a sister. The woman I would 
 have made ray wife, I wished to possess 
 a totally different character. Genius- 
 spirit — talent — accomplishment. Ah ! 
 Isabel ! need I describe to you the 
 woman who might command my most 
 devoted adoration ! But, for my poor 
 Matilda, she had charms, indeed, to 
 win and keep the heart of many, per- 
 haps of most young men — but not mine. 
 Her unvarying sweetness of temper 
 and acquiescent spirit fatigued me ; 
 I knew always what I had to expect
 
 143 
 
 from her : nothing new — nothing but 
 what, indeed, was very lovely, but in- 
 sipid — tame. To be brief, my letters 
 became short, languid, /should think, 
 stupid : still she saw it not. I found 
 her confidence in my attachment so de- 
 termined, that nothing short of an open 
 avowal of its being diminished, would 
 have produced such an idea in her mind. 
 Thus we went on till the summer brought 
 on our meeting ; and then, in the re- 
 newal of intimacy, I experienced a brief 
 renewal of affection,, But, again, it 
 faded away under the influence of ab- 
 sence, and, weary of this variation of 
 mind, and satisfied that I never could 
 return in any proportionate degree the 
 love she bore me, I resolved to break 
 off our connexion at once. Here, you 
 will doubtless shrink from me with de- 
 testation ; be it so. I admit that I de- 
 serve it ; but still, Isabel, you must allow 
 I decided properly in not continuing a 
 connexion, which even before marriage
 
 144 
 
 was distasteful to me. I communicated 
 my sentiments, not to her, but to Mr. 
 Sutton ; whom I charged with a com- 
 mission to make them known to her, and 
 added, with truth, that the affection of 
 the fondest brother I should ever feel 
 for her, and know of no happiness so 
 pure and complete as that of being ser- 
 viceable to her. To this communication 
 Mr. Sutton merely replied by informing' 
 her, that he had executed my wishes, of 
 the propriety of which I, of course, 
 could only judge. He only thought it 
 unfortunate that I had not endeavoured 
 to ascertain them at an earlier stage of 
 the affair. 
 
 " I could see that he was exceed- 
 ingly dissatisfied with me, though as I 
 was a young man of fortune, and the 
 person interested in the matter was one 
 who stood very nearly related to him, 
 he evidently felt it too delicate an affair 
 to take any very active part in. 
 
 " I did not feel disposed to make my
 
 145 
 
 usual visit to his house during the vaca- 
 tion immediately succeeding this rup- 
 ture; but the unfortunate termination 
 of my college career at length drove 
 me an unwilling guest to the mansion of 
 my good old friend. 
 
 " It was some months since we met, 
 and I was shocked to perceive him quite 
 broken down in appearance ; his good 
 looks gone — his spirits gone — and no- 
 thing but the wreck of his former self 
 remaining. 
 
 " He welcomed me with calm and 
 civil kindness ; the disgrace with which 
 I appeared before him, indeed, indepen- 
 dently of any other consideration, pre- 
 vented any very great cordiality on his 
 part. 
 
 " For some days our time was chiefly 
 occupied in talking over what had passed, 
 and arranging my future plans. I had 
 many thoughts of poor Matilda, but I 
 dared not make any inquiries respecting 
 her. At last, one morning at breakfast, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 
 
 a letter came for him, which he opened, 
 and read with so much visible emotion, 
 that I could not forbear to ask him, " if 
 it brought him any bad news ?" 
 
 "He directed no answer to me, but only 
 exclaiming, ' Poor child ! poor child V 
 He folded the letter up and putit in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " I knew from his manner that his pity 
 related to Matilda, and I could no longer 
 refrain from mentioning her name. 
 
 " 'You had better not ask after her,' he 
 said ; • it will be for your interest to hear 
 as little about her as may be.' 
 
 " Such a reply, of course, did not make 
 me less urgent in my inquiries, which at 
 length brought from him the sad acknow- 
 ledgment, that ever since my breaking 
 with her she had been declining in health, 
 and that the letter he had just received 
 was from her mother, to say, the physi- 
 cians had now no hope whatever, if a 
 visit she was on the point of making to 
 Clifton should fail to revive her.
 
 147 
 
 " f They do not know/ said he, ' that 
 it is at the heart ! — the heart 1 — poor 
 child !' 
 
 " Do you think I could remain pas- 
 sive, Isabel, while I had a hope of giving 
 comfort to this suffering girl, and her 
 widowed mother, and her poor old uncle, 
 that loved her like a father! I hurried 
 off without loss of time to her residence 
 — I saw her — I renewed my offers :— she 
 was revived to a degree that seemed to 
 indicate, as the old man said, that the 
 heart had been the seat of her disorder. 
 She daily got better, and I tried to make 
 myself happy in believing that I con- 
 tributed to make her happy. While I 
 was with her, I cannot say that I repined 
 at our connexion, for her invariable gen- 
 tleness and amiable qualities captivated 
 me exceedingly, and I hoped I should 
 be so sensible of their value as to render 
 our wedded life a mutual blessing. I 
 was recommended by Mr. Sutton to con- 
 tinue my studies with his friend, Mr. 
 h 2
 
 148 
 
 Hodson, till I came of age, when my 
 marriage with Matilda was to take place. 
 Oh, Isabel ! what need I now add to my 
 story ? You know the rest ; you know 
 that the first moment I saw you, my 
 heart acknowledged you as the very 
 being formed to constitute the idol of its 
 fondest affections. But my situation with 
 Matilda precluded my declaring the pas- 
 sion with which you had inspired me. I 
 soon found that my acquaintance with 
 you had totally destroyed the sort of 
 pleasure I had hitherto found in her 
 society. I resolved once more to break 
 off an engagement more than ever ad- 
 verse to my inclinations ; but the consi- 
 deration due to Matilda required that it 
 should be done with caution. In the 
 meantime, my fear of losing you, and 
 my ardent desire to secure you for my 
 own, prompted my declaration before I 
 
 was warranted to make it. I left D , 
 
 with a hope of re turning to you free to 
 acknowledge my attachment in the
 
 149 
 
 face of the world \ but the unexpected 
 death of Matilda's mother, not only pre- 
 vented my fulfilling my intentions at this 
 time, but claimed from me the attention 
 of a visit to her in the hours of her afflic- 
 tion. Under these circumstances I could 
 not follow the dictates of my heart, which 
 would have led me to write to you, as all 
 the pleasure which absence permitted me 
 to enjoy. 
 
 " Thus, Isabel, I have been candid 
 with you ; I know not what I have to ex- 
 pect from you ; I throw myself upon your 
 compassion — upon your love. But what- 
 ever be your decision, mine is irrevo- 
 cable. I cannot marry Matilda. I must 
 hope and believe that such a determina- 
 tion, on my part, will not be ultimately of 
 very serious consequences to her peace. 
 I have just ground for believing, that 
 both Mr. Sutton and myself were much 
 deceived as to the sole cause and extent 
 of the indisposition which was said to be 
 occasioned by my inconstancy. I do 
 h 3
 
 150 
 
 not mean that Matilda herself connived 
 at misleading me, for I believe her to 
 be simplicity itself ; but her mother was 
 an artful character. I clearly saw that 
 it was always an object with her to gain 
 me for her daughter, and I have no hesi- 
 tation in saying, that she took advantage 
 of Matilda's falling into delicate health 
 to magnify her illness, and to attribute it 
 solely to grief occasioned by my miscon- 
 duct. But she is gone, and I will not 
 reproach her memory. That Matilda 
 will suffer deeply I cannot hide from 
 myself; and that I must suffer in the 
 reproaches of my own conscience, for 
 having caused her so much sorrow, I 
 well know \ but she will suffer less un- 
 der her present circumstances than she 
 would as my unhappy wife — I cannot do 
 her the injustice to marry her ; no, I 
 will not. 
 
 " Once more, then, Isabel, I cast my- 
 self upon your generosity — your love 
 for me. I will not believe that it will be
 
 in vain — let me hope for your propi- 
 tious, your speedy reply ; and let our 
 next interview be one of unmixed enjoy- 
 ment and mutual confidence, not of an- 
 gry reproach and scornful recrimination. 
 Yet, under every mood of mind, to me so 
 dear are you, that I would rather un- 
 dergo your reproof, however severe, 
 however cutting, in the certainty that 
 my devoted attachment to you must 
 plead for my forgiveness, than that you 
 should withhold from me any of the sen- 
 timents with which this relation may 
 have inspired you. Say all then, dearest 
 Isabel ! say every thing you think of my 
 conduct ; but do not say you will be any 
 thing but what you ever have been, the 
 dearest, the most beloved, the affianced 
 wife of your own 
 
 " Edward Leslie/' 
 
 Oh ! the selfishness, the dreadful sel- 
 fishness of love ! — My first emotions on 
 concluding this letter were those of un- 
 h 4
 
 152 
 
 mixed happiness. I thought only of my- 
 self — only of the long and anxious situa- 
 tion of suspense which was now entirely 
 removed. I then contemplated, with 
 rapturous delight, the ardent passion he 
 avowed for me — his desire of testifying 
 it, by the dishonorable lengths to which 
 he w r as willing it should betray him, did 
 not fill me with any kind of detestation ; 
 but, on the contrary, only served to swell 
 the triumph of my heart at perceiving 
 him so completely my captive j— such was 
 the first impression his letter produced. 
 But soon came other thoughts — other 
 feelings ; the result of my better na- 
 ture. I was an enthusiast beset with 
 strong affections, which commonly mis- 
 led and governed me ; and so far I was 
 selfish enough. But I was not cruel ; I 
 was not hard-hearted ; I could not con- 
 template the sorrows which I was about 
 to combine in accumulating upon the 
 head of this unhappy Matilda, without 
 a pang of remorse almost insupportable
 
 153 
 
 — a pang which, in the stillness of soli- 
 tude at the hour of midnight, was more pe- 
 culiarly acute ; for then it is that world- 
 ly feelings and worldly attachments mil 
 betray their nothingness, and in the eye 
 of reason fade away, like the departed 
 day, of which no trace remains, however 
 bright and beautiful it dawned upon us. 
 " And in a few short years," I said, 
 "my day must come to a close, and I must 
 sleep the sleep of death !— of what avail 
 will it then be that I have followed every 
 desire of my heart, and spared no trouble 
 to obtain what I call happiness here ? 
 What will it then signify whether I have 
 been the wife of Leslie or not ? — but how 
 much may it avail that I have studied to 
 have a conscience void of offence ; that 
 I have wilfully done no wrong, and 
 caused no sorrow to any fellow-crea- 
 ture ! — how much may this avail ! — how 
 much must it avail if there be truth and 
 justice in the promises of God ! But 
 such a sacrifice ! — such a sacrifice as
 
 354 
 
 this, — " and alarmed at the lengths to 
 which I had been led in even thinking 
 about making it, I instantly drew back. 
 
 " Oh, no \" I said, " I could not give 
 up Leslie ! I am not called upon to do 
 it ! I surely am not !" and I endeavoured 
 to find comfort in all Miss Russell had 
 said upon the subject — in all that Leslie 
 himself had said. 
 
 " He will not marry her !" I said, " of 
 what service then would be my inflicting 
 upon myself this useless sacrifice ! I am 
 to blame to teaze myself thus ; I araa 
 self-tormentor, as Elizabeth says ; I will 
 not be thus weak — I will be happy !" 
 and in this determination I sought my 
 pillow. But in the broken visions of the 
 night I found no peace ; if for an in- 
 stant I lost myself in sleep, I saw the 
 unhappy Matilda before me weeping- 
 broken-hearted — pale — dying ! I repeat- 
 edly started up, and woke myself with 
 exclamations of grief. At the first dawn 
 of day I left my bed, and endeavoured,
 
 155 
 
 for a little while, to escape from the sub- 
 ject, by trying if I could occupy my 
 mind with reading ; but as well might I 
 have hoped to escape from existence, as 
 from the one absorbing, agitating thought 
 which racked me with indecision. I 
 well knew that to follow the dictates of 
 honour, of propriety, of every amiable, 
 of every respectable feeling, I ought not 
 to accept the hand of Leslie, whilst it 
 was tendered to me under his present 
 circumstances ; and my knowledge of 
 his proud and haughty spirit made me 
 shrink from the great probability of his 
 withdrawing himself in pique, and never 
 renewing his addresses at all, if, after so 
 passionate an appeal to my affection, and 
 so candid an explanation as he had 
 made, I resolved upon rejecting him. 
 
 " What can I do ! — What can I do ?" 
 I said, as in the perturbation of my soul 
 I paced up and down my room ; " and 
 when and where will my disquiet end ! 
 This explanation for which I so much 
 h 6
 
 156 
 
 panted, what has it brought me ! Oh, 
 what has it brought me !" and I cast my- 
 self upon my bed, and sobbed, till I won- 
 dered how I lived under the intensity of 
 my anguish. I wondered that my heart 
 did not break at once beneath the weight 
 of continual agitation and excitement 
 which threatened to destroy me. 
 
 Nature at length, wholly exhausted, 
 obtained a little respite, for I fell asleep, 
 and when I woke my mind was some- 
 what composed, and more capable of 
 connected thought. I wished to do 
 right— -I had not much difficulty in dis- 
 covering what line of conduct I must 
 then pursue ; but I wanted strength- 
 ening in my better purposes ; my heart 
 sunk at the contemplation of what I 
 feared must be required of me. I feared, 
 I say, for I did not quite despair. 1 was 
 not quite without hope that this tremen- 
 dous sacrifice might not be demanded ; 
 but who should tell me that it would not, 
 that it ought not to be demanded, if I —
 
 157 
 
 7, the person most interested, most 
 blinded by love, and upon every account 
 the most likely to judge for the gratifi- 
 cation of my own wishes — if I paused, 
 and doubted, and believed I was called 
 upon to oppose them ? 
 
 Miss Russell, I knew, would tell me I 
 need not to oppose them ; but could I 
 believe Miss Russell? Did I not know 
 her to be a sophist — a mere pretender, 
 upon every matter that required the ex- 
 ercise of high and elevated feeling ? She 
 could talk indeed, and ring the changes 
 upon fine sentiments and fine words, and 
 impose upon herself, and upon me when 
 I was willing to be imposed upon ; but I 
 knew and felt in my inmost soul, that 
 if I wished for good counsel, dictated in 
 a spirit of honest simplicity, by which I 
 hoped to find my dark and devious path 
 enlightened, Miss Russell was not the 
 person I was now to seek. I thought of 
 my aunt ; but her tenderness ! her pity 
 for my sufferings ! — I wept to think of
 
 158 
 
 what she would feel in advising any thing 
 that was to cause me so much misery. 
 
 " No, not my aunt !" I said aloud, 
 " she is already sufficiently unhappy 
 about me ! There was one whose idea 
 had long been uppermost with me as the 
 best of counsellors ; but I had recoiled 
 from seeking her, because I foresaw at 
 once what she would have to say. I 
 had no sophistry, no involved meaning, 
 no calculations to expect from Miss Del- 
 mond ; she would come straight to the 
 point ; she would say in three words all I 
 had to do — and could I support this sim- 
 plicity of reasoning ? But, perhaps, she 
 might be more indulgent than I ex- 
 pected ! Oh, if she would ! — Still, what- 
 ever it might dictate, I could not but be- 
 lieve that her counsel would be more va- 
 luable than that of any other person ; for 
 I was certain I might safely walk by any 
 rule she gave me — and after all, when 
 she heard my story, she might not be 
 so rigid as I feared. At all events I
 
 159 
 
 thought that I would seek her, and see 
 if any opportunity offered of disclosing 
 my mind ; if it did, I would lay my heart 
 open to her. The circumstances of my 
 situation with Leslie, I had every reason 
 to suppose she knew from the Russells, 
 and the terms we were upon were such as 
 to warrant my communicating any part 
 of my affairs to her, without appearing to 
 violate either the dictates of prudence or 
 good taste. 
 
 But it was not without an agony of 
 fear for what might be the result of our 
 interview, that, very early in the day, 
 I presented myself at the cottage of 
 Miss Delmond.
 
 160 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 MISS DELMOND WRITES. 
 
 And is there aught on earth, or rich or rare, 
 Whose pleasures may with Virtue's pains compare ? 
 This fruit of patience— this the pure delight, 
 That 'tis a trial in her Judge's sight : 
 Her part still striving duty to maintain, 
 Not spurning pleasure — not despising pain ; 
 Never in triumph till her race be won, 
 And never fainting till her work be done. 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 I shall here refer to my diary, and 
 substitute my own recollections of this 
 interview in the place of Isabel's. By an 
 unusual chance we had not encountered 
 each other at the Russells', and I had 
 not seen her since the meeting between 
 us, which I have already recorded. This 
 estrangement gave me as much regret on 
 her account, as on mv own ; because I
 
 161 
 
 felt assured that, after so much pleasing 
 candour and docility of mind as she 
 then manifested, she would not have 
 indicated any thing like aversion from 
 my society, if it had not been prompted 
 by a consciousness that her conduct was 
 at variance with the sentiments she then 
 expressed. But, besides that the fervent 
 hope I entertained of being permitted to 
 be useful to her would have restrained 
 me from betraying any resentment, I 
 had been too long inured to the slight 
 and contumely which commonly fall 
 to the share of an indigent and unpro- 
 tected woman, not to have acquired 
 such habits of patience, as upon most 
 occasions of provocation sufficed to keep 
 me passive. The uselessness of resent- 
 ment, on the part of the helpless, might 
 perhaps have alone supplied a motive for 
 this quiescence ; but, I thank God, I had 
 a better : for, amidst all my injuries, 
 whatever was their kind or degree, I 
 thought of one sure moment in which
 
 162 
 
 I should have the reward of forbearance. 
 I thought of my dying hour — "And when 
 I shall then look back upon the past/' I 
 used to say, " my solicitude will not be 
 about what persons did to me, but what 
 I did to them : I shall have no care 
 what insult or unkindness they heaped 
 upon me, but how I sustained the weight 
 of it." Thus fortified, I was not long 
 of silencing by a smile, and with an 
 extended hand, the words of apology 
 with which Miss Melville began to ex- 
 cuse so small an offence as she had 
 committed. " I fear," she said, " that 
 you must, in spite of your determination 
 to think the best of every body, have 
 felt a little displeasure against me. To 
 see me so careless of your friendship, 
 after you had so kindly interested 
 yourself in me — what can you think of 
 me?" 
 
 " I have thought just this — to be sure 
 this is not very flattering, but then it is 
 only too natural : she finds Miss Russell
 
 163 
 
 a more entertaining companion than I 
 am — " she quickly interupted me. " If 
 you had seen me that day, you would 
 not have thought it was entertainment 
 I was seeking in admitting Miss Russell. 
 I don't know who or what could have 
 been entertaining to me !" 
 
 " Indeed ! I am sorry to hear you say 
 that — I am very sorry," I said, per- 
 ceiving the strong effort she made to 
 restrain emotions, which, after all, would 
 not be restrained ; for, after a fruitless 
 attempt, first to speak, and then to 
 smile through her tears, as if she would 
 have it pass as something to be laughed 
 at that she should be thus overcome, 
 apparently for nothing — nature would 
 have its way, and, sitting down in the 
 chair that first offered itself, she hid her 
 face in her hands, and burst into a flood 
 of tears. 
 
 I would have soothed her, but she 
 would not be soothed. " You must not 
 speak so kindly," she said with heavy
 
 154 
 
 sobs ; " J want strength — strength — you 
 must give it me." — " It is God alone 
 that can give you that, my dear," I said. 
 
 " It is indeed !" she said, rising from 
 her seat, and for a little interval walking 
 away from my endearments and com- 
 passion, and trying to compose herself 
 sufficiently to tell me what so terribly 
 disturbed her. She returned, and re- 
 sumed her seat. 
 
 " I want a friend," she said, " a real 
 friend — I come to you. If I presume 
 too much in intruding my troubles upon 
 you, do not hesitate to say so." 
 
 I interrupted her with the most fervent 
 and sincere assurances of sympathy in 
 all she chose to communicate. " I must 
 seem abrupt," she continued ; " but I 
 cast myself upon your known goodness. 
 You know, perhaps, of my — my — con- 
 nexion with — " 
 
 " With Mr. Leslie!" I added, to 
 relieve her great embarrassment; " I 
 understand from the Russells that an
 
 165 
 
 engagement subsists between you, though 
 at present it is a thing not to be talked 
 of." 
 
 " Ah ! when will it be to be talked 
 of?" she said ; then, as quickly as she 
 had spoken the words, replying to them, 
 " never — never ! he never will be mine 
 — oh Miss Delmond, he never will be 
 mine !" 
 
 I cannot say that such a declaration 
 surprised me, inasmuch as, from the 
 manner in which the affair had been car- 
 ried on, I never supposed that it was 
 likely to terminate in marriage ; neither 
 could I, as the warm admirer, and the 
 well-wisher of Miss Melville, be very 
 ardent in my hopes that it would. Mr. 
 Leslie, though one of the most fascinat- 
 ing of men, was too undisciplined, in 
 temper and conduct, to make him a 
 desirable husband for one who stood so 
 much in need of a judicious counsellor 
 as my unhappy young friend. Never- 
 theless, I could not do otherwise than
 
 166 
 
 feel very deeply for the agony of spirit 
 in which she pronounced a conviction so 
 painful to her. I inquired into the cir- 
 cumstances which occasioned it. 
 
 She gave me a brief but clear state- 
 ment of her situation, concluding it by 
 offering to my perusal the letter he had 
 sent her the preceding night 
 
 " While you read and consider it," 
 she said, " I will return home, and en- 
 deavour to school my mind to bear what 
 you may have to say upon it. Only, dear 
 Miss Delmond, if you can be favourable 
 to my wishes — if you can " 
 
 " Tell me, my dear Isabel," I said ; 
 " tell me, before I read this letter, if 
 you are really desirous to hear my candid 
 opinion upon what measures it should 
 induce you to adopt? Because, I would 
 rather let the matter end here, and give 
 no opinion at all, than be reduced to 
 the alternative of, perhaps, giving you 
 severe pain." 
 
 " I wish you to read it," she said,
 
 167 
 
 " and to tell me exactly what you think 
 I ought to do in consequence of it. 
 Only, as I said before, if you have a 
 doubt, turn it in my favour." 
 
 She then departed, with a promise to 
 seek me again in the afternoon, as I 
 wished, upon every account, as she had 
 thought proper to invest me with the 
 authority of a counsellor, to give her 
 such advice as might have the advantage 
 of a little consideration. 
 
 But, on reading Mr. Leslie's state- 
 ment, I found it quite unnecessary to 
 avail myself of the time I had requested 
 to consider it. Nothing more clearly 
 testified to me the power of love to 
 transform one of the most honest and 
 frank-hearted of beings into a character 
 of an opposite kind, than to perceive 
 that Isabel Melville had even paused, as 
 to the line of conduct which justice to 
 another, and propriety towards herself, 
 demanded that she should now pursue. 
 But I had no difficulty in excusing an
 
 168 
 
 error thus committed, for well I knew 
 what such a sacrifice must be to such a 
 heart : and, as I thought of this, I looked 
 forward to her return with a distress 
 which words would faintly describe. 
 
 Most gladly would I have resigned the 
 painful office she had allotted me ; most 
 gladly would I have revived the anxious 
 heart, and cheered the agitated counte- 
 nance, with which, at the appointed hour 
 in the evening, she again appeared be- 
 fore me. But I could not — I could 
 only, for a few moments, indicate my 
 sentiments by silence, when, more than 
 once, she said, half-breathless with doubt 
 and fear, — 
 
 " What is it you think ? What is it 
 you have to tell me ?" 
 
 " Nay, Isabel," I at length replied, 
 "what is it you expect to hear? You 
 could have no doubt what my opinion 
 must be." 
 
 " I feared, indeed, it would be un- 
 favourable," she said, with a low and
 
 169 
 
 faltering voice ; " but I still thought, 
 perhaps, you might see the matter differ- 
 ently" 
 
 " There can be but one way for an 
 honest mind to see it in, my dear," said 
 I, " and that is, with reference to what 
 duty requires of you; and, seeing it in 
 that light, can I give you any other 
 counsel than to renounce the overtures 
 of Mr. Leslie — made, as they avowedly 
 are, with injustice, and to the injury of 
 another ?" 
 
 " No, no!" she said, in momentary 
 petulance, " you cannot certainly advise 
 any thing else ; I w 7 as foolish to suppose 
 you could : I might — nay, I was sure, 
 what your advice would be before I 
 asked it." 
 
 " And what made you sure of it, my 
 dear "Isabel," I replied, " but the con- 
 viction of your own judgment ? That I 
 am certain is with me, however its dic- 
 tates are opposed by your heart : tell 
 me — is it not ?" 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 
 
 But she made no reply. In defiance 
 of her good sense, her ardent imagina- 
 tion had, as usual, been misleading her; 
 and I perceived that, instead of employ- 
 ing the interval which had passed in try- 
 ing, as she had said she would, to school 
 her mind to hear what I might have to say, 
 she had given the reins to fancy, and came 
 so persuaded of my acquiescence in all 
 her wishes, that, on meeting with disap- 
 pointment, she knew not how to support 
 it with tolerable temper. But I had too 
 much compassion for her not to bear 
 with any symptoms of mortification she 
 v might exhibit — especially when the mo- 
 ment that gave them birth beheld their 
 extinction ; for she prevented my pur- 
 suing the subject, as I was about to do, 
 in the way of mild expostulation, by 
 yielding assent to all I had advanced. 
 
 " Yet how difficult is my duty!" she 
 said. " Oh ! Miss Delmond, it is im- 
 possible you can appreciate the thou- 
 sandth part of what I have to struggle
 
 m 
 
 with in making this sacrifice ; and, but 
 that I hope " 
 
 She was unwilling to acknowledge 
 what she anticipated. 
 
 " You hope that it will be but a tem- 
 porary sacrifice," I said ; " and that 
 Leslie will free himself from his present 
 fetters, and return to you again !" 
 
 " Is it unlawful to hope this?" she 
 replied. " You must leave me something 
 to feed upon— some prospect — some ex- 
 pectation ! You would not surely be so 
 cruel as to bereave me of every thing at 
 once !" 
 
 " Nature will provide food for fancy 
 and delusive hope, under all circum- 
 stances," I said, " whether I will per- 
 mit it or not. I can say nothing, there- 
 fore, upon that point. Your business is 
 with the present hour — the present case. 
 Do but act right now, and you may leave 
 the future to Him to whom alone it be- 
 longs. It has been beautifully and justly 
 remarked, that ' duties are our's— events 
 i 2
 
 172 
 
 are God's !' With that principle to guide 
 us, we need never be perplexed with 
 various and conflicting feelings; we 
 
 must " 
 
 " Ah ! pardon me," she said — " par- 
 don me, for interrupting you ; but this 
 calm reasoning is too much for me. I 
 am yet too little exercised in trial, to 
 know well how to make it easy by unre- 
 sisting submission. You cannot wonder 
 if I would fain — fain ascertain, beyond 
 the possibility of error, how far I am 
 called upon to yield up every thing — 
 yes, every thing that makes existence 
 endurable to me ; for, without Leslie, 
 I can truly say, I have no wish to live 
 another day — no, not another hour !" 
 And, again, the rising agitation of her 
 mind was painfully manifested by a fresh 
 burst of sorrow. 
 
 I expected all this variation of feel- 
 ing, all this inconsistency of opinion, 
 from one who had not the blessing of 
 fixed religious principle to guide her
 
 J 73 
 
 path through life, and sustain her in the 
 painful difficulties so certain to surround 
 it. " It is quite natural, my dear Isa- 
 bel," I said, U that you should feel 
 thus, and that you should at the present 
 moment believe that life has not another 
 charm, when you are deprived of the 
 object so dear to you ; but very little 
 experience will convince you of the fal- 
 lacy of such an opinion. You will, per- 
 haps, suffer more in kind and in degree 
 than a mind fortified by religious feeling 
 would suffer ; because you will not, I 
 fear, be strengthened by those sublime 
 emotions which, very frequently, to such 
 a mind, will transform the hour of human 
 suffering and sacrifice, into that of such 
 holy resignation to the will of God — 
 such complete and heavenly satisfaction 
 in having it fulfilled at whatever cost of 
 pain or endurance, and such perfect 
 trust that the present affliction, which 
 is but for a moment, will work out a far 
 i 3
 
 174 
 
 more exceeding and eternal weight of 
 glory, as renders it the consummation 
 of a Christian's joy, and the foretaste 
 of immortal happiness hereafter. Oh ! 
 Isabel ! if these were your views, how 
 ample a field of consolation would lie 
 before you ! — " 
 
 *' Oh ! would, indeed, that they were 
 my views," she said, with much earnest- 
 ness ; " would that God in his mercy 
 would give me such a knowledge of 
 himself as should elevate me above these 
 wretched — wretched cares; these vain 
 but torturing feelings ! yet, though I see 
 and loathe their nothingness — though 
 I know by bitter experience where they 
 lead me, I am powerless to oppose them. 
 Oh ! that my heart would break, and 
 end their tyranny at once !" 
 
 But her excess of anguish impeded 
 her further utterance, and for many 
 minutes she sobbed upon my bosom 
 with a violence which, one might have
 
 175 
 
 almost believed, would have brought her 
 sad existence to the termination she im- 
 plored. 
 
 I never in my life witnessed such a 
 specimen of the fearful agony which the 
 victims of indulged passion may be 
 called upon to endure ; and, whilst I 
 shuddered at the spectacle, I silently 
 lifted up my heart in supplication, that 
 He, whose voice the winds and waves 
 obey, would speak peace to the soul of 
 this unhappy creature. 
 
 " You may well look at me with such 
 amazement," she said, observing in my 
 countenance some indication of my sen- 
 timents *, " you know nothing of this 
 fever of the soul ! Bless God that he has 
 exempted you from it ! Don't despise 
 me — but bless him that he has made 
 you differently.*" 
 
 " God forbid that I should despise 
 
 you, or any one I" I said ; " I feel for 
 
 you, Isabel — I feel more than I can find 
 
 words to express, and I know not what 
 
 i 4
 
 176 
 
 it is that I would not do to serve you, 
 and to make you happier. But I can 
 only pray for you " 
 
 I could not just then add any more, 
 if more had been necessary to assure 
 her of my deepest sympathy ; but it 
 was not. She took my hand and pressed 
 it to her lips. 
 
 " Good, good Miss Delmond," she 
 said; " you will be of service to me! 
 I want such a friend as you, for I have 
 none : I never had a real friend, except, 
 indeed, my dearest uncle and aunt ; but 
 they loved me too much. I must not 
 be loved — I must not be too kindly 
 treated — my heart will not bear it. No ; 
 it is too self-willed — too stubborn — ad- 
 versity is best for it." 
 
 She spoke in the hurried, unconnect- 
 ed manner, which usually accompanies 
 strongly excited feeling ; but, in the 
 midst of her agitation, it was curious 
 to remark how the force of a vigorous 
 understanding predominated, and clearly
 
 m 
 
 pointed out to her the sort of treatment 
 which was most likely to subdue her 
 mind, and bring it into that state of sub- 
 jection, devoid of which, she felt there 
 existed for her no moment of tranquil- 
 lity. I so perfectly entered into, and 
 approved her sentiments, that, much as 
 my sympathy was excited, and willingly 
 as I would have manifested it by the 
 tenderest attentions, I forcibly restrained 
 myseif ; and with all the calmness and 
 composure I could command, I replied 
 to her rapid observations, compelling 
 myself to turn away, though with vio- 
 lence to my heart, from the deep and 
 affecting sorrow with which she listened 
 to me. 
 
 " You have, indeed, no suitable friend, 
 my dear Isabel," I said ; " and the case 
 would be to be lamented, if this priva- 
 tion, like every other, were not to be 
 considered as a link in that chain, which, 
 I trust, will unite you hereafter to real 
 happiness. In permitting me to assume
 
 178 
 
 the privilege of one, you afford me 
 more pleasure than I believe it would 
 now be in the power of any temporal 
 circumstance to afford me. I will say 
 no more upon that point ; as your ad- 
 viser, I can give you in the present in- 
 stance but one counsel — which is, deci- 
 dedly to reject the addresses of Mr. 
 Leslie." 
 
 " Ah ! how easily is that said!" she 
 exclaimed ; " but pardon me, dear Miss 
 Delmond ! I mean no reflection — bear 
 with me if the vehemence of my spirit 
 will sometimes betray itself in words ; 
 only try to make me see the necessity 
 of this sacrifice." 
 
 " You do not require that I should 
 endeavour to convince such an under- 
 standing as your's, Isabel," 1 said; "but 
 if you do, I would only ask you to put 
 yourself in imagination in the place of 
 Matilda." 
 
 " Ah ! if 1 do that—" she said. 
 
 " And how can we any of us act
 
 179 
 
 justly," said I, interrupting her, in my 
 haste to seize the favourable moment 
 for setting before her what it was evi- 
 dent her own sense of right had already 
 suggested, " how can any of us act 
 justly," I said, " but by attending to 
 the counsels of that divine code, which 
 in one sublime precept, ' do unto others 
 as you would they should do unto you,' 
 has embodied directions for every case ? 
 Taking this for your guide, I say again, 
 Isabel, how could you support to know 
 of the sorrow your acceptance of Leslie 
 would occasion you to bring upon Ma- 
 tilda, the rightful possessor of his affec- 
 tions ? How could you bear the reflec- 
 tions which would inevitably come when 
 the first transports of your union had 
 subsided, and you, perhaps, would have 
 cause to know, that your happiness (sup- 
 posing happiness to be your portion, 
 which I doubt) how would you bear to 
 find it was purchased with the ruined 
 i 6
 
 180 
 
 peace — the broken health — the total sa- 
 crifice of another's comfort ?" 
 
 She sighed heavily, and rose from her 
 seat to take two or three turns about 
 the room, clasping her hands repeat- 
 edly as she walked, and testifying in 
 every movement the perturbation of her 
 soul. 
 
 " You must make the sacrifice, my 
 dear Isabel," I said ; " wherefore, then, 
 perplex and harass yourself by unneces- 
 sary deliberation ?" 
 
 " I must make it," she said ; " yes, 
 I feel that I must." She here sat down, 
 and after a few minutes' pause, during 
 which her head was bent down upon her 
 hand, she raised to mine her pale, pale 
 face — than which no marble could be 
 whiter. 
 
 " I know that I ought to do it— and I 
 will !" she said. 
 
 " You will ?" I said, with inexpres- 
 sible joy at her compliance, so firmly, 
 so unequivocally conveyed.
 
 181 
 
 " Yes," she replied ; " God helping 
 me— I will !" 
 
 I did but just touch her hand with 
 my lips, in the energy of my delight — 
 but she withdrew it. 
 
 " Don't praise me — don't soothe me !" 
 she said ; " you cannot conceive how I 
 tremble at the thought of tenderness ; I 
 am so weak ! so enervated ! but just now 
 I seem to have an interval of strength ; 
 I must make much of it, for I know that 
 frail feeling will come again — I know 
 that I must suffer 1" She seemed to 
 shudder in anticipating its sure return ; 
 but again reviving, " Now tell me," she 
 said, " how I can best impart to Leslie 
 my determination. I believe — " she 
 paused. 
 
 " You must not see him," I said. 
 
 " Not see him ?" she replied, with 
 quickness ; " I must not see him ?" 
 
 " Indeed you must not," said I ; "it 
 would endanger all your resolutions ; you
 
 J 82 
 
 « 
 
 must upon no account see him — you 
 must write." 
 
 " But to part as we last parted !" said 
 she ; " Oh ! Miss Delmond, it was such a 
 shocking parting ! — I could not leave 
 him so ! — I must see him once again — 
 but once !" 
 
 " No, Isabel, not with my advice." 
 
 "What! not for one poor five mi- 
 nutes — not just to say farewell? — Oh, 
 you are too severe !" 
 
 I could have smiled, but that deep 
 compassion restrained me, to observe 
 how varying and long-indulged impulse 
 maintained its sway, opposed as it was 
 by uncommon strength and energy of 
 mind. 
 
 " You bid me be severe, dear Isabel," I 
 said ; " but I am not so. Believe me, if 
 you can — but, ah ! too well I know you 
 cannot ! — you cannot think me kind in 
 urging you to refrain from seeing Leslie ; 
 yet I know I am your best of human
 
 183 
 
 friends, in entreating you to see him no 
 more. You say that you are resolved to 
 make the sacrifice, and to renounce his 
 hand — think well of it again : — are you 
 so resolved ?" 
 
 " Ah ! why cannot it be done at 
 once — " she said, " at once ! This linger- 
 ing over it — " and again her tears inter- 
 rupted her. 
 
 " I find, indeed, that I must be severe 
 with you, Isabel," I said ; " I must, 
 though at the hazard of appearing harsh 
 and unfeeling, remind you that this fee- 
 bleness of purpose, this variation of 
 mind, is totally unworthy of any reason- 
 able being I forbear to use any higher 
 plea than that of reason." 
 
 " But you must !" she said, in the 
 agony of her heart, seizing my hand and 
 grasping it with energy ; " you must use 
 a higher plea, for reason can do nothing 
 for a grief like mine — you must speak to 
 me of a God who sees my struggles, and 
 who will look upon me with pity, and
 
 184 
 
 hear my prayers, and help and comfort 
 me!" 
 
 " That, most assuredly, can I do, my 
 poor child !" I said. " He does look 
 upon you with pity, Isabel ; He will hear 
 your prayers ; He will comfort, He will 
 sustain you in this terrible conflict ! Uo 
 but seek his aid fervently, constantly — 
 and doubt not that you will have it." 
 
 She was soothed by these words ; her 
 impatience passed away ; and, after a lit- 
 tle interval of indulgence to her emo- 
 tions, she spoke with more calm firmness 
 than she had yet exhibited. 
 
 " I have said that I will make the sa- 
 crifice," she said, " and I will. I be- 
 lieve that I can now promise to make it 
 in any way you think most advisable." 
 
 " Then let it be in as simple and short 
 a way as possible, my dear !" I replied. 
 " Once having ascertained what is right 
 to be done upon trying occasions, our 
 safe adherence to duty is only to be 
 found in performing it with the most per-
 
 185 
 
 feet simplicity and promptitude. Such 
 is the deceitfulness of the heart, that we 
 can never be aware of the dangers into 
 which it may betray us, even when it 
 seems to enlist itself on the side of reason. 
 You, doubtless, think it quite reasonable 
 that you should indulge in a parting in- 
 terview with Leslie : but, Isabel, you 
 say that you are weak — that you have 
 need of being treated with severity rather 
 than tenderness, so much are you in 
 the power of those feelings which are 
 more peculiarly excited by kindness and 
 affection. How can you then wish to 
 trust yourself with an object so fondly 
 beloved — so dangerous as Leslie? If 
 your whole strength of mind, your whole 
 energy of purpose, is faint and feeble to 
 oppose the workings of your heart, how 
 would you retain your just, your honour- 
 able and good intentions, against a man 
 whose every power of fascination and 
 tenderness would, you well know, be 
 exerted to turn you from it." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I could not — I know that
 
 186 
 
 I could not," she replied : " it was my 
 treacherous heart that deceived me, and 
 I did not know it. But I will not see 
 him! — I promise you that I will not see 
 him ! The sacrifice shall be entire — com- 
 plete !" 
 
 " It must be so," said I, " or it is no- 
 thing. You call it a sacrifice, and such 
 let it be, and it will cost you much ; and, 
 perhaps, in the waywardness of feeling, 
 you may sometimes reproach me, and 
 yourself, and Leslie, and regret that ever 
 it was made ; yet I do not despair of 
 beholding the day when you will look 
 back upon it, and say, ' that trial was the 
 first step that brought me nearer to God ! 
 I turn to it in remembrance as one of 
 the best of blessings !' " 
 
 Something of a faint smile passed over 
 her features. 
 
 " You speak comfort to me," she 
 said ; " at least you point to the only 
 consolation that can reach me. This 
 world ! — I have nothing more to do with 
 this world !"
 
 187 
 
 I did not combat the natural despair 
 which, under such circumstances, a mind 
 like her's must be expected to exhibit. 
 I knew that time would do its usual 
 work, and that Isabel, if her life was 
 spared, would return to this unsatisfac- 
 tory world as much as ever disposed to 
 relish its enjoyments and yield to its 
 delusions, till repeated disappointment 
 or declining years had taught her, that 
 it would have been well indeed if the 
 words she now uttered had sooner been 
 verified ; and devoutly to wish that, on 
 the first severe shock to hope and ex- 
 pectation, she had withdrawn from a 
 scene w r here every thing indicates that 
 we are to find no resting-place ! 
 
 " Tell me then," she said, " what you 
 would advise me to say to him. Yet, why 
 should I ask ? Have you not said every 
 thing in desiring me to do it as simply as 
 I can ! And now that I feel sure of my 
 purpose, and am aware of the treachery
 
 188 
 
 of my heart, I need not ask for further 
 counsel." 
 
 " No," I replied, " it is but to have a 
 simple purpose, a single eye to the per- 
 formance of duty, and the manner of 
 doing it never presents an obstacle. I 
 would only caution you to be brief — very 
 brief — without being abrupt you must 
 shew him that you are decided, and 
 above all things avoid the suggestions of 
 feeling." 
 
 " I will — I will," she said, with rapid 
 earnestness ; " now I must be gone — 
 all is over !" 
 
 " God bless you !" she said, with fer- 
 vour, in reply to my parting benedic- 
 tion ; " you must pray for me !" 
 
 It was not necessary to remind me of 
 this ; never had my feelings been so 
 deeply, so painfully excited as in this 
 interview 7 . There was need, indeed, of 
 prayer for us both. I offered it up that 
 she might be strengthened ; and that I,
 
 189 
 
 in the strong and tender interest with 
 which she had inspired me, might not 
 forget, that human friendships and human 
 attachments must never more predomi- 
 nate in a heart which, for many a suf- 
 fering year, had been struggling to 
 emancipate itself from the fetters with 
 which nature would have bound it to 
 every kind and pleasing being with 
 whom it came in contact. ,, 
 
 I now resign the pen to Isabel, who 
 can alone depict the state of her mind 
 after she quitted me.
 
 190 
 
 CHAP. IX, 
 
 ISABEL IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 " Of all the faculties of the soul," says Corinne, " for 
 which I am indebted to nature, that of suffering is the 
 only one of which I have the full exercise." 
 
 MAD. DE STAEL. 
 
 As soon as I found myself at home, 
 I sat ddwn to write to Leslie. I would 
 not yield to the soft and dangerous feel- 
 ings which every moment rose from my 
 heart to my eyes, and, as I proceeded in 
 my painful task, more than once obliged 
 me to pause and wipe away my tears, 
 and struggle against myself with an ef- 
 fort which I thought would have de- 
 stroyed me. " I must act — I must act !" 
 I kept repeating to myself 5 " I can weep 
 hereafter."
 
 191 
 
 I was not long in pouring out some 
 of the fulness of my soul ; it would es- 
 cape me, though I restrained it almost to 
 the breaking of my heart. After much 
 more time spent in curtailing what 1 had 
 written than I had bestowed in first 
 writing it, I finished, and, by my con- 
 fidential maid, transmitted to Leslie the 
 following lines : — 
 
 " I cannot but thank you for your 
 " communication \ I cannot but thank 
 " you that you have at last relieved 
 " me from the suspense, and, I may say, 
 " the humiliation of the circumstances 
 " in which you had placed me. I will 
 " make no comment upon your con- 
 " duct. I can only, in justice to my- 
 " self, say, that you mistook my charac- 
 " ter when, at the conclusion of your 
 " letter, you told me that you would 
 " not believe the appeal you made to 
 " my love and to my compassion would 
 " be in vain. I admit, Leslie, that you
 
 192 
 
 " had cause for such a belief; I will 
 «• even acknowledge to you, that, in re- 
 " sisting your appeal, I suffer deeply : 
 " but I must resist it. I do not assume 
 " a virtue that I have not, for, God 
 " knows ! a being cannot live more sen- 
 " sible of possessing deep and glaring 
 " errors than 1 am : but something 
 " within me forbids that I should in- 
 " crease them by acting as I should 
 " act, were I to accept your offers, 
 " under the circumstances in which 
 " they are made. I can propose no 
 " counsel as to your conduct— it is 
 " sufficient that I make my own such 
 M as may satisfy my conscience, how- 
 " ever it may wound my heart. I 
 " bid you, then, farewell ; and in that 
 " one word all must be comprized : 
 " for, were 1 to touch upon the asso- 
 " ciations connected with it, perhaps I 
 " could not utter it all — and it must be 
 " uttered! Once more then, Leslie, 1 bid 
 ff you farewell !"
 
 193 
 
 " It is in vain," I said, " I know that 
 it is in vain to expect to argue myself 
 out of hope," after I had spent more 
 than an hour in trying to convince my- 
 self that I did not indulge a belief that 
 Leslie would release himself with ail 
 speed from his engagement, and seek 
 me in the most honourable manner. 
 - "All that I can do," I continued, 
 ".is to take the present hour as it is, 
 and act right for that, leaving the fu- 
 ture, as Miss Delmond says, to Him who 
 governs it." 
 
 Though heavily oppressed, I was not 
 overpowered with misery > but, I be- 
 lieve, unconsciously to myself, the exci- 
 tation of having some consequences to 
 expect from the letter I had sent, sup- 
 ported me far more than the better 
 principle of doing my duty. I think 
 this acute analysing of motives, how- 
 ever, ill-fitted to our state of human im- 
 perfection, in which a mixture of evil, 
 from the very nature of it, must be dis- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 
 
 covered even in our best actions. I 
 would not, therefore, recommend it, ex- 
 cept when it conduces to the proper 
 result of leading us, with the humility 
 which such a state of error and imper- 
 fection ought to inspire, to cast our- 
 selves low before the throne of Him, 
 who alone can simplify, and purify, and 
 renew our deceitful and corrupt hearts. 
 But, at the time of which I speak, I was 
 young in religious knowledge — I was 
 young, indeed, in years ; and though 
 daily taught by sad experience some- 
 thing of my own fallen nature, I was 
 not prepared to find that my interview 
 with Miss Delmond had done me so lit- 
 tle effectual good, that, on the following 
 day, when Leslie sent me a note con- 
 taining an ardent desire for an interview, 
 I was upon the very point of returning 
 an assenting answer ; but I was saved 
 from such folly and inconsistency by 
 her coming to visit me. I was up stairs ; 
 for, to preclude the observation of my
 
 195 
 
 aunt upon my agitated and woe- worn 
 appearance, I had made the most of a 
 slight cold that had attacked me, and 
 kept my room. I begged to see her, 
 and she came up to me ; but I found 
 that, without telling her of his note and 
 of my purpose, our conversation would 
 have a restrained air, so much in oppo- 
 sition to the frank and open conversa- 
 tion of yesterday, that it would be im- 
 possible for us to proceed without my 
 giving her cause, in my altered manner, 
 to suppose me one of the most capri- 
 cious and ungrateful of beings. 
 
 This was an opinion I could not bear 
 to inspire her with ; and I soon replied 
 to the affectionate interest she mani- 
 fested for me, by shewing her the letter 
 I had sent, and the request from him 
 which had followed it. To detail what 
 passed between us, after I told her, with 
 a burning cheek and faltering words, 
 my wish — for I dare not, for shame, call 
 
 K 2
 
 196 
 
 it my intention — would be to repeat the 
 substance of our yesterday's conversation. 
 We went over nearly the same ground ; 
 and, after nearly the same resistance and 
 struggle between my heart and my judg- 
 ment, the latter once more conquered, 
 and, in Miss Delmond's presence, I 
 wrote him but this note, in reply to his 
 request : — 
 
 " An interview must be painful to 
 " me, without having any influence upon 
 " my purpose : I cannot, therefore, yield 
 " to your request." 
 
 Now, indeed, I believed the die was 
 cast ! now, I doubted not that the fiery 
 spirit of Leslie would induce him, with- 
 out another effort, to withdraw from me 
 for ever ; and now despair took hold upon 
 me with a force I had never known be- 
 fore ! 
 
 Still was it not wholly unmixed with
 
 197 
 
 hope, till, in the evening, Miss Russell 
 came to me, bringing with her the. fol- 
 lowing lines from Leslie : — 
 
 " It is enough, Isabel ! I will perse- 
 (t cute you no more. Had I but known 
 " — had I but guessed at the state of 
 U your affection for me, I would not 
 " have presumed to make so strong an 
 " appeal to it. I quit this place for ever 
 " — this night 1 bid both it and youfare- 
 « well ! " E. L." 
 
 " Is he gone — is he gone?" I in- 
 quired, with frantic energy, of Elizabeth. 
 
 " Two hours since," she replied. 
 
 " Then Heaven have mercy upon 
 me !" I said ; " for now my wretched- 
 ness is, indeed, complete ! Oh, Miss 
 Delmond! cruel woman! why did you 
 urge me — why did I yield to you ?" 
 
 Elizabeth eagerly inquired into the 
 meaning of my words ; and, as well as 
 my agony of mind would permit, I re- 
 k 3
 
 198 
 
 lated to her what had passed : upon 
 hearing which, she began to condemn 
 me very much for my imprudence in 
 seeking counsel of a woman so sure to 
 advise me wrong, as Miss Delmond. 
 
 " A mere fanatic !" she said — " a 
 woman who judged of every body and 
 every thing by the standard of her own 
 calm, milk-and-water temperament. But 
 I shall let her know the mischief she has 
 done," she went on, " I can tell her — 
 I shall not spare her for her officious- 
 ness." 
 
 But the injustice — the ingratitude, of 
 which I was guilty, in thus permitting 
 so sincere a well-wisher as Miss Del- 
 mond to be reviled, flashed across me in 
 the midst of my bitter grief, and I ar- 
 rested the further expression of Eliza- 
 beth's indignation by intreating her to 
 refrain. 
 
 " It was my own doing," I said ; " it 
 was my own fault— if any fault there 
 was in seeking her counsel. But the
 
 199 
 
 fault is not there, Elizabeth ! It is here • 
 — here !" and I laid my hand upon my 
 throbbing bosom. " God comfort me ! 
 God support me!" and now, with the cer- 
 tainty that I had none else to seek, with 
 genuine faith and devotion I lifted up 
 my heart in prayer. 
 
 I have before had occasion to remark, 
 that Miss Russell did not want feeling ; 
 she exhibited it in the sympathy with 
 which she entered into my distress — en- 
 deavouring to alleviate it, by pointing to 
 the probability of Leslie's return to me 
 at no distant period. But this hope I 
 opposed by a strong conviction of its 
 frailty. 
 
 " I know him too well," I said — " too 
 well do I know the pride of his heart. 
 He thinks that he has been deceived in 
 me — that he has overrated my affection 
 for him : he will never forgive, either 
 himself or me, such a mistake as that." 
 
 She could not combat this persuasion ; 
 for she admitted that his manner, in giv- 
 
 K 4f
 
 200 
 
 ing her the letter she brought, too much 
 sanctioned it. 
 
 He had only put it into her hands, 
 saying, " I will thank you to give that to 
 Miss Melville ;" and to all the questions 
 she put to him, when he announced his 
 intention of departing, he merely re- 
 turned for answer, " I have no doubt 
 that letter will satisfy Miss Melville. You 
 must excuse my leaving the rest of the 
 world unacquainted with my sentiments. 
 It is sufficient that I now for ever bid 
 adieu to D ." 
 
 " He then," she continued, " took 
 leave both of my mother and myself." 
 
 " Did he appear at all agitated ?" I 
 inquired. 
 
 u He laboured to appear otherwise," 
 she replied ; " but it was evident that 
 he suffered very deeply from some inter- 
 nal feeling, which he would rather have 
 died than suffered to break out into 
 words." 
 
 M Then all is over — all is over ! and
 
 20 i 
 
 life is ended for me !" I said ; " and 
 now, Elizabeth, will you forgive me if 
 I ask you to leave me ? I am best 
 alone.' ' 
 
 She endeavoured to controvert this 
 opinion, assuring me that solitude would 
 but overwhelm me with emotions I must 
 make it my study to combat. 
 
 " I am not going to indulge emotion," 
 I said. I would have added, " I am 
 going to pray ;" but I feared she would 
 smile at me, and I did not say it. 
 
 She soon found me utterly incapable 
 of being comforted by any thing she 
 could say. I spoke not — I wept not — 
 I did but lie upon my bed, with now and 
 then a whispered ejaculation for divine 
 assistance. Perceiving that sorrow had 
 exhausted me, and supposing that, if left 
 alone, sleep would overtake me, she at 
 last took an affectionate leave, and with- 
 drew. 
 
 I will not lift the sacred veil which it 
 is better to draw over the communion of 
 K 5
 
 202 
 
 a wounded, suffering spirit with its 
 Maker. I will only say, that I passed 
 this night so as to rise in the morning 
 strengthened and comforted. I passed 
 it in a manner mournful indeed, but 
 with feelings which well prepared me 
 for those fresh sorrows, of which this, 
 bitter as it was, proved but the begin- 
 ning.
 
 203 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 MISS DELMOND WRITES. 
 
 Before I was afflicted, I went astray. 
 
 Psalm cxix. 67. 
 
 There are few persons of any thought 
 or pious reflection, who have not had 
 occasion to remark how much easier it 
 is to submit patiently to those afflictions 
 which we perceive to come immediately 
 from the hand of God, than to those 
 which are the result of our own miscon- 
 duct, or the misconduct of others to- 
 wards us. In the former case, we feel 
 how poor, how powerless we are, and, 
 in the passiveness with which we are 
 compelled to yield to the infliction, we 
 are commonly, even the worst of us, for 
 a time at least, taught to know " how 
 k 6
 
 201 
 
 good it isfor us to be afflicted." Butwhen 
 our sorrows are the work of our own 
 hands, or of others — or, more properly 
 to speak, when the blindness and insen- 
 sibility of our minds prevent our looking 
 from human causes to the divine Source 
 from whence alone they derive their 
 agency — what a mixture of restless pas- 
 sions do they not inspire! and how eager, 
 how agitating, are the hopes and fears 
 they excite ! — the desire of retaliation 
 — the fervent expectation of a change in 
 circumstances — the dread of receiving 
 none ! — what vicissitudes, in short, of 
 painful, and fruitless, and unsanctifying 
 emotion will not the soul experience, 
 that know r s not how to extract from every 
 sorrow the latent good, which, in its 
 being a means of turning the heart to 
 God, may ever be wrought out of it. 
 
 And Isabel, doubtless, would have 
 been amongst the number of these un- 
 happy creatures, who draw no use from 
 affliction, but rather augment its weight
 
 205 
 
 by adding to it the fretful ness and im- 
 patience which, without religious views, 
 must be expected to accompany it — had 
 it not pleased God, before she had in 
 any degree regained her tranquillity, to 
 visit her with a trial of a different kind 
 from that which had ever yet exercised 
 her : a trial severe indeed, but not less 
 than sublime — for it brought with it 
 much brokenness of heart, deep con- 
 trition, and a keen and agonizing sense 
 of her past faults ; and which, fearful 
 and many as since then have been her 
 failures, was, I am persuaded, the begin- 
 ning of a comfort and delight, and 
 knowledge of religion, that she never 
 totally lost. 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 In losing the object of my affections, 
 I need not say, I suffered as enthusi- 
 astic, ardent creatures alone suffer ;
 
 206 
 
 but it was suffering which wrought no 
 permanent and decisive benefit to my 
 soul. It prompted me to pray, indeed ; 
 for, in the anguish of my spirit, I could 
 only look for aid from Him who framed 
 it so acutely to feel ; and the very act of 
 prayer for a time composed me. But 
 the root of evil was still within, un- 
 touched, and even unapproached. Un- 
 sanctified passions, headstrong will, a 
 heart so rebellious to the circumstances 
 laid upon me, that I know not any 
 interval in which Leslie could have 
 returned and renewed his addresses, 
 that I should not have hailed it with 
 joy, and gratified my senseless wishes in 
 accepting him once more. Frequently, 
 when the unhappy violence of my tem- 
 per was most busy, did I express my re- 
 gret and disappointment in reproaches 
 to the good Miss Delmond, for the 
 advice by which she had occasioned me, 
 I said, to ruin my happiness, and make 
 myself an outcast from felicity for ever.
 
 207 
 
 She heard me with the most patient 
 sweetness. " A time will come, Isabel," 
 she always said, " when you will think 
 differently ; you are impatient of cor- 
 rection : but you will yet, I trust, bless 
 the rod that chastens you for your 
 eternal happiness." 
 
 During the long period that I deluded 
 myself with the hope of hearing from 
 Leslie, I never mentioned his name to 
 my aunt, and both she and my uncle, 
 hearing that he had left the place, never 
 to return, were very well satisfied, and, 
 but for my dejected looks and sinking 
 health, would have derived nothing but 
 gratification at the end of the connexion. 
 But it was impossible, without pain, to 
 behold me moving about the house, as it 
 were, mechanically, taking no interest in 
 any thing ; and, in the place of the 
 liveliness and gaiety with which I used 
 to endeavour to amuse their domestic 
 hours, sitting silent and spiritless, and 
 with apparent sullenness, brooding only
 
 208 
 
 upon my disappointment and the dis- 
 contented feelings it inspired. 
 
 I saw that all this disturbed and affect- 
 ed them both ; but I had not within 
 me the power to resist the selfishness of 
 my sorrow ; as little could I bear to 
 speak of it. Many times my dear aunt 
 sought to lead me to this, no doubt from 
 a hope that, in speaking, I might obtain 
 some relief for the fulness of my heart. 
 But I knew that, consistently with their 
 avowed opinions, they could not do 
 otherwise than rejoice at the disso- 
 lution of my acquaintance with a person 
 of whom they so entirely disapproved, 
 and the mere expression of a sympathy 
 which could not be genuine would only 
 have augmented my uneasiness. 
 
 In this uncomfortable manner, some 
 months passed away. An unaccountable 
 estrangement seemed to have taken 
 place between me and these my dearest 
 — best of friends. I felt that the fault 
 was with me, and sometimes I set my-
 
 :o9 
 
 self in the most determined manner to 
 conquer it ; but insensibly I returned to 
 my usual habits of abstraction and in- 
 difference : a blight had fallen upon all 
 my mental powers, and rendered them 
 useless to me. In the midst of this 
 wintry state of feeling, my dear aunt 
 was taken suddenly and dangerously ill, 
 and I gave myself wholly up to attend- 
 ing her, and endeavouring to console 
 my uncle, who was tenderly attached to 
 her. Her illness was of so violent and 
 rapid a nature, that, at the end of three 
 days, it terminated fatally. 
 
 This stroke fell upon my poor uncle 
 like a thunderbolt. One would have 
 thought that he had believed her immor- 
 tal, so utterly confounded and astonished 
 did he appear when this sad event took 
 place. Never shall I forget the scene ! 
 We believed her something better, and 
 I had retired to bed ; for I had been up 
 with her the whole of the preceding 
 night. I had but just fallen asleep,
 
 210 
 
 when I was roused by hearing myself 
 called in a voice of alarm by Mary, our 
 old maid-servant. The sad truth rushed 
 upon me. — " She is dead !" I said, as I 
 started from my bed, and was hastening 
 down stairs. 
 
 " No — not dead," she replied, as she 
 forcibly detained me while she threw 
 some clothing over me, " but she is very 
 bad." I hastened down to her room ; 
 and the first glance I cast upon her pale 
 face, white as the linen that surrounded 
 it, too truly told me that all was over. 
 I spoke to her — she heard me not. " It 
 is Isabel, my dear, dear aunt," I said, 
 as I cast myself upon her bed, and kissed 
 her cheek — but in vain ! 
 
 I turned to my poor uncle, who was 
 walking up and down the room, and 
 who seemed quite bewildered, and not 
 capable of comprehending that she could 
 be near death. " I have sent for the 
 doctor," he said ; " he will be here 
 presently — don't disturb her, Isabel : I
 
 211 
 
 hope she will be better." " Oh never — 
 never," I exclaimed— but I recollected 
 myself, and, in a more composed manner, 
 endeavoured to prepare him for the in- 
 evitable moment that was so near. 
 
 His various feelings quite confused him, 
 and, to my inexpressible wretchedness, 
 he appeared to think that I purposely 
 aggravated the case. 
 
 " You are not kind to alarm me thus, 
 Isabel," he said ; " but you are not 
 what you used to be." And then sitting 
 down by the side of my aunt, he ad- 
 dressed her, as if she were capable of 
 attending to him, and, rinding she would 
 not, a sudden sense of alarm took pos- 
 session of him. 
 
 " God help me !" he said : " oh, if you 
 should be taken from me, my dearest, 
 best of wives, what or whom have I left 
 to comfort me ? God help me !" 
 
 Alas ! the moment came. In a very 
 short time she expired in my arms. So 
 totally helpless, and enervated as a child,
 
 212 
 
 was my poor uncle, that they had pre- 
 vailed upon him to leave the room before 
 her departure. 
 
 I had never before witnessed the fear- 
 ful approach of death, and ill was I fitted 
 to behold it, for the first time, in the per- 
 son of one so dear to me. 
 
 But supernatural strength was granted 
 to my prayers : for by her side I cast 
 myself down, and asked it of God ; 
 and then rose, enabled with steadiness — 
 yes, with perfect steadiness, to close the 
 eyes that never looked upon me but 
 with kindness, and from my inmost soul 
 to say, " Thy will be done !" 
 
 I then sought for an interview with 
 my uncle, but he would not admit me, 
 or any one else to his presence. 
 
 The energy of acting, and above all 
 of endeavouring to act from a sense of 
 duty, supported me that night ; but, on 
 the following morning, when, after a short 
 and wretched slumber, I awoke to the 
 full consciousness of the desolation which
 
 213 
 
 had fallen upon us all, I sunk under it, 
 totally overcome. I had yet, however, 
 a duty to perform, in visiting and com- 
 forting my poor widowed uncle, upon 
 whom this distress fell the most pecu- 
 liarly severe. My aunt was so entirely 
 his all, so accustomed to think, and act, 
 and decide for him — so much loved and 
 confided in by him — that it was no com- 
 mon loss he had to deplore. 
 
 He was now, also, himself declining 
 in the vale of years ; and, added to a 
 natural timidity, and perhaps in some 
 measure, a feebleness of mind, his me- 
 mory and mental faculties in general 
 w r ere a good deal shaken and impaired. 
 The sad and strange alienation which 
 had sprung up between us, almost ever 
 since my unfortunate acquaintance with 
 Leslie, prevented his turning to me with 
 that perfect and undoubting confidence 
 which, in former days, would have led 
 him, under such a bereavement, to seek
 
 214 
 
 his chief support and temporal consola- 
 tion in me. 
 
 I languished to restore him to his 
 wonted sentiments : my heart yearned 
 to administer to his comfort. I eagerly 
 asked where he was ; they told me he 
 was in the parlour. I hastened down to 
 him ; he was sitting at the breakfast- 
 table reading the Bible. He raised his 
 head as I entered, and burst into tears. 
 I ran towards him and kissed his cheek ; 
 and, as I pressed him to my heart, 
 
 " My dear uncle I" I said, " I will do 
 all I can !" — I could add no more — but 
 it sufficed. 
 
 " I know you will, Isabel," he said ; 
 " God bless you, my dear ! I know you 
 will be a comfort to me !" 
 
 As soon as the first transports of his 
 grief at the sight of me had a little 
 worn away, he began, with all the hurry 
 of a mind confused by sudden affliction, 
 to talk of the arrangements which this
 
 215 
 
 melancholy event would render neces- 
 sary. I thought my heart would have 
 broken while I listened to him ; but 
 when he concluded, by asking me to 
 search in my poor aunt's writing-desk 
 for a paper that it was necessary for him 
 to examine before he issued any orders 
 for the funeral, I almost believed my 
 senses would have given way — such an 
 indefinable terror had I of entering the 
 room which contained her remains. I 
 know not how this was, since I had seen 
 her actually expire ; and, after such a 
 sight as that, might have been supposed 
 capable of supporting to look upon her 
 corpse. But so it was, that when I passed 
 her door that morning, in my way down 
 stairs, I had shuddered with dread lest 
 any one should be coming from it and 
 should open it, in a way to disclose her 
 to my view ; and to think of voluntarily 
 entering the room ! — it made me sick at 
 heart to imagine it. But I could not
 
 216 
 
 refuse any thing to the request of my 
 uncle. 
 
 " I could not well bear it, Isabel !" he 
 said, " and I know not whom else to 
 ask" 
 
 I rose instantly ; but it was with a 
 trembling frame. I remember catching 
 a glimpse of my face as I passed a mir- 
 ror, and being startled with the white- 
 ness of it ; it recalled the fearful look of 
 that dear countenance I had last night 
 gazed upon, and now so much dreaded 
 to behold again. 
 
 I stood in palpitating terror at the 
 door of this now awful chamber! A 
 woman I had never seen before sud- 
 denly came from it. She appeared to 
 be of the order who perform the last 
 offices for the dead, and who, in the 
 execution of their heartless occupation, 
 only make us regret the necessity for 
 employing them. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Melville!" she said, " you
 
 217 
 
 will be going to look at your dear aunt ! 
 Come in ;" and she appeared to intend 
 entering the room with me, but I waved 
 her away with my hand. 
 
 " Leave me," I said ; " I would be 
 alone," — and alone I was left. 
 
 After the ejaculation of a moment, 
 with noiseless step and suspended breath, 
 I crept into the room, and closed the 
 door, and stood there — the living with 
 the dead ! For a little space I dare not 
 raise my eyes. I had seen her face, and 
 at the first glimpse I hid my own in both 
 my hands, and trembled like an aspen 
 leaf. Cold drops of fear stood upon my 
 forehead. I never was so strangely — so 
 alarmingly affected. I believed that I 
 myself was dying ; and I could almost 
 have called the person back that 1 had 
 just sent away from me, in order that she 
 might save me from the agony of this 
 dreadful solitude. But this state of mor- 
 tal trepidation did not last. I thought 
 of all I had been enabled hitherto to sus- 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 
 
 tain and to perform — how firmly, by the 
 mercy of Heaven, I had witnessed the 
 departure of the dear saint whose poor 
 remains occasioned me this puerile un- 
 worthy dread — how steadily I had done 
 for her the last mournful offices of duty 
 and affection ; and, as I thus reasoned, I 
 regained some self-possession, and with 
 a determined effort I removed my hand 
 from my eyes. I compelled myself to 
 advance towards the bed — nearer — still 
 nearer — till at last I was by her side ; 
 and, my first mysterious dread subdued, 
 I could gaze upon her as she lay in her 
 silent, happy unconsciousness (for such 
 only it seemed), and as I gazed I grew 
 calm — I trembled no more — for never in 
 its loveliest living hours had that face 
 worn the tranquillity, " the rapture of 
 repose," which death had stamped upon 
 it! 
 
 The traces of a smile still lingered round 
 her mouth, and imparted to the counte- 
 nance an expression of peace which
 
 219 
 
 living features could not wear. I could 
 almost have believed, that, though di- 
 vided from its dear companion, the 
 senseless clay still sympathized with the 
 happiness into which the departed spirit 
 had entered. 
 
 It was an expression so sweet arid 
 heavenly, that, though I had trembled at 
 the thought of beholding it, involun- 
 tarily I bent down, and pressed my lips 
 to the cold cheek. Tears streamed from 
 my eyes, and sobs convulsed my bosom. 
 
 But I had yet a task to execute of the 
 most painful kind — a task, which, how- 
 ever delicately, however respectfully per- 
 formed, has the semblance of a violation 
 to all tender and generous feeling — To 
 search the repositories of the dead ! — 
 Where is the heart so cold as to attempt 
 this without something of a pang of 
 remorse ! 
 
 " A few days since," I thought, " and 
 her hand held these keys ! and who would 
 have dared to intrude upon what they 
 l 2
 
 220 
 
 concealed ?" But now, how silent- 
 how powerless she is !" and I looked 
 towards her unconscious, clay-cold form 
 with a fresh burst of anguish, as my 
 fancy pictured the indirect kind of in- 
 sult I was about to offer to it. " But I 
 am in the cause of duty V 9 I said, to 
 arm myself with courage. I strove- 
 against the gushing tears, which almost 
 blinded me as I searched amongst her 
 papers for that my uncle had specified. 
 At length I found it. I hastened down 
 stairs — I put it into his hand— and then 
 nature, wholly exhausted, constrained 
 me, like the patriarch of old, " to seek 
 my chamber, where to weep."
 
 221 
 
 CHAP. XI, 
 
 MISS DELMOND WRITES. 
 
 The most vulgar man, when he prays — when he suffers, 
 and places hope in Heaven, has, at that moment, some- 
 thing in him which he would express like Milton, Ho- 
 mer, or Tasso, if education had taught him to clothe 
 his thoughts with words. 
 
 MAD. DE STAEL. 
 
 After the death of Mrs. Melville, a 
 decided and important improvement took 
 place in the habits and conduct of Isa- 
 bel. The force of her character was 
 subdued : she seemed for a time like 
 one surprised and frightened by the cir- 
 cumstances which had befallen her. Hi- 
 therto her days had been unmarked by 
 any other sorrow than such as her imagi- 
 nation had created ; but the desertion 
 of Leslie, and the death of her aunt, 
 l 3
 
 222 
 
 were substantial woes, which compelled 
 her to reflect upon life with deeper views 
 than she had yet encouraged. In the 
 unhappy issue of her attachment, she 
 was now capable of discovering that con- 
 nexion between fault and misfortune, 
 which as surely subsists as cause and ef- 
 fect in the moral as well as in the phy- 
 sical world. 
 
 " Our connexion was founded in er- 
 ror," she would say, when speaking of 
 her engagement with Leslie : "it began 
 in concealment. I knew that I acted 
 wrong in listening to the addresses of 
 Leslie in a clandestine manner ; I knew 
 that no argument, either of Elizabeth 
 Russell's or my own, could make it right. 
 But I was willing to indulge a hope that 
 allowance would be made for the influ- 
 ence of strong affection. " 
 
 " In short, Isabel/' I replied, M you 
 were determined to follow your own 
 will ; and you have reaped the fruits 
 of it."
 
 223 
 
 " Yet how is it, Miss Delmond," she 
 would say, " that other people seem to 
 escape the consequences of their miscon- 
 duct ? You know, and I know, of simi- 
 lar instances, where sorrow appears to 
 have been escaped, and where clandes- 
 tine attachments eventually have turned 
 out happily." 
 
 " They appear to have so turned out, 
 Isabel j but we see only the surface of 
 things. I am so sure of retribution, as 
 the consequence of error, that I can no 
 more believe happiness to attend wrong 
 measures, than I can believe I shall put 
 my hand into the fire and not be burned. 
 The tracing out the link between our 
 errors and our sufferings, I conceive to 
 be one of the best human means of ar- 
 riving at truth." 
 
 In this high and important search, her 
 time, for more than a year after her 
 aunt's death, was occupied. She read 
 the Scriptures ; she studied to find out 
 the path of duty ; and, whenever she 
 l 5
 
 224 
 
 had found it, she steadily pursued it. 
 Her devotion to what was right was con- 
 siderably strengthened by the removal 
 of Miss Russell's influence over her, ow- 
 ing to the circumstance of that young 
 lady's approaching marriage. This event, 
 in preparation and expectation, so much 
 occupied her time and thoughts, as in 
 some measure to occasion a pause in the 
 extreme intimacy which had hitherto 
 subsisted between them, — a pause which 
 was gratifying to me in every respect. 
 Besides removing what I could not but 
 consider an obstacle to Isabel's thinking 
 or acting right, the cessation of such 
 constant intercouse with Miss Russell 
 afforded me a great deal of Miss Mel- 
 ville's society. I never met with any 
 mind so flexible — so entirely within the 
 influence of those persons with whom it 
 came in contact, as that of Isabel. She 
 took for a time the tone, the sentiments, 
 the whole character of her associates ; 
 and this not from any principle of imita
 
 22b 
 
 tion — for, after all, she stood alone. She 
 was like nobody but herself, and nobody 
 else was like her : but it was the result 
 of some quality she possessed ; I think, 
 probably, it was her vivid imagination 
 and intense feelings of sympathy, which 
 transformed her into any sort of cha- 
 racter she happened to like ; for I should 
 premise, that it was only those she liked 
 whose company she endured. Accus- 
 tomed to follow her own inclinations 
 from her earliest youth, she never con- 
 demned herself to any society that was 
 not exactly to her taste. While in health 
 and spirits, and full of the high-flown 
 expectations of youth, Miss Russell had 
 been her chosen companion ; but afflic- 
 tion occasioned her to think seriously, 
 and she found a more congenial friend, 
 at the present juncture, in me. She 
 adopted many of my ideas : she read 
 many of my favourite authors : she liked 
 the calm, tranquil manner in which I 
 passed my time — it assimilated with the 
 l 5
 
 220 
 
 chastized and pensive state of her own 
 feelings. Amongst the different ways 
 in which I presume to believe I was 
 useful to her, I had insensibly led her 
 to pursue a habit of visiting the suffering 
 poor ; which habit paved the way to cir- 
 cumstances that I had not foreseen — only, 
 I believe, because I accustomed myself 
 to live on, from day to day, upon actual 
 occurrences, without any indulgence to 
 fancy, or the formation of those airy 
 castles that visionaries so much delight 
 to build. That 1, with all my solid, real 
 pursuits, had not yet outlived the age of 
 fond and anxious speculation, w 7 as too 
 painfully evinced by the variety of hopes 
 and fears which followed an incident 
 that Isabel shall herself relate. 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 I know of nothing that more soothed 
 and elevated me above the consideration
 
 227 
 
 of my trials, than a custom I had acquired 
 from Miss Delmond, of paying visits to 
 the cottages of the poor. Amongst them 
 there was one habitation which received 
 me as a frequent guest : it was the dwell- 
 ing of an aged widow, who had long 
 been a pensioner of our family, and of 
 my dear aunt's in particular, who had a 
 value for her from the circumstances of 
 her having been, for many years of her 
 life, a trusty and confidential servant to 
 her. 
 
 Alice Gray (for that was the name of 
 this woman) was a person of a character 
 more common than is often suspected in 
 the humble walks of life. Those who 
 have been blessed with the advantage of 
 education, are too apt to suppose that it 
 comprizes also the gifts of intellect, and 
 that nobody can be a tolerable compa- 
 nion who has not received the benefit of 
 polite instruction ; but, as the poet has 
 justly told us, — 
 
 l 6
 
 228 
 
 " Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air ;" 
 
 and in the person of Alice Gray there 
 existed a notable instance of the truth 
 of this remark. She was a woman of 
 extraordinary good sense, and, I might 
 almost say, fine taste, rude and uncul- 
 tivated as it had been for many years of 
 her life. 
 
 " But it had pleased God/' she said, 
 * to cast her upon a bed of sickness for 
 the last ten years of her life ; and then, 
 Miss Isabel," she went on, " I began to 
 think what I had to comfort me : why, 
 I could read, and so I did ; and the 
 neighbours, who knew I was a bit of a 
 scholar, used to bring me play books 
 and story books, and such like to amuse 
 me. And I remember the time when I 
 would have liked nothing better than 
 plenty of time to read and enjoy them. 
 But this does not do for me now, I 
 thought : I may be taken off all in a 
 moment, just as I was all in a moment
 
 229 
 
 laid upon this bed in this helpless state ; 
 and how would it be with my soul, if I 
 were called to appear before God just 
 from reading some idle love story. No, 
 this will never do : I must read the 
 Bible ; and you may suppose, I went 
 to it with no great enjoyment, after my 
 love stories, and plays, and fables. But 
 I happened, first of all, to pitch upon the 
 story of Joseph and his brethren, which 
 I had heard and read times and often 
 before, but never with so much pleasure. 
 I never thought it so beautiful ! * Is 
 the old man, your father, yet alive !' Oh, 
 how I cried over that verse. Well, I 
 thought, I must needs go to play books, 
 and such things to please me, when, here, 
 I can have such pleasure as this ; and 
 then I searched for the parables, and all 
 the beautiful parts, for I had a strange 
 fancy to be pleased in my reading ; and 
 pleased I was sure enough, more than 
 ever I was with all the books I ever read 
 in my life j and, thus, from one thing I
 
 230 
 
 went to another, first its beauty, and 
 then its doctrine, and then its comfort. 
 In short, Miss Isabel, I never seem safe 
 without the Bible by my side : and now, 
 my dear, if you would read some parts 
 over with me, how I should enjoy it all 
 over again." 
 
 To this request I lent a ready ear ; 
 and, whenever I was particularly de- 
 pressed in spirits, I had a sovereign 
 balm in the prospect of an hour thus 
 spent with this good old creature. 
 
 I was often astonished at the wisdom 
 with which she discoursed upon the por- 
 tions of Scripture I read to her, and the 
 sagacity with which she would discover, 
 from the tone of my voice and general 
 appearance, the part of it which would 
 be best adapted for my feelings. She 
 was almost a member of the family, 
 at least her past intercourse with it ren- 
 dered her very well aware of what my 
 peculiar trials were. She knew the im- 
 petuosity of my temper — my self will —
 
 231 
 
 my impatience. Hence she directed me 
 generally to such texts and chapters as 
 inculcated the duties of a Christian's 
 life — his conflict — his armour — his final 
 reward. 
 
 " Ah ! I see you have had something 
 to vex you !" she would say sometimes, 
 when a recent trouble had left the traces 
 of tears upon my countenance : " well, 
 dear ! just turn to Philippians, second 
 chapter, and read a few verses of it, and 
 then we'll talk them over ;" and, in the 
 talking them over, as she called it, such 
 peace, such light, would dawn upon my 
 soul, that I never could avoid consider- 
 ing that poor old Alice Gray was hu- 
 manly instrumental in assisting and 
 strengthening my, as yet, unconfirmed 
 religious principles. 
 
 But her day was almost spent, and I 
 perceived, with real sorrow, that the con- 
 solation we mutually derived from each 
 other- she, in leading me to the study 
 of divine things, and I, in minister-
 
 232 
 
 ing to her temporal wants — was shortly 
 to come to a close. She was now so 
 weak that we could not discourse much 
 upon what I used to read to her : they 
 were chiefly brief texts, upon which she 
 loved to meditate. 
 
 " For I can't talk now, my dear!" 
 she would say ; " but, when we meet in 
 Heaven, we shall have sweet discourse 
 together— better than ever we have had 
 here, though that has been very sweet 
 to me." And thus she endeavoured to 
 apologize for any appearance of declining 
 interest in my attentions, which she feared 
 I might observe. I had always pressed 
 her to point out to me any way in which 
 I could be useful to her, either before 
 or after her decease ; and she had named 
 one or two instances, in which she 
 thought I could. Still her chief anxiety 
 was about me. 
 
 " If I could but see you married, 
 Miss Isabel !— not to that gay, thought- 
 less gentleman I heard so much about,
 
 233 
 
 that they told me you were to have had ; 
 — no, no : some good man. Oh ! I do 
 wish that with all my heart I" 
 
 It was not long before poor Alice, 
 from the indulgence of vague wishes in 
 my behalf, proceeded to endow them 
 with something of form and feature. The 
 arrival of a young clergyman to officiate 
 as curate for Mr. Forrester, an evan- 
 gelical minister of eminent piety in our 
 town, was the signal of her happiness 
 in my prospects. Mr. Manvers (which 
 was the name of this young man) was 
 likely to be thrown a good deal into my 
 society, from his connexion with Miss 
 Delmond, who was his aunt ; and Alice 
 was quite sure we should " come toge- 
 ther," as she phrased it. 
 
 He had been resident in the place, 
 however, more than a month, and as yet 
 I had not seen him : this was not extra- 
 ordinary, as his strict fulfilment of the 
 duties of his sacred office left him but 
 little time for any other engagement. I
 
 231 
 
 had heard Miss Delmond often speak 
 with pleasure of his being settled so near 
 her, and express sentiments of the high- 
 est value and respect for his character 
 and acquirements, which common re- 
 port also testified to be of the most supe- 
 rior order. But it was from Alice that 
 1 received such enthusiastic testimony 
 to his merits, that, languid as was now 
 my interest in any of the circumstances 
 of life, I should not have been displeased 
 if chance had afforded me an opportunity, 
 unperceived by him, of seeing a person 
 represented to me as so unusually cap- 
 tivating. He had won the heart of Alice 
 by visiting her sick bed with prayer and 
 consolation, as he had also done those of 
 many others of her friends in humble 
 life, whose sufferings required the aid 
 of spiritual assistance. 
 
 Frequently had Alice intreated me to 
 visit her at the hour when he usually 
 called upon her; but from such a step, 
 of course, I should have desisted, had not
 
 235 
 
 sorrow rendered me averse from en- 
 countering the notice of strangers ; and 
 finding that her efforts towards pro- 
 ducing an introduction between us were 
 likely to be fruitless, she at length aban- 
 doned them ; satisfied, as she told Miss 
 Delmond, that if it was ordained that 
 Miss Isabel should marry Mr. Man vers, 
 it must be, though she herself, she feared, 
 should never live to see it. 
 
 Over this chimera of the poor old 
 woman, both Miss Delmond and I had 
 smiled together, and had never given it 
 more attention than a smile, till chance 
 produced an unexpected incident. 
 
 The poor woman continued gradually 
 to decline, and at last became so weak 
 and exhausted, that every hour we anti- 
 cipated would be her last. At this time 
 I myself was so unwell with a severe 
 cold as to be unable to leave the house, 
 and my duties to my old pensioner I 
 was obliged to delegate to Miss Del- 
 mond. In about a week I was better ;
 
 236 
 
 and hearing from my friend that Alice 
 was at the last stage of existence, and, 
 she feared, would scarcely live through 
 the day, I determined to gratify my de- 
 sire of beholding her once more before 
 she died ; especially as I found she had 
 expressed a wish to see me. I was yet 
 very unwell, and, but upon such an 
 emergency, I could not have found my- 
 self strong enough to walk so far : as it 
 was, I was not by any means equal to 
 such an undertaking, and when I arrived 
 at the cottage, I was obliged to rest 
 myself for some little time before I was 
 sufficiently recovered from the fatigue 
 of my walk to be able to speak to Alice. 
 She was alone ; for the duties of their 
 daily occupations had called away from 
 her those of her neighbours, who usually 
 attended to her wants. But this circum- 
 stance, so melancholy, so appalling to the 
 fancy of many persons, I have observed 
 generally to afford no uneasiness to the 
 poor. I believe it may be that their
 
 237 
 
 imagination is seldom their foe. They 
 see nothing in death but the act of 
 dying, and that they know must be en- 
 dured alone. Their continual contest 
 with the actual and tangible eviJs of life, 
 most happily exempts them from the 
 fears and fancies which accompany an 
 excited mind. Hence, in their last mo- 
 ments, they require but little more from 
 the hand of friendship, than such aid 
 as the dependant condition of humanity 
 demands for those who are physically 
 incapable of assisting themselves ; and 
 how little that is, the solitude — the dis- 
 comfort — the neglected death-bed of 
 poverty is most commonly an affecting 
 instance ! By her not taking any notice 
 of my approach, I imagined she was 
 asleep, and I went gently to the bed- 
 side to look at her ; but I perceived by 
 the difficulty of her breathing and her 
 total insensibility to my pronouncing her 
 name, that the sleep which was stealing
 
 238 
 
 over her was one from which she would 
 never more awaken. 
 
 My weakened spirits were quite over- 
 powered at the sight, and I was con- 
 strained to indulge them by a flood of 
 tears. Besides the endearment which 
 springs from the consciousness of having 
 been useful to the object of our regard, 
 I had that love for the good old creature 
 which almost everv one feels for those 
 who had the care of their earliest in- 
 fancy, as she had of mine. 
 
 " You have not been long here after 
 the departure of your dear mistress, poor 
 Alice !" I said ; and, at the fond asso- 
 ciations which remembrance with that 
 thought renewed in my mind, I felt so 
 heavily oppressed, that I was fain to 
 take refuge from my feelings in the act 
 of prayer. 
 
 1 had long been thus engaged, and 
 was yet kneeling with my head bent 
 doWn upon the withered hand of the
 
 239 
 
 dying woman, when the sound of a foot- 
 step close by my side made me start up 
 with a natural feeling of unwillingness 
 to have my sacred emotions intruded 
 upon. 
 
 A form stood over me which I had 
 never seen before, but to which I was 
 assured no other name but that of Man- 
 vers belonged, so completely did it 
 realize the conception which the des- 
 cription of Alice had occasioned me to 
 form of it— tall and erect, there was an 
 air of dignity about him which, strongly 
 as it was marked in his graceful figure, 
 was yet more forcibly delineated in every 
 feature of his beautiful countenance ; 
 for beautiful it w r as, though majestic se- 
 verity (softened as it was by an expres- 
 sion of pity) predominated to a degree 
 that almost made me shrink as if in the 
 presence of a being superior to the com- 
 mon errors and weaknesses of humanity. 
 
 He spoke, and in a tone of voice so 
 singularly charming, so indicative of all
 
 240 
 
 that I had imagined of him, and which 
 his appearance so justly confirmed, that 
 had I not seen, but merely heard him, I 
 am certain I should have said, " That 
 is the voice of Mr. Manvers." But I 
 should remark, that upon the subject of 
 a voice, as upon most other things, I 
 was a visionary : I had a theory of my 
 own, which persuaded me to believe 
 that the tones of the voice were gene- 
 rally to be taken as affording some illu- 
 mination to the character of the speaker ; 
 but I must acknowledge it to be quite 
 unworthy of any rational mind to indulge 
 in such speculations, which, like most 
 other premises that will not stand the 
 test of argument, usually lead to false 
 and absurd conclusions. 
 
 However, the voice of Mr. Manvers 
 was melody itself, though united with a 
 tone of indefinable decision and power, 
 corresponding with the towering gran- 
 deur of his figure. 
 
 " Pardon this intrusion !" he said: "I
 
 241 
 
 believe I am addressing Miss Melville. 
 Poor Alice has left me no stranger to 
 your christian kindness to her ! But suf- 
 fer me now," he continued, " to supply 
 your place by the side of this poor suf- 
 ferer, who will not, I perceive, require 
 the attentions of either of us very long [" 
 
 I expressed an unwillingness, which I 
 sincerely felt, to desert my old friend 
 while any spark of life remained. 
 
 " I honour your humanity !" he said, 
 " but allow me to prevail upon you 
 These scenes are of a very affecting cha- 
 racter, and you are evidently at present 
 suffering from other causes." 
 
 With the most delicate respect he 
 would have led me from the cottage ; 
 but ere I could depart, I felt that I must 
 bid farewell to my poor Alice, whose 
 spirit was fast fleeting from this transi- 
 tory scene. I did but press her aged 
 hand in mine, and silently ejaculated a 
 mental prayer, that her passage to a bet- 
 ter world might be short and easy, and 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 
 
 then I turned away. I could have lingered 
 there all day, and probably should thus 
 have gratified the mournful craving of 
 my soul for these sights of sorrow, which 
 in the present state of my feelings, admi- 
 nistered to it such a salutary sadness ; 
 but the unexpected arrival of Mr. Man- 
 vers precluded my remaining there with- 
 out, as I thought, some violation of pro- 
 priety. 
 
 I yielded, therefore, to the gentle, but 
 determined effort with which he drew me 
 from the side of the unconscious Alice ; 
 whose wishes, like those of most short- 
 sighted mortals, confined as they are to 
 the evanescent things of time and sense, 
 had received their completion when she, 
 poor soul ! had no joy to derive from 
 it. I paused at the door for a few mo- 
 ments to compose myself, for I was much 
 distressed. 
 
 With what delicacy, not to embarrass 
 me by observation, yet, what pious 
 affection ! (if I may use such a term, and
 
 243 
 
 I can think of none other to convey my 
 meaning) did Mr. Manvers continue to 
 address me, as I thus waited for an in- 
 terval of tranquillity. 
 
 " These are painful lessons which we 
 must take in the school of human life !" 
 he said ; " but it is by such alone that 
 instruction is rendered complete , and 
 both you and I,*' he continued, " may 
 date some valuable, some undying trea- 
 sure of thought, some sublime acquisi- 
 tion to memory, from the death bed of 
 this humble christian. These are the 
 scenes, Miss Melville, these are the 
 scenes which the christian seeks — bless 
 God that he has guided your feet in their 
 way; for it is the way that leads to Him!" 
 
 U I do bless Him," I said, " for the 
 mercy of affliction !" and I spoke the 
 truth from my inmost soul. " But I am 
 still human !" — I could not proceed ; ne- 
 vertheless I shrunk from thus exhibiting 
 to a stranger the secrets of my heart ; 
 and declining by my hand, rather than 
 m 2
 
 244 
 
 my voice, his request that I would sit 
 down, and not thus agitate my spirits, I 
 drew my veil over my disturbed counte- 
 nance and hastened home*
 
 I 
 
 245 
 
 CHAP. XII 
 
 MISS DELMOND WRITES* 
 
 I venerate the man whose heart is warm, 
 
 Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose lite 
 
 Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
 
 That he is honest in the sacred cause. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 When Miss Melville communicated 
 to me the little incident narrated above, 
 I cannot say that I heard it without 
 pleasure, inasmuch as, although not so 
 sanguine as to its consequences as poor 
 Alice Gray, I had long wished that my 
 nephew should become acquainted with 
 Isabel ; and under no form of introduc- 
 tion could she have engaged his notice 
 in so interesting a manner to him, as in 
 that which had actually occurred. 
 
 In sketching the character of Edgar 
 Manvers, I fear to be considered partial, 
 m 3
 
 246 
 
 as the nearness of relationship in which 
 he stood to me, scarcely renders it pro- 
 bable that I should altogether avoid this 
 fault. But to speak of him without tes- 
 tifying that, in my conception of christian 
 virtue, he approached the nearest to per- 
 fection of any one I ever met with, 
 would be impossible ; and I the rather 
 should bear this testimony to him, which 
 I know might reasonably be withheld by 
 the generality of those who knew him, 
 because I was well acquainted with all 
 he had to struggle with in his own pe- 
 culiar temptations, and in the dissatis- 
 faction of his friends at the opinions he 
 had adopted, and the pursuits to which 
 those opinions induced him to devote 
 his time. 
 
 Of an ardent and enthusiastic tem- 
 perament, united to the advantages of 
 personal beauty, and an elegant mind, 
 no one could more successfully have 
 presented himself as a votary at the 
 shrine of pleasure, than Edgar ; and no
 
 247 
 
 one, from the suggestions of impetuous 
 passions, would have been more likely to 
 offer such a sacrifice than himself, if the 
 fire and feeling of his character had not 
 been always opposed by such qualities of 
 firmness and decision, as, under the 
 varied circumstances of life, would have 
 induced him to suffer, and to die, rather 
 than part with what, as a philosopher, 
 he was satisfied to call the conscious 
 integrity of his own heart ; but which, 
 when he became a christian, he con- 
 sidered as the approbation of God. A 
 hero in the field of battle ; a patriot 
 bleeding for his country ; a martyr burn- 
 ing at the stake for his religion : what- 
 ever humanity could have been called 
 upon to dare, or to do, would have been 
 the enterprize of such a mind as Edgar's. 
 The energies of his character had very 
 early developed themselves ; and though 
 the claims of a numerous family, of 
 which this boy was the eldest, rendered 
 m 4
 
 248 
 
 it almost an act of injustice in his father 
 towards his other children, to allow any 
 one of them the advantages of a classical 
 education ; yet the burying in obscurity 
 such extraordinary talents as he pos- 
 sessed, appeared a still greater act of 
 injustice ; and he was finally sent to 
 Eton, and from thence to the Uni- 
 versity. The knowledge that he was 
 so benefited, by the sacrifice of many 
 comforts on the side of his parents, and 
 that it was to induce exertions on his 
 part which were to decide his whole 
 future destiny, sufficed to excite all the 
 powers he possessed for his advancement 
 and distinction. They were not exer- 
 cised in vain. He obtained the highest 
 academical honours ; was elected fellow 
 of the college of which he had been 
 admitted a member ; and, as his father 
 phrased it, " might now lie a bed if he 
 liked for the rest of his life.'* But, in 
 his twenty-fourth year, Edgar Manvers
 
 249 
 
 was not likely to sit down contented 
 with his acquisitions, without any effort 
 towards extending them. Whether his 
 determination respecting his future des- 
 tiny would have been more judicious, 
 if accidental circumstances had not com- 
 bined to give it a particular bias, it is 
 not necessary for me to discuss ; cer- 
 tainly, his place in society would have 
 been more distinguished, and his com- 
 fort and ease in this life considerably 
 promoted, if he had thought and cared 
 less about another world ; and he would 
 not have incurred the heavy displeasure 
 of his father, and the ridicule of his 
 brothers and sisters, and as much con- 
 tempt as the wise ones of the earth, 
 pour upon those weak ones who seek 
 for a portion in heaven. But, never- 
 theless, as he is no longer of this world, 
 I am willing to believe, that the sacrifice 
 he made for securing an inheritance in 
 a better one was not bestowed in vain ; 
 but that, according to the established 
 m 5
 
 250 
 
 promise of his Maker, " what he sowed, 
 that he reaps."* 
 
 It was by the powerful ministry of 
 Dr. Wilson, an evangelical divine of the 
 university of which Edgar was a mem- 
 ber, that he was determined, not only 
 in his views for the church, as a profes- 
 sion, but as the assumption of a holy 
 office, to which he was to dedicate his 
 whole future life. 
 
 At the present time, he had not long 
 entered upon his holy profession, and, 
 till his future plans were quite decided, 
 he had accepted the proposal of Mr. 
 Forrester to officiate in the capacity of 
 his curate. 
 
 That I, who loved him as a mother 
 (for as the child of a dear, and only sis- 
 ter, now no more, he stood to me almost 
 
 * Galatians, vi. 7. 8. Be not deceived; God is not 
 mocked ; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also 
 reap. For he that soweth to the flesh, shall of the flesh reap 
 corruption ; hut he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the 
 spirit reap life everlasting-.
 
 251 
 
 in the relationship of a son) that 1 
 should think persuasion hung upon his 
 lips, and that eloquence so beautiful, so 
 impressive, had never yet been listened 
 to, as when, for the first time, I heard 
 him preach, may perhaps be pardoned, 
 especially as the general voice of public 
 opinion was even clamorous in his fa- 
 vour, and more than sanctioned all that 
 my fond partiality for him inspired, and 
 far more than I ventured to express ; 
 for upon the subject of his merits, every 
 one was more loquacious than I was ; 
 for I not only knew they might be safely 
 left to speak for themselves, but, I also 
 knew that the rigid, unbending pur- 
 poses of Edgar, would soon transform 
 his present admirers into foes, when 
 they discovered that, in their pastor, 
 they had obtained no addition to their 
 visiting list ; no flirting gallant for the 
 young ladies ; no fourth for the card, 
 table of the elder ones ; no acquisition 
 to a quadrille ; no recruit to be on duty 
 m 6
 
 252 
 
 at a ball, or a concert. 1 knew, in 
 short, that Edgar would in a very short 
 time, be as much reviled, as he was at 
 first admired : a prophetic feeling which 
 was not long of being realized. " Dear, 
 what an odd man is Mr. Manvers !" was 
 now the cry of the young ladies, instead 
 of" what a charming creature !" — u Papa 
 asked him to dine with us the other day, 
 and instead of declining it with some 
 civil excuse, he said, at once, * he did 
 not enter into general society.' " — " I am 
 sure Mr. Manvers need not lecture us 
 upon the duties of humility/' would be 
 the remark of the young men ; " for 
 never was seen so proud a man. Jack 
 Forster asked him, by way of doing the 
 civil thing, and getting acquainted with 
 him, to go out coursing with him the 
 other morning ; and he replied, with all 
 the airs of a prime minister, that he had 
 totally given up such pursuits as were 
 inconsistent with his function as a cler- 
 gyman."
 
 253 
 
 I found it so utterly in vain to defend 
 my poor nephew against this sudden tide 
 of dissatisfaction in the public mind, 
 that I let it take its course ; satisfied that 
 it was not of a kind to do him any injury, 
 however annoying, like other trifling 
 assaults to patience and good sense. 
 But amongst the most inveterate of his 
 enemies, none were so bitter against 
 him as the whole Russell family : which 
 was rather unfortunate, as his relation- 
 ship to them, jointly with mine, occa- 
 sioned him, of necessity, to be now and 
 then thrown into their society. When- 
 ever he was so circumstanced, it afforded 
 an opportunity, never lost to the whole 
 family, and Miss Russell in particular, 
 of manifesting their disapprobation of 
 him, by general invectives upon all fana- 
 tics, methodists, missionaries, converted 
 Jews, Bible societies, extempore preach- 
 ers, and hypocrites ; which latter term, 
 in their fancy, appeared to be synony- 
 mous with anyone, and all of the former.
 
 254 
 
 The silent indifference with which he 
 listened to them, or the calm good sense 
 with which, when they were very pre- 
 posterous, Edgar exposed the igno- 
 rance and fallacy of their religious opi- 
 nions, invested him with a superiority 
 which they knew not how to support ; 
 and gradually his visits had, by mutual 
 though tacit consent, subsided into the 
 mere distant interchange of such civility 
 as he felt himself, from his connexion 
 with them, called upon to shew them. 
 
 But, however obnoxious to them or 
 to others, he held " the even tenor of his 
 way," unmoved by censure, and, equally 
 must it be said of him, unaltered by 
 praise, which followed him in a far greater 
 proportion than dissatisfaction ; for even 
 his enemies were too sensible of his ad- 
 vantages as a minister, not to crowd his 
 church (excepting the Russells, who de- 
 lighted to say they would not be seen in 
 such a place), and, though it was as a 
 mere matter of taste that they went to
 
 255 
 
 admire his splendid eloquence, it was 
 not unfrequently that they " remained 
 to pray." 
 
 The languor with which her recent 
 misfortunes had affected her spirits, ren- 
 dered Isabel so indifferent to every thing 
 that was proceeding around her, that even 
 the report she had not failed to hear of the 
 merits of the new clergyman produced 
 no inclination on her side to hear him. 
 I was rather sorry for this : not only be- 
 cause I had a respect for her opinion, 
 which made me desirous of finding 
 how far it was in his favour, but be- 
 cause I believed the interest she would 
 find in hearing him, would induce her 
 to be a constant attendant upon a minis- 
 try, which, my views of the subject in- 
 clined me to think, would be more bene- 
 ficial to her than that which she was 
 accustomed to attend. 
 
 But I had not urged it, for many rea- 
 sons, and for this more especially — that, 
 however I was persuaded of the truth of 
 my own opinions, I by no nleans wished
 
 256 
 
 to force them upon another. I was not 
 so exclusive in the adoption of them, as 
 to suppose that no one, who did not ab- 
 solutely and entirely think with me, could 
 be considered as possessing any safe prin- 
 ciples of religion. I was more especially 
 unwilling, at the present crisis of her 
 life — which I considered, though an im- 
 portant, to be far, very far, from a deci- 
 sive one — to lead the mind of Isabel to 
 the adoption of any measure which I did 
 not suppose she would have sufficient 
 stability to pursue ; and that her religious 
 views would yet be subject to many re- 
 volutions, I dared not disguise from my- 
 self. Though yet under the pressure of 
 sorrow, and daily exercised with severe 
 trial, from the undisciplined state of her 
 mind, which constantly brought her to 
 the duties of devotion for strength and 
 consolation, there were occasional mo- 
 ments of returning animation, which be- 
 spoke how much the fire of her spirit, 
 and the ardour of her imagination, were 
 yet unsubdued, and which, like the fever
 
 257 
 
 that preys upon the corporal frame, I 
 well knew must be eradicated, before 
 any complete renovation of the moral 
 system could reasonably be expected. I 
 wished, but I feared, to introduce her 
 to the notice of Manvers. When fancy 
 predominated — and I could not always 
 resist its suggestions — I had, as well as 
 poor old Alice, my visions in behalf of 
 Isabel. To have seen her the wife of 
 Edgar would have been, I believed, to see 
 her in the possession of a friend the best 
 calculated to advance her spiritual inte- 
 rest, as well as, by his cultivated mind 
 and strong sense, to form the companion 
 and guide of her intellectual taste. But 
 I doubted whether she was equally cal- 
 culated to retain, as to excite, the affec- 
 tion of such a man. To inspire him with 
 interest and admiration, 1 felt assured 
 she was exactly the person — subdued, as 
 she now was, by affliction, but with just 
 so much of the force of her character 
 remaining, as evinced the strength and
 
 258 
 
 power of her mental endowments. But 
 this would not last. I knew it would 
 not, could not, subsist against the influ- 
 ence of time, of habit, of returning health 
 and spirits, and an elasticity of mind, 
 which bore up against suffering by the 
 constant excitement it was continually 
 seeking, and, failing to find, was as con- 
 stantly making for itself out of every 
 thing that surrounded it. Already the 
 pursuits to which she had wholly devoted 
 her time, upon the first attack of misfor- 
 tune, were beginning to be mingled with 
 those occupations of taste which the loss 
 of Leslie had deprived her of any stimu- 
 lus for exercising ; and, like all per- 
 sons who indulge a thirst for excitement, 
 Isabel could exert herself for nothing 
 without stimulus. The calm enjoyment 
 of the many resources she possessed, she 
 never knew ; and, without being to be 
 called vain, the meed of praise and ad- 
 miration was too necessary to her, to 
 render the exercise of her various ac-
 
 259 
 
 complishments of much value in her 
 own estimation, when performed in soli- 
 tude, or before an audience whose opi- 
 nions she considered of no importance. 
 This contempt of general notice she had 
 indulged, without any solicitude as to 
 its infallible consequences, and, I be- 
 lieve, almost without any consciousness 
 that she had so manifested it, till she 
 perceived herself the object of censure 
 and dislike to many persons, whom I am 
 persuaded she never had the remotest 
 intention of offending. 
 
 " I am sure I never thought about 
 them ; I did not know they were in the 
 room 1" she has replied to me sometimes, 
 when I have suggested to her some im- 
 prudent remark or careless inattention, 
 which I conceived might be applied by 
 some persons present to themselves. 
 
 " That very indifference, Isabel," I 
 have on such occasions replied to her, 
 " is the worst of affronts. People will 
 rather forgive that you should abuse
 
 260 
 
 them altogether, than that you should 
 pass them over without notice." 
 
 " Upon my word," she would say, 
 ". I think the most civil thing one can 
 do, to nine people out of ten, is to pass 
 them over without notice ; for what can 
 one say about them ? There is so and 
 so," and she specified particular per- 
 sons, " what can be said about them to 
 engage affection or respect ? They do 
 not openly break any of the command- 
 ments, and they pay their debts, and 
 they think it a right thing to go to 
 church ; and they give pleasant enter- 
 tainments, and people go to f hem, and 
 laugh at them, and they laugh at their 
 guests ; some of whom go round the 
 room to point out what is ridiculous in 
 the donors of the feast; and they go 
 round to point out what is ridiculous in 
 their guests ; and such seems to be this 
 world and those who occupy it ! and 
 what can be said about it ? Where, and 
 with whom, is there any heart, any soul,
 
 261 
 
 any thing to love, to value, to build 
 upon ?" 
 
 "With none but the Christian, Isabel," 
 I have always answered to these petu- 
 lant inquiries, " so natural to a mind sa- 
 tiated and weary of the unmeaning hol- 
 low interchange of worldly connexions, 
 and not endued with a principle suffi- 
 ciently gracious, sufficiently holy and 
 charitable to look upon them with the 
 commiseration the case deserves. And 
 yet, my dear !" I have added, " these 
 are the people to whom you look for 
 happiness ; not exactly, perhaps, such as 
 you have been describing ; not the nine 
 out of ten whom you think it kind to 
 pass over without notice ; but amongst 
 the distinguished by talent and taste — 
 amongst the few that you wish to exert 
 yourself for, and whose notice is essential 
 to your exertions, what can you find to 
 build upon ? What is their admiration, 
 what is their notice, what their favour, 
 that to obtain it you run such hazards,
 
 262 
 
 you make such sacrifices, you commit 
 such faults — at least the fault of not 
 avoiding to wound the self-love of those 
 who have not these distinctions of intel- 
 lect ? However contemptible you may 
 singly consider them, you will find that, 
 united, they have the power to wound 
 you in no inconsiderable degree :" and 
 then I have quoted to her the words of 
 an author, who blends in his writings 
 with much that is disgusting (and con- 
 sidering his sacred profession, perfectly 
 detestable) so much that is beautiful 
 and instructive, that I maybe pardoned, 
 perhaps, for here repeating the senti- 
 ments I considered as so peculiarly ap- 
 plicable to the case of Miss Melville : — 
 " Revenge, from some baleful corner, 
 " shall level a tale of dishonour at thee, 
 u which no innocence of heart or inte- 
 c ' grity of conduct shall set right ! The 
 " fortunes of thy house shall totter ! thy 
 " character, which led the way to them, 
 " shall bleed on every side of it ! Thy
 
 263 
 
 " faith questioned, thy works belied, thy 
 "wit forgotten, thy learning trampled 
 " upon, to wind up the last scene of 
 " thy tragedy, cruelty and cowardice, 
 " twin ruffians, hired and set on by ma- 
 " lice, in the dark, shall strike together 
 " at all thy infirmities and mistakes! 
 " The best of us lie open there ; and 
 " trust me, trust me, Yorick, when to 
 " gratify a private appetite, it is once re- 
 " solved upon that an innocent and an 
 " helpless creature shall be sacrificed, 
 " 'tis an easy matter to pick up sticks 
 " enough from any thicket where it has 
 " strayed, to make a fire to offer it up 
 " with.*" 
 
 But to all my remarks, enforced by 
 any and all kinds of authority, Isabel 
 yielded only a nominal assent : she pur- 
 sured her own course, unchecked by my 
 remonstrances ; till, at length, her career 
 was for a time impeded by the trials 
 
 * Sterne.
 
 264 
 
 which had befallen her ; and, if I had 
 ventured to be sanguine as to their re- 
 sult, I should have blessed them for the 
 humility they had certainly, for the pre- 
 sent, forced upon her. But I dared not 
 be sanguine, especially as I daily saw 
 some symptoms of reviving spirit, which 
 made me tremble for a renewal of her 
 past imprudencies. My great depen- 
 dence, as I have before said, was upon 
 the removal of Miss Russell's influence ; 
 for that had always been one of the 
 strongest exciting causes of her mistakes. 
 Such was the situation of circum- 
 stances, when the meeting she has re- 
 corded took place between her and my 
 nephew ; after which, their intercourse 
 became very frequent and unrestrained. 
 But of this interview, and its conse- 
 quences, Isabel must speak : I mourn 
 them not — though for ever they blighted 
 the worldly happiness of Edgar, so fondly 
 beloved by me — and though they added 
 to the bitterness which filled that cup of
 
 265 
 
 repentance which was doomed, to the 
 latest moment of her existence, to be 
 the portion of Isabel Melville. But I 
 hasten to resign my task to her, who can 
 better fulfil it. I find, for the sake of 
 brevity, that I must here pass over a 
 considerable portion of her MS. It re- 
 lates various incidents and interviews 
 which occurred between her and my ne- 
 phew. I resume it at that period of their 
 acquaintance when his strong admiration 
 and interest in her apparently advancing 
 knowledge and delight in religion, had 
 conspired to create an attachment for 
 her in his ardent bosom, which, reso- 
 lutely as he laboured to subdue or resist 
 it, no efforts could disguise from my ob- 
 servation. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 266 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 ISABEL, IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 Religion is nothing, if it is not every thing; if exist - 
 tenee is not filled with it ; if we do not incessantly main- 
 tain in the soul this belief in the invisible — this self- 
 devotion — this elevation of desire, which ought to 
 triumph over the low inclinations to which our nature 
 exposes us. 
 
 Madame de Stael. 
 
 No species of trial was so insupport- 
 able to me as a situation of stillness 
 and repose ; that is, a state of mind unpos- 
 sessed by any object capable of exciting 
 its energies. From the earliest period 
 of my life, I never could remain tran- 
 quil under such circumstances. The 
 restlessness of my spirit never failed to 
 make, when it could not find, materials 
 to feed the fire with which it so in-
 
 267 
 
 tensely burned; that fire of enterprize, 
 of action, of perpetual activity, which 
 long before age would have done its sor- 
 rowful office, has consumed the feeble 
 " tenement of clay it inhabited. 
 
 But in tracing back my story, I have 
 been struck with the curious manner in 
 which materials for the excitement in 
 which I so much delighted, have gene- 
 rally, in the earlier part of my life, pre- 
 sented themselves to my notice, without 
 much exertion on my part to procure 
 them. When my dear aunt was taken 
 from me, and it appeared that Leslie 
 had totally abandoned any intention of 
 returning to me, and my uncle's de- 
 clining health occasioned us to give up 
 even the small circle of visiting in 
 which we had hitherto engaged, I should 
 apparently have had nothing more to do 
 with the busy hopes and fears of life, 
 but must have secured my all of enjoy- 
 ment, in the best of pursuits — the per- 
 formance of my duty, 
 n 2
 
 268 
 
 And to this pursuit, and to this en- 
 joyment, I did for many months devote 
 myself; and not without success. But 
 time, which restores all things to their 
 level, had brought back many of my 
 anxious, restless feelings ; and what 
 they would have urged me to pursue 
 that was hazardous, or to abandon that 
 was good, I dare not venture to assert, 
 if my acquaintance with Mr. Man vers 
 had not at least occupied, and so far 
 disarmed the ardour of my mind of a 
 great portion of its danger. 
 
 Ever since our first meeting at the 
 house of Miss Delmond, we had insen- 
 sibly glided into habits of intimacy with 
 each other ; and it was not difficult for 
 me to perceive, that he wished to con- 
 sider himself as connected with me in 
 the ties of friendship. 
 
 Jf I had entertained any doubts upon 
 this point, a circumstance which oc- 
 curred about this time quite removed 
 them.
 
 269 
 
 As Miss Delmond lived not far from 
 me, I was frequently in the habit of 
 walking down to her, after my uncle 
 retired for the night, which he always 
 did at a very early hour. Upon such 
 occasions, Mr. Manvers (who, since our 
 more intimate acquaintance, had sought 
 my society very frequently) generally 
 used to be present, and often read to us, 
 as we occupied ourselves with our work. 
 One evening, I paid Miss Delmond a 
 visit of this kind : but Mr. Manvers not 
 being there, I undertook to read to my 
 friend a new tragedy, which had been 
 lent me in the morning as a very great 
 favour by Miss Russell, and which, as 
 it was then acting with great applause at 
 the London theatres, and had produced 
 a sensation in the public mind, I thought 
 Miss Delmond might like to know some- 
 thing about. I should not have ven- 
 tured it, neither would she, in the pre- 
 sence of Manvers, whose opinions upon 
 theatrical subjects were quite decided, 
 n S
 
 270 
 
 and not to be influenced by any sort of 
 arguments that could have been pro- 
 posed. With such a conviction, I know 
 not what could have induced me to enter 
 the lists of disputation with him, when, 
 unexpectedly entering the room, he 
 detected with a glance the rapid man- 
 ner in which I was secreting the tragedy 
 in my work-basket, and inquired with 
 a smile, " what studies he could have 
 interrupted, which I so sedulously wished 
 to conceal from observation. " I had 
 not been pleased with the languid in- 
 terest Miss Delmond had lent to the 
 production, all the time I had been read- 
 ing it ; for I was not past the age or 
 the feeling which inclined me to think 
 the extravagant delineations it contained 
 of passion extremely natural and fine; 
 and I was still less pleased with her, 
 when she replied for me to the remark 
 of Manvers, " Isabel is not sorry, I 
 dare say, to resign to you the task of 
 amusing us with something more pro-
 
 271 
 
 fi table than a tragedy which Miss Rus- 
 sell has put into her hands, and which 
 she has been kind enough to read a part 
 of to me." 
 
 " I don't know, however," said I, 
 with a faint smile, " that I should have 
 been so kind, had I known that it was 
 so distasteful to you." 
 
 " No otherwise distasteful, my dear," 
 she replied, " than all extravagant and 
 distorted representations of such pas- 
 sions, as are dangerous enough, in their 
 natural violence, without any exagge- 
 rated description of them, must prove to 
 any mind desirous to behold humai 
 nature under the dominion of principle 
 and self-control, — not under the excite- 
 ment of energies which belong to, and 
 characterize demons." 
 
 " According to that doctrine, then," 
 said I, " you would reject many of the 
 finest scenes in Shakespear : in short," 
 I continued, with increasing warmth, 
 " I don't know what there is either of 
 N 4
 
 272 
 
 beautiful or sublime that you would not 
 reject/' 
 
 " Nothing," said Mr. Man vers; " par- 
 don me, Miss Melville, my seeming 
 abruptness, and this intrusion of my own 
 sentiments upon the question ; but I will 
 undertake to reply for my aunt, that the 
 principles she professes, would lead to 
 the rejection of nothing that is truly 
 beautiful or sublime. For what is there," 
 he continued— (his fine majestic figure 
 seeming to dilate in grandeur, as he rose 
 in the energy of speaking, and lifted up 
 his eyes with a kind of sacred enthu. 
 siasm)— -" what is there either of beau- 
 tiful or sublime which does not emanate 
 from the Deity ? There is nothing beau- 
 tiful but what is true— there is nothing 
 true but God !" 
 
 I almost trembled at the idea of 
 opposin gmyself to such an antagonist, 
 but the humour I was in rendered me 
 intrepid; moreover there undoubtedly, 
 as I thought, mingled amidst much that
 
 273 
 
 was true, and all that he believed to be 
 so, a considerable proportion of the en- 
 thusiasm of a sect. 
 
 " How many then are the sentiments, 
 the descriptions, and the scenes in poets 
 and in painters, and in all the votaries 
 of the fine arts — things which have re- 
 ceived the sanction of the wisest, and the 
 most learned, and most accomplished 
 persons in all ages, you would reject, 
 Mr. Manvers," said I, " and from how 
 many sources of innocent, and even laud- 
 able gratification, would you cut your- 
 self out ! and for what ?" 
 
 " For the sake of duty," he replied ; 
 " for the sake of preserving the purity, 
 the sanctity of my mind, and keeping 
 the current of my thoughts in the chan- 
 nel which conducts them most directly 
 to the divine source of all that is holy — 
 all that is good !" 
 
 " But you cannot always be engrossed 
 in the contemplation of such solemn, 
 such sacred themes," I replied j " the 
 N 5
 
 274 
 
 mind must have intervals of repose as 
 well as the body — in the latter we have 
 the refreshment of sleep, what does that 
 indicate, but that by analogy the spirit 
 must also have its periods of rest and 
 recreation ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly,'' said he, " the pur- 
 suits of taste and of literature could 
 never find a more ardent, a more enthu- 
 siastic votary, than in me ; and had I 
 not, by the blessing of Providence, been 
 taught to imbibe a principle of counter- 
 action to their influence, I know not in 
 whom they would have discovered a dis- 
 ciple more likely to end, as thousands 
 have done, their victim I I know not 
 any one naturally more prone to follow 
 those fascinating, but dangerous paths, 
 into which an unlimited indulgence of 
 the faculty of taste is likely to lead its 
 possessor." 
 
 " And why should they be dangerous, 
 and why should you turn your face so 
 decidedly from them ?" I again inquired.
 
 275 
 
 " I have but one answer to give you," 
 he said : " because they would lead me 
 from the path of duty." 
 
 " And how," said I, " how could 
 your admiration— for as a man of taste 
 you must admire it— how could your 
 delight in Shakespear's tragedy of 
 Othello, for instance, how could that 
 lead you from the path of duty ?" 
 
 " Forgive me," said he, " the implied 
 reproof to you which I must seem to 
 make; but, before I could bestow unquali- 
 fied admiration, or express much delight 
 in such a work as Othello, I must have 
 wandered very far indeed from that line 
 of duty which my principles and my 
 profession equally and imperiously com- 
 mand me to walk in." 
 
 I felt myself blush all over. I remem- 
 bered, that however I had been accus- 
 tomed to discuss certain subjects of taste 
 in general society, as matters of course, 
 without any solicitude to the details 
 they comprized, I was not now talking 
 n 6
 
 216 
 
 with a person of the world, invested with 
 all the loose morality and latitude of 
 sentiment which belongs to such a cha- 
 racter. I might have known, that the 
 natural delicacy of Manvers, fostered as 
 it was by the sanctity of his life and 
 occupations, would incline him to recoil 
 with great distaste from any woman who 
 avowed, as I had just done, so favourable 
 an opinion of so immoral a production 
 as the tragedy of Othello. But, pro- 
 bably, discovering from my embarrass- 
 ment the ideas which had occasioned it, 
 he resumed the subject in the point of 
 view in which alone I had certainly wished 
 to propose it ; and in so resuming it, he 
 skilfully, and with much consideration 
 for my feelings, precluded the severe 
 reprehension which, after his last remark, 
 I could not have failed to apply to my- 
 self, had he ceased to speak upon it. 
 
 " The jealousy of Othello — the vil- 
 lainy of Jago," he proceeded, " are pow- 
 erfully, exquisitely pourtrayed! But from
 
 211 
 
 whom, and from what do they emanate? 
 What passions do they represent ? Are 
 they not those which expressly characte- 
 rize that evil one, who, we are told, was 
 a liar and a murderer from the begin- 
 ning ?" 
 
 " But, since such passions actually 
 exist, and must and will exist," said I, 
 " as long as the world endures — " 
 
 "Doubtless they must," and he hastily 
 interrupted me, " because we know that 
 it must needs be that offences come ; but 
 consider for one moment, my dear Miss 
 Melville, what it is that fills the world 
 with confusion and distress ; what are 
 the tempers that destroy happiness, dis- 
 turb peace, and spread ruin and deso- 
 lation every where within their sphere ? 
 are they not the votaries of ungoverned 
 passion, the sensual, the selfish ?" 
 
 " And does not the masterly manner 
 in w r hich these unhappy passions are re- 
 presented, disarm your severity ?" I said. 
 
 " It would, unquestionably," he re-
 
 278 
 
 plied, " if I had not endeavoured to 
 establish a better principle of judging in 
 my mind, than that of taste ; or rather, I 
 should say, if I had not cultivated my 
 taste upon a different principle to that 
 established by the usage of society. Such 
 works of imagination as Othello, now, 
 affect me much in the same way as some 
 of Spagnoletti's pictures, in one of which 
 he represents a man as being flayed alive. 
 I may admire the execution, but 1 turn 
 with disgust from the conception of such 
 a subject. Just thus I turn from all 
 ideas which have no relation to what is 
 true; that is, which are founded in error, 
 as the indulgence of bad passions and 
 immoral feelings must, by every person, 
 be allowed to be. 
 
 " Now, Miss Melville," he continued, 
 perceiving that my silence was more the 
 result of sullenness than conviction, 
 "just consider the jealousy of Othello, 
 upon the fine delineation of which pas- 
 sion the whole, and certainly the great
 
 279 
 
 merit of the tragedy rests. What is 
 jealousy ? Strip it of the ornamental 
 dress in which the poet has decked it, 
 and look at it in its native deformity." 
 
 " It is a natural passion," said I, 
 " and, as such, interesting." 
 
 " Admitting your inference," he re- 
 plied, " I would still ask, what renders 
 it interesting? You will tell me, very 
 properly, it is that great degree of 
 sympathy which it readily receives from 
 almost every spectator ; but not from 
 spectators who have sought in the doc- 
 trines of Christianity for their guide, and 
 a counteracting principle to the head- 
 strong and dreadful violence of the pas- 
 sions. When compelled to behold it in 
 real life, it would excite in them the 
 deepest pity, and, as far as they could 
 impart it, aid and direction to seek the 
 only source from whence medicine, to 
 heal this fatal sickness of the soul, could 
 be derived. But do not think that such 
 persons could derive pleasure from wit-
 
 2S0 
 
 nessing a passion that emanates from 
 Satan himself, heightened by all the 
 charms of poetry, addressed to heated 
 and misguided imaginations, whose very 
 applause testifies ihe dangerous and in- 
 sane delight they take in what is absolute 
 poison to their moral feelings." 
 
 " No, certainly," said I ; " I do not 
 suppose that such persons could take 
 any delight in the exhibition of any spe- 
 cimens of taste or feeling : but, fortu- 
 nately for the preservation of the fine 
 arts, and of civilization, and of all that 
 ennobles the mind and distinguishes us 
 in the scale of intellectual beings, the 
 number of such persons, I hope, is 
 small." 
 
 " You must pardon me," he replied, 
 " for differing with you in opinion — not, 
 indeed, as to the number of such persons — 
 for that must be allowed to be confined 
 indeed ; — but, if it were greater — if it 
 were the majority, we should reap, I 
 think, incalculable advantages from it."
 
 281 
 
 " We should escape the representa- 
 tion of Othello," said I, with more acri- 
 mony than his gentlemanlike discussion 
 of the subject, however preposterous I 
 thought the opinions he expressed, de- 
 served. 
 
 " Then we should escape," he con- 
 tinued, " the representation of a great 
 deal of fine poetry, I freely admit ; but 
 poetry disgraced by the sentiments it 
 conveys. Now, Miss Melville, once 
 more, and for the last time — for I would 
 not intrude my opinions upon you — 
 anxiously as I cannot but wish " (and 
 he half sighed, as he added, in a low and 
 hesitating voice) — " that there should 
 be, upon all subjects, a perfect similarity 
 of thinking between us, still I would 
 not press my opinions upon you — but 
 suffer me, once again, to ask you to me- 
 ditate a little, when time and opportu- 
 nity serve, upon the passions and feel- 
 ings which make up the subject-matter 
 of this particular tragedy ofOthello.
 
 282 
 
 Think a little upon jealousy : what is it ? 
 You have told me, ' a natural passion, 
 and, as such, an interesting one.' I 
 answer, that jealousy is made up of 
 those hateful feelings, in the conscious 
 possession of which, we most of us expe- 
 rience the sorrowful effects of our first 
 parents transgression. It is made up of 
 feelings totally and decidedly bad : its 
 origin is intense selfishness and pride. 
 A man loves, according to the common 
 acceptation of the term. The object of 
 his attachment must be wholly devoted 
 to him, in body, soul, and spirit : she 
 must have no thought, no speech, no 
 language for any one besides. With all 
 this unbounded expectation of her devo- 
 tion to him, there exists no confidence in 
 her merits — no dependence upon her in- 
 tegrity, for, if there did, there could be 
 no suspicious doubt, and, consequently, 
 no jealousy. ,, 
 
 " But, in speaking of Othello,'* said 
 I, "do you make no allowance for the
 
 28.3 
 
 manner in which his passions are worked 
 upon by the malice of Iago ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly, I do," said he ; " and, 
 considering the play as the representa- 
 tion of the passions as they exist in their 
 native brutality, I think it a master- 
 piece. But what I am contending for is, 
 that it is a representation with which, as 
 Christians, we have nothing to do— with 
 which, as Christians, we can have no 
 sympathy, because, being fictitious, we 
 are called upon to afford no amelioration 
 to the wretched state of the possessors 
 of these demoniac emotions ; and which, 
 in short, as exhibiting nothing but a 
 mass of error, however beautifully pour- 
 tray ed, is just as disgusting to the moral 
 vision as the finest painting to the sen- 
 sible eye, when it represents such objects 
 as are uncongenial to the taste of the 
 spectator." 
 
 " I suppose it is natural," said J, 
 rather stiffly, " that you should enter- 
 tain such sentiments."
 
 284 
 
 " No— not natural I" and he smiled. 
 " Naturally, I should have seen nothing 
 but beauty in the writings of Shakespear. 
 But I have studied other writings, my 
 dear Miss Melville ; and my reverence 
 for the precepts they inculcate, and the 
 subdued and sanctified spirit they depict 
 as essential to happiness, either in this 
 world or in the next, is so great, that I 
 would sacrifice to it not only my taste, 
 my passions, my affections — but, if I 
 were called upon to make the offering, 
 I should think my life itself a testimony 
 too small to mark myself as their votary 
 and defender." 
 
 What feelings could possess me — what 
 strange prostration of mind and senti- 
 ment, that I resisted the admiration 
 which, in spite of my dissatisfaction 
 with his sentiments, expanded my heart, 
 as I gazed upon this noble being, filled 
 with sacred enthusiasm — till, as he spoke, 
 the tears, which trembled in his eyes, at 
 length escaped, and had trickled down
 
 285 
 
 his cheek, before he seemed conscious 
 of the emotion he was betraying — so 
 absorbed — so totally was he abstracted 
 in the sublimity of his feelings ! But I 
 was too deeply sensible of my immense 
 inferiority to him. I thought that he 
 must despise me ; and, after my own pe- 
 culiar method of jumping to conclusions, 
 and as hastily acting upon them, I took 
 it for granted that he perfectly con- 
 temned both me and my opinions ; and 
 persuaded that whatever favourable sen- 
 timents he certainly had hitherto enter- 
 tained of me, were now nipt in the bud, 
 I felt so humiliated, that I resolved upon 
 an immediate retreat, without any fur- 
 ther discussion of Othello, which, though 
 from different motives, I was now not 
 far from abominating almost as much as 
 he did. Without, therefore, making any 
 reply to his last observation, or manifest- 
 ing any part of the deep interest with 
 which it had filled my bosom, I rose to 
 take my leave. Miss Delmond, who had
 
 286 
 
 left the field of argument quite clear for 
 us, now interposed, with an in treaty that 
 I would stay, as I usually did, for the 
 supper- tray. 
 
 But I was not to be prevailed upon ; I 
 found it too difficult to resume my ease 
 and good temper, which had, somehow 
 or other, been strangely interrupted by 
 the events of the evening. My unhappy 
 habits of indulgence to feeling, and dis- 
 regard of the use and value of self-con- 
 trol, made it always impossible for me, 
 when once I had lost it, to regain the 
 government over myself, though it were 
 but for an instant, till I had been some 
 hours in solitude. To solitude, therefore, 
 I determined to return ; and, though 
 dissatisfied and disappointed, and alto- 
 gether very wretched, I was not, upon 
 the whole, in a humour unpropitious to 
 its influence. 
 
 Manvers, as usual, rose to accompany 
 me. Our walk, though short, was so 
 likely, from the circumstances which had
 
 287 
 
 occurred, to be an embarrassing one, 
 at least, in the difference I supposed I 
 should find from the frank and easy 
 communication which, on such occa- 
 sions, had hitherto passed between us, 
 that I should have been very glad, if 
 possible, to have avoided his escort ; 
 but, besides that it was not likely he 
 would have complied with such a wish, 
 had I expressed any, of not taking him 
 away from Miss Delmond at so early an 
 hour, I had not appointed the servant 
 to fetch me till some time after that in 
 which I chose to depart ; I had therefore 
 no alternative but to accept his proffered 
 services, or to walk alone — which I could 
 not, with any propriety, propose to do. 
 
 " But, I suppose I shall see you 
 again ?" said Miss Delmond to him, 
 when he went away. 
 
 " Not to-night," he replied, in a 
 grave, and even a melancholy tone. I 
 saw that he was disturbed by what had 
 passed. He had hitherto found pleasure
 
 288 
 
 in my society, and in believing there 
 was a congenial mind between us — and 
 now all was overthrown ; every favour- 
 able impression done away ; and thus 
 was a sincere friend, and well-wisher, 
 sacrificed to my usual impetuosity and 
 want of control over my temper and 
 expressions. Such was the construction 
 I put upon his chagrin, and the manner 
 in which he addressed me, as soon as 
 we had left the house, in some degree 
 authorized such a surmise. " I know it 
 is bad taste," said he, " (to use the 
 fashionable phraseology), and I am 
 sure it is not good religion, to think too 
 much about one's-self, and fret over the 
 small rebuffs which here and there our 
 opinions meet with ; and, however pain- 
 ful (and very painful it must always be 
 to me, to differ from you in sentiment 
 upon matters of importance;, yet I 
 could have borne that ; or, at least, I 
 should have suppressed the uneasiness it 
 would have occasioned me ; but, in
 
 289 
 
 hearing you express what you have ex- 
 pressed to night, Miss Melville, I suffer 
 more than I can describe ; because, I 
 cannot but fear that it argues an indiffer- 
 ence upon the most important of all sub- 
 jects, which it is sad enough to witness 
 in those for whom we feel only the com- 
 mon sentiments of general Christian 
 compassion — but, to behold — even to 
 fancy it in you — " He ceased to add 
 more —it seemed — nay, it was certain, 
 that he could not, and that the agitation 
 of his feelings compelled him to be 
 silent. Much as I had reason to believe 
 he was interested in me, I was not pre- 
 pared to find how deep an affection I 
 had wounded, and scarcely less affected 
 than himself by the contrition I felt, 
 I stammered out something of apology, 
 both for my opinions and the manner 
 in which I had expressed them. 
 
 " Your opinions," said he, " I could 
 find no fault with, if you were of the 
 great mass who belong to the world. But 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 290 
 
 that contagion, I thought you had es- 
 caped from. I thought — " Again he 
 paused in painful agitation. 
 
 * God knows," said I, " that I wish 
 to belong to those who are in the pos- 
 session of the truth. I have suffered too 
 much, and too long from the delusions 
 of my own heart, not to pant after 
 something real — something stable." 
 
 " I know you must desire a better 
 resting place — a surer rock of support," 
 he said, " than the suggestions of fancy 
 — the airy visions of imagination, beau- 
 tiful as those visions too commonly are — 
 so beautiful," he continued, " that even 
 yet, yes, even yet — " but, again he was 
 silent. Some internal struggle seemed 
 to disturb his whole frame, and com- 
 municated to me an agitation, which 
 chained up my words, and embarrassed 
 me with a consciousness of seeming — I 
 know not what — but, I thought, per- 
 haps, unkind — unsympathizing. Yet, in 
 the general deportment of Mr. Manvers,
 
 291 
 
 there was so much dignity, so much 
 elevation above the common feelings 
 and occupations of humanity, that he 
 had inspired me with a degree of awe, 
 which no symptoms of natural tender- 
 ness, or emotion, on his part, could 
 entirely subdue. But this indefinable 
 feeling of awe melted into one of a 
 softer character, when he thus followed 
 up the indistinct indications of internal 
 conflict, which his last observations con- 
 veyed. 
 
 •« Oh that I could prevail upon you," 
 he said, " to search with the aid of 
 prayer, into the depths of your own 
 heart — to discover your want — your 
 need of some shelter against its deceit." 
 
 " I need not take much trouble to 
 detect that," I replied, with a heavy 
 sigh. 
 
 " You think you know your dangers," 
 he said ; " you think you well under- 
 stand your own peculiar and besetting 
 temptations ; but you may be deceived." 
 o 2
 
 292 
 
 " It is fit that I should know my own 
 infirmities of temper and character," 
 I said, " for I have been brought to 
 their knowledge by severe discipline and 
 intense suffering." 
 
 c< And, would you not wish to conquer 
 these infirmities !" he said, " and would 
 you not hail as a friend any one who 
 would rejoice to prove a humble means, 
 in the hands of Providence, of guiding 
 you into the way of peace — that way, 
 which, as yet, perhaps, you have not 
 found ?" 
 
 " Oh, would I not!" I exclaimed, in 
 the ardour of my heart, " would I not ! 
 Yes ; as the friend of my soul — as my 
 deliverer from a load that lays me in the 
 dust, would I hail that person. For 
 what I suffer," I continued, with tears 
 that could not — would not be restrained, 
 " what I suffer from the terrors of my 
 own mind — my restless imagination ; 
 my head-strong will — my strong, and 
 undisciplined affections — oh, what I
 
 293 
 
 suffer is known only to my God and 
 me!" 
 
 His reply to this burst of agonized 
 emotion, which, if possible, I would 
 have withheld, consisted in a low and 
 inarticulate ejaculation, and for a little 
 interval he did not address me. When 
 he did, it was in a subdued and altered 
 tone. 
 
 " My dear Miss Melville," he said, 
 " permit me to offer you the interest and 
 sympathy of a friend — a Christian friend. 
 I am little versed in the habits of the 
 world and the rules of society ; perhaps 
 I intrude ; perhaps I presume too much 
 in asking to be admitted to a place in 
 your friendship. But, if you knew my 
 heart — " he paused. 
 
 " I do know it," I said ; " and to know 
 it is to value it." 
 
 " God bless you !" was his only reply. 
 We were just at my uncle's door ; and, 
 apparently incapable of uttering another 
 word, he departed. 
 
 o 3
 
 294 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 ISABEL IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 Come, then, the colours and the ground prepare ! 
 Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air ; 
 Chuse a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it 
 Catch, 'ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 After this interview with Mr. Man- 
 vers, the most open and unrestrained in- 
 tercourse took place between us. With- 
 out being by any means in love with 
 him, I was pleased with his affection for 
 me ; it was a triumph to believe such a 
 man my captive ; it was something to 
 occupy my imagination : it gave ani- 
 mation to my life. His advice was often 
 invaluable to me ; his talents and his 
 conversation (except when I could not
 
 295 
 
 but think him a little prejudiced in his 
 opinions) exceedingly agreeable to me. 
 In a word, he was a resource which I 
 should have been very — very sorry to have 
 been deprived of. 
 
 Our friendship had flowed on in an 
 uninterrupted course of mental pleasure, 
 and as yet he had no farther exercised 
 the authority with which I had allowed it 
 to invest him, than occasionally to point 
 out such of my small errors of thinking 
 and acting as he conceived might be 
 obviated by a little advice. 
 
 I was now a constant attendant upon 
 his ministry, which for a time produced 
 on me an effect almost electrifying, so 
 matchless, so perfect was his eloquence. 
 Religion, thus exhibited, was a new thing 
 to me ; and I gave myself up to it with 
 a degree of enthusiasm w hich I did 
 not myself suspect to be enthusiasm, 
 till a new turn was given to my destiny, 
 by a circumstance wholly unexpected. 
 This circumstance had so direct an in- 
 o 4
 
 296 
 
 fluence upon my future life, that I must 
 trace it from its commencement. 
 
 It had always been agreed upon, by 
 Miss Russell and I, ever since we had 
 turned our attention to the prospect of 
 being married, that whoever arrived first 
 at the dignity of becoming a wife, should 
 select the other as her bride-maid. 
 
 Of course I was reminded, at a very 
 early stage of the affair, of this engage- 
 ment, and desired to hold myself in 
 readiness to fulfil it; and, as the great 
 event approached, many meetings of 
 necessity took place between me and the 
 bride elect, to consult upon our costume, 
 and talk over other arrangements. 
 
 Miss Russell told me she expected to 
 see, as her other bridemaid, a young 
 friend, of whom I had often heard her 
 speak in rapturous terms, as one of the 
 most accomplished of beings, and, in 
 wit, talent, and engaging singularity, 
 " tout h fait unique" Miss Stanley, or 
 Kate Stanley, for that was the appel-
 
 297 
 
 lation by which she was usually distin- 
 guished, upon the subject of singularity, 
 most unquestionably justified all that 
 had been said or could be said about her. 
 She had lived all her life in London with 
 her father, who was an eminent solicitor. 
 She had lost her mother in early life ; 
 and her father, satisfied that his daughter 
 dressed well, talked well, graced the 
 head of his table with an air of excellent 
 fashion and taste, and had a manner of 
 her own (outre to the last degree, but) 
 supported by extraordinary talents of 
 sprightliness, and considerable beauty, 
 never gave himself the least solicitude 
 about her pursuits, her principles, or her 
 conduct 
 
 Circumstances had led to an acquaint- 
 ance between Miss Russell and this young 
 lady, with whom, once a year, she spent 
 a month during the London season — a 
 visit which had never yet been returned 
 on the part of Miss Stanley, upon the 
 undisguised reason of her abhorrence 
 o 5
 
 298 
 
 to the country (all places, however 
 large or capital, that were out of Lon- 
 don, coming, in her opinion, under that 
 denomination). But, upon this occa- 
 sion, she waived her scruples— at least, 
 she said she would try and overcome 
 them. — 
 
 " And as you have fixed upon Fe- 
 " bruary," she added, in the letter she 
 wrote to Miss Russell, intimating her 
 intention of accepting her invitation, 
 " I can come well enough, and it will 
 " make a pleasant break before the 
 " London season begins ; for, of all 
 " times in the year, none is so stupid here 
 " as the dawn of winter. The men all 
 " prose about the Parliament and the 
 " King's Speech, and such heavy mat- 
 " ters: nothing is set regularly going. 
 " They always, at this time, make expe- 
 " riments at the Opera, and at the the- 
 " atres, with second-rate people ; and, 
 " in short, contrive all manner of means 
 " of amusing and diverting the atten-
 
 299 
 
 " tion of the public from the poverty of 
 " the times — till dear, delightful April 
 " comes in with a flow of fresh things 
 " and fresh people — and one begins to 
 " live!" 
 
 Such a strange, unceremonious method 
 of accepting what was intended as a mark 
 of attention, I could not consider as in- 
 dicative of the much that Miss Russell 
 said was to be admired in Miss Stanley ; 
 and I signified my opinion to her with- 
 out hesitation. 
 
 " Oh 1 it's Kate's way," said she ; 
 " nobody can be offended with her : I 
 am sure you, Isabel, will be delighted 
 with her — that is, if she takes a fancy to 
 you, and if Miss Delmond, and some- 
 body else that I won't name, do not 
 conspire to set you against her — which 
 I hope they will not ; for really I should 
 take it kind if you will shew her some 
 attention when I am gone : she is to 
 spend the time I am absent, on my bridal 
 excursion, with my mother ; and I do 
 o 6
 
 300 
 
 depend very much upon you for making 
 it pleasant to her — for, you know, it will 
 be dreadfully stupid for her here !" 
 
 Mr. Manvers was obliged to take more 
 part in Miss Russell's wedding than he 
 quite liked. His popularity as a preacher 
 had conferred such distinction upon him, 
 as made the Russells solicitous for his 
 intimate acquaintance j and, as a great 
 favour, they had united to request he 
 would perform the marriage ceremony 
 between Miss Russell and Mr. Belville. 
 Of course, he had yielded his consent to 
 this request — though I much doubt if 
 their other desire, to see as much of him 
 as possible at this * interesting time, 9 as 
 Miss Russell phrased it, would have been 
 met with so willing a compliance, had 
 he not occasionally been drawn to the 
 house as my visitor rather than their's, 
 
 It was upon the third afternoon pre- 
 vious to the marriage, that the arrival of 
 Miss Stanley was every moment looked 
 for, with various feelings of curiosity, by
 
 301 
 
 the different individuals assembled at 
 Mr. Russell's : these persons were Mrs. 
 Russell, her daughter, Mr. Belville, Miss 
 Delmond, Mr. Manvers, and myself. At 
 length a post-chaise drew up to the door, 
 and out of it descended, first of all, a 
 gentleman, who puzzled us extremely, 
 especially poor Mrs. Russell, who ex- 
 claimed, in the confusion of her feel- 
 ings : — 
 
 " Dear me, Elizabeth ! who has she 
 brought with her? I have got but one 
 spare room. Dear me ! — and that other 
 lady — who is she ?" 
 
 " Oh ! that's her maid," replied Eliza- 
 beth ; " but who the man is, I cannot 
 possibly say. But don't distress yourself; 
 Kate will make it out to the satisfaction 
 of us all, I have no doubt." 
 
 In the mean while this unknown hero, 
 after many profound bows and smiles, 
 having handed Miss Stanley into the 
 house, walked off; and Elizabeth has- 
 tened into the hall to greet her friend.
 
 302 
 
 " Well, my dear, how are ye ?" was 
 the first salutation of the latter ; " and 
 where's your man ?" was an inquiry 
 which, perhaps, would not have been so 
 audible, had she known that he was ac- 
 tually within hearing. 
 
 Elizabeth's reply we did not hear ; but 
 Miss Stanley's answer — " A few friends ! 
 oh, that's horrible, after such a journey !" 
 — signified that she had told her the 
 dining-room contained some guests who 
 expected her arrival. Miss Russell now 
 advanced to greet her, and to try and 
 prevail upon her to oblige us with her 
 company, which she seemed to be un- 
 willing to do. At last, she promised to 
 appear amongst us by-and-bye, and we 
 were left to talk about her by our- 
 selves. 
 
 Nobody seemed more satisfied with 
 this arrangement than Mr.Belville, whose 
 first impressions respecting Miss Stanley 
 had assumed a character of dissatisfac- 
 tion, when he heard himself inquired
 
 303 
 
 after by the unceremonious distinction 
 of Elizabeth's " man." 
 
 " Well, such manners may be very 
 fashionable," said he ; " but, for my 
 part, I don't think they are very agree- 
 able. What do you say, Miss Mel- 
 ville ?" 
 
 " Why, I really don't know," said I : 
 " Miss Stanley seems rather amusing 
 than otherwise ; I am not quite sure that 
 I should not rather like her than not. I 
 am fond of original people ; one so sel- 
 dom meets with any but common-place 
 persons, that it is quite a recreation to 
 find a new character." 
 
 I felt a little afraid of the penetrating 
 glance of Mr. Manvers, as I uttered this, 
 partly because I did so as a slight re- 
 proof for what I thought too much se- 
 verity in a remark upon Miss Stanley, 
 which I heard him make to Miss Del- 
 mond, as we stood at the window to watch 
 her arrival ; and partly because I really 
 did feel a kind of interest in this odd
 
 304 
 
 young lady, whose appearance, from the 
 slight view I had obtained of it, seemed 
 to be engaging, as far as youth and 
 beauty could make it so. 
 
 He took no notice of my remark, and 
 nothing more was said upon the subject. 
 Soon after tea, Miss Russell came into 
 the room alone, and summoned Mr. Bel- 
 ville to withdraw with her, for the pur- 
 pose of being introduced to her friend, 
 — a ceremony to which he seemed ex- 
 ceedingly unwilling to submit, as we 
 couldgather from his whispered remarks: 
 — " No occasion! I am sure she won't 
 like me : you had better bring her in 
 here, and let us all meet together." 
 
 The result of the whole was, that Mr. 
 Belville was prevailed upon to comply, 
 though it could not be said " nothing 
 loth." In a short time he returned, with 
 the two young ladies — when a general 
 introducing of the newly-arrived stranger 
 went round. 
 
 " I hope you had a pleasant journey,"
 
 305 
 
 said Mrs. Russell, who I saw was dying 
 with curiosity to know who had been 
 her companion in it, and what was be- 
 come of him. 
 
 " I never think much aboutjournies," 
 she replied ; " they are always stupid 
 things, unless one has pleasant people 
 about one." 
 
 " But you had, I hope," said Mrs. 
 Russell, quite incapable of restraining 
 her curiosity any longer. " That gen- 
 tleman, I hope, was very agreeable?" 
 
 " Oh, very !" she replied ; and again 
 there was a pause. 
 
 " I hope you would not stand upon 
 ceremony — but would have brought any 
 friend of your's to this house," said Mrs. 
 Russell, with the hesitating tone of one 
 who is not quite sure that there is no 
 danger of an invitation being accepted. 
 
 " Oh ! certainly," replied Miss Stan- 
 ley ; " but this man I never saw before 
 to-day : so, I think, we managed pretty
 
 306 
 
 well to get as far acquainted as we 
 did." 
 
 " Never saw him before — and yet 
 travelled from London with him 1" was 
 Mrs. Russell's astonished remark. 
 
 " No, not from London," she replied, 
 with the utmost nonchalance — " only the 
 last two stages. I found the wretched 
 man waiting for a stage coach, which 
 drove up to the inn quite full, and I 
 heard him express regret — so I thought, 
 as he was an agreeable-looking person, 
 I could not do better than give him a 
 seat in the chaise ; and a very pleasant 
 journey we have had.' He is a Captain 
 Somebody-or-other quartered here — 
 Heaven knows who ! for I forget every 
 body's name. But he talked something 
 about calling upon me to-morrow." 
 
 We all stared at one another, in some 
 doubt what to make of this ; but she 
 paid no attention to us or our looks — 
 but took out her work, and went on
 
 30? 
 
 with a vivacity peculiar^ her own, and 
 with which, strange as it was, I could 
 not help being in some measure pleased. 
 She was exceedingly pretty, and 
 though in a morning costume, dressed 
 with an air of excellent taste ; an air 
 that indicated at once to my fantastic 
 mind that she was a person of genius. 
 It had always been one of my theories, 
 and in truth so it is now, that genius be- 
 trays itself as much in the article of 
 dress as in any external circumstance. 
 You will see expence and even magnifi- 
 cence displayed in the attire of many per- 
 sons ; but there is something wanting to 
 give it a charm. And, on the contrary, 
 you will see apparel that is composed of 
 the cheapest and most common mate- 
 rials, receiving from the tact or talent 
 with which it is put together, and worn, 
 the indescribable grace which genius 
 alone throws over every thing it touches. 
 This was just the case with Miss Stanley, 
 who, in her morning gown of printed
 
 308 
 
 calico, made like nothing that ever I saw 
 before, looked to my taste extremely 
 captivating. 
 
 " Well, and what do you do here of an 
 evening ?" she said, looking round upon 
 us, as we sat, as it were in speechless 
 wonder to make out what she resembled 
 of human kind. " You seem to have got 
 a nice instrument, Elizabeth, " and she 
 looked at the piano-forte, " Does no- 
 body play, or sing ? — Oh, yes ; you do, 
 I am sure," and she turned to me with 
 such a good humoured smile, that I 
 could not be displeased with the easiness 
 of her address. 
 
 " Miss Melville is a very superior 
 singer !" said Elizabeth, " and I hope 
 will oblige us — do, Isabel," she said, 
 perceiving my disinclination to do so. 
 
 Involuntarily I looked to Mr. Man- 
 vers, who had not spoken a single word 
 since the entrance of Miss Stanley ; not 
 only, I thought, from disapprobation of 
 her, (though with such a sentiment I
 
 309 
 
 could not doubt of her having inspired 
 him) ; but also from curiosity to discover 
 if her manners were the result of original 
 or affected naivete. 
 
 He seemed to understand my glance 
 as an appeal to him whether or not I 
 should comply with Miss Russell's re- 
 quest, as in fact I intended it ; for I 
 rather supposed he might have preferred 
 that I should give him an opportunity of 
 withdrawing from society that I was 
 aware was sufficiently distasteful to him, 
 by proposing to return home. But he 
 roused himself from his abstraction. 
 
 " Oh, yes \ pray sing !" he said ; then 
 with a lower voice, as he approached to 
 assist in opening the instrument, " and 
 let it be something," he added, " to har- 
 monize the mind, and bring it a little 
 within the sphere of sober thinking and 
 feeling." 
 
 " You are too severe !" I whispered ; 
 "you are not even Christian like —you 
 are not charitable!"
 
 310 
 
 " Ah ! Miss Melville," and he shook 
 his head, " why are you thus easily se- 
 duced by fancy ! Depend upon it every 
 thing is radically wrong here !" 
 
 I felt quite angry with him, especially 
 when Miss Stanley, who took little or no 
 notice of any one else, came and seated 
 herself by me, inquiring, as if she felt 
 an interest in it, " What I was going to 
 oblige them with ?" 
 
 " I deal rather in the old school," said 
 I, " which I fear will not exactly accord 
 with the taste of a lady who, no doubt, 
 is quite aufait with all the more fashion- 
 able music of the day." 
 
 " For which reason," she replied, ?! I 
 am quite disposed to be delighted with 
 what is old and unfashionable. One is 
 so inundated with rubbish under the title 
 of what is new, that, positively, the 
 sight of a hot-pressed clean white-looking 
 title page to a piece of music, gives me 
 the heart-burn ; more especially if it be 
 ornamented with dancing ladies beating
 
 3il 
 
 a tamborine, or sylphs hanging flowers 
 about a harp, or capital letters announ- 
 cing that it is an air sung with unbounded 
 applause by Mr. Braham, at Drury Lane, 
 or an Italian song with variations, adapt- 
 ed for the piano-forte. Now this," and 
 she took up an old volume of Handel's 
 songs, the leaves of which were turned 
 yellow by age, " this looks respectable ; 
 this tells its own story. Dear, delightful 
 old Handel !" she continued, as she 
 opened it, " who, nobody that values a 
 musical reputation, would now dare to 
 praise as he deserves ! Oh, do give me 
 something out of this treasury !" she 
 said. " Would you not like to hear her 
 sing a song of Handel's?" and she 
 turned to Mr. Manvers, who, in spite of 
 himself, was obliged to smile at the care- 
 less ease with which she made herself 
 acquainted with every body. 
 
 He suggested that I should sing, " Ye 
 sacred Priests," from Jephtha, which I 
 did to the best of my ability ; for with all 

 
 312 
 
 her volatility, there was an air of sense 
 about Miss Stanley that made me con- 
 ceive her to be an auditor worthy of my 
 best exertions to please ; added to which 
 it was a very favourite song of Mr. Man- 
 vers ; and I was always delighted to ex- 
 ercise any talents I possessed to give 
 him pleasure. The meed of approbation 
 he gave me was generally silence, but to 
 me, a silence more eloquent than any 
 words ; for the sigh, the glistening eye, 
 were tokens of delight which elevated 
 while they soothed my heart. 
 
 His interest in me while I was per- 
 forming this song, was always peculiarly 
 deep, and to-night more particularly so. 
 He sat by the side of the piano, with his 
 head bent down upon his clasped hands; 
 and never once raised it from this atti- 
 tude till I had concluded : nor did he 
 then address me, but. as if unwilling that 
 the emotion I had excited in him should 
 be witnessed, he walked towards the 
 fire, near which Mr. Belville and Eliza-
 
 313 
 
 beth had been in low and earnest dis- 
 course while I was singing ; but who, on 
 his approach, left off talking, and both 
 exclaimed that my performance was 
 charming ! 
 
 He smiled upon them, but made no 
 reply. 
 
 " Did you ever spend a season in Lon- 
 don ?" was the first remark of Miss 
 Stanley, when I had ended my song. 
 
 I replied in the negative. 
 
 " Really ! well that's astonishing ! and 
 yet, I don't know," and she mused a 
 little — " no ; I don't think upon the 
 whole it is so astonishing either — I might 
 almost have supposed it from your singing 
 that song so simply, that is so chastely — 
 so devoid of cadenza and volato, and no- 
 body knows what that is ridiculous ! 
 But you really must come up to town ; 
 you can have no idea what a sensation 
 you would make — Mrs. Melmoth would 
 worship me for introducing such an ac- 
 quisition to her concerts — you would 
 
 vol. i. p
 
 sn 
 
 bring Handel into fashion — you would 
 make a revolution in taste — I don't know 
 what you might not do. Positively you 
 must think about it ; and that you may 
 do so, don't be long in getting acquaint- 
 ed With me : I shall be here till the be- 
 ginning of April ; in the course of that 
 time you surely can manage to make out 
 enough of my character to trust yourself 
 with me for a few weeks ?" 
 
 I laughed at the strangeness of such 
 an invitation. 
 
 " Oh, I am in real good earnest," she 
 said ; " T know every body that I like 
 to know just as well in an hour as in 
 a twelvemonth ; but I am aware that 
 the prejudice is in favour of get- 
 ting acquainted more gradually ; and 
 as you no doubt favour these preju- 
 dices, I would not interrupt them too 
 unceremoniously ; only pray surmount 
 them by the first of April, and try to 
 like me if you can, for I am infinitely 
 disposed to return any measure of re-
 
 315 
 
 gard you may be inclined to manifest for 
 me," 
 
 Then addressing the company in ge- 
 neral with information that " she was 
 fatigued with her journey, and should 
 have the honour of wishing them good- 
 night," she left the room. 
 
 p %
 
 CHAP. XV, 
 
 ISABEL IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 With respect to a man's character, he had better be 
 
 guilty of almost any sin than what the world calls too 
 
 much religion. 
 
 Adams' Private Thoughts. 
 
 At the appointed time, Miss Russell 
 became Mrs. Belville ; and after having 
 spent some weeks on a bridal tour, she 
 accompanied her husband to his resi- 
 dence in a distant part of the kingdom. 
 In the mean time Miss Stanley and I en- 
 tered into a very strong league of amity. 
 She was a specimen of human nature 
 quite new to me, and one, unfortunately, 
 but too agreeable to the natural bent of 
 my disposition. The advanced years of 
 my uncle, and his quiet habits, had occa- 
 sioned me to live a very retired life, and
 
 317 
 
 consequently confined in a circumscribed 
 sphere those talents for observation 
 which I felt that I possessed, and which, 
 in the absence of any other exciting 
 cause, never failed to stimulate the ac- 
 tivity and restlessness of my spirit, and 
 prompt a wish to seek materials for it to 
 work upon. The books I had most de- 
 light in, were all of a kind to promote 
 the predominant bias of my disposition. 
 The study of character was certainly 
 the only study on which I ever expended 
 either time or trouble. Hence, I had 
 devoured with insatiable eagerness works 
 of biography, private memoirs, more par- 
 ticularly those of modern date, for the 
 obvious reason that the nearer a history 
 was brought to my own time, the more 
 certainly it exhibited those slight shades 
 of character which take their tint from 
 the passing customs of the day ; and 
 which, at this time of my life, better 
 suited the volatility of my pursuits than 
 those elevated and general views of hu- 
 p 3
 
 318 
 
 man nature, which are commonly the 
 study of a more advanced period of ex- 
 istence. I was gifted with a quick and 
 strong sense of the ridiculous ; and where 
 this is the case, time (in the absence of a 
 better principle) is, I believe, the only 
 effectual restraint upon the satire which 
 such a disposition too surely fosters and 
 promotes. 
 
 I thought that I had this better prin- 
 ciple ; but the growing delight I ex- 
 perienced in the society of Miss Stanley 
 would have painfully convinced me that 
 I had not, if the monitions of conscience 
 had not been repressed whenever they 
 threatened to be troublesome, by the 
 ready deceitfulness of my heart. 
 
 " How very agreeable she is," I said 
 to myself one evening, after she had been 
 amusing both my uncle and myself by 
 her sprightly descriptions, and, to me, 
 perfectly original remarks. The pleasure 
 she afforded me was not diminished, when 
 my good uncle observed, as soon as she 
 was gone,
 
 319 
 
 " Indeed, Isabel, I think you may as 
 well accept Miss Stanley's invitation ; it 
 will do you good, my dear, for you live 
 but a dull sort of life here." 
 
 One great barrier to my acceding to 
 her wishes, was thus at once removed ; 
 for I had hesitated, principally, in accept- 
 ing her invitation, because I thought he 
 would think our acquaintance too slight 
 to warrant such a measure. 
 
 I thanked him very sincerely for his 
 kindness ; but I did not decidedly say 
 whether I wished to avail myself of it ; 
 for there existed yet, though a subordi- 
 nate obstacle, still there was an obstacle 
 to my entering into such a project with 
 the complete internal satisfaction which 
 could alone have promised to render it 
 perfectly agreeable. This was the cer- 
 tain disapprobation of Mr. Manvers and 
 Miss Delmond. Ever since I had allied 
 myself in bonds of intimacy with Miss 
 Stanley, I had perceived, or fancied that 
 I did, a change in the manner, of both 
 p 4
 
 320 
 
 the aunt and nephew. In him it was 
 more evident than in her ; for the inva- 
 riable placidity and accommodating kind- 
 ness of her temper, rendered her as in- 
 capable of testifying unpleasant feelings 
 as she was of encouraging them. It was 
 only because I felt that I was inconsis- 
 tent and unstable, that I expected to ex- 
 perience her reproof; and as I well knew 
 I deserved it, I supposed that I tacitly 
 had it, though, beyond supposition, I had 
 no ground for believing her dissatisfied 
 with me. She openly professed to me, 
 indeed, strong disapprobation of Miss 
 Stanley ; nor could any plausible repre- 
 sentations, on my part, as to the neglected 
 education she had experienced upon the 
 points Miss Delmond considered most 
 essential, at all propitiate, what I called 
 the severity of her criticisms upon my 
 new friend. 
 
 " I have but one standard forjudging 
 of good qualities, Isabel," she would say, 
 in reply to all I could advance touching
 
 321 
 
 the fascinations of Miss Stanley — " is 
 she a Christian ?" 
 
 I could not answer the question satis- 
 factorily ; but I could not be silent, be- 
 cause that would have been to have 
 given up my friend. I generally, there- 
 fore, evaded it by launching out into 
 severe invectives upon the rigidness of 
 party spirit, and the uncharitableness of 
 judging others ; at which the good crea- 
 ture used to smile — as she did, indeed, at 
 most of the ebullitions of anger into 
 which my attachment to Kate Stanley 
 usually betrayed me, whenever I heard 
 her, as I thought, unjustly condemned. 
 
 Such was nearly the amount of Miss 
 Delmond's dissatisfaction with me, though 
 the gradual neglect of her, which sprung 
 from association with a character so op- 
 posite to her's as Miss Stanley, would 
 hate justified a much more pointed dis- 
 play of it. 
 
 But Mr. Manvers was not so acqui- 
 escent in my proceedings : he never 
 p 5
 
 322 
 
 forced his opinions upon me as to the 
 propriety of my friendship with Miss 
 Stanley ; neither did he obtrude any of 
 his sentiments respecting her upon my 
 consideration. But, in his very silence, 
 I detected the settled aversion he expe- 
 rienced against every part of her cha- 
 racter ; and, in the gradual decline of 
 the strong interest he had once professed 
 and always manifested towards every 
 thing that concerned me, I traced, with 
 more regret than I cared to admit, the 
 total loss of his friendship and regard. 
 
 The time for Miss Stanley's return to 
 London was now so rapidly approaching, 
 that it became quite necessary for me to 
 decide whether or not 1 intended to ac- 
 company her. But, much as I desired 
 to do so, a strange and indefinable feel- 
 ing of unwillingness restrained me from 
 yielding to my wishes. I thought there 
 was an instability of purpose in indulg- 
 ing them, which made me seem to my- 
 self almost as inconsistent as I well
 
 323 
 
 knew I should appear to Miss Delmond 
 and Mr. Manvers. I had never been 
 resident in London, and knew nothing 
 of its general customs and tone of so- 
 ciety ; but I knew enough, from what I 
 had observed in Miss Stanley, to draw 
 a pretty just estimate of the circle in 
 which she moved ; and well could I ima- 
 gine, that serious thoughts and religious 
 feelings could nowhere find a more un- 
 congenial atmosphere than that in which 
 she lived ; and these thoughts and these 
 feelings were dear and sacred to me. 
 Wayward and capricious, and inconsis- 
 tent, and unstable, and full of error as 
 1 was, there never was a period since I 
 became capable of thought and reflec- 
 tion, in which I could have been con- 
 tent to pass day after day, and week 
 after week, and month after month, 
 without any interval of deep considera- 
 tion for the interests of that immortal 
 soul which God had given me, and for 
 the care of which I must one day stand 
 p 6
 
 324 
 
 responsible before his awful throne ! 
 No!— blessed be his name for the un- 
 speakable advantage ! — never had I yet 
 held daily and intimate communion with 
 those who were practically living " with- 
 out Him in the world ;" and deeply and 
 sorrowfully did I experience a convic- 
 tion that I never could associate with 
 such persons without feelings of internal 
 reproach, which no sophistry could era- 
 dicate, however it might afford a tem- 
 porary relief from their suggestions. 
 
 " But, perhaps," I thought, " Miss 
 Stanley in her heart may have some feel- 
 ings of sincere devotion. Who can tell 
 what passes in the mind of another ? I 
 am doing the very thing I condemn so 
 much in most of the religious persons I 
 have known — that of setting it down as 
 an established fact, that where an open 
 and avowed profession of religious prin- 
 ciple is not made, there is none exist- 
 ing." 
 
 But in vain I endeavoured to delude
 
 325 
 
 myself with such reasoning as this ; for 
 well I knew that it was perfectly impossi- 
 ble that any real believer in Christianity 
 could so totally set at nought many of 
 its plainest precepts, with the most ap- 
 parent unconsciousness of any violation 
 of its duties — as Miss Stanley did every 
 day of her life. I fell upon another 
 suggestion to exculpate her, or, I be- 
 lieve, I should more justly say, to exo- 
 nerate myself from blame, in following 
 my own will. 
 
 " Perhaps," said I, " she never has 
 met with any person who thought more 
 upon these subjects than she does her- 
 self: if she had, she might have been a 
 very different character. I should like 
 to hear what she has to say upon these 
 points ;" and I resolved, when we met 
 on the following day, to lead the con- 
 versation in that direction. 
 
 I expected to have found some diffi- 
 culty in doing this ; for, upon no occa- 
 sion since we became acquainted, had I
 
 320 
 
 heard from her any remark which indi- 
 cated the slightest interest or concern 
 about spiritual things ; and, if it were 
 safe or proper to judge from what ap- 
 peared, it would not have been uncha- 
 ritable to infer, that it was a matter of 
 indifference to her whether she had a 
 soul to be saved or not. 
 
 But, at the present moment, I was 
 unusually disposed to be tender and cau- 
 tious in my judgment, and to seize with 
 rapture upon the least indication of the 
 sentiments I wished to discover in her. 
 
 It was not, however, with extraor- 
 dinary satisfaction that, as we were 
 taking a walk together the next morn- 
 ing, I heard her reply to vague and 
 faint objections on my side towards ac- 
 companying her to town : — 
 
 " I know very well, Isabel, what all 
 this reluctance proceeds from ; — you are 
 afraid of having your morals contami- 
 nated amongst us. Yes, yes ! though I 
 have been silent, I have not been unob-
 
 327 
 
 serving; I have seen all along how it 
 is with you ; and it is this, I candidly 
 confess, amongst other causes, which 
 has made me so anxious to rescue you 
 
 from the hands of . But — " (and 
 
 she suddenly checked herself) — " one 
 should never name names. Suffice it to 
 say, that I am convinced, if you stay 
 here, you are a lost creature to all in- 
 tents and purposes." 
 
 " A lost creature !" I repeated, with 
 much surprise. 
 
 " Ruined — destroyed for every pur- 
 pose in life !" she replied. 
 
 " What can you mean ?" I asked. 
 
 " Simply this, my dear Isabel : — you 
 will get entangled into becoming a mem- 
 ber of a low, narrow-minded party, who 
 arrogate to themselves the title of reli- 
 gious people — but whose chief preten- 
 sions to such a distinction consist in a 
 voluntary separation from the society 
 which their deficiency of taste and ta-
 
 ot ]8 
 
 oZl 
 
 lent, and accomplishments and rank, 
 naturally exclude them from, and which 
 the bad passions of their nature, and not 
 the doctrines of religion, induce them to 
 vilify and contemn." 
 
 I paused before I replied to this. Un- 
 happily, I knew some instances of pro- 
 fessing Christians who too well justified 
 the truth of her remark ; but I knew 
 many more, whose whole life and con- 
 duct gave the lie to it ; I knew many 
 who were walking in a daily round of 
 well-performed duties — in a calm and 
 silent abstraction from the giddy round 
 of senseless pleasures which absorbed the 
 world at large ; and, at the same time, 
 testifying for that world a sympathizing 
 pity, and a prompt desire to win from 
 its abyss of ruin every human creature 
 that had the slightest perception of its 
 danger. 
 
 Such persons I knew ; but my trea- 
 cherous heart, in league with its bitter-
 
 329 
 
 est enemy, too easily inclined a willing 
 ear to the representations which Miss 
 Stanley continued to exhibit. 
 
 " I know them !" she proceeded — " I 
 know them well ! I know that their 
 very name is synonymous with all that is 
 treacherous ; and the very first question 
 I put to any female domestic who offers 
 herself to my service, is, 'Do you attend 
 any particular preacher, or call yourself 
 a serious character?' and, if she replies 
 in the affirmative, my direct answer is, 
 1 Then, I have nothing more to say to 
 you : I wish you good morning !' " 
 
 Much as I wished to think well of her, 
 there was something rather too prepos- 
 terous in such an acknowledgment to be 
 passed over without comment. 
 
 " Surely," said I, " that method of 
 proceeding is not altogether just, either 
 to yourself, or to the person whose ser- 
 vices you so reject. It is not only 
 branding her with implied obloquy, but 
 it is by an inference too plain to be pas-
 
 330 
 
 sed by, or in any way got over, stig- 
 matising yourself as a disbeliever in the 
 religion you nominally profess- For, if 
 you studied, and understood, and be- 
 lieved it, you could not possibly imagine 
 that any person whatever could be the 
 worse character for professing a concern 
 and interest in it ; neither would you, 
 prior to proof, anticipate a certainty of 
 being injured by any connection you 
 might chance to hold with such a cha- 
 racter." 
 
 " It was not prior to proofi Isabel," 
 she replied, " that I adopted such 
 opinions. I have known in my own 
 instance, and in many instances amongst 
 my friends, that whenever fraud or 
 depredation of any kind has been com- 
 mitted in a family, if any one member 
 of it was, more than another, what is 
 called a serious character, that person was 
 invariably the most concerned in it." 
 
 " I do not think," said I, " that such 
 instances of deceit at all affect the
 
 331 
 
 great, and general question, whether 
 there be such a thing as true religion or 
 
 " And who ever made it a question ?" 
 she asked with some surprise ; " I am 
 sure, I never did." 
 
 " Did you not ?" I replied. But see- 
 ing in the expression of her face, what 
 I fancied a slight shade of displeasure, 
 " oh no," I continued, « I certainly 
 never heard you express any doubts, or 
 indeed, allude to the subject at all till 
 this morning. Then, perhaps, from 
 what you have just said, I might too 
 hastily infer that — " 
 
 " Yes, Isabel," and she interrupted 
 me, " that is the fault of all you good 
 people." 
 
 " Me amongst the good people !" 
 and I smiled, though I heaved a deep 
 sigh at the same moment. " God help 
 me ! I know but little, and practise less 
 than the meanest amongst those you so 
 designate."
 
 332 
 
 " You are very well, and quite good 
 enough for the world you live in," she 
 said, " if you do not take pains to make 
 yourself disagreeable, by sacrificing your 
 talents and your taste at the shrine of 
 human opinion ; and turning yourself 
 into a sour, morose ascetic, languishing 
 after the worid you have unnaturally 
 detached yourself from, and by way of 
 compensation for your loss, abusing 
 every body that acts the part in it that 
 was assigned to them ; and pretending 
 to support your opinions with texts from 
 Scripture, that have no more to do with 
 the state of things at present, than the 
 Jewish laws have. This will be your 
 case, my poor dear Isabel ; and when 
 you have abandoned your music as an 
 abomination, and your talents as a snare, 
 and pleasant, clever people, as belonging 
 body and soul to the evil one, you will 
 be what they call a converted cha- 
 racter." 
 
 I knew that this was an exaggerated
 
 133 
 
 caricature, but I could not refrain from 
 laughing at it, neither could I repress 
 a strong inclination to acquiesce in it, 
 far more than, as a reasonable being, I 
 ought to have done ; for, independently 
 of any religious considerations, I could 
 not but see the manifest injustice of her 
 remarks, as applied to me, who, in the 
 possession of Miss Delmond's friendship, 
 had always a strong counteraction to any 
 tendency towards the contracted views 
 and narrow prejudices which Miss Stan- 
 ley apprehended I should acquire. 
 
 No one could have a greater delight 
 in witnessing the exercise of my talents 
 than Miss Delmond ; no one more sedu- 
 lous to encourage and promote innocent 
 cheerfulness ; and though herself with- 
 drawn from the world, no one more 
 compassionate to its errors, more gentle 
 in her judgment of it, or more anxious 
 to avail herself of every occasion in 
 which she could, consistently with her 
 principles, participate in its pursuits.
 
 331 
 
 But I had an inclination to please, 
 and will to gratify, and it suited with 
 the indulgence of both that I should 
 think Miss Stanley right. Nevertheless, 
 though with some doubt as to my hearing 
 any thing very satisfactory, I went on 
 to urge her into a more definite display 
 of her own opinions upon the subject, 
 than appeared in these general and over- 
 strained remarks. 
 
 " No doubt/* I said, " there was a 
 great deal of error in all human opinions, 
 and corruption crept in, and, more or 
 less, defiled the holiest things. Still, 
 my dear Kate,'* I continued, " this 
 error and this corruption ought not, 
 and does not, in any liberal mind, lead 
 to the conclusions which must inevitably 
 be drawn from your statement ; that 
 there is no such thing as leading a 
 retired and sanctified life from a sense of 
 duty, without deserving to be stigma- 
 tized as disagreeable and unsocial, and 
 filled with rancorous and malignant pas-
 
 335 
 
 sions. Can you not believe that a mind 
 deeply impressed with a sense of its ac- 
 countableness, and anxious to discover 
 the path of duty, may, upon principles 
 of reason, as well as religion, withdraw 
 from general society, if the habits of 
 society are felt by such a mind to be 
 inconsistent with the subdued and holy 
 temper, the acquirement of which is 
 its principal aim ?" She was silent a 
 little while ; at length, " I do not, I 
 believe quite understand you," she said. 
 " If by a subdued and holy temper, you 
 mean a perpetual dwelling upon sacred 
 subjects, an absence of all recreation, 
 and a distaste to every thing which has 
 no connection with eternity, I reply, 
 that such a temper is practically unat- 
 tainable. It never was meant for us to 
 attempt the acquisition of it." 
 
 Our blessed Saviour's command, " Be 
 ye perfect, as your father which is in hea- 
 ven is perfect," here flashed upon my
 
 336 
 
 recollection ; but something restrained 
 me from uttering it, and she went on. 
 
 " In short, my own opinion is briefly 
 this. We are sent into this world with 
 various passions and feelings, which ob- 
 viously require control — education sup- 
 plies the proper check." 
 
 " Religious education supplies it," I 
 observed. 
 
 " Of course," she replied. " When 
 I spoke of education, I took it for 
 granted that it comprized religious in- 
 struction. These passions and feelings, 
 properly governed, form the means of 
 our happiness. They suggest and sup- 
 ply a thousand innocent sources of plea- 
 sure, which no mind in a sane and heal- 
 thy state, would affect to contemn — I 
 certainly do not : on the contrary, I 
 consider them as the gift of Providence, 
 and as such 1 receive and use them." 
 
 I had never heard Miss. Stanley so 
 serious, or so reasonable. I was per-
 
 831 
 
 fectly charmed with her. I saw no dan- 
 ger in surrendering myself up to the 
 society of a person, who, to her various 
 fascinations united so judicious and 
 sensible a mind, as, upon occasion, I 
 found she could display. 
 
 I forgot, in the warmth of my appro- 
 bation, that the plausible opinions she 
 professed, had nothing whatever to do 
 with the subject upon which I wished to 
 obtain information, viz. her religious sen- 
 timents. 
 
 Those she had just professed were 
 such as might have been entertained in 
 the days of Socrates, and gave no tes- 
 timony whatever to her being at all 
 under the influence of the peculiar doc- 
 trines of Christianity, But this was a 
 point I was willing, as she said upon 
 the subject of education, " to take for 
 granted" Miss Edgeworth, I think it is, 
 that remarks, " Half the mistakes of 
 life arise from taking things for granted." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 338 
 
 The result was, that I parted from 
 her with my mind nearly resolved to 
 accede to her invitation, and with a pro- 
 mise on the morrow to give her my final 
 decision.
 
 339 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 ISABEL IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill, 
 Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will ; 
 And with a clear and shining lamp supplied, 
 First put it out, then take it for a guide. 
 Halting on crutches of unequal size, 
 One leg by truth supported, one by lies ; 
 They sidle to the goal with awkward pace, 
 Secure of nothing — but to lose the race. 
 
 Cowper 
 
 After ruminating for two or three 
 hours upon the evidence I thought Miss 
 Stanley had displayed of a reasonable 
 mind, I arrived at the determination of 
 going to London ; and on signifying it, 
 ,after dinner, to my uncle, I found from 
 him a ready and affectionate approval of 
 my intentions. It remained now to an- 
 nounce my purpose to my friend Miss 
 q 2
 
 340 
 
 Delmond, through whom I left it to find 
 its way to Mr. Man vers as it might, 
 very glad to escape the unbending dis- 
 taste, with which I was well persuaded 
 he would listen to it. 
 
 As soon as I had drank tea I set off 
 for the cottage of my friend, who, I 
 found upon my arrival, was gone out 
 upon an afternoon visit. I was just 
 quitting the door on my return home, 
 when Mr. Manvers approached. 
 
 " Miss Delmond is not at home," said 
 I, " so we have both had our walk for 
 nothing." 
 
 " I am sure 1 shall not consider that 
 I have taken mine for nothing," he 
 replied, with more pleasure in his ad- 
 dress to me than I had for some time 
 observed, " if you will permit me to 
 escort you home — or any where else 
 that you may be inclined to bend your 
 course to ;" and he offered his arm : 
 which 1 took, though with hesitation, and 
 unwillingness ; fcr I knew that our con-
 
 341 
 
 tinuing long together would infallibly 
 lead to my betraying the thoughts and 
 designs of my heart, which it was greatly 
 my desire he should be informed of by 
 any person rather than by me. How- 
 ever, I considered that if I did speak 
 of them, it ought to be, in point of fact, 
 a matter of perfect indifference to me 
 whether Mr. Manvers approved of them 
 or not. He was invested with no au- 
 thority to take cognizance of my 
 actions ; and in thus shrinking from his 
 opinion, I condemned myself as acting 
 a cowardly and ignoble part. 
 
 Common-place remarks never formed 
 any part of his conversation ; I had 
 consequently no dependance upon a 
 protracted theme respecting the wea- 
 ther, for keeping us in discourse till I 
 arrived at my uncle's door. Long 
 before I came in sight of it, he had, in 
 spite of my disdain for what might be 
 his sentiments, suffused my cheeks with 
 blushes, by turning to me with all the 
 Q 3
 
 342 
 
 wonted interest and affection to which 
 I had lately been a stranger, and re- 
 marking. " On Saturday next, (I have 
 just heard from the Russells), Miss Stan- 
 ley quits D — , and I cannot profess to 
 regret it for many reasons ; but one, 
 perhaps, I may name, which is, that 
 once more we shall, I hope, have you 
 restored to us ;" and he laid much em- 
 phasis upon the word restored. 
 
 " I am sorry to blight any of your 
 pleasing anticipations," I replied ; with 
 a faint smile, " but I doubt — " 
 
 44 Do you — " he interrupted me hastily, 
 but repressing the emotion with which 
 he was about to make the inquiry, " do 
 you, then, intend to accompany her ?" 
 he calmly said. 
 
 " I think it probable," I replied; and 
 I should have been glad to have paid a 
 proper tribute to the friendship he had 
 offered me, by asking his opinion of 
 such a measure ; but, unless I intended 
 to follow it, I saw nothing but mockery
 
 343 
 
 in applying for it. I preferred to pal- 
 liate the imprudence he would attribute 
 to me, by exhibiting to him the cha- 
 racter of Miss Stanley in the new and 
 advantageous light it had that morning 
 appeared to me. 
 
 " I am persuaded," said I, " that you 
 do not understand Miss Stanley. You 
 do not perceive the excellent under- 
 standing she disguises, under the ap- 
 parent frivolity of her general dis- 
 course." 
 
 I waited for some encouraging reply ; 
 but in vain — he was silent ; and with 
 increased animation I went on, not the 
 less warm in my friend's behalf from 
 feeling a little provoked that I could 
 extract no symptom of encouragement 
 on his side to the defence I set up for 
 her. " But I think Mr. Manvers," said 
 I, " your principles should exempt you 
 from forming such harsh, and, I must 
 call them, unjust judgments. You must 
 well remember where, and by whom, 
 q 4
 
 344 
 
 ) " 
 
 we are commanded to 'judge not. 
 Still he was silent ; and, but that a deep 
 sigh, and a look of the most painful me- 
 lancholy, evinced him to be under the 
 influence of emotions which I had sud- 
 denly excited, I could have supposed 
 that he was not attending to a single 
 word I uttered. 
 
 " Fortunately, however," I continued, 
 as I ascended the steps of my uncle's 
 dwelling, " to prevent me from saying 
 more than I ought to say, I am now 
 to release you from any further attend- 
 ance j" and I would have withdrawn my 
 arm : but he still retained it. 
 
 " A little longer — " he said ; " forgive 
 the seeming liberty of such a request ; 
 but if you would receive them with pa- 
 tience, I could wish to say a few w r ords 
 to you. Might I prevail upon you to 
 extend your walk — the evening is fine — 
 and there is yet an hour of daylight?" 
 
 I felt it impossible to refuse ; indeed, 
 I was most unwilling that he should
 
 345 
 
 leave me, with so much visible dissatis- 
 faction on my side, unexplained. 
 
 Much to my surprise, as we resumed 
 our walk, he was still silent ; but not, 
 I felt assured, from any deficiency of 
 words. These seemed to be restrained 
 with a visible effort — a painful one The 
 feelings of his heart appeared to be every 
 moment bursting from his lips ; but 
 checked — thrown back upon themselves, 
 they were attempted to be dissipated in 
 sighs so deep and heavy, that it moved 
 my heart to hear them. " I have given 
 you pain !" I could not refrain from 
 saying. 
 
 " Think not of me," he said; " it is 
 for you I suffer, Isabel." 
 
 " For me !" 
 
 " Yes, for you — I suffer to see you 
 rushing into temptations which, I fear, 
 will be too strong for you. Oh, that I — 
 but— " He pressed his hand for a lit- 
 tle interval to his forehead, and when he 
 removed it, a more tranquil expression 
 Q 5
 
 346 
 
 sat upon his features, and he spoke more 
 calmly. " You cannot wonder that I 
 anticipate danger for you, in a residence 
 of some weeks in the circle of society, 
 it may be concluded Miss Stanley fre- 
 quents." 
 
 " Indeed,' 5 said I, " you are too 
 severe ; you can know nothing, excuse 
 me, of the society Miss Stanley fre- 
 quents, and why should you stigmatize 
 it as dangerous ?" 
 
 " For the simple reason, that I con- 
 sider all persons who are living without 
 religion, as forming a society that can- 
 not be otherwise than dangerous." 
 
 " But I am not aware that you know 
 any thing of these persons ?" 
 
 " You drive me very hard " and he 
 smiled ; " but, suffer me to ask you, 
 what your opinions are of the society 
 to which, judging, by Miss Stanley's 
 pursuits, and sentiments, and general 
 habits, you expect she would introduce 
 you ?"
 
 347 
 
 " I cannot judge," I replied, " of that 
 of which I know nothing." 
 
 " Oh, Isabel !" and he shook his 
 head. 
 
 " You think that I am evading your 
 question," I said. 
 
 " Can I think otherwise ?" he replied. 
 " But I will waive an inquiry which 
 you do not appear disposed to answer, 
 and will cheerfully consent to acknow- 
 ledge myself hasty, and even wrong in 
 my sentiments, respecting what I sup- 
 pose to be the character of Miss Stan- 
 ley's acquaintance, if you will relate to 
 me any instance of religious principle 
 in her opinions or her conduct, since 
 you became acquainted with her, which 
 induces you to think that she has hours 
 of reflection, and may, therefore, num- 
 ber amongst her associates persons who 
 would be likely to encourage them." 
 
 " I can certainly recur to a conver- 
 sation, which occurred no further back 
 than this very morning," said I, " to 
 Q 6
 
 348 
 
 adduce an instance of her expressing 
 opinions far more serious than I gave 
 her credit for possessing : opinions which, 
 in my judgment, proved her not only to 
 be an observer upon human life, but one 
 who drew moral conclusions from her 
 observations. ;" and I repeated, with 
 much satisfaction, all the wise things she 
 had said. 
 
 " All this," said he, " is very sensi- 
 ble, no doubt ; but it has nothing to do 
 with my argument I can well suppose 
 that Miss Stanley possesses, like most 
 persons of any understanding (and, in 
 fact, one might concede it to any per- 
 son whose mind was at all removed 
 from imbecility), the faculty of disco- 
 vering that we come into the world with 
 various passions and feelings which re- 
 quire control, and that education will 
 supply this control. These are facts 
 which were perceived and acted upon long 
 before we were blessed with the light of 
 revelation. I doubt I must urge you
 
 349 
 
 for some more definite testimony than 
 this of Miss Stanley's serious views." 
 
 " 1 cannot — I do not pretend to ex- 
 hibit Miss Stanley as a religious cha- 
 racter, in your view of the subject," I 
 replied. 
 
 " There is but one view, Isabel !" he 
 said. 
 
 " Excuse me," said I — " there are as 
 many different views of this great sub- 
 ject, as there are different sects profess- 
 ing it." 
 
 " Their views differ upon minor 
 points," he replied ; " but I know of no 
 denomination of professing Christians 
 who do not make the name of the bles- 
 sed Founder of their religion the only 
 name by which they seek or hope to find 
 salvation. Did you ever hear this name 
 from the lips of Miss Stanley ? Did you 
 ever hear her allude to it as her refuge — 
 her rock of support ? Did you ever hear 
 her utter a supposition, that she possesses 
 any interest in it ? Tell me that you
 
 350 
 
 have, and I will withdraw all that I 
 have said of her that is severe or harsh ; 
 and I will aftow that, though I have ne- 
 ver seen any evidence of it, she may in 
 her heart be a real believer in the truth 
 of Christianity." 
 
 " I cannot, perhaps," I replied, after 
 a short pause — " I cannot specify any 
 instance of the kind you desire to hear ; 
 but I still think it would be uncharitable 
 to brand her with the name of an unbe- 
 liever, because she does not openly say 
 all that may, nevertheless, pass within her 
 thoughts upon these points. We cannot 
 tell what is going on in the heart of any 
 one." 
 
 " Certainly, we cannot," he replied ; 
 " and, if I know myself, no person would 
 more unwillingly step out of the way to 
 pass unnecessary opinions upon another. 
 But the friendship you have permitted 
 me to form with you has induced me, 
 perhaps too intrusively, to suggest to 
 your thoughts the consideration of what
 
 351 
 
 you are about to do, by associating your- 
 self in a continued league of, what I 
 must apprehend to be, a dangerous in- 
 timacy, because it necessarily leads to 
 consequences evea yet more alarming." 
 
 " I cannot see it in this light," said I, 
 impatiently ; " I cannot see the use of 
 opposing every promised pleasure, in the 
 apprehension of its proving a snare. I 
 am sure this is not to make that use of 
 the gifts of Providence which his bene- 
 volent goodness has assigned to them.." 
 
 " Far from advising such a course of 
 conduct," he gravely replied, " I should 
 reprove it as a sin. It is not the use of 
 those blessings which a bountiful Provi- 
 dence has scattered in abundance around 
 us that I deprecate : — no, Miss Mel- 
 ville, I rejoice in the use of them ; and, 
 while I bless the hand which bestows 
 them, I pray for their continuance. Do 
 you think," he continued, as he looked 
 around him with a smile — " do you 
 think that I am insensible to such a
 
 352 
 
 scene as this ? — this smiling landscape — 
 this soft evening sun — those sweet war- 
 bling birds — these tranquil creatures, 
 cropping their food from the rich earth 
 that teems with its great Master's bounty 
 — and the friend that walks beside me, 
 whose immortal soul I trust to hold com- 
 munion with beyond the grave ! — What! 
 do you think I have no heart for this ? 
 Oh, Isabel ! you know me not — you 
 know me not!" 
 
 His energy affected me, and it was 
 with difficulty I repressed my rising 
 tears. 
 
 " I know you so well," I replied, as 
 soon as I could speak without faltering, 
 — " so well do I know the delicacy of 
 your taste and the tenderness of your 
 heart,- that I cannot conceive, nor know 
 I how to endure, the severity which se- 
 parates you so completely and so au- 
 sterely from the general pursuits and 
 interests of life." 
 
 " It is because I have another pur-
 
 353 
 
 suit — another interest!" he replied; "and 
 ' where my treasure is, there will be my 
 heart' Believe me, Isabel — you may, 
 indeed, believe me — it is no severe or 
 unaccommodating principle of a mere 
 worldly kind that actuates my conduct : 
 it is the result of conviction. I am con- 
 vinced that it is impossible to be the 
 friend of the world without, at the same 
 time, becoming the enemy of God. I 
 have the warrant of Scripture for this 
 conviction, and, added to that, I have 
 the testimony of experience. The at- 
 mosphere of the world is poisonous and 
 deadly to the immortal interests of the 
 soul." 
 
 " Who, then, can be saved ?" I ask- 
 ed, unconscious at the moment that I 
 was adopting a question which, in the 
 first dawn of the Christian religion, had 
 been put to its blessed Founder. 
 
 " Do you not remember the reply, 
 which was returned by the only infallible 
 Authority to that question ?" he said :
 
 354 
 
 ' Strive to enter in at the strait gate ; 
 1 for many, I say unto you, will seek to 
 1 enter in, and shall not be able ;*• and 
 not once only have we this memorable 
 command, but, among the very first pre- 
 cepts of our divine Teacher, we have 
 nearly the same words— only with this 
 fearful distinction : f Enter ye in at the 
 1 strait gate ; for wide is the gate and 
 
 * broad is the way that leadeth to de- 
 ' struction, and many there be which go 
 4 in thereat ; because strait is the gate 
 ' and narrow is the way which leadeth 
 ' unto life, and few there be that find 
 
 * it.'t Now, Isabel, the world is either 
 right or wrong. I will consent to judge 
 it by this single text of Scripture. We 
 will take it for granted that most indi- 
 viduals to whom you would propose the 
 question, ' Are you in hopes of obtaining 
 eternal life after death ?' would answer 
 in the affirmative. Would it deserve to 
 
 * Luke xiii. 24. f Matt. vii. 13, H.
 
 355 
 
 be called severe or unreasonable that you 
 should then reply, ' You are no doubt 
 then, in obedience to your Saviour's 
 command, striving to enter in at the 
 strait gate ; that is, you are daily fighting 
 against evil tempers, evil passions, and 
 all the various corruptions of your na- 
 ture ; and, according to the conditions 
 by which you were made a Christian by 
 baptism, and the vows then taken for 
 you by your sureties, and confirmed by 
 yourself when you came to riper years, 
 you are not ashamed to confess the faith 
 of Christ crucified, but are resolved 
 manfully to fight under his banner, and 
 to continue his faithful soldier and ser- 
 vant unto your life's end.' What think 
 you would be their answer to such que- 
 ries as these ?" 
 
 I dared not say what I verily believed 
 would have been replied — at least, I am 
 sure I must have said it myself, if I had 
 answered truly to such questions — * that 
 I scarcely knew what had been promised
 
 356 
 
 for me in my baptism, or what vows 
 then taken I had ratified by the act of 
 confirmation ; that I had thought little 
 or nothing about it, considering it as a 
 mere form, that it was right and custom- 
 ary to submit to.' I dared not say this ; 
 for I shrunk from the just disapprobation 
 — the proper contempt — with which he 
 must have heard one, who professed to 
 have more than a nominal faith, acknow- 
 ledge herself so wilfully ignorant of the 
 first principles of religion — those very 
 principles she had vowed to adopt. I 
 only said, therefore, — 
 
 " They would probably reply, I do 
 my best, that is, I do as much good and 
 as little evil as I possibly can. I resist 
 my wrong propensities, and encourage 
 those which are right ; and having done 
 this, I conceive I am quite justified in 
 taking any and all the innocent pleasures 
 that fall in my way." 
 
 " Very well;" he replied, M I should 
 answer to such persons, this is all very
 
 357 
 
 good : but it is too general. It may mean 
 any thing or nothing — I want a test of 
 your being right — I resort then to the 
 text, ' Strive to enter in at the strait 
 gate.' The very word ' strive 9 (and the 
 original word, ' agonize' is far more for- 
 cible) conveys an idea of struggle against 
 an opposite and very strong principle. 
 No doubt, then, in resisting these wrong 
 propensities, and cultivating good ones, 
 you experience a severe conflict — you 
 are incessantly discovering that you 
 are called upon to ' strive 9 — that the way 
 you are entering upon is, as you are told, 
 a narrow and difficult way, and that but 
 few persons have courage to walk in it. 
 So intense must sometimes be your 
 struggles, that, no doubt, you are ready 
 to turn back and join the multitude who 
 are travelling in a broad and beaten, 
 and, according to mere appearances, a 
 far more agreeable way. Then what is 
 your resource and consolation ? To 
 whom do you carry your heavy laden
 
 358 
 
 spirit ? and where do you seek rest for 
 your soul ? Answer me these questions, 
 not with general observations, but in 
 individual and definite terms, Now, 
 Isabel, what have you to say to me ?" 
 
 I smiled— "I can say for myself," I 
 replied, " that I do very often find a 
 severe struggle to undergo — a painful 
 sacrifice to make, and never have I re- 
 ceived any support in such a conflict, 
 but in asking the aid of my Heavenly 
 Father, through the intercession of Him 
 who is all compassion, and who felt and 
 was touched with a sense of the infirmi- 
 ties of poor human creatures ! This I 
 can say for myself — I hope and believe I 
 might say it for many more besides." 
 
 " I believe you," he replied, " as far 
 as relates to yourself I can believe you. 
 It is the conviction that you live in the 
 exercise of prayer, which affords me a 
 sanguine hope that you will ultimately 
 escape from the dangers that threaten 
 you. Prayer is the first evidence of an
 
 359 
 
 awakened soul. ' Behold he prayeth !' * 
 was the testimony which our divine 
 Master himself gave of the Apostle of 
 the Gentiles in the first days of his con- 
 version. But suffer me to call your at- 
 tention yet more to the particular and 
 very strong text I have selected, as one 
 among many by which to try the right 
 and wrong opinion of the world at large 
 upon the great question of religion. It 
 is in vain to make any general appeal, 
 because, it is not unreasonable or uncha- 
 ritable to say, that, but comparatively 
 few persons are believers in the truth of 
 Christianity. They call themselves such; 
 and as it forms a part of the law of the 
 land, they are obliged, to a certain ex- 
 tent, to conform to its restrictions ; but 
 any knowledge of its peculiar and vital 
 doctrines, any habitual and predomi- 
 nant adoption of them as daily practical 
 influencing principles, considered and 
 
 * Acts IX. 11.
 
 360 
 
 acted upon as the first and most impor- 
 tant of principles, it is manifestly pre- 
 posterous to assert as being the case of 
 the greater part, or of any other than a 
 very small part of the civilized world. 
 Mind, I do not mean to assert that there 
 is not a great deal of morality and 
 amiable conduct in the world — what I 
 contend for is that Christianity is little 
 known and acted upon ; and, except that 
 Sunday would then have been as another 
 day, most persons would have lived the 
 same lives, and have been just as amiable 
 and just as happy as they are now, if 
 there had never been any revelation at 
 all. A great number who are virtuous 
 and amiable now, might have practised 
 the same conduct upon the same princi- 
 ples if they had never heard the name of 
 the Saviour. This, I think, is a fact 
 which must readily be conceded to me ; 
 am I, therefore, uncharitable in assert- 
 ing, that but few are living in the know- 
 ledge and exercise of the christian faith?"
 
 361 
 
 He seemed to expect some answer 
 from me ; but, as I knew not well what 
 to say to him, I only begged of him " to 
 inform me what he was going further to 
 say upon the passage of Scripture he had 
 already alluded to." 
 
 " I was about to remark to you," he 
 replied, " that we may safely put the 
 whole question upon this issue. In do- 
 ing so I must make an inference which 
 may seem in the highest degree irreve- 
 rent. But how are the thoughtless, even 
 amongst those who profess themselves to 
 be his followers — how are they, by their 
 conduct, proclaiming that they think the 
 Saviour of the whole human race was 
 mistaken in his judgment, when he pro- 
 nounced that, ' Straight is the gate and 
 narrow is the way that leadeth unto life, 
 and few there be that find it ;' and that, 
 ' Wide is the gate and broad is the way 
 that leadeth unto destruction, and many 
 there be who go in thereat.' Now do 
 they find the gate straight and the way 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 362 
 
 narrow which leads to the eternal life 
 they all profess to be seeking ? On the 
 contrary, do they not find it wide and 
 easy of access? Do they not join the 
 many rather than the Jew ? Do you hear 
 them talk of toil, and conflict, and war- 
 fare ? Do you ever hear them speak with 
 solicitude about the road they are tra- 
 velling, as if they had any doubt about 
 its being the right one ; though they 
 find it in all its circumstances directly 
 opposed to that which God himself has 
 represented it to be, and tallying in every 
 particular with what he has commanded 
 them to shun ? According to them, re- 
 ligion is the easiest thing in the world. 
 ' Give such a time to such a duty, and 
 such a time to another, and the matter is 
 disposed of; and we may turn again to 
 that dear world where all our affections 
 are centred, and where our proper busi- 
 ness lies/ Is this not the inference to be 
 fairly drawn from what you see ?" 
 
 I sighed deeply. " Would to God
 
 363 
 
 that it were otherwise !" I said ; " but I 
 fear it is all too true — yet, Mr. Manvers, 
 I am persuaded, by my own instance, 
 that many, very many, whom you in- 
 clude in this general censure, would 
 gladly seek a better way if they knew 
 where it was" — I stopped, for IJelt, be- 
 fore I heard, what would be his answer. 
 
 " If they knew where it was to be 
 found !" he repeated ; " What ! with the 
 Bible in their hands, and, blessed be 
 God ! with the Gospel sounding in their 
 ears, if not in every church throughout 
 the land, yet in too many to permit 
 them any such plea as you would offer 
 for them !" 
 
 " I recall such a plea," said I ; " I per- 
 ceive its futility — still, there are many, 
 and I am amongst the number, who pine 
 after the knowledge of the truth, but 
 who yet linger from embracing it, in- 
 cumbered with a useless load of mere 
 human opinions." 
 
 " Is that indeed their only motive for 
 r 2
 
 3te 
 
 withholding their consent to it ?" he 
 asked ; " or, to be more candid, is it 
 your sole reason, Isabel ?" 
 
 " I think so," I replied. 
 
 " Then discard the incumbrance of 
 human opinion entirely," he replied ; " I 
 strongly advise you to do this — take the 
 Bible, and the Bible only, for your guide 
 — put upon its precepts just the simple 
 construction which, in any reasonable 
 judgment, they must bear. I will con- 
 sent that you shall walk by their gui- 
 dance — I will joyfully consent to it ; and 
 then I know that I shall never have to 
 apprehend, and perhaps to mourn, the 
 consequences of your intimate associa- 
 tion with those who are living without 
 God in the world. You will be ready to 
 say with the psalmist: — * Blessed is the 
 man that hath not walked in the counsel 
 of the ungodly, nor stood in the way of 
 sinners, and hath not sat in the seat of 
 the scornful. But his delight is in the 
 law of the Lord, and in his law will he
 
 365 
 
 exercise himself day and night.' Then 
 will you also joyfully say with him, * I 
 have been a companion of all them who 
 fear Thee.' " 
 
 I was deeply struck with his remarks 
 — they agitated and impressed me to a 
 degree of anguish. I felt at one mo- 
 ment as if it would be impossible to pur- 
 sue my intention of accompanying Miss 
 Stanley — at the next, eager to rush upon 
 the instant prosecution of it, to have 
 the affair over, and to get rid at once of 
 the torturing indecision of my feelings. 
 
 " I wish I could do right !" at last I 
 said ; " God knows, I would not wil- 
 fully rush into error !" 
 
 " I will give you a test," he replied, "by 
 which you may almost infallibly judge 
 whether or not you are going to act 
 right or wrong. Try the proposed action 
 by the test of prayer. You tell me that 
 you design to make a visit to Miss Stan- 
 ley : see if you can ask the blessing of 
 God upon such an intention ; see if you 
 can, in His sacred presence, express a 
 r 3
 
 366 
 
 pure and simple desire that it may be 
 attended with a mutual blessing to your 
 souls, by inducing, on the part of both, 
 occasional discourse calculated to pro- 
 mote your religious advancement, as well 
 as by occupying your time in a round of 
 useful and edifying employments." 
 
 " You must remember," I said, "that 
 I go expressly for the purpose of a little 
 change of scene, and recreation of spi- 
 rits. It would not be consistent with 
 my views to transform such a visit into 
 a season of rigid mental exercise and 
 discipline." 
 
 " Upon any visit, the purposes you 
 profess are of course implied," said he ; 
 " but, consistently with such purposes, I 
 should augur very ill of any intentions that 
 could not implore upon them the bless- 
 ing of Heaven : I only ask you to bring 
 your's to that test. And now," he con- 
 tinued, perceiving me again at my own 
 door, " I have to thank you for the 
 patient attention you have granted 
 me.
 
 367 
 
 " I should thank you/' I replied, as 
 I offered him my hand. 
 
 " May God direct you! ,J was his 
 farewell ; and we parted. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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